The ship was moored close to the wharf amidships, where the gang-plank was. Her forward hawser ran from the rail above my head to the wharf, and this had allowed the bow to swing out from land, so that between me and the shore lay about fifteen feet of water. There were no lights at this end of the ship; the rope ran down into a comfortable pool of darkness, and beyond that was the deeper darkness of the buildings. But I would have to wait, I decided, till the unloading was finished, and the carts—and presumably the soldiers with them—moved off. There would be time later to escape, with only the watch on board, and perhaps even the lanterns gone from the wharf.

For of course I must escape. If I stayed where I was, my only hope of safety lay in Marric’s goodwill, and this in its turn depended on the outcome of his interview with Ambrosius. And if for some reason Marric could not come back, and Hanno came instead . . .

Besides, I was hungry. The water and the hideous little snack of soaked bread had set the juices churning in a ferociously empty belly, and the prospect of waiting two or three hours before anyone came back to me was intolerable, even without the fear of what that return might bring. And even if the best should happen, and Ambrosius sent for me, I could not be too sure of my fate at his hands once he had all the information I could give him. Despite the bluff which had saved my life from the spies, this information was scanty enough, and Marric had been right in guessing—and Ambrosius would know it—that I was useless as a hostage. My semi-royal status might impress Marric and Hanno, but neither being grandson to Vortigern’s ally, nor nephew to Vortimer’s, would be much of a recommendation to Ambrosius’ kindness. It looked as if, royal or not, my lot would be slavery with luck and without it, an unsung death.

And this I had no intention of waiting for. Not while the port-hole stood open, and the hawser ran, sagging only slightly, from just above me to the bollard on the wharf. The two spies, I supposed, were so little accustomed to dealing with prisoners of my size that they had not even given a thought: to the port-hole. No man, not even the weaselly Hanno, could have attempted to escape that way, but a slim boy could. Even if they had thought of it, they knew I could not swim, and they had not reckoned with the rope. But, eyeing it carefully as I hung there in the port-hole, I thought I could manage it. If the rats could go along it—I could see one now, a huge fat fellow, sleek with scraps, creeping down towards the shore—then so could I.