Chapter Four #2
Will dug into the satchel still slung across his chest and drew out a coin with a small hole drilled into the rim at a particular spot beside the emperor’s nose.
He had been given it by Rufus before he left England.
“For your contact,” his friend had said.
“He will offer you a reversed matching coin and tell you it’s holy money. ”
Gervais nodded and matched it now with his coin. “Holy money, eh?” He handed the coin over and pocketed Will’s, then stalked to the windows. Peering around the curtain through the gloom and sheeting rain, he scanned the street.
“Do you really think anyone following either of us would be foolish enough to stand outside in this storm?”
“No, but there are windows in buildings across the street.” Gervais twitched the curtains closed. “In the morning, we will leave early and make our way along less frequented paths. Have you a horse?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll see to it after we’ve eaten. I will sleep in the stables. Tomorrow at first light, come find me, and I will take you to La Belle Dame not far from the d’Aubray estate.”
In the gray, wet light of dawn, Will made his way down to the stables, chewing on a hunk of bread he’d set aside from last night’s meal and feeling much better than he had yesterday.
The Channel crossing had been rough and dangerous, and he had prayed as he hung over the side, heaving his breakfast and his guts into the wild waves.
He’d also prayed he’d see Clem soon. Leaving her without a word and with only her promise was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Harder even than crossing the raging waters between Dover and Calais.
Yesterday’s storm had eased into a dreary, steady rain that would soak through the capes of his coat long before they reached the next stage in his mission.
Dirty puddles filled dips in the cobblestone yard, adding another layer of mud to his boots.
Doubting even his very efficient valet would be able to bring them back to respectability, he tugged the stable door open and slid into the gloomy, horse-scented warmth, pausing to get his bearings.
A trio of snores sounded from the hayloft.
He trod carefully across the packed earth floor to the ladder. “Hello, anyone there?”
He’d barely set a foot to the lower rung before the sound of a body stirring above was followed by pieces of straw floating down around his head. A young voice rose in alarm.
“Hey, Pierre, look at him.”
Will lowered his foot and looked up, surprised that his presence had elicited such a tone of alarm.
A young stableboy was peering over the edge of the hayloft, his eyes wide and his face pale in the gloom.
“Hello up there. I’m here to meet my guide. Gervais?”
“If’n you mean the navvy who slept ’ere last night, ’e don’t look like ’e’ll wake, sir.”
“What?” A sick, sinking feeling hit him as though one of Rufus’s heavy sparring blows had landed in his guts.
The boy pointed at a spot to Will’s left, then scrambled down the wooden rungs.
Will stepped around a small pile of hay bales.
Gervais lay on his back, his head at an odd angle and his face frozen in a rictus of pain. A coppery tang reached Will’s nose above the smell of horses.
The two stable hands joined him, standing at a distance from Gervais. One of the men pointed to a dark stain on Gervais’ jacket. “I think he’s dead, guv. Look at that blood.”
Fear hovered over the men. They stood back and cast wary glances at each other and the corpse.
Will knelt beside the body. Blood had soaked into Gervais’ clothes and lay in a small, congealed pool beneath him, but even so, Will set his fingers below Gervais’ nose.
Nothing.
No air stirred, and when Will touched him, his body was stiff and cold.
The boy reached for the blanket lying partly under Gervais’ legs. He tugged it free and handed it to Will. “Voici, monsieur. To cover him.”
Frowning, he took the blanket and drew it as far as Gervais’ waist, then lifted the jacket out of the way and examined the wound. “Looks like a knife wound, not deep enough to kill him, but enough to slow him down.”
“Bet that ain’t what killed him. ’Is neck looks broke, monsieur.” The boy stared down at the body, a mixture of fear and fascination in his gaze.
“I think you’re right, mon petit. One of you should summon the law. Pierre?” Remembering the boy’s earlier cry, Will looked at the stable hands.
One of the men nodded and headed out the door.
His gut clenching, Will considered his limited options.
Should he leave money with Jean-Paul for a burial?
He wanted to, but would that suggest a closer relationship with a dead man he had met only yesterday?
And when the law arrived, they would likely detain him well into the day with questions.
As possibly the last person to see Gervais alive, would they arrest him?
He could not afford to remain in Calais to find out, but he would leave sufficient funds for more than a pauper’s grave.
“You, boy, did this poor fellow arrange hire of horses for us last night?”
“He did, monsieur.”
“Then saddle my horse and take this for the priest to bury him.” He handed over some coins. “His name was Gervais. That much at least can go on his cross. More, I do not know.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Once mounted with his bag slung over the saddle horn, Will turned the horse’s head left, away from the gray sea.
Along cobblestoned streets through unrelenting rain, he rode east, heading out of the port.
He knew the rough direction to d’Aubray’s estate, but even if he found his way to La Belle Dame, whatever that was, how the hell was he to find his next contact without Gervais to make the connection?