Peril on the Sea Read Free Page B

oranges growing in tubs over the entrance to Fairleigh. Aside from Angus Deets, the cook, and his dimpled daughter, Molly, the once-renowned kitchen staff of Fairleigh had departed, including the ewer carriers and the bottler, the pantler and the scullery boy. Want of silver had forced Anthony to let even the most loyal and able of them go—and they were all faithful, warmhearted folk—with promises to hire them back when he could afford to.
    Baines set a bowl of apples on the table, small, worm-shot though they were—cider apples, most properly, and not sweet enough for ready eating.
    â€œWill you be desiring anything else, sir?” Baines inquired, hovering protectively.
    Anthony thanked Baines and said that there was nothing wanting. And in a way it was the truth. The dining chamber of Fairleigh Manor was a grand, pleasant room. The floor was covered with a mat of rushes woven with lavender and sage that even in its worn condition gave off a balmy perfume on this chilly night.
    The hall was a treasury of fanciful wood carvings, doorposts and window frames ornamented with grinning imps and placid lions. The handles of the fireplace irons resembledhunting dogs of some hard-to-determine breed, and the tapestry on the wall depicted a griffin—an animal half eagle, half lion—sporting on a field of lily flowers.
    Both Anthony and Katharine had a special fondness for this woven artwork. The tapestry had been crafted in the Loire and bought for a song by Anthony’s father from Saint Bridget’s Priory when it was disbanded, along with all the other abbeys and convents, during the reign of Henry VIII. Along with the family griffin banner, this would be one of the last items either of them would part with.
    Sir Gregory waited until the door had shut behind the servant.
    â€œYou owe Lord Pevensey,” said Sir Gregory, “several pounds of silver, a solemn debt which you promised to pay off completely by last Michaelmas, now nine months past.”
    Anthony sighed and gave a nod of agreement.
    Gregory continued, “This sum was invested in a ship. The
Rosebriar
, Walter Loy captain, returning from the West Indies with a load of cinnamon bark and dyestuff. The shipment would be valuable enough in ordinary times, but thanks to the disrupted transport in recent seasons, the cargo is incalculably precious.”
    Sir Anthony gave a forced smile. “All true.”
    â€œBut the ship,” said Sir Gregory, taking a sip of his wine, “is more than two years out, and you have had no steady income all this while.”
    â€œThe sea is an unsteady mistress,” said Sir Anthony.
    He had invested the loan in the ship, true enough, but he had also spent it on draining the stream near the windmill and repairing the stiles throughout Fairleigh. Furthermore, he had invested in books during his trips to the stalls of Saint Paul’s in London:
Of the Heathens of Virginia and Their Practices
, and the weighty
The Healing of Wounds with the Grease of Fowls and Beasts, along with Other Marvels and Panaceas
, together with many pamphlets decrying Spanish lies and love of idolatry, and praising Sir Francis Drake for his bold raid on Cádiz. Sir Anthony loved to read.
    â€œThe ocean is hazardous,” agreed Sir Gregory. “But where can you win greater honor?”
    Katharine believed that Sir Gregory quietly envied seamen and wished he had chosen a mariner’s life. “Lord Pevensey gave you a generous loan, and then there were those gambling debts you owe him from last Christmas.”
    â€œHis lordship is a deft hand with dice,” admitted Sir Anthony.
    â€œLord Pevensey, it may surprise you to learn, has purchased the debts you owe to tradesmen all over the south of England.”
    The scar on Sir Gregory’s cheek resembled nothing so much, thought Katharine, as a third eye, closed tightly. He had a black short-cropped beard, with a mustache combed stylishly upward at