The Merchant's Partner Read Free Page B

town.
    Sighing again, he checked the cables to the front of the ship. When satisfied, he wandered along the side of the cog looking to the other hawsers, checking all was taut and safe. It was only when he had almost arrived at the rear castle that he found his passenger.
    Startled, he stopped and cursed under his breath. It had been the same every time he had seen this man. He appeared when and where he wanted, but so noiselessly on his soft leather boots that it was as if he did not need to walk, he could simply drift to any point on the ship, quiet as flotsam on the water, suddenly arriving and making everyone jump in their surprise. He was standing by the rail and gazing toward the villages with a slight smile on his face. The master studied him, wondering who this taciturn man was and what he was doing here and feeling glad that he would soon be rid of him. Today, Sunday, he would lose him and hopefully never see him again.
    It was not that he had threatened the master or his crew, but there was an aura of danger about him. Although he was cheerful enough, there was something about him that urged caution, something unsettling.
    He was dressed well, with an embroidered blue surcoat over gray hose. His cloak was heavy, of thick, warm wool, and he wore light leather gloves. There was a harshness about the square face, an air of indifference in the set of the granite-like jaw, as if he cared nothing for the people around him. His thin, curved eyebrows exuded an arrogant haughtiness—like a new squire or a recently dubbed knight. It was as though he knew his own value, and that of others. He clearly feltsailors to be necessary but unimportant in comparison to himself, and although he treated the master with courtesy, there was an underlying contempt. It was there in the pale gray eyes. They looked through people, like a steel blade stabbing through paper, as if they could see a man’s most secret thoughts.
    If he had been older, his indifference toward others might have marked him out as a man of wealth. In one so young—for he was little more than six or seven and twenty years old—it merely served to warn. He was a man to be avoided.
    He was obviously hardened in battle, from the width of his shoulders and strongly muscled arms. At his age, he was old enough to be dead on a battlefield or living as a wealthy lord: many men like him made their fortunes in their early twenties, becoming great by virtue of loyalty and prowess, or dying in the attempt. Constantly on the alert, always ready to reach for his sword, he did not look like a man who could be easily ambushed in a moment of thoughtlessness.
    There was something strangely noble about him too, the master admitted grudgingly. It was in his posture, not slouching like an over-muscled, mindless fool, but rolling gently with the ship, looking for all the world like a new king proudly surveying his inheritance—or conquests.
    To his discomfort, the man turned and fixed his light eyes on the master. “When can I go ashore?” he asked softly.
    Shrugging, he glanced over the last few ropes. “We seem well enough berthed. Whenever you want. Why, are you in a hurry?” Even after the voyage he still knew little about this stranger.
    â€œYes,” the man said, turning to face him. “I am in ahurry.” There was a suppressed eagerness in his voice, a slight thrill that hinted at keen excitement lying almost hidden under his calm-seeming exterior, like a harrier dog who has just seen his prey. Looking at him, the master could see that he appeared to have the controlled anticipation of a man-at-arms waiting for the order to go to battle.
    â€œDo you have far to go?” he asked.
    â€œNo, not far. Just to the north of here, to a small manor.” His eyes turned back to their introspective study of the land. To a place north and east of the moors. It’s called Furnshill.”
    The master left him. Men such as he were disturbing,