Raleigh's Page (8 page)

17

T
O
M
ARSEILLES

“To throw off folks curious about where you are going,” Mr. Raleigh said, “your route to Marseilles must not be direct.”

He handed Tremayne and Andrew lumps of root about the size of an acorn.

“Ginger root from the Orient. We buy it from Arab traders and take it from Spanish prizes. When you feel seasick, chew on it. It will burn your tongue, but take as much as you can. Your stomach will be grateful. Save what’s left like you’d guard a jewel. When your guts churn, there’s nothing more precious.”

Slouching around the London docks in worn country clothes like an idle worker, Tremayne bought them passage on a small ship calling at Lisbon. It would then slip through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean and tack up the coast of Spain to France and Marseilles.

“She sails tomorrow on the change of tide,” Tremayne reported when he got back. “She’s an old cog, not much bigger than this room, freighted with dried fish from Newfoundland. The corsairs won’t bother her.”

“Corsairs?” Andrew asked.

“Pirates from Barbary and Algiers. They lurk around the Strait and the Canary Islands. Their spies at the ports alert them to vessels loading rich cargoes and passengers worth a ransom.”

“Pirates?” Andrew gasped. “Pirates will be after us?”

“Don’t worry,” laughed Tremayne. “You and me and a cargo of stockfish don’t offer much opportunity. But a fleet for America? That would tempt them.”

“What are stockfish?” the boy asked.

“Gutted cod dried in the air until they’re like boards. All the juice goes out, just the stink remains. The Spaniards use it like dried meat—soak it soft and cook it in their stews.”

The ship did smell of fish, but it was clean, and the crewmen were friendly. “Passengers are a bonus for them,” Tremayne explained. “What we pay will get shared around, a bit for everyone.”

Andrew hadn’t been on a big ship before. The sails creaked and ropes whistled as the cog rocked and shuddered in weather, groaning with every wave. He could hear the “clank clank clank” as men worked the pumps. He began to feel queasy. The fish smell didn’t help his stomach. After a few hours, the two passengers smelled like the cargo. Andrew bit on the ginger root. It was stringy and hot in his mouth. He wasn’t as sick as he’d been on the Thames ferries.

They laid over in Lisbon, trading fish for spices, wines, and oil. Andrew stood by the captain, watching this business closely, amazed when the captain told him what he’d sell his new cargo for in London compared to what he’d paid for the fish he gave in exchange.

“You’re surprised, lad? Well, don’t you be thinking our profits come easy. We pay in life for risks of weather, raiders, and ship fever before a penny makes it to our pockets. There’s more sailors under the water this moment than on it!”

Once they set out again, the cog felt sturdy underfoot. Andrew liked the compactness of things on board. No space was wasted; there was nothing extra, yet everything needed was close at hand. It was like Mr. Raleigh’s room in the turret.

Andrew stood by the captain at the wheel as they approached the Strait through the Gulf of Cádiz. A dark, unmarked vessel approached quickly, then drifted off.

“A corsair out hunting,” said the captain. “She must have caught smell of us.”

From the crew, Tremayne bought two suits of sailors’ clothes, worn and not too fresh. He and Andrew put them on.

“The prison.” Tremayne pointed as their ship eased past the immense pink stone fortifications guarding Marseilles harbor. Château d’If was a fort on its own dark island, with sharp black rocks poking out from the rough water around it. The two spies looked at each other; each knew what the other was thinking.

They landed in their sailors’ clothes, people of no class, kind, or nation. They smelled of old fish. No one noticed them.

The harbor’s edge was a hive packed tight with people of all colors, women yelling over their tables of writhing fish and piles of spiked shells, men trundling goods to and from warehouses along narrow ways in rattling iron-wheeled carts. There were rare smells from the open stalls for vegetables, spices, dried fruits, nuts. The voices were loud, high-pitched, excited.

It was late July. The sun was piercing. The hills were parched, oatmeal colored, speckled with dark green pines. The breeze was sharp with pine.

They found the avenue they’d been directed to. A whiff of goat roasting with rosemary drew them like dogs to an open-front tavern that looked clean enough. They ate the cook’s one offering. In the place for necessaries out back, they changed into their merchant clothes. Andrew touched charcoal to his upper lip.

A little farther on they found an inn. They arranged their lodging and left their sailor clothes and the samples case in their room.

They called at Monsieur Viton’s with their credential. A black giant opened the door. The name Barnes & Barry on the paper gained them entrance. It was cool and still inside.

“The French use stone like English builders use wood and paint,” Tremayne murmured as they waited. Andrew looked around. The walls were of colored marble up to the height of a man’s head. The white stone stairway was as broad as a farm road. Overhead there were painted scenes: blue skies, naked figures, flowers, eagles. They stood beside a great tub of polished tan stone mounted on black carvings of lions’ paws.

“It’s large enough for a man to lie down in, isn’t it?” Tremayne whispered. “And you know what? A man
did
lie down in it, a dead man in ancient times. It’s a tomb, a sarcophagus, which means ‘flesh-eating stone.’ Keep out of it if you can,” he added as he widened his eyes and grinned.

Andrew was too scared to like his joke.

At last Viton appeared, short and strong, with thick black hair and eyebrows and small, tired eyes. His nose was veined, his face puffy.

He was reserved in the way a man aware of his station is with those he knows to be inferior.

“But why was I not advised of your coming and some appointment made?” the Monsieur asked, squinting as if he could not quite make them out. “And who is this boy?”

He stared hard at Andrew.

Andrew figured he must have sweated off the charcoal.

Tremayne apologized. He pointed to the credential the Monsieur was holding. “I understood my principal, Mr. Douglas, wrote to you some weeks ago. His message must have gone astray. As for the lad, he is my clerk and my nose.”

Viton said nothing. The two visitors had not been invited to move from where they stood.

Tremayne’s face grew red. “Sir,” he said in a soft way, “the firm of Barnes and Barry intends no rudeness. We shall withdraw and proceed to Palermo, or you will accept proof that we are who we say we are and allow us to present our merchandise and see yours.”

“What proof?” the Monsieur asked.

“The nose of a vintner. Present your tests and the lad will match them. He has the gift.”

The Monsieur peered at them in turn from head to toe.

“It is most unusual. But come,” he said after a pause. “My man Brion will bring refreshment and samples to try your clerk’s nose.”

To the left there were large double doors to the room that served as Viton & Frères’s countinghouse. Viton led them to the right, into a long hall. The floors were of polished stone set with smaller stones in figures and patterns. In London, Andrew had seen the like in places where wealthy Romans had lived a thousand years before.

Brion brought a pitcher of sweetened lemon water and a dozen small glasses for the clerk to match.

Andrew caught his breath as Brion presented the first. Pretending to sneeze, he knocked it over. The stuff spilled on Brion’s sleeve. It was naphtha.

Andrew pushed himself away, apologizing as he wiped his nose. He’d saved it.

The Monsieur pressed his lips together as Andrew moved to the other side of the table.

Viton’s samples were easy to sort and match, easier than those Mr. Raleigh had used for his test.

Over the lemon water, Tremayne went through his rehearsed lines about samples and furs.

Andrew was edgy as he thought about what was coming. At last Tremayne suggested that since they were fatigued from traveling and the heat, perhaps they could meet for supper.

“Yes,” said the Monsieur. “I will look for you at the change of bells.”

Back at their inn they bathed and sewed each other into the vests. The vests were hot and uncomfortable and gave the small black biting creatures of that region safe harbor next to the wearers’ skins. Again Andrew applied the charcoal.

He felt in his inner pocket for the drug vial. His hand shook when he touched it.
Poison!
he thought.
I may kill him!
He forced himself to take deep breaths. Despite the heat, he had goose bumps.

18

A
DVENTURE IN THE
W
INE
T
RADE

At the change of bells, Brion admitted them. His large smooth face revealed nothing. Viton was there with his clerk, a sturdy fellow, heavier and taller than Tremayne. Andrew caught himself feeling for the dagger strapped to his thigh. If it came to violence, they were outmatched.

Over dinner, the Monsieur and Tremayne discussed their voyage from Lisbon, prices of wines there, fashions in London, and the Englishman’s interest in furs. Andrew sat silent, eating little. He wondered if the food was poisoned.

“And your Mr. Parmenter,” the Frenchman asked suddenly. “How is his health?”

Andrew felt the blood go out of his body. He’d not heard that name in connection with Barnes & Barry. Tremayne took it for a test.

“I am not acquainted with Mr. Parmenter,” he replied in an easy voice.

“In your firm, Mr. Parmenter?”

“No, I am not aware of such a person.”

“Um,” said Viton, pursing his lips.

Andrew had tensed for a fight. He let himself sink back in the chair.

“May we now offer our samples and discuss an exchange?” Tremayne asked.

“Yes.”

Andrew opened the samples case. Brion set six glasses before him and put a bowl in front of Viton. Viton’s clerk sat beside him. Brion remained standing.

Andrew’s heart was pounding. He fought to take deep breaths as he arranged the six small bottles on the table. He had the vial in his pocket.

As he had practiced with Mr. Raleigh so many times, he took up his napkin to polish the first glass and slipped the vial into his hand.

With the vial concealed in the napkin’s folds, he dosed the glass as he poured the sample. He sniffed it and said what it was in his deepest voice.

Tremayne took a list from his pocket. “Yes,” he said pompously. “This is our finest Canary. We have five barrels available.”

“You try it first,” said the Monsieur to Tremayne.

Andrew handed Tremayne the glass, turning it carefully as he passed it. They had trained for this. The drug was heavier than the wine. It would settle to the bottom if not stirred.

Tremayne sniffed deeply, took a sip, ran it around in his mouth, then swallowed. “Ah! Most excellent,” he said, smacking his lips. “How can we hope to replace such wares at the exchange we are willing to let it go for?” he mused.

The Monsieur flashed a greedy look as Tremayne swirled the glass, pretending to savor its fragrance one last time before passing it on.

The Monsieur sniffed, took a taste, then spat.

He closed his eyes for an instant and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We would be interested in that.”

He passed the glass to his clerk. The clerk did as his master had done.

They were not as thirsty as Mr. Raleigh had thought they’d be. Andrew would have to dose the next glass as well.

“The second,” said Tremayne.

Andrew’s strength was back. Again he flourished the napkin and tapped the vial.

Again the Frenchman sniffed, worked the wine around in his mouth, and spat.

He and Tremayne had some conversation about this one, then about the third and the fourth. The clerk and Andrew were kept busy making notes as Brion looked on.

Andrew had two drops left.

The Frenchman was becoming more agreeable. Perhaps he was getting some of the drug. He directed Brion and the clerk to go fetch samples of his furs for Tremayne to judge.

“As you go, take those,” he said, pointing to the glasses he’d tasted from.

Brion gathered them and left the room. The clerk followed.

Waiting for the others to return, Tremayne drew the Frenchman out about his trade and the prices of furs.

“I don’t know what’s keeping them,” the Monsieur said finally. “Of course they are polishing off the samples, but still…”

Andrew forced himself not to look at Tremayne.

“Well,” said the Monsieur, with a wave of his hand. “Let’s try number five.”

Again Andrew prepared the glass, sniffed it, and announced what it was as he passed it to Tremayne, who sniffed and tasted, then swallowed with a grunt of satisfaction. He passed the glass on to Viton with a friendly nod. Perhaps he was getting some of the drug too?

The Monsieur sniffed, smiled, and drank it down.

“That one also—it will do,” he said. “Make a note.”

As Andrew did so, Viton rang his bell.

Silence.

“Ah!” he said thickly. “Well, the last, and then I’ll fetch my drunkards.”

The boy flourished the napkin one last time and emptied the vial.

Viton swallowed it all. The man was a horse or the potion was water.

He rang again.

Silence.

He started to heave himself up.

“Oof!” he exclaimed as his legs went out. He sat down hard. With a long sigh, he sank forward on the table.

Andrew kept his eyes down.

The Frenchman snored deeply.

“Now!” whispered Tremayne.

They went out the way Brion and the clerk had gone. The two lay sprawled in the pantry. They’d drained the glasses.

Andrew snatched up their candles.

“The cook,” Tremayne said, gesturing that they should pass through the kitchen. The place was silent. They came to a door. Andrew opened it without a sound. The cook was asleep inside. He took the key. As he turned it from the outside, the lock screeched. He went cold all over. They waited. She slept on.

They hurried to the Monsieur’s apartment. They searched until the bells rang half past ten. There were folders and folios and sheaves of letters tied with ribbon but nothing resembling the map and the other papers Mr. Hakluyt had described.

Suddenly they heard “thump” and what sounded like a cry.

Andrew grabbed his dagger.

It was the Monsieur’s large old tabby cat, glad for company.

As Andrew petted her and his heart slowed down, Tremayne asked in an everyday voice, “If you were the Monsieur, where would you hide those documents?”

On an inspiration Andrew said, “Out in the open, as if they were ordinary things of business. Not here, not where thieves would look for valuables.”

They went back down past their sleepers and on to the room in front where Viton & Frères conducted their business. What appeared to be the map they were after was with some other papers in a folio marked “Trades Current.” There wasn’t light enough to be sure.

The boy’s hands shook as he stuffed part of the file into the pocket of Tremayne’s vest. Tremayne then did the same for Andrew. Tremayne’s hands were cold. Their shirts were stretched tight.

“And the samples case?” Andrew asked.

“Leave it,” said Tremayne. “We’ve got enough to carry.”

They slipped back through the kitchen and out the rear door into the alley.

No one was around.

They made their way to the inn, dodging through the harbor warren to make sure no one was following.

As they sewed the vests shut, Tremayne said, “We can’t stay. We must ship out tonight.”

They changed into their sailors’ clothes, paid the startled innkeeper, and slipped into the street.

At that hour there were men of opportunity about, willing—for a price—to do anything.

In a tavern by the water, they found a Dutch sailor who told them his vessel was headed to Lisbon on the change of tide. Tremayne bought his favor and he smuggled them aboard. By dawn, Marseilles and its prison island were out of sight.