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“The captain is off watch, sir,” Ned replied. “May I serve you?”
“What’s its name and where is it bound?”
Out of the corner of his eye Ned saw a shadow—nothing more than the torchlight flickering—and knew that Rowan was on her way.
“It is theHelderenberg, bound for Bilbao.”
“We have information that this ship has been commissioned by the Duke of Monmouth for an invasion of England.”
Ned shook his head, the image of doltishness. “Nay, I don’t know anything about that,” he said slowly. “We’re laden withbaccalà—salted codfish—and sailing for Spain as soon as the wind drops.”
“Where is the duke?”
“What duke?”
“Monmouth! Where is Monmouth?”
“Near Wales, I believe,” Ned said earnestly.
Hewling, caught off guard, snorted with laughter.
“We can do nothing without the facts!”
“No, sir. No more can I. What facts?”
The men spoke among themselves. Ned could not understand their language, but he could see the worldwide unwillingness of small-town officials to exert themselves in uncertain times.
“I cannot admit you on board unless you have papers,” Ned said apologetically. “Do you have papers?”
From the exclamation of irritation from one of the gentlemen, Ned guessed that the necessary papers—in this most bureaucratic of countries—had not been provided.
“We will come back when we have the right papers,” the senior man said. He brandished a handful of documents. “The English envoy failed to make the correct request.”
“The English envoy tried to stop us selling codfish to Bilbao?” Ned asked, deeply shocked at the interference in trade.
“A mistake,” one of the men said irritably. “And us looking like fools.”
“Not at all! Not at all! Come back when you are fully certified. If you would be so gracious as to let us know when, I can make sure the captain is here to receive you.”
The Amsterdam official consulted his timepiece, a handsome largesilver watch chained over his broad belly. “When the envoy makes the correct application, we will return,” he said. “And you are?”
“Let me give you a note of my name,” Ned said. He found a piece of paper and dipped a pen in the ink-standish. “Sir James Avery, Northside Manor, Northallerton,” Ned wrote with mischievous joy, scattered it with sand to dry, tied it in the plumb line, and tossed it down to the officials.
The Amsterdammer untied the note and read the aristocratic scrawl. “Sir James?”
“At your service, sir,” Ned said, reeling the line in. “Sir James Avery. Trader in codfish.”
Rowan led Ned at a loping run to the quayside inn where the duke was dining.
“I told him,” she said shortly.
Ned patted her shoulder. “You did well,” he said. “You went down that rope as quick as a rat.” He left her at the door of the private parlor, knocked, and put his head inside the room. The duke was dining with his senior officers, Lord Grey at one end of the table, Colonel Foulness, Lieutenant Tallier, and Captain Kidd between them.
“Your pardon, sire, reporting from the ship,” Ned said.
“Come in,” Monmouth said. “We’ve been waiting. You did well to send your lad to warn us. What’s happened?”
“Amsterdam officials, inquiring about our business,” Ned said. “I told them we were bound for Bilbao with freight, but they’ve been set on us by the English envoy and they’ll be back. They have to get a proper warrant before they can impound the ship—I couldn’t understand it all, sire, they spoke in their own language among themselves. But I did get—loud and clear—that they’ll be back. My advice is that we sail, whatever the weather.”
