The ship was in no danger despite the storm which raged out of the north to raise the waves and batter the craft. The master, John Ewell, a Southampton burgess and long-time mariner, knew these seas and sensed the temper of the storm. The ship was sturdy enough, two raised poops at either end to allow the archers protection when they fired, the mast was steep but sturdy and a look-out was posted high above the billowing sail just beneath the white red-crossed pennant of England. Ewell had every confidence in his deep-bellied ship and able crew, they were the least of his worries. He paced the deck, ice-blue eyes turned keenly seawards with the odd, sudden glance up to ensure his look-outs were equally attentive, constantly scanning the wind-blasted seas for pursuit.

Ewell congratulated himself. He had been successful, he had managed to slip his ship in and out of the Gascon port without hindrance. A short stay but long enough to pick up the small rolls of parchment sealed in their leather pouch and locked in the iron-bound chest in his narrow cabin. Edward of England would pay well for such reports: gold, special licences, even a knighthood. Despite the icy winds, Ewell hugged his own warmth and desperately wished for the calmer waters of the channel where his ship, the Saint Christopher, would find refuge.

Ewell felt exhilarated by what he had achieved. The goddam French may have overrun the English duchy of Gascony, seizing its cities, forts, castles and broken the wine trade between England and Bordeaux but, soon, the tables would be turned. Philip IV of France would kneel in the dust and beg forgiveness of Edward of England. Ewell stopped his pacing and stared into the middle distance, perhaps he would be there when it happened, Edward's captain, a burgess of Southampton, a knight with lands and titles bestowed by a grateful King. Ewell's dreams were suddenly shattered by a cry from the look-out high on the mast.