CHAPTER VII
THE SEA-WOLVES
"The galley is gone!" exclaimed Matteo, as he emerged from the stern-castle.
"Ay, and a good riddance," returned the master of the cog.
Messer Nicholas was holding the tiller of his craft, steering her out of the harbour entrance. The spring breeze blew rich and warm off the land behind them. Below the little poop on which the comrades stood, the sailors ran to and fro about their duties, hauling at ropes, stacking cordage and dressing sails. Hastings port already was become a toy town set on the harbour's rim.
"You seem not to like our Cypriot friend," remarked Hugh with a smile.
"Marry, and why should I, fair sir?" retorted the shipman fiercely. "A runagate knave, you may swear. What business has he trading in these seas? Let him keep to his own preserves, say I. The Inner Sea for his kidney, and the Narrow Seas and the North Ocean for us of the Cinque Ports. 'Tis sorry enough having to contend with the Frenchmen and the Flemings—let alone our good King John!"
It was evident that Messer Nicholas liked the sound of his own voice, especially when it dealt with his own affairs, and Matteo hastened to Hugh's rescue.
"How long is the passage to Rouen?" he enquired.
"That is a question no wise shipman would answer on the very morn of his setting forth upon the voyage," replied Messer Nicholas importantly. "For, look you, lords, how can mortal man prophesy the course of the wind an hour hence?"
"We will cry your pardon for the absurdity of that question," interceded Hugh, "an you tell us at least the distance betwixt the two ports."