The farmers hated the sailors with a Basque passion. “We work hard,” Mikolas cried, “feeding those lazy louts. What do they do all day? They sit by the water, eat ten times what any other man would consume in a day, and sing bawdy songs while they make rope! Why do ships need more rope? Every time a ship comes, there are miles of rope coiled on deck, and God preserve you if you so much as step on one little pile …”
You know, Malcolm thought quietly while the Basque ranted, it wouldn’t take much to set these men at one another’s throats. Malcolm filed the thought away and finished hearing their bitter complaints, then doled out suitable penance for their sins, expressing shock and dismay when he learned that half the men in town didn’t possess so much as a simple rosary. Malcolm might have felt guilty about deceiving these men, but for one fact. Cold rage filled him every time memory revealed Margo crouched naked in that filthy corner, ready to fight off her attackers.
As for Kit …
Malcolm glanced at the blanket separating his “confessional” from Kit’s. He would deal with Kit when they came to that quarrel. No sense setting himself up for more worry than he already had. They would either get out alive or they wouldn’t. Only then could he and Kit settle the matter between them.
Kit’s stony silence the rest of the evening didn’t bode well at all.
Kit had to plausibly stretch their “examination” of the so-called witch over five full days. He lay awake far into the night, trying to put out of his mind what these men had done to Margo. If he let himself dwell on it, he’d never be able to think straight. He knew he ought to consult Malcolm, but was too deeply angry to speak to him. It’s my fault she’s pulled this stunt,’ Malcolm had said.