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A shot rang out, then another. Casbolt teetered for a moment and then overbalanced, falling into the brown, swelling tide.
Across the water another boat was coming towards them, Lanyon in the bow, a pistol in his hand. Beside him, Hester was ashen-faced, the wind whipping her hair and blowing her torn and wet skirts.
The boat reached the barge and Lanyon jumped over. A look of horror filled his eyes as he saw the bodies. It was a moment before he collected himself and came over to Monk. Trace coughed and sat up a little straighter, one of the other boat’s crew helping him.
Hester scrambled from one boat to the other and ran forward, falling on her knees beside Monk, saying his name over and over, searching his face, desperate to know he was all right. Her voice caught in her throat; her breathing was wild and jerky.
He grinned at her, and saw the tears of relief run down her cheeks. He could understand so very easily that you could love one woman so much that no one else filled your heart or mind. For a moment he could almost have been sorry for Casbolt. He had wanted Judith all his life. Love could hurt. It would ask for sacrifices greater than the imagination could foresee, and it was not always returned, or even understood. But it did not excuse what he had done. The end does not justify the means.
Lanyon unfastened Monk’s helmet and lifted it off.
Hester put her arms around Monk’s neck and buried her head on his shoulder, clinging to him with all the strength she possessed, until it hurt them both, but she could not let go.
