The Blue Star by Fletcher Pratt (interesting books to read for teens .txt) 📕

distrust. But just as he was on the point of uttering some rebuff, or so I believed, there came a shout from some distance away. He looked round - as did I, to see two men approaching, making their way along the crowded quay. One of them was a porter, another of those I had observed shifting cannons the day before.

The other was Yakup.

My instinct was to turn about at once and make myself scarce – but it was too late. The Turk had seen me, and recognition was immediate. Briefly he slowed his pace, then walked forward swiftly – and very soon I was the object of all three men’s attention. Thinking fast, I nodded a greeting.

‘Master Yakup… I thought you had sailed on the trow.’

But my answer was a cold silence. There we stood, as ill-assorted a company as could be imagined. The porters glanced at each other, then back at me… whereupon the man I had first spoken with put on a blank stare, and moved his hand deliberately to his belt. I glanced down swiftly, expecting to see a poniard, but there was only a stubby oak billet - plain and serviceable, yet in skilled hands, just as deadly.

There was no remedy. Wordlessly I stepped back, turned and left them. After I had walked a few yards I looked over my shoulder to see the porters had turned their backs and were in close conference. But Yakup stood apart, looking hard at me… and at once Russell’s words came to mind, back at the Crickepit foundry: I’d keep a wary eye on that one.

Ill-at-ease, I left the quays and made my way back to the inn – only to learn that my chamber had already been bespoken, and there was no other room free.

Whereupon, when I consoled myself at a corner table with a cup of strong sack, the matter I had managed to forget returned abruptly – with such force that I almost bowed down with its weight.

I could still lose Thirldon. And here I was many miles away, friendless, on foot and likely in danger too. It was as low a moment as I had known, in many days.

***

And yet, even when a man is at his lowest ebb, solace may come in ways unexpected; even as I write it, I can feel the relief I felt that day. For late that afternoon, making my way cautiously back to the harbour – and I confess, somewhat the worse for the drink I had taken – I was surprised to find that the words spoken by the taciturn porter were true. Moored at the same berth previously occupied by the Lady Ann was another Severn trow, smaller and higher in the water, her sails tight-furled. As I drew near, I read the name painted about the prow – and almost laughed: she was called the Last Hope.

I stood a while, looking for signs of activity, before throwing caution to the winds and walking up the gangplank with my pack. When I glanced at the hold, I saw that it was but half-filled, its contents covered – and there was little doubt in my mind, from its shape, that the cargo was similar to Spry’s: cannon, tightly packed.

This time, however, it was of no interest. I turned to the aft awning, screened by sailcloth, and called aloud for Captain Darrett, prompting voices from within. A head appeared - and I moved forward, to beg a passage back to Lydney.

To bring that matter to a close, after some conversation it was granted, and at a comfortable price. Whereupon I smiled in relief, to which the lugubrious-looking trow-master merely grunted. He was a sour fellow, I decided.

But in that too-brief judgement of the man’s character, I would find, I had made another error.

EIGHT

The Last Hope, I soon discovered, was an Upstream Trow: to whit, one which usually sailed up the Severn as far as Worcester, unlike the Lady Ann which was a Downstreamer. She was of shorter beam, and lighter in build. Captain Darrett rarely came to Bristol, it seemed. I had told him of my connection with the Mountfords, which drew a glum response.

‘I’m carrying the scrag-end of their whoreson shipment,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of it… the Last Hope’s not fitted out for such.’

He gestured vaguely to the cargo, as we stood on deck. Evening was drawing in, but the port was still abuzz. The sheeting was gone, and preparations were already in train for Darrett’s cargo to be unloaded, to join the other cannons stacked on the quayside. His freight was smaller guns, minions and falcons. Finding him a man who was at least willing to talk, William Pride set to.

‘Where’s the shipment bound for, then?’ I asked casually. ‘London, or…?

‘I couldn’t say, for I don’t ask,’ came the reply. ‘I’m content taking timber upriver to Gloucester or Tewkesbury, as a rule. I’m a peaceful man - carrying cannons makes me nervous.’

I nodded in understanding fashion, then asked when he expected to make sail back up the Severn. The next afternoon, I was told, whatever the tide. Captain Darrett, it seemed, was a countryman born and bred, who disliked cities. In truth, he seemed to dislike most things. Choosing my moment, I ventured to ask him about accommodation for the night, to which he eyed me above drooping moustaches, his beard thin and greying.

‘You mean you want to sleep here, onboard?’ And when I indicated assent, he sighed wearily.

‘Well, if you must. You’ll have my two crewmen for company… I’ve a berth on shore. Once we’re on the river, there will be four – nay, five of us. We’ll be squashed up like stockfish… you’ll have to shift for yourself. And I’ll ask you to lay aside your sword.’

I offered my thanks, then frowned.