Free Peril on the Sea by Michael Cadnum

additional words. “Tell Sir Anthony that the famous Captain Fletcher is on our doorstep.”
    The younger man hurried off.
    â€œAlthough,” the farmer added, quietly, “I hear that in a crowd of honest men, Captain Fletcher would be missing.”
    Evenage gave his sword belt a hitch, and Sherwin sensed that this veiled insult might be answered with blood.
    â€œI give my word, before God,” said Sherwin, eager to intervene, “that no harm will come to man or beast.”
    Evenage took a moment to adjust his hat, as though in surprise or instant caution at hearing Sherwin utter such an unenforceable oath.
    The farmer lifted his chin in recognition of the veteran soldier’s reluctance. “Can the same be said for all of you,” asked the farmer, “or will my dogs have seamen for dinner?”
    â€œWe’ll do no harm, my good man,” said Evenage, assuming a lighthearted tone, “upon my word.”
    Tryce spat. “I’ll not bandy oaths with a swineherd.”
    Evenage turned and cuffed him. The blow was hard enough to snap Tryce’s teeth together and send him staggering back across the rutted road.
    The farmer took a step back, and Sherwin, too, had shied involuntarily at this sudden violence. This was not the first time that Sherwin was forcibly aware that his assumptions and hopes might not fit the actual character of his new companions.
    â€œThe young gentleman and I,” said Evenage, “will take responsibility for this sailor.”
    Tryce leaned against the wall, setting his cap back snugly onto his head. He made a point of spitting deliberately in the direction of the landsman, and Sherwin did not like the way Sergeant Evenage wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, drawing the blade and settling it back into its scabbard.
    â€œTell me, pray, whose farmland is this?” asked Sherwin,as much to guide the silence toward friendly discourse as to solicit an answer.
    The farmer, however, did not like the way Tryce was scowling, leaning against the wall, and gazing at the sergeant. The farmer retreated into a guarded silence, giving his head a shake in response to Sherwin’s inquiry, much the way a solitary traveler might refuse to speak to a suddenly menacing group of beggars.
    The four of them were kept where they were, watched over by the dogs, which grew bored with threatening the strangers and began to yawn and sniff the ground nearby.
    Sherwin and his companion could observe young Percy’s progress toward a large house in the distance.
    Whatever meeting transpired there did not take long.
    As they watched, they beheld the opening under the gatehouse swing wide and the mantled form that had been visible on the cliffside reappeared. She was joined by a male figure who looked, at a distance, to be a servingman, clad in a gray cloak and wearing a broadsword.
    No stylish individual carried such a weapon, which was thought to be manly, essentially English, but entirely unfashionable. Nonetheless, Sherwin did not enjoy the prospect of being cut by one.
    As the woman approached, Sherwin became aware that the striking, soldierly appearance of his garments was diminished by the spattering of muck and worse over his boots. He was aware, too, how even a short voyage with merchant seamen had made the prospect of quiet, pleasantconversation with a young woman seem extraordinary and desirable.
    The sergeant also removed his cap, gave it a quick brush-off with a gloved hand, and then it was too late to repair the outward show they made as the young woman swept quickly toward them, the servant with a firm grip on the pommel of his sword.
    Sherwin readied any number of dashing opening comments—compliments on the weather, sincere respects regarding the attractiveness of the fields and oaks all around—but it was Tryce who got off the first remark, a whisper, but one that carried.
    â€œWe’ll stick and pickle this lady,” he said,