Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Merde! Now his shoes were wet, and the storm seemed to show no signs of abating.
Pierre d'épilucon glanced down at the bottom of the little boat that he had…requisitioned, and cursed again under his breath. This night had come down so fast, he could not even see the wooden slats that made up the bow of the boat.
But he could feel. His thin leather shoes, never intended for such an adventure as this, were soaked through.
Somewhere on this godforsaken boat, there was a leak.
With heavy head and numb fingers, Pierre forced his way against the wind to the other side of the small boat, and tried to pull a rope towards him. It was caught in the fierce gale that had overwhelmed him, not – what, twenty minutes before?
Twenty minutes that had felt like a lifetime.
This was ridiculous, what had he thought he was doing?
His desperation to reach the shores of England, in any way possible, had now forced him in the middle of the Channel with no one to guide him, no map to aid him, no compass to solace him, and now this storm had turned him around so often that he had no idea which way France nor England truly lay.
Those summers boating on the lake were nothing on this.
Pierre tasted bile in his mouth once more, and hurtled towards the edge of the boat, little as it was, to stick his head over. The knife wound in his thigh screamed out in pain.
After being violently sick, he slumped back and felt the freezing water reach his knees.
“Ce n'est pas ce que j'avais imaginé,” he murmured to himself. “This is not what I had thought would happen.”
But the words were lost to the wind, snatched out of his mouth by the storm that had robbed him of will, wind in his sails, and awareness of where he was.
If he did not find a shore soon, and he was beginning to wonder whether France really would be the worst thing in the world right now, then…well, there was glory in drowning, was there not?
Pierre closed his eyes, exhaustion overwhelming him for a moment. In his mind’s eye, he saw what he had left behind in France.
His eyes snapped open. Anything but that.
Reaching down his hands to the wound, he tried to feel whether it had torn any further.
No, it was still a few inches across, still bleeding heavily.
It was tempting to give in to the desire to vomit again, but he must be strong.
Surely, he would find the welcoming shores of England soon, even if it meant becoming a servant in that land.
Filled with renewed courage, but weakening with every moment as icy cold spray burst over the sides of the boat, Pierre rose and tried to concentrate, ignoring the pain in his thigh, the emptiness of his stomach, and the reeling of his head.
The stars … he could navigate from the stars.
One throw of his head backwards told him that the gods were laughing at him that night. Of course he could not see the stars, there was a stupide storm!
He shivered, and tried to keep his balance as the little boat rocked against a huge wave.
What had he been thinking? Why had he come straight from the town to the harbour, without provisions, without even changing out of his court clothes!
Here he was, like the imbécile that he was, all lace and gold brocade, when what he really wanted right now was a greatcoat!
There! Was that a light? Pierre squinted, brushing saltwater out of his burning eyes, as he blinked desperately in the direction of what could be…could he have been dreaming?
No! There in the distance, perhaps four or five miles away – miles that felt insurmountable at present – was a light. It was flickering, it was small, it could not possibly be anything as substantial as a lighthouse, but it was surely real.
At least, it looked real. Whether it be shore or ship, it was people, and that was enough for freezing, injured Pierre.
The sail was of no use: torn to tatters by the blasted storm, there was nothing for it but to row. Pierre pulled at the oars and almost staggered back, astonished at their weight. That was the trouble with nobility, he smiled ruefully. They have not done a day’s labour in their life.
Well, he was about to pay for all of that now. Ensuring that his back was to the light that seemed to glimmer and blind in the darkness, Pierre heaved, putting all his strength into the oars.
But there was not much left of his strength. Though he pulled with all his might, there did not seem to be enough energy within him to survive.
Tirer, you fool, pull, Pierre told himself. Or make yourself a nice home here in the deep, for his backside and occasionally knees were covered in water.
More sinking than sailing, the boat moved slowly through the water.
Every minute or so, Pierre had to pause the halting rhythm that he created, and check to see whether he was still going in the correct direction.
His shoulders burned, and the place where he had been stabbed in the thigh seemed actually to be on fire, the salt scalding it with every moment.
Five minutes must have passed. Maybe ten.
Now twenty? It was impossible for Pierre to tell, his golden pocket watch now full of seawater and for one moment, a scattering of seaweed.
He cried out with the effort as he pulled the oars back another time, and yet he could not hear it.
Shouting into that storm was akin to shouting into an abyss.
A heavy judder stopped the boat, and tipped it slightly on its side. Pierre, unprepared for such a movement, found himself vomiting slightly as he dropped an oar inside the boat.
“Now what?” He murmured, almost delirious with exhaustion. “Are we back in France again?”
But the boat was not moving. He could feel that now, feel the slow steady flow of the water that had crept into the boat start to settle. One exploratory hand wandered over the side of the boat, and the ocean felt sand, and rocks.
Pierre’s brows furrowed. “The light.”
He had recalled the reason for his desperate row. Turning around, he saw it: a flickering candle in the window of a house, a little worn down at the edges, just twenty yards from the beach where he had landed.
Pierre blinked. The beach where he had landed.
A shaking leg rose, and tipped him out of the boat. Pierre fell onto sand and rocks, and though they abraded his hands, they were more than welcome.
“Land,” he muttered. “Even a shipwrecked man can find land.”
Everything hurt, but there was no relief in his lungs, just air. He had managed it: he had not drowned, he had not let the storm take him!
Pierre almost laughed, but the sharp pain in his side prevented him, and the thought that he may be back in France sealed his mood. The rushing gale that had stormed his vessel on the open sea was still here, freezing his wet clothes to his skin.
France, or England? How to tell? There was no one here, it was the dead of night. If this was truly France, he needed to hide himself, to disappear in the night, so that no one could find him. If this was England, why, he had to find Paendly.
There was no time to lose. He had to move.
Pierre stood up, and the stars that had been missing from the night sky when he had desperately needed them to navigate, suddenly appeared. There was lightness in his head, and suddenly nothing hurt any more.
He collapsed in a dead faint.
A minute later, an hour, a day – who could tell? – Pierre groaned, and opened his eyes. It was still night – or it was night again. How long had he been unconscious?
The storm around him seemed to suggest that he had been out only a few minutes. Pierre lay, sprawled on the beach, the very image of a shipwrecked fool. The pebbles beneath him were scattered with rocks and a little sand, but it was a relief to have anything beneath him that wasn’t swaying.
“Mon Dieu, what is to become of me?”
“What is your name?” cried the woman who suddenly appeared above him, glittering earrings almost blinding him as the light of her lamp shone through them.
“Ten minutes is all I need, and that is all I will take!”
“But Father – ”
The door slammed, and Helena was left talking to an empty room.
She sighed, allowing all of the frustration in her lungs to leave her body. Well, there was nothing for it now. He had gone, as she knew he would, and in a few days when he came back, she would still be here waiting.
Helena rose with the two plates in her hand, and took them through to the back door, where they could be left to be rinsed by this terrible storm that had descended a few hours ago as the sun had gone down.
It was impossible to prevent her father from visiting the Anchor Inn, and whenever he did – for those ‘ten minutes’ that he always promised her – he was always roped into some scheme or other with the other men of the village.
Last month they had gone to London, to seek their fortunes in the dock yards. The time before that – just before Easter, it had been – they had disappeared for a week when they had walked to Marshurst to see if there was any fieldwork.
Helena frowned as she looked at the mess he had left behind, and sighed, picking up a cloth and holding it outside a window for a few moments to get it nice and damp.
Well, she and Teresa had made a choice: they would care for their father in the best ways that they knew.
Teresa had gone to London to earn money, and Helena had stayed here to keep house for him.
The sadness that threatened her at every turn started to well up again, but she forced it down. She would see her sister again – sooner rather than later, she hoped. It had been too long: for too long had her poor sister been forced to –
She stopped in the middle of her thought as the sound of her stomach growling broke through even the noise of the gale. She smiled. Of course: when was the last time she had eaten? That morning? Perhaps last night?