Halt at the River Gate

1587-10-30
Rillford Ferry on the Marais

Dusk pooled under the ferry eaves. Carts queued two deep, oxen blowing steam, wardens tapping rims and asking after salt, grain, lamp oil. On the far bank a red tower stump wore chalk lines where someone meant to teach it a new note.

The shove started small. A boy with a dock knife slid along the line of sacks and cut where twine gleamed. The carter’s shout tripped the crowd. The knife flashed toward my ribs.

I let the air fall out of me and stood still. No flinch. No reach. His step lengthened into the space I kept. When his weight was wrong I rose into the cut I have been taught, from high to low, hips first, hands only guiding. The waster met his wrist and the knife rang on planks. I took a wide step and kept him at measure.

He blinked, more frightened than fierce. I set the stick across his forearm and held him there while the carter gathered what he could. The warden who came smelled of wet leather and ink. He looked from the knife to my stance and nodded once.

“Keep your distance,” he said. “Like a man taught.”

“A week in the trees,” I said.

They let the boy carry the sacks he had cut. The ferry took weight and drifted across, ropes scraping the posts. Wind pressed the river flat for a breath. In that quiet the line steadied. I watched the chalked stump on the far bank and tried to hear what note it would learn next.