He would have to pass through the town in order to reach the main
harbour. But in this twilit night of revelry, he would appear as just
one more tippler. He saw the city wall on his right, just ahead; the
gate was gaping open on this night, and people were gathered around it,
listening to a fiddler who sang of trolls and witches. He edged toward
them, slowing his pace.
They looked at him and smiled, and did not show that they saw anything
unusual in him. He passed quickly through the gate, then walked along
the old Vastergatan. This was the heart of the old town; its streets
were very narrow and dark, and that suited Bothwell's purpose. To his
right he could hear loud shouting and music, and guessed that a bonfire
might be there, in a main square, along with its crowds. Best to stay
away from it; he had the Vastergatan almost to himself, with only an
occasional youth running down it in a hurry to get somewhere.
I'm in a hurry, too, Bothwell thought. But the last thing I can do is
to show it.
He continued until he found a street that appeared to go down to the
harbour, or where he guessed the harbour should be. He ran along it
lightly, trying to imitate the way the others were running, carefree
and happy. His spirits had risen so that his heart was pounding with
exhilaration, and he had to exert all his willpower to keep his head
and not dissolve in triumphant excitement. He had escaped! He had
outsmarted them! Their escape-proof prison had been bested.
The harbour opened up before him, dark and inviting. The large boats
of the Hansa merchants were tied up, everything in order as was their
wont. It was tempting to stow away on one. He could perhaps hide down
in the hold and wait. But all these ships would be searched, and even
if he escaped notice the first time, the ship might not sail for days.
No, he had best get as far away as possible before his escape was
discovered.
On the far side of the harbour were the smaller boats: fishing craft,
rowboats, coal transports. He would steal one of them and row out to
sea, searching for a place to put in along the coast. He made his way
over to them, wondering how they were secured and which would be the
best to take. It would have to be large enough to afford him some
protection; he could not hug the coast too closely, since he was
unfamiliar with the shoals and rocks. But it should be the smallest
possible to do the job, so he would not call attention to himself.
There was a small boat like a fishing craft beached on the far side of
the harbour. In the purple, hazy light it looked to be in good repair
and fairly new. He could smell the freshly oiled planks.
He made his way over to it and looked. It was barely tied up, and he
was able to untie the knot easily. Throwing the line into the boat, he
shoved off and leapt into it. Grabbing the oars, he began to row
furiously. The boat rocked and began to move across the gentle
waves.
"Thank God and all the saints!" he exploded. He felt the wood of the
oars biting into his palms, and nothing had ever felt so good. It was
real; he had done it.
Suddenly there was a movement in the boat, a scuffling. Rats! He
shivered. He hated them, and any second now they would start
scampering and racing with their horrid little feet all over his
legs.
I should have whacked that canvas to get them out before I set out, he
thought. But there was no time.
And now it was too late. Harbour rats were vicious; he hoped they
would not attack him.
"What the hell?" A huge form rose up out of the canvas like a ghost.
"God damn you!"
It was a man, an immense naked man. More stirring, and a woman sat up
beside him, also naked. She screamed.
Lovers! He had interrupted their tryst. Why hadn't he seen their
movement under the canvas? Because there wasn't any. They had lain
still in hopes he would go away.
"I I " Bothwell stuttered, still grasping the oars.
"You dirty thief!" screamed the man. "It isn't your brother, Astrid!
It's just a filthy thief!" He lunged at Bothwell, hands outstretched
to grab his neck.
Bothwell dropped the oars and fought to get the man's hands off his
neck. He had the strength of the devil, and he was furious, with all
the outraged morality of a disturbed lover. "Please stop no "
The woman, her long blond hair covering her shoulders and breasts, was
beating on him, too, screaming at the top of her lungs. Together they
toppled over, and then the man raised a wooden bucket to bash BothweH's
head. But he was struggling so fiercely in the midst of all the
slippery naked flesh that the man was unable to hit him. Bothwell had
a glimpse of a face that seemed to be all yellow beard and snarling
teeth. The smell of human arousal was stronger than the smell of the
sea as the couple tumbled over themselves, entwining Bothwell.
"Please " Bothwell said, trying to pull himself free. "I meant no
harm, I will pay for the boat " Even as he said it, he realized he was
doomed, as he had not a penny on him.
"This boat isn't ours. Do you think we'll be thieves with you?" cried
the woman.
The huge man had taken the oars and was rowing back to the harbour.
Obviously the most important thing to them was to return the boat and
cover up their activity, and nothing would dissuade them. One of them
was probably married, or else the woman was supposed to be a virgin.
"Wait please. Can you help me find another boat?" Bothwell pleaded.
"What for? What honest man would want a boat to row out to sea on
Midsummer Night?"
"I wish to meet my lover, too," he said quickly. "Her father keeps her
so strictly. But I know that tonight she will be allowed out. I am
poor; her father does not approve of me. But I am saving to start a
smithy "
The man stared at him. "Where is this girl?"
"In the next village. In" oh, God. a name! "Klagshamn."
"He speaks strangely," said the woman. "He is a foreigner."
"Yes," said Bothwell. " Tis true, I came on one of the Hansa ships, a
sailor from Liibeck. But I stayed here "
"A German! No wonder her father does not approve!" The man nodded his
massive, bearlike head slowly.
"But love knows no boundaries," said Bothwell. "You can understand
that!"
"Perhaps your brother's tiny boat "
"No, he would be furious!" said the woman.
The man continued rowing inexorably back toward the shore. There were
ominous noises from the wharf.
Bothwell turned to see a party of men with flaming torches standing at
the end of the wharf. Some wore soldiers' uniforms, and they had
harquebuses.
"You may let me out here," said Bothwell, pointing to the shore as far
from the wharf as possible. He tried not to let panic enter his
voice.
"What are all those men?" asked the rower. He took the boat back to
its original spot and beached it. Then he and his lover started
hurriedly pulling on their clothes.
Attempting to be polite, Bothwell nodded to them and climbed over the
side of the boat. "Farewell," he said.
He made his way quickly over the pebbles into the almost-darkness on
the farthest possible side of the wharf. But he could hear the search
party coming to the little boat; they were questioning the couple. Then
the hue and cry was raised.
Bothwell began running, trying to keep his balance on the rocky shore.
If he could just get into those marshy reeds a hundred yards ahead. The
prospect of crouching in them for hours was horrible, but it was his
only hope. He stumbled along, keeping his head down. Behind him he
could hear his pursuers.
He reached the edge of the marsh and splashed out into it. He ducked
his head and swam underwater until he thought his lungs would burst.
The marsh was full of weeds and goo, and sucked him down. Gasping for
breath, he surfaced in an area of cattails and lily pads
But behind him he heard dogs following him into the water, dogs expert
in flushing game. They sent up exultant howls as they found him.
"It seems our guest has found his rooms inadequate," said Captain Kaas.
The sun was streaming in the windows of his quarters; it was midmoming.
Bothwell had been marched across the courtyard and then into the
governor's quarters of the castle. It was the first time he had been
inside them, and from the little windows he could see the harbour where
he had failed so miserably. The merchant ships with their tall masts
were rocking gently, and beyond were the small boats, and beyond them,
the marsh. They looked so innocent and beckoning in the June
sunshine.
Bothwell knew better than to answer or to plead.
"Yes," continued Kaas. "We tried to make him comfortable, gave him
airy quarters with braziers in winter ... yet he was dissatisfied. He
has repaid our hospitality with ingratitude, trying to leave us without
permission. This would have resulted in severe punishment for us, his
hosts." He cast a doleful look at Bothwell. "It seems he had no
thought of us."
The captain then walked briskly over to his desk and wrote out some
orders. "It is with great regret that I grant your wish to leave us.
There is another prison which will cause you to look back on us with
fondness. But 'tis ever true, as the poets say, that we never prize a
thing till 'tis past. So, in due time you will prize your days at
Malmo and wish to recapture them. But that will not be possible." He
nodded to the two guards. "You will accompany the prisoner across the
sound to his new accommodations. A wagon will be necessary for
transport across Zeeland."
"Where am I to be taken, sir?" asked Bothwell.
"To the state prison of Dragsholm," answered Kaas.
Both guards gasped.
The wagon trundled across the flat plain that stretched west of
Copenhagen, the watery reaches of reclaimed land called Zeeland.
Bothwell rode along in it, his hands bound and tied behind him. He had
a leg iron that secured him to a bolt in the bottom of the wagon, but
he could stand up and look around as the oxen trudged onward.
The sky seemed like a freshly washed sheet held up to dry: taut and
stretched. Birds wheeled overhead, taunting Bothwell with their
freedom to fly. He revelled in the open air and space around him, and
watched the wind passing gently over the flat fields of grain,
whispering warm secrets. It made him long so acutely for the lost
fields of the Borders that he could feel tears trying to spring up in
his eyes. To ride out along those fields again, to gallop free, to see
his dogs ... He wondered how many litters the people on the moor had
raised by now. If he had had the opportunity, he would have improved
the breed, trying to create the perfect terrier an indestructible,
loyal, fierce fighter, like the best of the Border men.
It was almost fifty miles across Zeeland to Dragsholm, and the cart
would take several days to reach it. The driver and the two guards
stopped at small inns for refreshment, and permitted Bothwell to come
in, too, although he had to wear his leg-chain. To eat, they allowed
his hands to be untied, but they would allow him no knife to cut his
cheese or bread. Instead, they cut it for him, like a child.