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Remote Corners
The interminable miles dragged on for a second day. Adelina feared her hips might never recover from riding in the uncomfortable side saddle, but doubted she’d receive a sympathetic ear if she complained to the constantly scowling Glenda. It was becoming clearer why the maid been sent on this journey. No one at court would put up with her rude behavior for long.
The events of Leeston played out again on the second night. Tents were erected, a vegetable broth was cooked and fetched by Glenda. Mandeville seemed to have come to the conclusion she wasn’t going to try to escape. He actually informed her of their location before she asked. “The village used to be known as Weedon Bec. They just call it Weedon now, because the Bec comes from the abbey of Bec-Hellouin. Unfortunately, it’s in Normandie, so King John confiscated the village from the Norman monks.”
Adelina was about to make a disparaging remark about the monarch’s rapacity. John had probably increased the rents of the tenants. Even an out-of-the-way little place like Weedon hadn’t escaped his greedy grasp.
However, she still didn’t know if she could trust the major, so she kept silent, feeling more isolated than ever.
Later, bundled in furs, staring into the dark recesses of the tent, she contemplated how Terric might effect a rescue. He’d need a small army if he was to mount an attack en route. Was he perhaps following, waiting and watching for an opportunity?
She didn’t know what had become of the faithful retainers who’d served the De Quincey family at Melton Manor, so where would Terric find allies?
“Wherever you are, dear brother, please come soon,” she whispered into the furs.
* * *
Muffled voices speaking a language he didn’t recognize woke Roland from a deep sleep inside the cave on the Cornish coast. Outside, rippling waves shimmered in the grey light of dawn. The rest of his crew, including Terric and Adrien, stirred and quickly scrambled to their feet.
Immediately alert, Roland touched a finger to his lips, afraid voices would echo off the rock walls of their shelter.
However, it seemed the crunch of boots on pebbles had alerted the two men on the beach whose attention shifted from the galley bobbing in the shallows to the cave.
“Too elderly to run,” Terric whispered. “Looks like they were collecting seaweed.”
Roland doubted there were many people living nearby; the hidden cove was in a very remote part of Cornwall. With any luck, the locals might speak something resembling Breton. He strode out of the cave and hailed the men. “Good day to you,” he tried, relieved when the frowns left their weathered faces. “Can my men help you collect seaweed?” he asked.
The two looked at each other as if they hadn’t fully understood, then nodded.
Roland instructed his men who spread out on the narrow beach and began gathering seaweed.
“Bryok,” one of the wrinkled old men said, before pointing to his companion. “Keneder.”
“Gentlemen,” Roland replied. “I am Roland, this is my brother, Adrien and my cousin, Terric.”
Bryok pointed to the galley. “Normans?”
Terric intervened. “Englishmen, from Sussex. Where are we exactly?” he asked in his own language.
Roland translated when the frowning Cornishmen scratched their grizzled chins.
“Porthgwarra,” Keneder replied.
Conscious of the need to replenish supplies for the rest of the journey, Roland gestured to the horizon. “Fish?” he asked, setting off after Bryok when he beckoned. They scrambled over slippery, jagged rocks, dodging waves crashing on the shore. For an old man, Bryok was surprisingly agile. Clearly, he’d negotiated the treacherous pathway before. Roland crawled like a crab, his boots filling with water when he lost his footing several times.
Eventually, they came to a natural gulley in the rock. A wooden cover had been constructed over it. Bryok hooked his gnarled fingers into a loop of rope and lifted the cover.
Roland gaped at the crabs, mussels and other shellfish teeming inside a wooden crate built into the rock. The trapped seawater was keeping the creatures alive.
“Hulley,” Bryok exclaimed, a toothless grin splitting his sun-bronzed face as he reached in to pull out a crab. “Take.”
“We’ll pay you,” Roland replied, carefully avoiding the pincers as he took hold of the crab.
“No need,” Bryok replied, scooping out a handful of mussels. “Men of the sea. We help each other.” He cocked his head toward the waves. “Plenty more.”
By the time Roland and his companions sailed away from the cove at dawn the following day, they’d been greeted warmly by the men’s wives—the pear-shaped Conwenna and twig-thin Derwa. They’d eaten more than enough steamed seafood, stowed baskets of salted cod, crab, mussels, winkles and cockles aboard the galley, and slept on clean straw in what could only be described as a shack, albeit a clean and cozy one.
“I doubt the four of them possess more than five teeth between them,” Adrien quipped as they waved farewell.
