Nicholas said, ‘They are still looking for you? What do they –’
He didn’t finish, because of the scream outside the cave. The boy sobbed. Loppe turned round. Nicholas said, ‘Stay there,’ and without his torch edged round and flung himself towards the cave entrance. Disobeying instantly, Tobie followed.
Katelina lay collapsed on the ground by the dead man. Rising beside her was Captain Astorre, a blur of silver and white. The torches had been extinguished. Primaflora said, ‘They shot her. From above the waterfall.’ Her voice was quite out of its normal pitch. A horse trampled and Tobie caught sight of the soldier from the Palace, one foot in his stirrup.
Nicholas said to him, ‘No. Stay.’ He was bending over Katelina. Astorre said, ‘She’s all right. I pushed her. The arrow went through her cloak. What do you mean, stay? They’re up there, the murdering villains.’
‘I meant, our friend should stay with Lopez and the women. You and I will go and catch them.’
‘No!’ said Primaflora. Already mounted, Nicholas looked at her and she said, ‘If something goes wrong, you will be blamed.’
‘Astorre will be with me,’ Nicholas said. He looked amazed.
‘And me,’ said Tobie. He rose from beside Katelina, who was stirring, and made at a run for his horse. ‘Why is nobody blowing a horn?’ He got into the saddle at the same time as Astorre and they both followed Nicholas, already setting his horse towards the quickest way out of the ravine. Behind them all, the soldier’s horn blared. That would bring help. And now, away from the water, Tobie’s ears picked up the sound of horses not far away, galloping. Only two of them. The sound was receding. He set himself to catch up with Nicholas, who was following it.
It was now almost dark. They carried their torches unlit: the danger of unknown ground was less than the risk of a bowshot. The men ahead, invisible against rising ground, had the advantage of knowing the territory. It was odd that Nicholas had left behind the only man familiar with the whole island. It was not odd, if Nicholas didn’t want Primaflora’s soldier to meet the murderers of Tristão Vasquez and learn who had paid them.
But in that case, why not let the killers escape? Why ride like this, crazily crashing through vineyards, between dimly-seen olives, into streams and through trenched plantations? Once, Nicholas hadn’t even known how to ride, until Astorre taught him. Astorre, galloping now at his side, would raise no objection no matter what Nicholas did: his fool boy, his villainous boy; his successful boy. On the other hand, the same boy had let Tobie come, and Loppe stay. Loppe, now stationed behind with Katelina and Diniz. But then, the soldier was there also, with Primaflora. Nothing could happen, surely.
A tree loomed, and Tobie swerved. He could hear Astorre cursing, with an undernote in it of pleasure. They seemed to be gaining. And there were only two horses ahead, and three of themselves. Nicholas was still in front. Tobie had no idea what the man was going to do. Just now, Nicholas had seen Tristão dead, and Katelina supposedly dead, and had given away nothing, unless you counted a certain coarsening of his voice. In the cave, calling to Loppe, he had betrayed something real. It had sounded like fear. Was it fear? Was it fear that was driving him on, not some knightly compulsion to punish? For of course, one must not forget that Nicholas was now a member of an order of chivalry, sworn to uphold Christianity, honour, and the Queen of Cyprus. Nicholas was a Knight and, dressed as Guinevere, was riding across the island of Rhodes preparing to kill somebody.
They were getting very close now, and their quarry’s cover was patchy. Occasionally, against a patch of pale rock or stubble, Tobie could see the two horses flying ahead, and the dull glint of helmets. They must know, now, that they couldn’t escape. Black on indigo, a stand of pines loomed ahead, and beyond that, the broken outline of what might have been primitive buildings. The killers’ horses disappeared into the trees, and the beat of their hooves became muffled and irregular. Then, sharp and clear, the beat resumed again on the far side. Bursting through the trees after, they glimpsed the horses ahead. Astorre said sharply, ‘Slow!’
Nicholas had already reined in. Clear and light, they all heard the patter of receding hooves. Clear and very light. Astorre said, ‘That’s an old trick. They used the trees to dismount, and let the horses lead us on without them. They’re here somewhere. We’ll catch them. They can’t get far without horses.’
‘They could always seize ours,’ Nicholas said. ‘They have bows. So what do you think we should do?’ With Astorre, Nicholas was always meticulous.
‘Right,’ said the captain. ‘They need cover, and they want us out in the open. They’re either still in the wood, or over there in those buildings. I need a volunteer.’
‘I knew you would,’ Nicholas said. ‘Stay with Tobie, then. If I don’t report back, you can keep my dress.’ He had dismounted. Crossing his arms, he pulled up Guinevere’s gown and dropped it in a heap. The next moment he had vanished, and Astorre and Tobie, dismounted also, were standing under the trees, gripping their horses. Tobie, his wimple dragged down, unhooked his shield and stood listening.
The rain had stopped. The trees rustled. Where Nicholas had gone, he could see nothing but flat ground interrupted by indeterminate objects and, in the distance, a huddle of shapes which seemed to include a low oblong edifice like a shed. Astorre, a stout pine trunk at his back, had his sword in one hand and his shield and reins in the other. Outside the grove, the wind whirred through the heath and thornbushes and whined among the buildings before them.
The whine was fast and high, and ended in a thud. It was not the wind, but an arrow arriving. A flock of them followed. They came from the rectangular shadow, and sprayed the ground between the watchers and the buildings. No one called out, and there was no sign of Nicholas. Tobie said, ‘Are the bowmen inside the shed?’
‘If they’re stupid enough. Fools!’ said Astorre. ‘They might as well surrender.’
Tobie said, ‘They’ve spotted Nicholas, then.’
Astorre’s head swivelled round. ‘Heh? That’s why he’s there, to be spotted. Tie the horses, and let’s go and find him.’
Nicholas found them first, reappearing to crouch bare-armed and bare-headed in the dark beside Astorre. He was breathing quickly but, like Astorre, merely critical. ‘They’re in the byre. Mud bricks, reed thatch, double doors and one window they’re using to shoot through. It’s the only intact building. The farmhouse is a ruin. There’s a well, a broken waterwheel, and a crushing trough. Someone’s still using the place for the olive harvest. Captain?’
Astorre said, ‘Exhaust their arrows. They’ll have to surrender.’
Tobie said, ‘Why don’t we wait for the Knights?’
No one appeared to hear him. ‘All right,’ Nicholas said to Astorre. ‘But even then, they won’t want to come out.’
‘There are ways of dealing with that,’ Astorre said.
‘So there are,’ said Nicholas. They both sounded happy. Nicholas said, ‘Tobie? Do you want to stay, or do you want to ride back for the Knights?’
Tobie said, ‘I should prefer to stay.’ His wimple, rising, interfered with his chin. He saw Nicholas was looking at him, but couldn’t decipher his expression. Nicholas said, ‘All right. All the better. We are three to their two: seeing that, they won’t be likely to rush out until they’ve had a shot at picking off at least one of us. We’ll draw their fire. All you have to do is show yourself now and then so that they know you’re still there. But be careful. These bows have a long range, and you’re bound to be within it.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ said Tobie.
He saw a brief gleam from Astorre’s decayed teeth. ‘That’s my boy,’ said Astorre. It annoyed Tobie to be Astorre’s boy as well.
Nicholas said, ‘And, Captain?’
They were moving away. ‘Yes?’ said Astorre.
Nicholas said, ‘I want them alive. Alive. Alive. Do you hear me?’
‘Of course,’ said Astorre’s voice. Its tone was professionally reassuring.
He realised he was lying in a mess of pulped olives. It would ruin his gown. He found he was smiling, and stopped. He was a doctor. A man lay dead behind at this moment. To want to hunt down his killers was natural. One should not, however, start to enjoy it. Tobie frowned, shifted, and prepared to make another contributory dash in the darkness. Then he stayed where he was.
A horse was approaching from the pine grove at a gallop. With it streamed light from a pitch torch. The rider, veiled, wore the flying white muslin of Guinevere. The horse fled across the flat ground to the byre. Trough, well, farm buildings stood illuminated in flickering gold. For an instant Tobie saw the byre window, with the archer standing, bow bent, aiming from it. Tobie rolled, flat on the ground, into shadow. While he was moving, he saw the first barbs pierce the rider. They struck without cease: veil, gown, the horse itself. Transfixed, the animal whinnied and reared. The torch, no doubt meant for the thatch, dropped to the ground and was extinguished. In the sudden darkness, little could be seen but the threshing bulk of the dying mount, and the shreds of white cloth lying under it. Tobie began to rise to run forward, and stopped, as his wits returned. Whatever had been on that horse, it wasn’t Nicholas. But seen for a single menacing second by the men in the byre, it was good enough to look real. The bowmen would assume one of their pursuers was dead. And they were the poorer for a great many arrows. He watched, entranced, as the drumming of hooves heralded a second horse.
This time, the rider wore Astorre’s glittering helmet but carried no brand. The unseen archer shot again, and the figure rode for a while, and then toppled. Its helmet rolled off. The horse swerved, hesitated, and cantered away. The sound of its hooves receded, leaving silence behind. Tobie rose and, forsaking the trough, crept to a position nearer the byre. He was close enough, now, to see the horseblanket stuffed into Guinevere’s dress. He was aware, too, of the glutinous smell of olive oil from the pulp stuck to his boots and his clothes. It made him feel hungry. He remained where he was, awaiting whatever Nicholas and Astorre were going to try next. While he waited, he received another whiff of the oil, this time from his right. The trough was not on his right. Someone else, therefore, had stepped on the olives.
The thought had just struck him when he heard a creak from the direction of the byre. One of the doors must have opened. A man’s voice, speaking in Greek, said, ‘Takis? There is only one left. We will take him between us.’
His voice broke off in a scream. Astorre must have been standing beside him. Tobie heard the sounds of a struggle, and saw the two figures, entwined, stamping backwards and forwards. Tobie began to run, peering through darkness for Nicholas or the mysterious Takis. Now he could see the heads of the struggling pair at the byre door, the bowman’s helmeted and Astorre’s grizzled and bare. He caught the glint of a dagger in the hand that had been holding the bow. It rose, and remained rigid as the man’s wrist was held by Astorre. Tobie saw Astorre’s right fist swinging back, with his sword in it.
If the captain remembered what Nicholas had demanded, there was no sign of it now, any more than there was a whisper of protest from Nicholas. Astorre’s sword came down with a whistle and took the other man clean in the neck. He fell, killed on the instant. Astorre looked round. Tobie, hesitating, began to move forward again, straining to see through the darkness. He experienced, once again, a whiff of oil that did not come from his own person. Then someone took hold of his arms, and wrenching them hard behind him, held something tight at his throat that both glinted and cut. A voice at his back shouted in dreadful Italian. ‘Gentlemen! Lukas is a fool, who doesn’t know a man from a dummy. I am one man against three, and I am not afraid. I have a knife at the throat of a bald man. Do as I say, or he dies.’
Tobie stopped struggling. The man behind him was big. Tobie could feel the thick leather jack he wore, and winced at the strength of his grip. Astorre’s voice said, with admiration, ‘There was one of you outside all the time! A nice trick.’
‘Mine,’ said the man. ‘I have the brains. Lay down your sword and get me the last horse. Where is the third man?’
‘Behind you,’ said the calm voice of Nicholas. ‘You cut the throat of the bald man, and I’ll take your head off with my sword. We can do it at the same time, if you like. If you don’t like, drop your knife.’
He dropped it. He thrust Tobie sprawling in the same movement and, whirling round, drew sword on Nicholas as if he were not outnumbered three to one. For a moment, Astorre was too far away to help him, and Tobie immobilised. Nicholas said, ‘Don’t be a fool!’ and parried a wild sword-thrust, frowning. The blades clattered. Nicholas parried again, and again. Astorre said peacefully, ‘That’s enough,’ and stepped forward.
It distracted Nicholas for a moment. He turned his head, still frowning, and said, ‘No!’ The killer’s sword flashed towards his exposed body. Tobie exclaimed. And Astorre, with the speed of a veteran, sprang forward, sent the man spinning, and before he could be stopped, plunged his blade in his throat. Nicholas looked at him, gasping, and swore.
Astorre withdrew his sword, wrenched some grass up, and wiped it. ‘He would have killed you,’ he remarked. ‘What did you want him for? A long, nasty trial and a hanging?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas.
‘I could have saved the other fellow for you, then, if you’d reminded me,’ said the captain reproachfully. ‘I just got carried away.’
‘He didn’t want to remind you,’ said Tobie.
Nicholas was staring at him. Nicholas said, ‘I was tracking olive oil all over the yard, and had just found this fellow about to cut your God-damned wimple. How could I yell without giving away where I was?’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Tobie. ‘I think you got what you wanted.’
‘Well, you know best,’ Nicholas said. ‘Three positive kills and two blunders: I missed Katelina and Diniz. Never mind. By now, Loppe will have finished them off.’ His voice was bitter.
Tobie stood motionless. Astorre gave a cackle, bending to pick up his helmet. ‘Lost your sense of humour, Master Tobie? The boy saved your life for you, there. Not but what you did a good job. Quite a good job. It did us a bit of good, having you with us.’
‘I suppose it did,’ said Nicholas, relenting suddenly. ‘Oh, come on, Tobie. Danger stirs everyone up, you know that. Let’s get back to the others, and you can prescribe something to sweeten our tempers.’
They brought the bowmen back on the last horse and met, on the way, a detachment of cavalry sent to help them. Remounted, they turned and rode back to the valley together. By then, the Knights had already found the ravine, and brought victims and bereaved to high ground. Laid on shields, the body of Tristão Vasquez was set to make its last journey on horseback. Beside him his son, his swollen foot bound, dumbly shared a horse with his uncle’s wife Katelina. Around them, torches blazing, the rest of the searchers were assembling for the journey back to their fort and the City. Primaflora watched Nicholas come, her eyes and her face speaking for her. Katelina, her face bleak, addressed him. ‘You didn’t find the men who murdered Tris
tão? Or you found them, and they were dead?’
‘We killed them,’ said Nicholas. ‘Before they could tell us who had paid them, or where the other two are.’
‘I thought you might,’ Katelina said. ‘Are you satisfied?’ The boy, sitting before her, turned his head.
Nicholas mounted. Without his dress, he had nothing to wear but hose and boots and a light sleeveless jerkin. He looked dirty and cold. He paused for a moment, his hands holding the reins and the pommel, before he lowered himself in the saddle. He turned his face to the boy. He said, ‘Diniz? None of us harmed your father, or tried to harm you. You will be told otherwise. You must take what precautions you wish, but that is the truth.’
The boy stared back at him. Was there a likeness between Nicholas and the youngster? Black and brown; dark-skinned and fair: surely not. Katelina put her hand on her nephew’s shoulder. It was a defensive gesture, not a maternal one. She said, ‘You will never get near him again.’
‘As you like,’ Nicholas said. He and the boy were still looking at one another. It came to Tobie that Nicholas, alone of them all, knew what he was doing. The boy, in his heart, was not afraid of him. If Nicholas took him in his arms, the boy would break down and weep, as he must.
But that was the last thing Katelina would allow. The boy stayed in her grasp, an object of pity, but not of understanding. And, clenching his teeth, he didn’t break down. Then they were moving, and Primaflora brought her horse close and spoke to Nicholas. ‘They should thank you. Without you and Lopez, the boy might not have been found. You risked your life to follow the murderers. Are you hurt?’
Nicholas rode without answering. Then he said, ‘We all took scratches. You, too.’
She said, ‘I wouldn’t have missed it. I didn’t know you, before. When can we meet? Niccolò?’
Race of Scorpions Page 27