take the manor back from him, once this traitor is arrested. After all, a lord who doesn't even possess the wit to discover that his own men are plotting treason is hardly- competent to have oversight of the king's lands. And John will take it very ill, that Osborn has allowed this rebellion to fester under his roof.'
Talbot squinted at him. 'Way I see it, you wanted rid of that bastard Osborn from the outset, so why didn't you tell what you knew straightway? If you heard this man so plainly, how is it you didn't recognize the voice? Even if you didn't; know it then, you've surely heard it since.'
Raffe hesitated. He wouldn't trust Talbot with a clipped farthing if money was involved, but he would wager his life on the man's ability to keep his own counsel.
'If you want the truth I didn't hear what was said. It was a girl in the manor, a villein, she reported it to me. But she thinks one of the men may have seen her, glimpsed her anyway. If he's still at liberty when he discovers that he was overheard, her life wouldn't be worth the dirt on his shoe. That's why I need proof before I can act. I'll tell the sheriff I heard what was said, and I won't need to mention her.'
'So you'd lie for this lass,' Talbot grinned. 'Pretty, is she?'
'I'd lie to save a life,' Raffe snapped. 'And we both know it wouldn't be the first time I've done that, don't we?'
Mortals are strange creatures; they cling to life even when that life is nothing but pain and misery, yet they will throw awaytheir lives for a word, an idea, even a flag. Wolves piss to mark their territory. Smell the stench of another pack and wolves will quietly slink away. Why risk a fight when it might maim or kill you? But humans will slash and slaughter in their thousands to plant their little piece of cloth on a hill or hang it from a battlement. We mandrakes can give them victory, but on whom shall we bestow it? For both sides will pronounce their own cause just. And which is the brave man and who is the traitor? You must choose; we mandrakes never do. We simply give them both what in their hearts they truly crave — the illusion of a glorious death, which the poor fools imagine is immortality.
You don't believe me. Let me show you. Two old soldiers lying side by side on the hill watch the little ship bobbing out in the bay. The sailors on the ship watch the shore. They all wait impatiently for the blessed cloak of darkness to cover their wretched little deeds, but the sun will not be hurried by the whims of men.
The cog-ship shuddered as the racing tide twisted her against her anchor ropes. Hunched under the castle of the ship, Faramond shivered miserably in the wet wind, which had grown sharper as the light began to fade across the Norfolk marshes. Although they were sheltered from the great ocean waves behind the sandy island of Yarmouth, the lurching of the ship seemed even worse now that they were at anchor. The three rivers raced into the basin of water and the sea tide pushed hard against them, creating a turbulence that felt more violent than any at sea.
Faramond tried to shuffle downwind of the breeze which blew charcoal smoke and the stench of pickled pork across his face, but he could not leave the safety of the shadows in the ship's stern and the best he could do to escape the nauseating stench was pull his cloak over his mouth and nose. As soon as the Santa Katarina had come within sight of the English coast, the five Frenchmen had been forced to spend the daylight hours squatting in the stern under the castle of the ship, well out of sight. Even had they dressed in the thin, patched clothes of the sailors, a casual observer would see from the way they staggered like newborn calves across the rolling deck that they were not accustomed to life at sea.
The captain cursed as he struggled to reach round the huddle of men to grab a coil of rope.
'How much longer must we sit here?' one of the men grumbled loudly.
The captain grabbed him by the shoulder. 'I told you, keep your mouth shut. Sound travels across water.' He squinted over to the horizon