"Fish. Cod." Sir Thomas made them into words of scorn, if not into swear words. He glowered at Edward from under shaggy, gray-streaked eyebrows. "You want to get away from peasants in rebellion against their rightful lords and from French sea dogs."

I should say I do, Edward thought. The French had almost burnt Hastings to the ground not long before. But he couldn't admit what he wanted. Without the least hesitation, he shook his head. "How could we leave our homeland behind for good?" he said. "Where would we sell the fish we caught if we did?" That was a legitimate question; he couldn't imagine cutting all ties with England even if he and his kin spent most of their time in Atlantis and off its shores.

"How many folk would fare with you on this madcap venture?" Sir Thomas asked.

"A couple of dozen families, sir, and we'd need to bring the seed grain and livestock to let us make a go of it in the new land," Edward answered. "Does not the Good Book speak of casting your bread upon the waters? This is England's bread, and she shall find it again after many days."

"You've been talking with Father John." Sir Thomas turned that to an accusation.

"I have, sir. He will vouch for me." Edward Radcliffe hoped he would.

"He's ambitious, too." The castellan scowled once more. "Well, go, then, and I know not whether to wish you Godspeed or say be damned to you. Atlantis? Nonsense!" He hawked and spat and turned away.

G etting animals aboard the St. George vexed Edward, to put it mildly. "I never worried about Noah before," he growled to Nell. "Now I feel sorry for the poor devil."

"I feel sorry for his wife," Nell said. "Chances are he made her do all the work."

"If you think I'm going to sleep from here to Atlantis, you're bloody well out of your mind," Edward said. "The cog won't sail herself, and the fish won't catch themselves, either." The hold, which still stank of fish, was full of hay and grain instead. They had to get the sheep and hogs and chickens and ducks across the sea before they ran out of fodder and water for them. Could they do it? He thought so, but feared it might be close.

He had no cattle or horses on the St. George. The boats that carried the bigger beasts had fewer of the smaller ones. He hoped things would work out. He didn't know they would, but he hoped so. What else can I do? he thought.

Richard said something hot as a smithy's forge when he stepped in sheep shit. "Get used to it, son," Edward advised. "It won't be the last time." Richard said something even hotter. Henry laughed at him, which only proved he hadn't stuck his foot in it…yet.

On another cog not far away, Father John's tonsured head gleamed under the bright sun of early spring. Two other priests were also coming along on this leap into the unknown. Edward Radcliffe smiled to himself. The other two were pliable, tractable fellows, men without ambition for themselves. If any of them was made a bishop, when one of them was made a bishop, it would be John. So far from any other prelate, he might almost be a pope.

Edward cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to the other boats assembled in the Stade: "Are we all ready?" Two or three skippers echoed his cry to make sure everyone heard. Nobody said no. "Then let's away!" he said.

Sailors ran to the lines and let the big square sails fall from the yards. The wind came off the land, and pushed the cogs out of the harbor and into the waters of the Channel with the greatest of ease. Women and children squealed in excitement; not many of them had put to sea before.

The water in the Channel was the way it usually was: rough. Those squeals didn't last long. Ruddy English complexions went ghost-pale. "The rail!" a fisherman shouted. "Get to the damned rail!" He was just too late-and somebody would have a mess worse than sheep shit to clean up.

"Is it…always like this?" Nell asked, gulping.

"No, dear," Radcliffe answered. His wife looked relieved in a wan way till he added, "Sometimes it's worse." She searched his face, hoping he was joking. When she saw he wasn't, she groaned. He said, "You'll get used to it after a while, though. Almost everyone does."

"Almost?" Nell got out through clenched teeth. She gulped again, and ran for the rail. Unlike the first victim of seasickness, she made it. She even knew which rail to run to. People who ran to the windward side only made that mistake once-trying to clean themselves afterwards ensured that.

Fishermen screamed at passengers to get out of the way as they swung the yard to catch the breeze. They screamed at the livestock, too, but the animals didn't want to listen (neither did some of the children). One irate soldier booted a hen into the English Channel.

"Don't ever do that again, Wat," Edward told him. "We'll need those birds when we get to the other side."

"If I trip over the damn thing and go into the drink myself, I won't make it to the other side," Wat retorted.

"You won't make it there if I toss you in the drink, either," Edward said. Wat was twenty years younger. A long look at the jut of Radcliffe's jaw and the size of his knobby fists, though, made the other man turn away, muttering to himself.

Edward was glad to be back at sea. He felt he belonged here. His time ashore he endured; he came alive on the waves. That wasn't anything he talked about with Nell, any more than he would have told her if he'd taken up with another woman. He didn't want her jealous-it would only have made things worse.

The St. George took much longer to shake down to routine than she usually did. The fishermen knew what routine meant. Their wives and children didn't, and had to learn. The animals didn't, either, and learned even more slowly, if at all.

People who weren't used to the rations grumbled about them-or they did when they finally got their sea legs under them and found they had appetites after all. Radcliffe thought the food was extravagant: to go with the ship's biscuit, they had much more bacon and sausage aboard than usual, and less salt cod. The fish needed to be soaked before you could eat it. They had so many more mouths aboard than usual, they couldn't afford much water for that.

"This biscuit has weevils," Nell said when they'd been at sea about a week.

"Yes, that happens," Edward agreed. "I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it."

"But it's disgusting!" she said shrilly.

"It can happen on land, too," he pointed out. "It does."

"Not like this." Nell held the biscuit under his nose. "It's crawling with bugs!" He couldn't see them when she did that-his sight had begun to lengthen. It didn't mean he didn't believe her, because he did. She went on, "All the ship's biscuit is probably like this."

Edward nodded. "It probably is."

His wife glared at him. "Well, what are we supposed to do about it? We can't pitch it into the ocean the way we ought to, not if it's all bad. We'd starve."

"I'm afraid so." Radcliffe was also afraid Nell would grab something and try to break it over his head. He regretfully spread his hands. "I don't know what to tell you, dear. If you toast your biscuit over a candle flame, you'll drive out most of the bugs. Or if you close your eyes and don't think about it, you just…eat."

"I already tried that," she said bleakly. "It doesn't work-they crunch under your teeth. They taste bad, too. Maybe I'll toast it and see how many weevils come out. Maybe I don't want to know."

"I never did," Edward said. She needed to remember this happened to fishermen all the time.

She flounced off, as well as she could flounce on a pitching deck. Her long wool skirt swirled around her ankles. After a couple of strides, she turned around for a parting shot: "Do they have weevils in your precious Atlantis?" Before he could answer, she did it for him: "They would." Then she stormed away.