stay to eat,' Raffe explained. 'We have to leave straight away to get to the mainland. I have a boat waiting.'
The woman ignored him and crossed to the door and, lifting a stout beam of wood, set it in the iron brackets across the door to brace it shut.
Raffe started forward. 'No, you don't understand, we have to leave.'
The woman turned to him, her hands on her hips, her body square in the doorway.
'There'll be no man willing to take you ashore tonight, tide's running in fast against the rivers. That wind'll push it hard in, but rivers'll only be pushed so far, then they'll come roaring back. You'd best stay here tonight, less you want to play with the sea, like the sailor said.'
She climbed the rickety ladder to the upper chamber and, moments later, two long thick pallets tumbled through the trapdoor and fell in a heap on the floor below. The woman leaned forward and squinted down at Raffe through the hatch.
'Mind you don't open that door again tonight till it's light, no matter who begs to come in. There's some foreigners would cut your throat just for a parcel of herring heads.'
She glowered at them both, as if she suspected the pair of them were in league with a band of murderers. Then she heaved the ladder upwards till it disappeared through the hole in the ceiling and the trapdoor fell down with a loud clatter. Raffe heard a beam of wood being drawn over the trap to brace it firmly shut.
Raffe cursed under his breath. All he wanted was to get this Frenchman to Norwich and off his hands as quickly as possible. He'd arranged to lodge the man in the north of the city among the tanners, who could be counted upon to keep their own counsel, for they loathed the sheriff as much as he despised them. And the knowledge that this part of the city was just about the most unpleasant and noxious a place as you could lodge any man was, for Raffe, an added bonus. But he knew there would be no way off the island tonight, not in this wind. And if he was forced to spend the night with this spy, the isle of Yarmouth was the best refuge they could hope to find themselves in if they wanted to avoid John's men.
Two years or so back, King John had made Yarmouth a Charter town, not from a sudden rush of generosity, of course, but as a way of raising more gold for his coffers, for the townspeople had to pay him fifty-five pounds a year for the privilege, far more than he could shake out of them in taxes. But it meant they administered the king's justice now and collected the tolls, so officially there were none of John's officers here. Raffe was certain, of course, that John would have men in the town who were paid to send regular reports to him, for he'd trust no one in Yarmouth, not with all the foreign ships coming to trade. But if John's men had found out about this Frenchman, they could no more get a message off the island tonight than Raffe could. So as long as the storm raged they were safe. After that, all he could do was pray.
Raffe arranged the pallets on either side of the banked- down fire and lay down on one fully clothed. It crackled as he shifted his weight. It was a sailor's pallet, fashioned from bits of old sailcloth patched together and stuffed with feathers. The cloth had been repeatedly rubbed with wax and tallow to waterproof it. Twine was bound around each corner to form handholds, so it could be used as a float if the ship floundered.
The Frenchman, whose face was now a little less pale, swivelled round on his bench to face Raffe.
'What are you doing? Why are we not leaving?'
You heard the alewife; no boat will put to sea this night. There is no other way off the island. We have to stay until morning.'
The stranger had turned pale again. 'I cannot stay here. I must get to Norwich. If your soldiers find me . . .'
Raffe propped himself up on his elbow, seething with resentment against this snivelling little wretch. The slightness of the man's build might have fitted him to a cloistered life, but he had a restlessness about him that would never be contained in a monastery. His gaze was constantly flicking