CHAPTER 17
Voyage to Skegness
The bitter wind promised snow. Robert adjusted his great cloak and buckled the toggles beneath his fur mantle.
Julius shifted uneasily beneath him, swiveling his tail to the cutting gusts. After digging into fur-lined gauntlets, Robert picked up the reins and moved his sturdy horse onto the open road. Julius reluctantly lowered his head and trudged uphill in the stiff downdraft from the cliffs.
Robert would not be long, and when this was finished, he did not plan to come this way again. He had been here only once before and wondered at his decision now, but if he waited longer, the weather could be worse.
Julius puffed with exertion up the lonely grade. For a highway, there was not much traffic besides the locals, unless a stage from Geneva or a merchant caravan passed, but with the change of seasons, none would dare this road much longer. Winter came early in the high country, and Robert had not passed more than a few shepherds and a monk since he had left Moutiers. No matter-he found the solitude agreeable.
When the castle appeared through the trees, he did not slow his horse but changed direction. The forest swallowed the pointed rooftops and thickened when the track angled from the open road. Julius appreciated the shelter it offered from the wind but twisted his ears as the gales' fury rattled the copse. Robert followed the unkempt track deeper into the forest, through the dark trees.
The great gates closed on the road sooner than he had expected and were higher than he remembered. The rustle of the wind in the forest was his only greeting. Robert turned Julius beside the wall and stood on the saddle. It took him an instant to scale to the top. On the opposite side, he opened the gate and beckoned his horse through with a short whistle. After he mounted again, he urged Julius faster.
Robert had expected the place to be abandoned, but caretakers would secure the grounds. On a day like today, they might be anywhere, and he had not come to answer questions. Wary of activity, he rode through the wilderness around the fringes of old gardens.
Reaching the lonely graveyard in this roundabout fashion, he spurred Julius through its rusted gates. The moaning wind swept away the sound of his horse on the gravel road as Robert rode in search of the tomb he knew he would find, slowing Julius only when he reached the white granite crypt.
He recognized it at once. A single cross sealed its black doors, which did not bear the name of its occupant. He felt riveted to his saddle. It was worthless to have ridden all this way to stare at the engraving of a cross. He stepped down and crunched his boots on the gravel. A gust of wind tried to take his hat, so he moved to the lee of the mausoleum.
What did he expect to find? Men died every day. Sometimes they went in sleep, and other times when they least expected. They died in flood, famine, sickness, by happen stance or in war, and the lucky ones went with a family weeping for their loss. What could any man say about the prospect of dying, when it was the inevitable conclusion to life?
He found the need to clear his throat as the wind whipped into a whistle around charnel houses and forgotten tombstones.
"Henri."
The lonely wind howled in answer, and scattered with it whatever he had come to say. The place did not dissolve as smoke in a magician's mirror, and the stone doors did not split open. Robert lifted his eyes away from the sepulchre and scanned the bleakness around him for witnesses, but he was alone in the graveyard. Determinedly, he touched the frigid cross marking the doors to the crypt.
"There wasn't time to say good-bye."
The wind moaned. Had he anticipated absolution? Resolutely, he clamped his hat back onto his head and retreated to his horse. Julius did not shift when he climbed into the saddle. Robert took a final look at the unmarked grave, then spurred the horse toward the gate as a flake of snow found him.
THE ADVENTURE BEGAN with the morning tide on a Lion Shipping topsail schooner. Whether from Alix's excitement or because the owner was aboard, it seemed that the sails snapped crisply even in the lackluster fog. She would have preferred to remain topside but went belowdecks to the cabin with Sarah, while poor Cousin Mary retired early to the captain's cabin, seasick before they even left the river.
It was to be a quick trip up the coast, and Sarah promised that when the fog lifted, they would be able to see the distant shore. Alix hoped by then her friend would like to venture out onto the deck, because there was too much to see to be closeted. In their tiny cabin, Alix sat opposite Sarah at a small table, sipping tea with cream and nibbling on crumpets with honey, as unseen bridges over the Thames sailed by. While Sarah made herself comfortable with her magazine, Alix strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of something beyond the splash of water and the mist through the portholes. Finally, she resignedly retrieved her borrowed copy of The Od)sse) and fed her crumpet to the dog.
She was unaware when the fog broke apart. She was determined to keep the terrier from being a nuisance, and lifted her eyes from the page when he slipped off her lap. He cocked his head to the side and pricked his ears, looking at her expectantly. "Oh, don't tell me . . ."
Her comment drew Sarah's attention. "Is something the matter?"
"He wants out, of course. I've lost track of time reading,"
Alix explained, reaching for the door.
"The wind is going to ruin your hair."
Alix laughed gently, stepping into the narrow corridor to follow the scampering dog. "That's what bonnets are for."
"Milady." The first mate bowed when she emerged. "Lords Griffon and Wesley are astern. Please, allow me to escort you." "Thank you," Alix replied. She did not wish to find the pair as much as she was afraid of getting lost. Not only would a wandering Lady Griffon be an embarrassing gaffe, but the ship was full of rough sailors whose job it was to sail it. They were on their best behavior with their employer onboard, but who knew how accountable any one of them might be if she chanced upon them unescorted?
Apprehensively, she followed the jaunty dog trotting ahead. He traveled on four legs until reaching the narrow steps to the upper deck. Alix took it as a hopeful sign that his injuries were healing. Already the rope-worn rawness on his neck was fading, and he had an air of buoyancy that promised he was feeling better. With daily baths, his white fur had become snowy, and what she had initially thought was ingrained filth had transformed into a sable-and-tan mask on his head and face. Anyone who looked at the terrier would think him gaunt to the point of emaciation, but Alix believed his bony appearance was lessening, even if his former neglect was still apparent.
The wind tore at her skirt. As the first mate strode into the open across the quarterdeck, Alix hesitated to secure her fluttering ribbons and gather her dress to keep it from ballooning in the shifting wind. Cries from the pirouetting seagulls above the mizzenmast punctuated the splashing of the ship and the slapping of the rigging. Shouts relayed orders to sailors scaling rope and crawling along spars in towering masts where billowing sails were brilliant against the blue marble sky. To the east, Alix saw the dark coastline marked their scudding progress north, but she had hesitated overlong, and the mate hurried toward the poop deck without noticing that she had failed to follow.
The terrier sat on his haunches and regarded her quizzically, as if awaiting her decision. Instead of venturing across the quarterdeck, where an unwarranted wind gust might lift her skirts in an unseemly display, she decided to edge away from unwitting disaster and turned toward the protection of the forecastle at the bow.
Despite her earlier trepidation, the sailors were too busy to notice her or do more than cast a cursory glance at the dog trotting past. Alix slipped around the foremast and, buffeted by the wind, came to a stop where she could watch the bowsprit challenge the waves. A herd of gray seal cut across their path in the distance