At the main gate, a curious figure snagged my attention. An old man stood to the wayside, a deep amber cape clasped at the neck and open slightly to reveal black knee breeches and coat. Wild white hair of equal parts frizzle and curl practically burst out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. A black patch covered one eye. He remained beside a wooden handcart piled with an assortment of glass bottles and tins, and watched the road as though waiting for someone. I stared at him, drawn by the sight, when his good eye shifted to mine. Smiling, he tilted his hat in greeting. Surprised by the familiarity, I nodded once, then quickly looked away.
The hustle and bustle of Bristol slowed our progress to a snail’s pace. As the second largest port in all of England, the town’s lanes overflowed with dockworkers and merchants engaged in all manner of business. Sailors milled about in front of public houses and taverns, still bleary-eyed and a little drunk from the night ashore. Maids and housewives navigated the crowds for the daily shopping. Near the river’s edge, less fortunate women worked half-bent over to scrape and gut fish for the markets.
Our party came to a sudden halt, blocked by a line of men and horses hauling wooden crates marked Tobacco from the docks to a large stone storehouse across the roadway. During the wait, I continued the search for anything familiar amongst a crowd that seemed intent on hiding beneath tricorn hats and hooded cloaks. The exercise proved a test of patience, and I had to bite my tongue to stop from calling out to Henry and Nora in case they were within the sound of my voice.
We resumed to King’s Street, weaving past bales of cotton and barrels of sugar, until James reined in front of a tavern. Glancing up, I took in the narrow three-story structure, built in the half-timber style of the Tudors with overhanging eaves. A large lamp hung above the doorway. Directly below the lamp, a sign creaked in the breeze, painted black with gold lettering that read The Llandoger Trow.
James dismounted. “We’ll stop here for now,” he said, coming around to help Justine and me to our feet.
I wanted to keep looking, and opened my mouth to argue, only to close it when Julian dismounted. Losing his balance, he stumbled backward into a knot of sailors who had just emerged from the tavern.
“Watch yerself!” one yelled, with a rough shove that sent Julian tumbling toward the road.
James snatched him back just as a man veered off course to avoid a collision with his handcart. The cargo rattled and clinked, and I started at the sight of the amber cloak and white hair. The old man tipped his head in acknowledgement of the near miss. “Mind me cart, lads,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Bones break easy as me glass.” He laughed good-naturedly and continued on.
With a curt nod, James turned back to the sailors, Julian propped under one arm. “Idiots!” he snapped. “Can’t you see he’s unwell?”
The knot of sailors unfurled into a loose line of four men. A particularly large fellow stepped forward, glowering from small eyes set beneath a heavy brow. “Who ye be calling idiots?” The three remaining men closed ranks behind their friend.
One look at James, and I knew the long ride had rattled his wits loose. Angry blood crept into his cheeks, and he appeared ready to commit murder. Or perhaps suicide, if he thought to take them all on at once. “Any man dimwitted enough to shove a sick man.” He waved his hand irritably. “Leave off before someone gets hurt.”
The sailors pushed closer. James moved in front of Julian, his shoulders squared. One hand rested on his dagger.
Oh, good heavens. What the man had in courage, he lacked in rudimentary math. Four well-rested sailors against two exhausted men, one of which could hardly stand at the moment. It didn’t take a genius to see where this was headed.
Julian stepped alongside James, swaying from the effort. When he attempted to put a hand to his own dagger, the near useless appendage fell back to his side.
Bugger! More points for courage, though a strong wind would suffice to fell the man. I shot an imploring look to Justine, while making a mental list of our options. For my part, I could attempt to immobilize the sailors long enough for James and Julian to escape. Or wait for the beating to finish, and then heal them once we were behind closed doors, though there would be little to do for Julian until he replenished his power from Brigid’s spring. Either way, it seemed a lot of wasted effort for a simple misunderstanding.
“Which do ye want?” one of the sailors asked his mates. “That dark headed one looks a foot in the grave already. What say ye we put the other there for him?”
James unsheathed his dagger. “Touch my friend and you’ll regret it.”
The sailors laughed, and two of them drew their own weapons. “Captain’s short of hands,” another said, gesturing at James with a knife tip. “That gent’s got spark. I say we bring him back for a present. Wager he’s worth a week’s ration of rum.”
The other men chorused in resounding “ayes.”
Oh, no you don’t. James was my ally in arms, and under no condition was I about to let him be pressed into service. Shifting my weight to the stirrup, I prepared to dismount.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Justine said, her provocative purr rising above the din.