02 The Waste Land by Tim Hodkinson

Author:Tim Hodkinson [Hodkinson, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 42: BORDEAUX

Even though it was not long after sunrise the harbour of Bordeaux was a

swarm of activity. Ships of all shapes and sizes lined the quays, loading or

unloading cargoes. It was mostly wine that was leaving – the full effects of

the terrible weather had not yet been felt by the wine merchants who were

still exporting barrels of their produce that had been laid down over a year

before. Lean years were ahead, but being businessmen, they were adjusting

their prices for future compensation. Others doing well amid the misery

were the fishermen, who being the one source of reliable food had found

their profits rise dramatically. Masters of fishing vessels, formerly barefoot

and barely clad in rags, now strutted around the docks and quays dressed in

the latest, two-coloured hoods over brightly dyed tunics, ostentatiously

better fed than everyone else. The fact that they still walked barefoot and

with a lolling gate to counter a ship on the waves, betrayed their somewhat

humbler past.

Coming into port were weapons, armour and soldiers, barrels of newly

made arrows; sheaves of staves for axes, coats of mail and lean, hungry

men: veterans of many conflicts, who knew that the best place to survive in

times of hardship were lands of war where they could take what they

needed, came streaming off recently docked boats. Regardless of the famine

and the weather, the affairs of men continued. King Louis of France waited

just over the border, slavering like a hungry wolf to regain this part of his

kingdom, and English-held Gascony needed every single one of them.

The harbour master in Bordeaux was an important man, and another of

those who found no hardship from the continuing famine. As comptroller of

customs, Guymer de Bertenac oversaw the importation and taxing of goods

arriving at the harbour and the collection of mooring fees. This included the

many fishing vessels that unloaded their wares on the quays. Berths were at

a premium and in these straitened times he was more than happy to accept

backhanders in terms of fish or wine. Guymer had been a very corpulent

man before the famine and incredibly he had retained much of his bulk,

though he was heartily sick of eating dried fish.

He had been up since just before dawn and now, with the early morning

sunshine streaming through the window, the harbour master stood at the tall

writing desk in his office at the entrance to the harbour, munching his way

through a bowl of fish potage, a sour scowl of displeasure on his face that

deepened with every mouthful. The sound of the door opening made him

look up. A woman entered his office. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of

her. She was not a young girl in the first flush of youth, but she was still

undoubtedly good looking, although her white skin was tinged with a grey

pallor and her eyes were rimmed with red. She looked exhausted. Her long

dress was ill-fitting and the hem was clotted with muck from the town

streets.

“I wish to find a boat sailing to Ireland,” she said. She spoke in French

but the accent was strange. It had a harsh tone to it, Norman in dialect but

not Norman, nor quite the French they spoke in England.

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