"We don't know a whole lot," he said, without waiting for the question. "I was going to come and tell you later that Erik signaled that he was ashore and he had found his Svanhild. I imagine Benito is all right."
"He was born to be hanged," said Maria, trying to hide her relief.
Maria must have squeezed Alessia. The baby woke and objected to being treated like a bundle. Maria had the interesting experience of seeing the normally imperturbable Aquitainian woman look decidedly alarmed, as an indignant squall arose from the wrappings. "Is something wrong with her?" Francesca asked uneasily.
Maria rocked and bounced; Alessia made a few more pointed remarks about her cavalier treatment. "She's fine."
"Good." Francesca shook her head. "I'm not really maternal. I don't like babies much, I'm afraid."
Manfred grinned. "They're not infectious, Francesca." He pointed at Maria. "Come on, Maria. Advance on her. Let's see if Francesca will retreat into the bedroom to escape. I've been trying to tempt her back there all morning. I never thought of herding her."
Francesca was recovering her composure, possibly because Alessia hiccupped and decided that she had registered enough complaints for the moment. "Manfred! Babies hold no interest for me, for excellent reasons."
She began counting off on elegant fingers. "You cannot have an intelligent conversation with them. They are utterly and selfishly demanding of all of your time and energy, regardless of war, peace, or any other considerations. You—ah, never mind." She shrugged. "Not all women love babies, legends notwithstanding. I'm one of the ones who doesn't."
Manfred stood up. "I won't hold it against you. I must admit I'm not too keen on them myself. Maybe one day. But certainly not yet."
Francesca chucked him under the chin. "I can't tell you how relieved this makes me."
Maria said nothing. She knew that talking to people who didn't have children about the subject was a waste of their time and her effort. Besides, it was hardly her business to go around urging parenthood on people. She certainly couldn't see Francesca with children. And truth to tell, at one time she'd thought she would not like to have any herself.
Instead, she decided to bring up something else that had been nagging away under the worry about Benito. She'd heard about it from Umberto and now had it refreshed by Lady De Belmondo. The food rations, even though they were barely into the siege, were already causing unrest.
"I met the podesta's wife at the gate. A delegation of women from the town is going to see the captain-general. She said she was going to keep the peace." Maria looked sidelong at Francesca. "From what Kat told me, you collect information. Maybe you already know all about this, but there is a problem about food."
Francesca smiled. "I trade in gossip, yes. I did know about the food. I didn't know about the podesta's wife. There is something of distance between me and 'respectable' women. They don't like to be seen talking to me. But tell me more. I'd like a female handle on what is happening out there."
"Lady De Belmondo is . . . different. She talks to anyone, and everyone talks to her; the guards at the gate said she can go anywhere without fear. And Lodovico Montescue was one of her suitors when she was young."
"The old dog probably made up to half the women in Venice," said Manfred lazily. "If the stories I've heard are anything to judge by, he was worse than I was." He raised an eyebrow at Maria. "Worse even than Benito. Anyway, I'll leave you women to chatter. I'm going across to see Falkenberg. And then I'll go and look at what Emeric is doing in the way of siege preparations. I need to keep an eye on that."
"Not without Von Gherens," said Francesca sternly. "I promised him I wouldn't let you go out without him, and I won't let you break my promises."
Manfred grunted. "All right, I'll collect my baby-sitter. He'll be pacing the hallway anyway." He went out, blowing a kiss to Francesca.
When the door latch had clicked closed behind him, Francesca turned again to Maria. "I'm glad you brought this up. I had wanted to come and talk to you about it anyway."
She paused for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. "I need to set up a network of contacts. Manfred and the Knights worry about what Emeric's army is doing out there. I worry about what is going on in here. In the few days since the siege began, I've established that the Citadel is overripe for internal troubles, which I think are more dangerous than the external army. This food story is just one aspect. I wanted to ask for your help. This place has limits as far as access is concerned."
Maria laughed, a little bitterly. "You have no idea! You might not be considered 'respectable' by the ranking women, but there isn't a man in this place who would dare to stop you from going anywhere you wanted to. Getting in here for me was quite difficult. I scarcely dare think how the ordinary Corfiote would be treated."
"Yes. And the problems in the Citadel, I think, will mostly come from the Corfiote citizens who are excluded." Francesca frowned, then focused intently on Maria. "I need people out there who can tell me what is going on. I need a place for them to meet me, that won't attract attention. I've some gold, and some favors to offer to them."
Maria looked at her thoughtfully. "Can you get out of here without drawing attention? Because if you can, I must introduce you to my friend Stella Mavroukis." Maria smiled. "She can talk the hind legs off two donkeys, but she knows everyone. She's been here for years, and she speaks Greek."
Francesca's eyes brightened with interest. "She sounds ideal. When can you organize this?"
"Tomorrow afternoon?" Alessia stirred in Maria's arms. "But now, I must go. Or you will get an experience of babies you won't enjoy."
Francesca was quick about showing her to the door.
Chapter 48
The rocks, in the paling predawn, were just visible by the lacing of foam around them. The wind was blowing spray off the water, leaving the descent greasy. The stony surface compared well to mossy pan-tiles in the rain, but it was steeper than any self-respecting roof would be. Benito decided the young shepherd guiding him had a great future in housebreaking, if he should need it.
Coming closer, Benito could now see that the rocks were twisted, shattered and sharp-edged, even in this poor light. That anyone would bring even a dingy in here, let alone a thirty-five-foot lateen-rigged fishing boat, seemed like insanity. Yet, there she was, snugged up beside a huge boulder. Someone was busy attaching a bush to her mast, the only bit that stuck out above the rock.
Benito whistled. Kosti nearly ended up in the cove. He dropped the bush. "Now, see what you made me do," he said grumpily.
"How do I get across?"
"There's a ledge of rocks over there. Time it right and you won't get too wet."
Benito paid off the guide, rolled his trousers up, and walked into the surge. The water was cold, and the mussels underfoot were sharp. He walked forward cautiously, his city-born imagination putting sharks and giant octopi in the dark water. Encountering seaweed nearly had him into the deeper water with a shriek. However, he reached the fishing smack's mooring without any ncidents. He pulled up onto the rock, and stepped into her. The smell nearly knocked him back ashore.
"Where is the skipper?"
"Where I'll be in a minute," said Kosti, finishing tying the bush to the masthead, just as the first rays of sunlight hit the mountain above them. "Under the sail. Asleep."
* * *
The sail had been made into a crude tent, and through the long, hot spring day, the crew slept. After an hour or so, Benito grew tired of the heat and the flies and waded back onto the shore and slept under a pine tree. He could see the open sea from here; and, waking during the day, he saw several patrolling Dalmatian galliots. But they didn't come close enough to the dangerous-looking rocks to spot the fishing boat. Even a land patrol would have to come very close to the edge of the near-vertical vegetation and crumbling limestone cliff to see her. The tough part was going to be avoiding being seen that night, once they were at sea.
* * *
The two men were overly well dre
ssed for Paleokastritsa. They approached the table in the taverna diffidently. "Milord. We've heard a rumor that you came out of the Citadel."
Erik looked them over cautiously. The clothes, on closer inspection, had once been fine but showed signs of very hard wearing. Erik doubted that the Hungarians would have gotten around to using spies or informers . . . yet. "Why do you ask?"
The older of the two, the one with the neatly trimmed beard with hints of salt and pepper in the blackness, said grimly: "Milord, we're both Venetians who have estates here. Or, I should say, used to have. Our families have been killed and our homes burned. We want to know what is happening. We want the Republic's armies to sweep these Hungarian bastards into the sea. We've scouted along the ridgelines . . . all we can see is that the Citadel is under siege. There aren't that many men attacking."
"I just want to kill the bastards," said the younger one, morosely, his pudgy, neat hands forming themselves into fists.
Erik pushed his chair back. "What I can tell you is that Emeric has landed many more men. As for when the Venetian Republic's relief forces will be here—"
He shrugged. "That is anyone's guess. I believe word has been sent, but whether it got through or not, I can't tell you. Of course, Emeric's Dalmatian pirates will try to stop the messages. So it may take a long time. Months at the very least."
The younger man said: "I told you so, Ambrosino. I'm going back out to kill a few of the bastards."
In Erik's assessment, the young man would probably die the first time he encountered a real soldier.
The older man patted him on the shoulder. "Forgive him, milord. He lost his wife and their newborn son. Pardon us for intruding on you."
Erik took a deep breath. If he was going to organize resistance to Hungarians, he had to start somewhere. This unlikely looking material was as good as any. The younger man was going to get himself killed anyway in his fury and grief. Let him at least put them to some use.
"Sit down." It was a command, not a request.
Both men looked at him in some surprise. So did the Vinlanders. But the two sat.
"If you go out there, you may kill a Croat or a Hungarian or two. However, if you really wish to hurt Emeric and his troops, you're going to have to be more methodical about it. Emeric has plenty more Croat troopers. But if you destroy his cannons or burn his supply dumps, then not only will you hurt him far more badly, you will save the lives of others."
The young man shook his head stubbornly. "I just want to kill the bastards."
"You'll only die quickly without achieving anything." Erik gave him a measuring look, and allowed a touch of scorn to come into it. The young man detected that scorn, and reddened. "You aren't a fighter. You aren't a soldier. You certainly aren't a mercenary, who by nature is the toughest and cruelest sort of soldier. Your fancy dueling-master won't have taught you a single thing that will work in a fight against these bastards, and what you don't know will get you killed the first time you run up against one. Is that what you want? Or would you rather make Emeric pay fifty-fold for what he's done?"
The young man was scarlet by now, but he raised his chin defiantly. "I want him to pay a hundredfold, never mind fifty-fold. But I'm not scared of dying."
"Then either learn to be," said Erik grimly, "or go somewhere else. I have no space in my troop for foolhardy men."
"Your troop?"
Erik nodded. "I came out here for three purposes." He saw no reason to blather in public about his feelings for Svanhild, and certainly not Benito's secret mission. "Never mind the first two. The third, acting on Prince Manfred's behalf, was to recruit men and engage Emeric of Hungary's forces in . . . call it 'irregular warfare.' The kind of fighting we do in Vinland. I want to bleed Emeric white—draw off some of his forces from their attack on the Citadel, and make keeping the Citadel under siege a battle on two fronts. I want to make it as expensive as possible for him to be here, but I can't do that without men who are as interested in keeping their own skins intact as they are in killing Emeric's men. I don't need heroes, I need men who can be as cunning as foxes and hard to catch as weasels. Are you with me?"
"I am," said a firm voice from an unexpected quarter. Thalia spoke quietly but clearly. "I am. If I can save one other life, that's enough. If hurting this king will avenge my Georgio . . . then even if I am a woman I will fight. What kind of men will not?"
The plumper young man nodded, looking at Thalia in some surprise. Suddenly, with no warning, he began to cry. Deep, bitter sobs.
"He's upset," said the older man. "But he'll be an asset, milord. Giuliano's father was a master-at-arms. When he retired here, he married a local girl and they had one chick. Flavio Lozza gave his son one-on-one training from the day he could hold a sword." He smiled. "I think Flavio was secretly disappointed that the boy only wanted to grow olives and play the lute."
Lozza's son? Erik reflected that appearances could deceive. Flavio Lozza had been Giuliano Dell'Arta's instructor. Giuliano had taught both Manfred and him when they'd been in Venice with the Knights of the Holy Trinity's ill-fated tour with the Woden-casket. He had regarded Lozza as the father of rapier-work. Flavio, it would seem, had named his son for his old protégé—and this was certainly the last place Erik would have expected to see the son of Flavio Lozza.
Almost, he regretted what he'd said about "fancy sword-masters." But not quite. It was one thing to be a master of rapier-work; it was quite another to face mercenaries and Magyar horse-barbarians whose interest was in killing you quickly, not stylishly. Perhaps the plump boy wouldn't be killed that quickly. But there was a large difference between even the best-trained amateur and a battle-hardened professional soldier. "And you, signor? Have you got surprises for me too?"
The older man shrugged. "Not really. I hunt. I can ride. I know the island well."
"And you speak Greek?"
The older man shrugged. "Not as well as Giuliano. He got it from his mother, and then his wife was a local."
"And of course we will help, too," said Bjarni, slapping him on the back.
"To be direct, you are going to watch over Svanhild," said Erik, feeling uncomfortable. "Not go running around the Corfu hills in the dark. If possible I'd like to get you all a passage across to Italy or even Greece. This is not your war."
"We stand by our kin," said Bjarni, stiffly.
Erik grinned. "I'm not exactly that . . . yet."
The big Vinlander grinned back. "You haven't a chance, Erik. Hildi's made up her mind. Even if she has to chase you with a baby she'll get you."
"Bjarni!" said Svanhild, blushing. "It's a good thing Mama can't hear you." But she didn't deny it. In fact, she gave him a sidelong glance that had speculation in it.
"Maybe you can just lend Erik three or four of us. Like me," said Kari, looking eager.
"Maybe I can just pay him to take you away," growled Gulta.
* * *
They hugged the coast with great care, creeping southwards. No one who didn't know these waters intimately was going to come this close in the darkness. It was an alarming place to be sailing at some speed.
"It's coming up for a blow," said Taki ominously.
"So what do we do?"
Benito saw a flash of teeth in the darkness. "We set our nets. Then we haul them and then we run with the wind. We're fishermen from Levkas who've been blown off course. Fishermen have fish in their boats. So we're going to get ourselves some."
So, for the next two hours Benito learned to set nets. "Taki is making an extra profit out of your labor," said Spiro. "Demand wages. Or a share in the catch."
"You'd better hope it is a bad one," said Kosti. "Or we'll be here all night."
When the nets came in, twitching with silver, and Benito saw how Taki beamed in the moonlight, Benito began to realize Kosti might not have been joking.
With wooden crates full of fish they headed away from Corfu on a following wind. By that time, they all looked and smelled like fishermen, even Benito. He was no stran
ger to hard work, not after the way that Erik had been drilling him, but this required a whole new set of muscles and calluses. His hands were raw and cut up, and his arms and shoulders ached by the time it was over.
Taki rubbed his hands and produced the wine, passing it around to the rest of the crew. "Never let it be said nothing good comes out of a war. I've wanted to fish old Scathos' bank for years, but never dared."
"I kept wondering whether the old bastard would still come out and shoot at us," said Kosti.
Spiro took a pull at the wine. "What? Shoot at your handsome face? Scathos' daughters would kill him."
Kosti pulled the jug away from him and handed it to Benito. "I hear that's the reason he wants to kill you."
"Me? I'm shocked."
"Well, you or any other passing fellow. Those are wild girls of his."
"Time to shift those sails!" Taki yelled.
The boat went about and they sailed on, but the direction troubled Benito. It felt wrong. "Just where are we going?" he asked Taki eventually. "You're supposed to be running me across to the Italian shore."
Taki belched contentedly. "And I am. But we'd not get across the Straits of Otranto in the dark. Not with this wind. So we're taking a longer cut at it. Have some more wine."
He frowned. "I don't want to be drunk if we have trouble."
The captain chuckled. "What are you going to do if we do have trouble? Fight a galley's worth of men? Try and outrun them? This is a fishing boat, not a galley. There is nothing much you can do except try and look like a drunken bum of a fisherman. So have some more wine. The more like us you look and sound, the safer you are."
* * *
The day was still very young, and Antipaxos some miles to the north of them, but still in sight, when they were intercepted.
It was a Byzantine galley. Benito realized, as it raced closer, just how futile trying to run would have been. Briefly, he thought the galley was simply going to run them down. But it drew up beside them. The officer on the bow bellowed something in rapid Greek.
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