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of the latter.
    The master looked down into the well of the boat, where his crew of six were assembling along the bulwark to sing the traditional hymn of thanksgiving to the Holy Virgin for deliverance from the perils of the sea, this time joined by their solitary passenger.
    This Robert Blundus was a strange fellow, mused Thorgils, as the singing reached its crescendo when the blunt prow of the Mary nudged the quay. He had arrived at the last moment, just before they sailed from St-Malo. The shipmaster had noticed that Blundus kept looking over his shoulder at the bustling throng on the quay-side and seemed relieved when a widening gap began to appear between the ship and the shore. Thorgils suspected that he was either a fugitive from the law or had unpleasant acquaintances who were hunting him down. But it was none of his business, and the coins of mixed English and French silver that Blundus offered as his passage money were genuine enough for the master to accept him aboard without any questions.
    The stem-post bumped against the wharf and willing hands ashore lashed a bow-rope around one of the tree stumps buried along the quay-side. Thorgils let the incoming tide push the stern of the Mary right around in a half-circle, so that the port side came to rest against the rough stone wall, the steering board left safely out on the starboard side. As the stern ropes were thrown ashore, the passenger moved to stand impatiently at the gap in the bulwarks where the landing plank would be pushed through. His large pack was already strapped to his shoulders, and Thorgils assumed that he was a chapman, one who hawked goods such as thread, needles and ribbons, around towns and villages. It was unusual, though not unknown, for one to cross the Channel in pursuit of such trade, and the shipmaster wondered whether he had family in Brittany.
    The moment the gangplank was slid ashore, the traveller hurried down it with only a perfunctory wave of farewell to the crew. The quay-side of Topsham was a short length of stone wall, with muddy banks stretching away on either side. Ships could ride upright at high tide to discharge their cargo, but the rest of the time they lay canted over on the thick mud that extended for miles down to the sea at Exmouth.
    Robert Blundus had never been here before, and he surveyed the little port with some disdain, being more used to large harbours such as Southampton or King Richard’s new creation at Portsmouth. He saw a line of buildings straggling down the east bank of the river, ending in huts and sheds on the quay. A church tower in new stone rose above the centre of the long main street, and where there was a church, there was always an inn or two.
    This turned his mind to the need for a meal and a bed for the night, as the short November day was coming to a close. He humped the heavy pack higher on his shoulders and set off through the cold mud of the wharf towards the high street. An icy east wind made his cheeks tingle and reminded him that he had left the warmer climes of France far behind. At least his ears were warm, as he wore a woollen cap pulled down over his forehead and neck, the pointed top flopping over to one side. His leather jerkin was bulky, belted over a pair of thick serge breeches, cross-gartered above wooden-soled clogs. As he strode purposefully towards the village, a dew-drop formed on the end of his fleshy nose and his rather prominent blue eyes watered as they scanned the motley collection of buildings. Some were stone, but the majority were either wood or cob, a mixture of mud and straw plastered over a wooden frame, with roofs of reeded thatch.
    The narrow street was busy, especially with porters lugging large bales of wool or pushing handcarts laden with goods from the quay-side. The usual throng of loungers and tradesmen mixed with wives and grandmothers around the striped canvas booths that lined the edges of the muddy street. Beggars and cripples hunched against walls, and