Chapter 26
There was nobody at uncle Cuthbert’s house in Kingshaven except Pipkin, the stable-lad. Brynn left the grey mare and the rest of his things under his care and headed for the harbour.
People were bustling up and down the steep cobbled street leading to the shore. A cart rumbled past him full of silver-scaled fish, the driver walking beside it yelling encouragement to a pair of oxen as they strained to pull their load uphill; men and women sat in open doorways repairing fishing-nets, laughing and chatting. The clamour of gulls wheeling and swooping overhead added to Brynn’s sense of excitement as he hurried down to the sea.
A wide, rectangular open space at the bottom of the hill, roughly cobbled like the street, gave directly onto the beach. At its southern end, a few men were resting, their heavy baskets beside them on the ground. One of them waved—the popular garrison commander’s son was still remembered here. At the other end of the front, a little bridge crossed the modest stream that flowed into the sea, giving access to a steep path up to the fortress on the cliff. This was not one of the great ports of Logres; they were situated at the mouths of the bigger rivers. Nevertheless, the small cove, a natural harbour nestling between sheer white cliffs, was favoured by the king for important business, not least because of its proximity to Camelot.
How good to hear the crunch of shells and pebbles underfoot once more! Brynn filled his lungs with the cold, sharp air and gazed out to sea. The surface of the water, swept by rippling patterns that fled before the fitful northern breeze, was constantly changing hue: now a dull, greenish grey, now burnished to a metallic sheen. White foam swirled over the pebbles as the sea slapped and hissed against the shore.
Alongside one of the wooden piers jutting out from the beach, a crowd of little fishing coracles bobbed merrily; beside the other, two larger craft tilted tall masts to and fro as they rode the waves in their moorings. These two ships now held Brynn’s interest, so he set off across the beach towards them. The bigger of the two had raised decks fore and aft, a straight stern and one mast rigged with a square sail. This was a modern, seaworthy vessel, well suited for the voyage Darin and Broderic were to make. The smaller boat was one he recognized. She was called the Petrel and also had a single mast, but was rounded at the stern and measured less than fifty feet: the sort of ship intrepid northern sailors had brought with them generations ago.
As he drew nearer, Brynn could see considerable activity going on around the larger vessel. Three men were coaxing a horse up the ramp set against the lowest point of the gunwale, while others were busily storing supplies under the afterdeck. Two men standing on the pier were conversing as they watched the proceedings. One was obviously a sailor, his baggy pants bound with thongs at the lower leg and a kerchief knotted around his neck; the other, tall and haughty looking with his beaked nose and close-trimmed beard, wore a brown and yellow surcoat over a suit of mail.
Brynn slowed his step. There was something familiar about the knight on the pier. Of course! It was Sir Agravain; Shayla had pointed him out a couple of times. He knew something about Darin’s experience with the man and that he was a friend of Sir Mordred. Darin and Broderic were discussing him only recently, remarking on his absence from court—now he knew about the impending war, Brynn understood better why they had seemed so concerned at this. Agravain must have gone over to the rebel knights!
Casting an eye over the ship once again, he observed two more armed knights standing on the foredeck. Rebels, openly boarding a ship in the king’s own harbour—did the garrison here not know about the present state of affairs? He hesitated to go any closer. He did not dare to speak in front of Agravain and doubted that the captain would pay much heed to his warnings anyway. He must inform the guards up at the fortress—the commander would remember the son of his old comrade in arms and would surely listen.
He ran to the bridge as fast as he could, crossed the stream and started up the path to the cliff-top fort. Before he was halfway up though, he turned to look down on the harbour and realized he was too late. The ship was pulling away from the pier, eight pairs of oars at work and the sail already beginning to unfurl. In a matter of minutes, she would round the cliff at the opposite side of the cove and be out of sight.
What was he to do? Broderic and Darin would be here soon; he may well have had a head start, but Shayla’s palfrey was no match for Dart and River. The ship still moored below him would be well capable of the journey south, given the prevailing wind and providing she had an experienced crew. The two young knights would waste no time in commandeering her. He made up his mind. He was not going to let Broderic send him away; somehow, he would be on board the Petrel when it set sail.
He did not stop running until he reached his uncle’s house. Pipkin was still the only person there.
“Let them know I am with Sir Broderic,” Brynn told him. “And ask them, the next time anyone is going to Camelot, would they please take Shayla her grey mare back? Thank you!”
He slung his longbow and quiver on his back, folded the blanket over his satchel and ran back down the cobbled street.
As he neared the front, he spotted River and Dart tethered to a post at the end of the pier; Broderic and Darin were standing by the Petrel, engaged in conversation with a swarthy individual dressed in curiously patched, many-coloured seaman’s clothes. Brynn slowed to a walk and skirted the open square on the other side of the ship to the three men, keeping his face averted from them. When he reached the sea, the hull of the boat hid him completely from their view, so he moved as quickly as he could, keeping the noise of his feet on the pebbles to a minimum until he reached the pier. From there, the two knights were once more in sight round the stern of the ship, so he ducked under the walkway and edged out into the water. Before it got too deep, he hoisted himself up onto the wooden spar that ran under the pier connecting the supporting posts. He crawled along this until he came to the stern of the ship and then waited, clinging on to the spar.
Now he could hear voices.
“Very well,” Broderic was saying, “we will see to our horses while you go and round up your crew.”
“It won’t take long, young sir.” This was presumably the captain of the ship speaking. “I have two mates who always sail with me and I can make do with another six hands—four, even, if you gentlemen could take an oar when needed. With the seas as they are, that’s not likely; six oars are quite enough for me to get in and out of harbour.”
Darin said something in reply and then Brynn heard footsteps as they all made their way back down the pier. Cautiously, he raised his head until he could see along the walkway. The sailor was gone; Broderic stood by River with his back turned and Darin was on the other side of the horses.
This was his chance. He heaved himself up onto the pier and ran a little further along beside the ship until he could get a hand on the gunwale and scramble over the side. He rolled down into the bottom of the boat, near to the mast, and lay there for a moment, his heart thumping. Fore and aft of the vessel, raised decks stretched from prow and stern a third of the distance to the mast. There was a space under them about three feet high, sometimes used for storage. Brynn knew nothing was ever shoved too far under the deck to be easily reached; there would always be room behind any cargo for him to curl up for a while.
It would be busier aft, most of the time, where the steering-oar was fixed, so he bent low and ran to the foredeck. He crawled underneath as far as he could go and spread out his blanket.
Then he settled down to wait.