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Sherwood and de Civili exchanged quick introductions, but the lieutenant knew all about Sherwood’s important mission for his king, and reported that unfortunately, no, there had been no suspicious-looking characters brought to his attention that entire day, nor the previous.
Sherwood slapped his gloves in his hand and paced the small space. Slowly, he became aware of the dockmaster’s cold eyes following his every step. He turned to the man.
“And you, sir, have you seen any suspicious men today?”
“That I have.” Sherwood felt his heart beat pick up. “Four of them are sitting in my office right now.”
The French soldiers exchanged a glance, then broke out in laughter and toasted one another. They liked to annoy him. But Sherwood tipped his head to the side and came a step closer.
“No men, then? How about a woman?”
The dockmaster’s gaze didn’t change. “A woman?”
“Reddish hair, pale skin, French. Escorted by a well-armed outlaw. Tall, bearded, Irish, although he can disguise himself as anything.”
“There’s people in and out of my port all the live-long day, my lord. Men and woman, some from France, some from—”
“Mind what I said about her hair. Reddish, lush…and her skin, so fine….”
The dockmaster sat back and crossed his arms over his substantial chest, then shook his head slowly. “Not seen anyone that fine in a long time.”
Sherwood pinched his lips together and turned away. He paced the room a few more times, circling the soldiers who were now pulling out a pair of dice. When the first man knelt on the ground and tossed them at the wall, he whirled to the door so abruptly his cape bloomed around his ankles.
“I am going to search the inns,” he announced, swinging the door open.
“Very good, sir,” replied the lieutenant, taking a swig of wine and picking up the dice. “Do you want that I should alert Prince John to your presence in the realm?”
“Why in God’s name would I want that?” he snapped. Sherwood’s goal was crystallized in his mind, sticky as honey: get the dagger and sell it to the highest bidder. The last thing he needed was the ridiculous but dangerous Prince John in his business before it had reached its culmination.
He slammed the door so hard behind him the walls of the hut shuddered. The soldiers and the dockmaster exchanged glances.
“You Englishmen,” observed one of the soldiers. “So irritable.”
“And short-tempered.”
The third nodded in grave agreement. “And loud.”
“And disloyal,” added the lieutenant quietly. The others picked up their cups and toasted the disloyalty of Englishmen.
The dockmaster sat, silent at his post, watching the circle of French interlopers get more and more drunk as the moon rose.
Chapter Forty
MAGDALENA PEERED ASKANCE at the doorway of the building Tadhg had stopped them in front of. The windows on the buildings on either side for half the block were entirely dark; no lights shone, no figures moved behind the shutters, no wash had been hung.
The street itself was empty of humans, despite being late day. Only a cat prowled, and nearer to hand, from inside one of the seemingly empty buildings, a very large-sounding dog barked.
Tadhg eyed the doorway, then stepped to it and said softly, “Fianna,”
This illuminated nothing for Maggie, nor, apparently, the inhabitants of the decrepit building, assuming there were any, for silence rode on its heels. A chill tickled up her spine.
He said it again, little louder. “Fianna,” he murmured, and rapped softly.
More nothing.
With a cold glare, he lifted his hand and hammered on the door with the side of his fist.
Magdalena gave a start at the bold, shocking sound.
