The Marsh King's Daughter (3 page)

John's baggage train was slightly more interesting. Neither the beginning nor end of the procession could be seen although, from what he had observed earlier, Nicholas judged that it must extend for about two miles. Not only were general supplies being transported across the estuary, but also the entire contents of John's household, including coin to pay his troops, and the personal treasures and trappings of the royal household.

Nicholas looked down at his bound wrists and grimaced. It was the closest he was ever going to come these days to wealth of any kind. All he had to his name were the clothes on his back and the prospect of being hanged for a traitor -although it was King John who had committed treason, not the de Caen family.

They were perhaps halfway across the causeway and the mist was gathering like a murky fleece when the cart jolted to an abrupt halt and Alaric swore roundly. The impact flung Nicholas on to his side. He rolled over and pushed against the sacks of grain to right himself. Behind the cart, the pack ponies crowded to a standstill, their breath smoking like witches' hair. Beyond them again, a cursing cart-driver hauled his wagon out of line to avoid a collision.

'What's happening?' Nicholas craned his neck. Confused bellows of anger and command drifted to them from further up the convoy.

'Buggered if I know.' Alaric leaped down from the cart and disappeared into the gathering fog.

Nicholas stared around. The cold air prickled his nape. Christ Jesu, this was dangerous. They were full out in the estuary on a narrow causeway with the turn of the tide due far too soon. They couldn't afford a delay.

A sudden, terrified bellow for help came from the seaward side where the cart-driver had pulled his team out of line. Nicholas jumped at the sound and narrowed his gaze into the mist. Shadowy forms struggled and twisted, but the quicksand had snared them and was rapidly sucking them down. The driver danced on top of his cart, crying for help in a voice raw with panic. Men threw ropes but they slapped on the mud, falling far short. The driver jumped down on to one of the half-sunk wheels, reaching, pleading. The ropes were cast again, but they grew no longer. Finally, the stranded man's desperation burst. Leaping from the safety of the cart, he made a grab for the nearest lifeline. He missed by yards, floundering and clawing at a safety that was so close and yet beyond his reach. The quicksand slowly drank him, swallowing him down its long, voracious maw until his screams were smothered.

All down the line, the tragedy was re-enacted as drivers and pony-keepers tried to by-pass the blockage and only realised how narrow their margin of safety was when they found themselves out on the quicksand.

Alaric returned. He was still whistling through his teeth, but now they were bared and there was fear in his eyes. 'There's a cart up front cast a wheel,' he told Nicholas. 'Axle's split and it's beyond repair. They're going to try and drag the entire thing off the causeway, but it's heavy laden.'

'How long before the tide turns?'

Alaric shrugged. 'Not long enough.' He went to the end of the cart and gave his news to the pony-keeper behind. Together both men started back up the line.

'Wait!' Nicholas cried, his voice choking with the horror that they were just going to leave him. Out on the sands, concealed in cloud but pitilessly within hearing, the cries of men and horses sounded like a knell as they were sucked into the sludge. He held out his wrists as Alaric turned. 'For God's pity, cut my bonds. I'm another pair of hands!'

Alaric studied him narrowly, then drew the knife from his belt. 'Aye,' he said grimly. 'You'll not be running anywhere, will you?'

The blade sliced through the cords at wrist and ankle and Nicholas shook them away with disgust as if they were snakes. Fortunately the binding, although skin-tight, had not robbed him of feeling. Apart from minor cramp and stiffness, he was able to jump from the cart and walk without difficulty. Flexing his hands, he followed Alaric and the pony-man to the head of the line.

The broken wain was one of the most heavily laden in the convoy. It heeled to one side, the shattered wheel thrusting at an awkward angle and half jammed under the strakes of the base. As Nicholas and the men arrived, sections of the royal bed were being disgorged from its bowels and passed down the line to be distributed among the other carts. Nicholas eyed a gorgeously painted chest as it followed a feather mattress through the ranks and thought sourly that however short of funds John claimed to be, he still lived in luxury unknown to most men.

'Here, you, take this.' One of the soldiers emptying the stricken wain shoved a glass container into Nicholas's startled hands. He gaped at the object in astonishment. If he had been told a week ago that he would be standing in the middle of the Wellstream estuary holding King John's piss-flask while the North Sea gathered beyond the horizon, he would have dismissed the prediction with an incredulous guffaw. Now, although he laughed, there was more despair in the sound than disbelief.

'Don't just stand there, dolt!' the soldier snapped. 'Pass the things down the line.'

A silk pouch arrived in Nicholas's other hand. Through the fabric he could feel several long-stemmed objects with small scoops at the end, and a tiny pair of shears. The royal ear spoons and beard trimmer, he surmised, laughing harder until tears squeezed through his lashes.

It took the best part of an hour to unload the broken wain. There were sheets and bed hangings, tapestries and curtains; there were more painted chests with brass hasps and heavy barrel locks. One in particular caught Nicholas's eye. It was slightly smaller than the other coffers, being of a size that one man could manage alone if he were strong. The sides were fashioned of blue and gold enamelled copper, and a decoration of crosses in contrasting red outlined the lid and edges. Unlike the piss-flask and ear spoons, this particular item remained firmly in the custody of the royal guards who divested a pony of its panniers and strapped the chest to its pack-saddle instead.

'Don't get any ideas.' Alaric gave Nicholas a sharp nudge. 'They'd have your head off your shoulders faster than slicing a cabbage in the garden.'

Nicholas rubbed his elbowed ribs. 'I've never been this close to a fortune before.'

Alaric snorted. 'Bad fortune if you ask me. Do you think the King's any happier for owning it?'

'I would be.'

'Shows how much of a fool you are then. A man's own heart makes him what he is, not cold yellow metal.' He thumped his concave chest to emphasise the point.

'But having two coins to rub together helps.' Nicholas looked sidelong at the older man's scowl. 'You're not going to tie me up again, are you?'

Alaric sucked his teeth and shook his head. 'No reason to,' he said brusquely. 'We're all prisoners for the nonce.'

The horses had been left harnessed to the broken wain and now their driver straddled the leading one, urging with whip and voice. As the animals strained, the cart began to move, lurching like a clawless crab on to the sands beyond, some of it quick, some of it firm, but no telling until it was too late. The cart gouged a deep, muddy track through the foreshore. The ground rippled like some great beast twitching its hide at the irritation of lice, and the rear wheels started to sink. Wide-eyed with effort and terror, the driver cut the traces and whirled the horses for the safety of the causeway.

'Safe!' he cried triumphantly as he reached solid ground in a churn of muddy sand. But as the other carters and soldiers cheered him, the joyous expression froze on his face, for he could see what they had yet to turn and notice. 'The tide,' he gasped. 'Christ, the tide, it's here!'

Beyond the causeway, the soft roar of moving water was like a beast returning to its lair.

'God help us,' Alaric said harshly and delved inside his tunic for the small cross he wore around his neck.

Knowing from bitter experience that God was seldom so charitable, Nicholas said nothing. The only help was that' which they gave themselves.

Men ran to tend their animals and carts, but in the time it took the supply train to start on its cumbersome way, the sea had already covered the causeway in an inch of water. Panicking, some tried to cross the foreshore, hoping to find solid ground, but it was too treacherous, the firm channels too narrow, and as before, the horses and wains quickly became stuck. And the sea poured in, foaming, brown, relentless.

Nicholas unpinned his cloak and threw it away. He tore his woollen tunic over his head and unwound his hose bindings.

Alaric stared at him. 'Have you run mad?'

'When the water's deep enough, I can swim a horse to shore,' he said. 'If you have any sense, you'll do the same. There is no other hope.'

The old man chewed his underlip and continued to finger his cross with work-worn hands. Then he made a brusque gesture at the bay cob in the cart's traces. 'Unhitch him,' he commanded and, shivering, began removing his own surplus garments.

The sea-water washed around Nicholas's thighs as he struggled with straps and buckles. Men's entreaties to God were louder now and filled with panic. The convoy ceased to move, except by command of the heaving buffet of the waves.

'Here.' Nicholas turned the cob in a tight circle and gave the reins to Alaric. 'I'll find my own mount.'

Despite his cold and fear, the old man's eyes sharpened. 'And even if we should both survive, I doubt I'll be seeing you at Swineshead Abbey,' he said tartly.

'I doubt it too.' Nicholas extended his hand, the wrist branded with a faint red line where he had been tied. 'God be with you.'

Alaric clasped his leather palm to the younger man's. 'And you,' he replied with a brusque nod.

Nicholas waded away up the line. He needed a horse, but not just any horse.

By the time he reached the front of the line, the sea was above his waist and he could scarcely control the chattering of his jaw. Men had clambered on top of their carts, thus prolonging their lives by the length of a quarter candle. Soldiers were desperately shedding their armour, but many had left it too late. There was no possibility of removing a heavy mail shirt and sodden quilted undertunic when more than the half was beneath the waves. They were the first to drown.

Horses panicked, rolling their eyes, plunging and splashing as the freezing brown water lapped their bellies. Nicholas sought for the pack pony with the enamelled coffer strapped to its saddle. He knew he must be close when he saw a little bay beast with the royal piss-flask gleaming in one of its panniers, the fluted glass cushioned by embroidered linen towels. The pony was unattended. Others, all laden with mundane articles, milled nearby, jittery, kicking out in fear. But there was no sign amongst them of the horse he sought.

In resignation, Nicholas reached to the bay's bridle and hauled himself out of the chest-deep water and across its back. 'Hah!' he cried and splashed his heels against its flanks. The pony plunged forward and Nicholas tasted murky salt spray on his lips.

A huge wave wallowed over the struggling baggage train, spinning carts sideways, engulfing men. Nicholas's pony was knocked off its feet by the surge and threshed in panic. Nicholas was swiped from its back and washed under. Gritty salt-water filled his mouth. He surfaced spluttering, saw the pony and made a grab for its tail as it started to swim for the shore.

The choked cries of drowning men rose in the fog, joining the flotsam from John's doomed supply train. A wooden ladle bobbed past Nicholas and a section of oak box chair, exquisitely carved with leafy scrollwork.

Suddenly he saw the pony with the treasure chest swimming strongly on his right, head up, ears flat, and there were no guards accompanying it now.

Without pausing to think, Nicholas released his own beast's tail and launched himself across the gap between the ponies. He caught the rein, lost it, grabbed again, and his fingers curled around the girth strap. The pony rolled its eyes and tried to lash out. A wave crashed over Nicholas's head, filling his eyes, ears and mouth. His throat burned and he came up choking. He relinquished his grip on the leather and seized the animal's tail instead, winding hanks of the thick, black hair around his fists. And then, having helped himself as much as he could, he prayed to a God with whom he was on uneasy terms to do the rest and let them not come ashore on quicksand.

It seemed an eternity but could have been no more than a matter of minutes before he felt ground beneath his feet, soft, yielding ground under the brown thunder of the waves, but it swallowed him no further than his ankles. The pony bunched its muscles and leaped through the surf, almost jerking Nicholas's arms from their sockets as he strove to keep a grip on its tail. He was not going to lose that coffer now.

The pony lurched on to the muddy beach, Nicholas staggering after. His breath sobbed and rattled in his lungs and his limbs felt like wet rope. Pure, stubborn will held him on his feet. Still clinging to the pack pony he fumbled along to the headstall and, with a final effort, dragged himself across its back. It staggered beneath the extra weight, but then it rallied and, at a tottering plod, wove towards the fawn expanse of reeds and marsh grass bordering the estuary.

At first it was enough to be alive, to know that he had outwitted both tide and quicksand. He was too exhausted for euphoria, too cold and numb and shocked. Even though he could no longer hear the cries of the dying, the sounds still rang in his head.