Peril on the Sea Read Free

sixteen-year-old daughter was quick enough to move out of the way of his attempts to shield her. Katharine believed that it fell to her to protect her father from harm, and she stepped into the path.
    Sir Anthony’s man Baines reached for his weapon, an old-fashioned broadsword.
    For a moment no one spoke.
    â€œI wish you good evening,” said Sir Gregory at last, with an abrupt courtesy.
    His squire rode with him, a silent hulk named Cecil Rawes. Cecil was a new, taciturn arrival to Lord Pevensey’s domain, and no one knew much about him. England was well supplied with rough hands looking for profitable employment and not above acts of violence. Cecil let his cloak hang open, windblown, and let the starlight gleam on the hilts of a rapier and a dagger with a brass knob.
    â€œWe are hale but cold,” replied Sir Anthony with forced cheer. He kept a good grip on his walking stick, a knobby span of hazelwood that could serve as a defensive weapon.
    â€œAll the more reason to ask me in, then, to your hearth,” said Sir Gregory, “so we can discuss business.”
    Sir Gregory Skere was a knight who had fought in Portugal against the Spanish, received a musket ball in the face, and retired to serve as a hired sword to whatever lord or lady would fill his purse with coin and his cup with malmsey, the sweet wine of his preference. Sir Gregory worked for Lord Pevensey, the most important landowner of the district. In the starlight Katharine could not make out what she knew was a battered visage under a cap that sported a single falcon feather.
    â€œI should be glad to offer you bread and beef,” said Sir Anthony, “but this evening’s offering is not worthy of a man of your good name.”
    Katharine knew as well as her father that their pantry was reduced to rinds of cheese as hard as soap, and the darkest, most chewy bread, no food fit for a guest, and proof, furthermore, of their financial straits.
    â€œLord Pevensey,” replied Sir Gregory, “in particular asked me to sit down with you and discuss most urgent business.”
    â€œWe will be most grateful to his lordship,” said Sir Anthony, “if he would be our guest on some night not many days from now, along with you and any of your friends.”
    Sir Anthony was a baronet, a minor but honorable noble rank. His estate had been in the Westing family since 1435, when a Westing named Robard wagered that his falcon could catch more pigeons than a hunting hawk owned by a Pevensey forebear.
    Ever since Fairleigh and its land had been won by this sporting bet, the Pevensey family had fumed. Pevensey was an earl, and he owned orchards, grain mills, the fishing rights to major rivers, and every roof and chimney of several villages. A retinue of clerks and controllers was needed simply to accumulate his yearly rent.
    Sir Anthony, in contrast, was the owner of unpretentious farmland, and was owed the services and rents of a few loyal folk. There was, however, the grand manor house of Fairleigh, complete with paved courtyards and a sprawl of chambers and fireplaces. The estate also featured a gatehouse, with an ancient gatekeeper, Sedgewin, who even now was opening the cross-timbered gates.
    â€œWe will speak business this very night,” insisted Sir Gregory, “or my lord will be most displeased.”
    â€œMy father is weary, Sir Gregory,” interjected Katharine, “and fretful with his worries over an illness that plagues our stable, affecting even our broodmare.”
    If Sir Gregory had little regard for human beings, he nevertheless might wish to spare his horse contact with a croup or fever. This equine illness was a fiction—every last horse had been sold, and the stable stood quite empty.
    â€œI saw your broodmare at market, Friday a week past, my lady,” said Sir Gregory. “The one with the nick in the ear, the pretty bay. She’s a good breeder, and as sporting as any female this