Elisabeth Hobbes - Uncovering The Merchant's Secret

Blanche began to roll the barrel up the sloping beach to add it to the pile of salvage. The methods were dishonourable, but she would not let the salvage be wasted when it could be used to improve the lives of the tenants on her land.

The barrel was heavy. Blanche paused for breath beside a corpse that had been washed further up the beach than most. The man was lying on his back, one arm tangled inside a heavy cloak that must have hampered his efforts to swim and should by rights have dragged him to the bottom of the sea. Yet here he was, lying on the beach, his long limbs sprawled out carelessly. He could have been napping on a riverbank on a warm summer afternoon.

He was not a youth, nor as old as Andrey. Blanche guessed he was somewhere around his thirtieth year, only a handful of years younger than she was. Unbidden, her mind went back to her first husband who had died before his time. This man looked nothing like Mael, but the thought of stolen years upset her more than she was expecting, sorrow creeping around her heart like a winding cloth.

She knelt down next to him, barrel of wine temporarily forgotten, and held the brand close to his face. He would have been handsome when alive and it struck her as unfair that he had been snatched from life in such a brutal manner. A deep gash split his right eyebrow and ran across his temple into his sandy-brown hair. It was stark red against the paleness of his skin, though the cold and seawater had staunched the blood flow and now it was a livid, ragged-edged wound.

The laces of his shirt were untied to the middle of his chest. He must have been caught by surprise and had no time to dress properly before the cog was dashed on the rocks. By the flickering light of the brand, Blanche noticed the glint of gold among the fine, light brown hairs. She, reached beneath his collar, hooking her finger under the chain and drew out a delicate cross.

The wreckers would simply rip it from his neck, snapping the chain, but Blanche could not bear to do that with something so beautiful. She stuck the torch into the sand and cradled his head, easing it forward to slip the long chain free. Red stones glinted on the surface. Something this beautiful was too fine to leave for the wreckers to break and waste on drinking, gambling or whoring. Blanche had little care for the treasures she stole from the French beyond what good they could do to aid the cause of Brittany or her tenants, but she was gripped with the need to make sure the unknown man’s treasure survived as a memorial to his life. She would not share this with anyone else so she slipped it around her own neck, tucking it deep into the bodice of her dress where it nestled between her breasts. An odd frisson made her shiver at the feel of the object that had been intimately touching him.

As she rested the man’s head back, his eyes flickered open and he uttered a weak, breathy moan. He was alive! The strength of relief and joy that flooded her heart took her by surprise. He gave a heaving cough and water bubbled to his lips. Blanche pushed her hands against his ribs, pushing upwards to force any remaining water out. He bared his teeth and hissed. Mortified at having added to his pain, Blanche slid her hands gently up to his cheeks and pulled his head into what she hoped was a more comfortable position. His eyes opened once more—a little wider this time—and he peered at her. His eyes were light blue and full of confusion and pain. Though hazy, they were captivating in their intensity and Blanche could not tear her gaze away.

Blanche’s hat had become dislodged when she had jerked in surprise. She pulled it off. As her thick, black locks fell freely about her, the man smiled and whispered something in a language she thought was English.

‘I don’t understand,’ she replied in Breton, then repeated it in French.

He reached a hand out towards her hair, fumbling and clumsy. Blanche instinctively recoiled, as she did at the advances of any man, but as his fingertips brushed against her cheek with the lightest of touches, her heart fluttered.

His strength was almost spent and his arm was seized with a tremor that made it shake violently. He could not be long for this world and the awakening was only delaying the inevitable. Blood loss and shock would claim him before the night was out. Already his hand was so cold with the clammy texture of a corpse. Instinctively, Blanche wanted to pull away, but remorse and guilt flooded her once more. Her people bore the responsibility for his death, so the least she could do was bear the discomfort and act as witness to his passing. She owed him that much. She covered his hand, holding it to her cheek and feeling the quiver that raced along his arm.

He tried to pull her down towards him, tilting his head back and parting his lips as if he intended to kiss her. His fingers scrabbled deep into the hair at the nape of her neck, causing her to shiver at the intimacy of his touch. Her heart drummed a march in her breast.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, stroking the matted hair back from his brow.

His eyes focused again and locked on hers and he bestowed on her a smile of such overwhelming tenderness that she wanted to weep. Tenderness. So long since anyone had looked at her in such a way. Blanche closed her eyes wistfully. She bent her head and kissed his forehead with the lightest of touches. His head came up and his mouth found hers with a swiftness she would not have anticipated in one so close to death.

His lips tasted of salt and moved over hers with a fierceness she had never encountered before. He was fighting to the end; a dying man’s final attempt at comfort or a sweet memory to take beyond the grave. There was desperation beneath the desire, drawing her to him and leaving her powerless to resist its pull. She kissed him back, letting her lips form the shape of his in a moment of mutual sorrow.

She felt the moment his strength gave out. Her eyes filled as she drew away and laid his head gently down.

He smiled once more.

‘My angel. I am ready to come to you,’ he whispered in French, then closed his eyes.

An angel?

Blanche smiled at the thought, though tears smarted in her eyes. He thought he was speaking to someone else. If only the man knew what kind of woman was peering down at him, he would not use such terms. She was Jael. Jezebel. She was the Magdalene at her worst.

His hand went limp and she placed it across his chest. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wound on his head, probing as gently as she could so as not to cause him more discomfort, though she suspected he was rapidly slipping beyond such experiences. The wound was deep and she felt the hardness of bone. His chest heaved and he groaned, twisting on the sand. There was still strength in him. If his body was as strong as his kiss, there might be hope...

‘Andrey, come help me,’ she shouted. ‘This one is a survivor.’

Andrey stomped over and looked down.

‘Huh, better to finish him off quickly,’ he said, reaching for the curved dagger at his belt.

Blanche threw herself in front of the man, arms out, and stared up at Andrey defiantly.

‘No. We’ll take him to the castle and give him a place to rest.’

Most likely he would not survive the night, but she could not leave him here for such a sad and lonely end.

Andrey looked appalled. ‘We have no idea who these men are. He could be a spy for Charles de Blois. Do you really want to give shelter to such a man?’

Blanche stood, curling her fists. She placed them on her hips and lifted her shoulders back. Though she was only a woman, she had learned that to mimic a man’s posture somehow garnered more respect and granted her authority that using her femininity did not.

‘It is my home. I will not be argued with.’