Pat McIntosh - A Pig of Cold Poison

‘Right,’ said Gil slowly, putting the image that comment generated firmly from his mind. He would by far rather take the first opportunity to get Alys to safety, but he had to admit he would be less use in a brawl in a small boat, if it came to that, than he would be on board the Sankt Nikolaas persuading her skipper to help them.

‘I could wake the custumar,’ said Syme diffidently. ‘He’ll want to inspect the baggage Nicol has wi him, I’ve no doubt. If he sends a boat out, it might hold things up.’

‘Aye, do that,’ said Gil. ‘A good notion.’

Crouched in the stern of a small boat, a stout son of Dumbarton hauling on the oars in the darkness, Luke shuddering beside him, he watched the approaching riding-lights swaying high up near the stars.

‘How can you tell which is which?’ he asked.

‘I can mind where yer boatie was by day,’ said their oarsman. ‘Unless Gerrit moved her after sunset, she’ll be in the same place.’ It seemed to be a joke; he laughed shortly, leaned on his oars for a moment, then rowed on.

‘Maister Gil,’ said Luke tremulously. The boy was obviously terrified of being on the water, Gil recognized. He should never have accepted his help. ‘Maister Gil, do you speak Dutch? Will you can talk to this skipper?’

‘A little,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping he’ll speak Scots.’

‘Gerrit?’ said the oarsman. ‘No a lot. He gets by, the most of them does.’

‘Will we get the mistress back, by doing this?’

‘We’d better,’ said Gil.

Five, six more strokes, and the oarsman backed one oar, swung the little boat round, bumped against the side of a much larger vessel.

‘There ye are,’ he said. ‘Will I hail them for ye, or are ye wanting to take them by surprise?’ It was too late for that: a hoarse voice spoke from the darkness above them. ‘Aye Nikolaas ,’ said the boatman. ‘Here’s an archbishop’s questioner for you, wanting a word wi Dutch Gerrit.’

Gil found a ladder of rope and wood at his shoulder; he tugged it cautiously, and scrambled up, aware of the familiar scents of tar and salted wood, hemp and damp wool, and climbed over the side on to the deck. Luke tumbled after him, almost sobbing with relief at being on a bigger boat. The deck swung under his feet, a barefoot man beside him held a dagger which gleamed in the light of the lantern slung beside the crucifix on the stern-castle railing, and across the waist someone moved towards him, very large in the shadows.

Deliberately he drew off his hat, saluted the cross, turned to the approaching man. No, men, there were two more, their bearing hostile. Mustering his few words of Low Dutch, he took a breath and said hopefully, ‘Skipper Gerrit?’

By the time Syme and the custumar joined them, Gil had contrived to set aside his anxieties, concentrate on his ability with words, and explain matters to the skipper.

He had observed before that the men of the Low Countries seemed to come in two sizes, small and fine-boned or very large. Gerrit van ’t Haag was definitely one of the latter, filling the after-cabin, nodding and wrinkling his large nose, his fair head bent to listen to the mixture of Low Dutch, French and Scots they were using.

‘Klaas — Nicol t’ief your vrouw ,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘Is niet goed . I help. Help you,’ he clarified, grinning and stabbing a sausage-like finger at Gil.

‘And we’ll have his baggage sealed afore you sail, captain,’ said Maister Renton. The custumar, woken by his kinsman, had apparently reacted strongly to the idea of uncustomed goods leaving his port, and turned out in person, his doublet fastened awry and his clerk rubbing bleary eyes and lugging the canvas bag with the great custom-book in it. ‘The idea, slipping past me in the night like this!’

The skipper gave him an innocent look. ‘ Niet goed ,’ he agreed, shaking his head.

‘The boatmen are out waiting,’ said Syme to Gil. ‘They told Maister Renton where they would lie afore we came on board.’

The custumar appeared to be passing the information to the skipper, to judge by his gestures. The big man reached past him, without rising, to open the cabin door.

‘ Allons-y ,’ he said. But Gil had already slipped out on to the deck, impelled by a sudden surge of fear. Luke followed as if glued to his elbow. Out in the dark there was bustle and movement, several men with cudgels, the mate issuing curt, guttural orders. He stepped to the side, peering into the night past the pre-dawn lights of Dumbarton and the black bulk of the Rock.

Away across the water, a voice suddenly spoke, a woman’s voice, high-pitched and frightened. Heart thumping, he stared tensely towards the sound. Alys? He thought not, but — Another voice rose in a loud shout that lifted a flock of flapping seabirds, which whirred over their heads, making Luke cross himself, exclaiming a blessing. Several of the sailors did likewise.

‘Ah!’ said the skipper behind him. ‘ Kommt Klaas. Waar sint other schouten? ’

Out in the dark there was an exchange with one of the other rocking vessels, and another loud halloo! and a shout of Gerrit! Then over towards the Rock an outbreak of more shouting, of struggles and splashing, a scream.

‘To the boat!’ proclaimed the skipper in thick Scots, and seized Gil’s elbow. ‘Ve save your vrouw !’

Six men at the oars shifted the ship’s boat across the flat water, across the wind, at a brisk pace. Gerrit in the stern steered towards the noise, Gil beside him. He had persuaded Luke quite readily to stay with Syme and the custumar. Lights showed on another of the merchant vessels, someone shouted a question. Gerrit answered, and shortly another boat followed them. It seemed to take for ever to cross the dark water to where shouting and splashing, a high quivering lantern, the white glimmer of spray identified the battle, and when they reached it and Gerrit’s men tumbled over the side into the shallows it was hard to work out who was on which side. Scots voices challenged and answered. The men of Dumbarton seemed to be fighting with one another as much as with Nicol.

‘Mind her, Erchie! She’s got a knife!’

‘And where’s my two groats? Where are they? Eh?’

‘Alys?’ Gil said sharply into the turmoil.

‘No to mention you’ve run her aground!’

‘Gerrit!’ Nicol’s voice. ‘ Par là! Attrape-elle! ’

Gerrit lurched past him over the side of the boat, splashed into the night, surely not walking on the — it must be a sandbank, Gil surmised, drawing his dagger, and followed, ducked past a whirling cudgel and plunged after the big Dutchman. There was certainly someone out there, hurrying through the shallows towards the lights of the town. Gerrit, more used than he to moving through the tide, was gaining on him and on the running figure, then with a flurry of splashes the big man pounced.

‘ Waar komms du, ma fille? ’ he said. ‘ Votr’ mari ist hier .’

‘Alys!’ said Gil again.

‘Gil!’ Her voice was tight with fear. ‘Oh, Gil!’

By the time they got back aboard the Nikolaas in the greying dawn, one thing was clear to Gil: if and when he got his wife to bed, she was unlikely to turn her back on him as she had done the last few nights. She clung to him as they waded back towards the boats, her teeth chattering with delayed shock; she seemed almost dazed with relief, and when he bent to kiss her she shivered and pressed her body against his as if to assure herself he was really there.

‘I thought I might not see you again,’ she said.

‘So did I.’ As they moved her wet skirts dragged through the water, which was surely deeper. ‘Is that another gown ruined?’