The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  ‘Dangerous and costly,’ Renato Moretti elaborated, still smiling.

  ‘Yes, yes, but you should hear, Captain, hear how they found a Holy Relic, started home to England—’

  ‘In the matter of money, Master Baynard—’

  ‘were almost there when the priest was drowned in a squall, leaving only this soldier, this illiterate Guthric, to bring back word of a chiselled stone tablet—’

  A what? A slab of stone? No crowns or amulets, coins or coffers? They’d travel across the world for scratchings on rock?

  Moretti’s smile vanished on the wind. He strode toward Baynard, telling him now, ‘The devil with your relics! If you wish to be taken aboard this ship, I’ll be paid. And in advance!’

  Feigning surprise at the outburst, Baynard hastily searched inside his tunic. Producing his purse, he allowed Renato Moretti to glimpse the deep dull shine of gold. Ingenuously he said, ‘You must not suppose this is all of it, Captain. But until we bring our chest aboard, might it not suffice? If only as a token of good faith?’

  The Italian’s smile was in place again, thin and wide. Denied the chance to kill Crusaders for their armour, and aware the Holy Relic was beyond his comprehension, he’d at least seen the gleam of money. And what was this about the chest they’d bring aboard?

  ‘I fear I may have startled you, Master Baynard. But be assured, the Lampreda will conduct you safely to Palestine, you and your worthy friends. And that joke I made earlier, about serpents and whirlpools; there’s little to be afraid of, m’sieur. Take the word of Renato Moretti. They’ll not trouble you at all.’

  Baynard risked a none-too-subtle sigh. ‘It’s a relief to hear you say it, Captain. Simple travellers as we are.’

  The predator took the purse he was offered, then invited his new-found passengers to join him in a toast. ‘To our safe departure from these islands.’

  ‘And our arrival in the East, eh, Captain?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Moretti laughed. ‘That too.’

  * * *

  The sometimes murderer and rapist, ofttimes smuggler and corsair nodded in cordial salute as the clerk and his lumpen protector departed the galley. The day had gone well for him, he believed; his hand on the purse, his hopes on the undisclosed contents of the chest.

  And tomorrow, why not, things would go even better.

  * * *

  Clear of the Lampreda Guthric growled, ‘You’d trust that creature with money? What’s to stop him slipping away in the night? Ask me what I think and—

  ‘You did well, old Guthric. But the play’s not over yet. Until the moment seems right you’re the mindless hulk Captain Moretti believes you to be. For my part I’ll continue to twitch and ask palsied questions. Enrique will be stand-offish and arrogant, our scriptural scholar, caring only for the day when he can decipher our fabled tablet. As for Quillon, he might be the weak link in our chain. Weak in nothing, I hasten to say, but his apparent inability to deflect the shaft of an insult. You’ll keep a close eye on him, Guthric, if you will.’

  Approaching the Gros Ventre, the Saxon asked, ‘And once we’re out of the gulf?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll murder us then,’ Baynard said equably. ‘Strip us naked and throw us to the fish. He has every incentive to do so, especially since he knows about the chest. Which reminds me. I saw one on the store-ship. We’ll load it tonight.’

  ‘Looking about, I totted nine sailors on the galley. So ten with that pike-faced Moretti. Gutter-rats, the lot of ’em. Yet you still say the four of us—’

  ‘We need that ship, Master . So all we can do, for now, is play along.’

  They spent the night in muted preparation. Captain Burywell – a revived and even cheerful John Burywell – happily surrendered his personal, salt-pitted chest. He told Falkan he would sail the Gros Ventre to Genoa, refilling the ship’s belly there.

  Baynard reminded him to say nothing of the passengers he’d conveyed from Tarragona. ‘And be on the alert for the Hawksbill, Master Burywell. If those so-called Crusaders recognize your vessel, they’ll be none too gentle with their questions.’

  The grateful sailor vowed to keep silent, though both he and Tremellion knew that if Roger Grevel – de Vallen’s kinsman – Ranulf Falkan’s hireling – ever seized hold of him, Burywell’s vow would be broken along with the snapping of his bones.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the sun cleared the mountains of Gallura, to the east of the gulf, Enrique de Vaca and the leonine Quillon were introduced to the captain of the Eel.

  The Spaniard acted his role to perfection, swirling the colourless garments he’d purchased from the crew of the Gros Ventre, yet wearing his tatters like robes. Renato Moretti mocked him in his mind – this translator of chippings, dressed like a scarecrow, who chose to ignore the proferred hand of greeting. Well, the devil with the Spanish cognoscente. His heels would drum, like the rest of them, when a knife was drawn across his throat…

  Quillon’s behaviour was less convincing, his part merely that of an ostler, a labourer, a muscular young sprig from Thomas Guidron’s domain. He suffered in silence as Renato Moretti fingered the mane of his harvest hair. But when one of the crew came forward to smile at him, murmur blandishments in a liquid, foreign tongue, then fondle his arm—

  Rearing back, he jarred his admirer with a solid blow of his hand. ‘You been too long at sea, shipmate, that’s the truth.’

  Bruised and unrequited, the crewman snatched at the hook that hung from his belt. Falkan glanced quickly at Guthric, watching the constable barge between them. Then he hurried to placate the spurned sailor, as Guthric drove Quillon backward, rasping in his ear.

  The awkward moment passed, Falkan diverting Moretti’s attention by raising the timbre of his voice. ‘You men of the Lampreda! Leave that chest where it is! There are important papers in there! Valuable and costly – Leave it be!’

  The corsair affected not to hear what Baynard Falkan had intended him to hear. Gesturing the clerk to the sling-seat, he said, ‘Settle yourself there, m’sieur, and we’ll sail. The weather seems to favour us this morning. A fine, flat sea, and a wind to scud us along.’

  His hands waving in a vague approximation of distance and direction, Guidron’s clerk piped in the tone of his role. ‘How long before your galley’s clear of the gulf, Captain Moretti? Before we’re fully at sea?’

  ‘Be out of it by noon, Master Baynard. Then on through the Straits of Bonifacio, and into the wide Tyrrhenian Sea.’

  Silently Falkan acknowledged, so, by noon.

  ‘Always an uncertain experience,’ he said timidly, ‘being set at large upon the waves.’

  Moretti expended another lip-sealed smile. He was already tired of his passengers, annoyed that the law of Asinara forbade him to kill them here and now, strip their bodies, throw them over the side and go straight to the contents of the chest – Valuable and costly—

  But at midday, yes, he could do it. Stab first at Guthric… Then slice the arrogant Spaniard… Then offer the jaunty young lion to his crew…

  After which he’d secure the clerk in the sling. Wrap the canvas around him. And lower him ever so gently beneath the waves…

  He laid a hand on Falkan’s shoulder. ‘Make yourself at ease, Master Baynard. I promise you, m’sieur, the voyage won’t worry you at all.’

  I don’t doubt it, Baynard thought, nodding in fictive obedience. Why should it, when we’re all to be slaughtered at noon.

  * * *

  Time passed slowly, the tension growing, the actors playing their parts.

  Wandering forward, Guidron’s scribbler sat in conversation with the arrogant cognoscente. Enrique reached beneath the lid of the flat-topped chest, withdrew a sheaf of papers, spread them across the salt-pocked straps. Then they discussed the wording, disputed the meaning, disagreed with fretful, impatient gestures.

  Renato Moretti watched their petty squabble, these cloaked and scowling figures, then clicked his tongue and went about the running of his galley.
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br />   Quillon sat slumped near the port rail of the bows, whittling a scrappet of wood with a silly, three-inch blade. One of the crew came to crouch beside him, telling him to ignore the one who’d smiled at him before. ‘Massimo fondles everyone. But he is not sincere. He would never be a true friend, Massimo. But me – I could be, yes – Can you see it, lion-hair, you and Pino, as friends?’

  The safeguard grinned without humour. ‘Don’t know a word you’re saying,’ he muttered. ‘But you’re acting sweeter than any girl I ever met back home. Seems to me you’re as bad as your shipmate – too damned long at sea.’

  ‘You’ve a fine set of teeth,’ Pino responded. ‘I shall ask the captain to spare you, so you and I can be friends.’ Then he brushed Quillon’s thigh and swerved away, looking back once to see the safeguard gazing bleakly in his direction.

  As for Guthric, he was hunched against the starboard rail, ignoring Guidron’s clerk, the Spanish translator, the yellow-haired factotum. His sole apparent interest was in the lift of the sea, the distant coastline to the east.

  The Lampreda sliced through the water.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, so you question my reading of the phrase?’ the Spaniard snapped. ‘The petty escribiente thinks to challenge the scholar!’

  ‘I offered an alternative, that’s all, Señor de Vaca. Though of course, in the face of such all-embracing wisdom—

  ‘Your sarcasm betrays your lowly origins, Señor Baynard. Stick to copying letters is my advice, and leave me to interpret these papers!’ And so they continued, snappish and bickering, earning themselves a sneer of disgust from Moretti.

  * * *

  Bored by his attempts to fashion something recognizable from the wood, Quillon pocketed his whittling knife and threw the scrappet over the side. Then he pulled himself to his feet, stretched and yawned, and went to stand idly near the squabbling Baynard Falkan.

  * * *

  The crew busied themselves with the running of the ship, though from time to time they glanced toward the stern. Renato Moretti barked his commands, the Lampreda cutting her way across the Golfo dell’ Asmara. It would not be long before the law ceased to apply.

  * * *

  Guthric rolled his bulk from the starboard rail. He called across to Quillon, the safeguard cupping his hand to his ear and frowning at the Saxon. ‘What? What did you say?’

  The constable shook his head, grabbed at the shrouds to steady himself, then moved to where Quillon was standing.

  Moretti was pleased to see his passengers grouped around the chest. All his eggs in one basket.

  * * *

  Then the arrogant Spaniard shouted angrily at Guidron’s clerk, swirling behind him to overlook his shoulder. ‘If you must have further proof, escribiente, the documents are under your stupid fingers. There, in the chest! Let’s have done with your questions! Open the lid and I’ll show you, once and for all!’

  * * *

  Their attention no longer attracted by such peevish behaviour, the crew of the Lampreda ignored this latest squabble in the bows. Those who bothered to look might have wondered why Guthric and Quillon moved in close, reaching as if to volunteer their help.

  But by then it was too late, for the Knights of Tremellion and Santiago had already snatched their swords from the chest, Quillon his knives, Guthric his short-handled axes. Expecting a flurry of parchment, the corsairs were left gaping, unable to comprehend how these men, these skittish or lumpen passengers, how it was they handled their weapons with such ease, almost as if they were warriors, rehearsed in their action, even now sweeping along the deck.

  Renato Moretti howled with indignation. This was his trick, not theirs! Another mile through the water and the Eel would have bitten them, coiled around them, crushed their shells and sucked the life—

  Obedient to what Falkan had told them aboard the Gros Ventre, the Crusaders used the flat of their blades, the prick of the knives, the sideswipe of an axe. It was not their intention to massacre the crew. They would need the men alive, if the Lampreda was to reach Palestine. The element of surprise might be enough. But if not – if the attack was resisted – then the corsairs were to be killed.

  In the event, and with Moretti still howling, the crew of the galley were herded toward the stern. Most of them were bruised or bleeding, though none too wounded to work. They gazed at their enemy, turned their eyes to Moretti, then huddled to nurse their pains.

  Addressing the captain, Falkan said, ‘We are of a like mind, I believe. Given the chance, you’d have seized our property, as we’ve now commandeered yours. The difference being that you’d have murdered us out of hand, and were planning to do so at noon. You must tell me if I’m wrong, Captain Moretti, though I’ve already been warned not to trust you.’

  The Italian thought to bluster, saw Guthric lift an oiled-skin cover from near the base of one of the masts, then smiled his predatory smile.

  ‘All kinds of blades stacked here, my Lord Falkan. I’d say his idea was much the same as ours.’

  ‘Get rid of them, old Guthric. Clear the ship of its weapons. We’ve a long way to go, and are not, I think, among friends.’

  * * *

  The Crusaders took Renato Moretti to the bows. Roped his wrists and ankles, then tied him with a strangling knot to the prow. ‘I’ve no reason to think well of you,’ Falkan told him. ‘You’re most likely a cordial murderer, with God knows what other crimes tucked in your scrip. But you’ve a fine enough galley, I’ll say that for you, Captain. So we’ll go on together as planned.’

  His head and neck held tight to the bow-strake, Renato Moretti gazed at the oh, so clever clerk-in-truth-a-Crusader. ‘The mistake,’ he admitted, ‘was in keeping to the law. I must be ageing, m’sieur, for I should really have drowned you midway in the gulf.’

  ‘Get us to Palestine, Captain Moretti and, if the devil strokes you, he may one day grant your wish.’

  * * *

  Cowed by their new commander, the crew of the galley guided her through the Straits of Bonifacio, heeling the vessel south-east toward that sharp-edged stone, kicked by the foot of Italy – the violent and unstable island of Sicily.

  During the four-day voyage, Renato Moretti was kept a prisoner in the bows. He was released for the needs of nature; the strangling knot loosened so he could eat; the rope removed at night, allowing him to stretch out on the deck.

  Baynard came to see him from time to time. Deeply suspicious of the corsair, he was nevertheless intrigued by the man, amused by his unlikely stories, impressed by his shameless admissions. Certainly he’d killed travellers, but a man had to live, n’est-ce pas’? And had taken his pleasure with unwilling, wide-eyed young women, but a man had to love, n’est-ce pas’? The one with the other. The necessary hungers. N’est-ce pas’?

  A few hours north of Sicily, and the young Tremellion was turning away when Renato Moretti called him back. ‘Uno momento, Signor Baynard. I’ve a further admission to make.’

  ‘If it’s worse than your litany of rape and murder, I can well do without it.’

  ‘It’s neither of those. Well – based on them, maybe, but – listen to me, Crusader. You know what kind of a person I am, with my appetites and such. Unworthy of a place at your table—’

  ‘At anyone’s table, you bastard!’

  ‘Perhaps – But listen. I’ve had dealings in the past with certain friends in Sicily. Dealings that went wrong. In truth, m’sieur—’

  ‘Say that, and even the devil will laugh in your face, Moretti. In truth?’

  ‘I mean it, Lord Baynard. I’m unloved on that island. Well, not all of it, but in the major ports of Palermo, Messina, the length of its northern coast. Take the Lampreda there and I’ll be arrested—’

  ‘And with any luck hanged.’

  ‘the galley impounded. Held for months. And you and your companions questioned from now till the winter storms—’

  ‘So what are you saying, Moretti? We should avoid the island entirely, ignoring the need for food
and fresh water—?’

  ‘Avoid the island, no, m’sieur. But slip around to the southern coast, to the port of Losara, yes. I’ve been there once, but the Lampreda’s unknown. We’d be in and out… Then on our way to Crete… To Cyprus… To where you wish to be, signor… Your Holy Land in the East…’

  Distrustful of the man, Baynard could yet see sense in what he said. Avoid the major ports, and they could touch at Losara, re-stock the vessel, then slip away and brave the next five hundred miles of open sea.

  ‘Would your crew know of this place, having been there only once?’

  ‘Oh, I think they could find it, m’sieur. Tell them Losara and the tall white castle on the rocks.’

  * * *

  Driven by his desires, Falkan saw the Lampreda skirt the western edge of the island, the galley veering dangerously close to the arid, North African coast. He admired the way the ship cut through the water, heeling and tacking, as speedy a craft as any he’d been aboard.

  If his knowledge of the world was accurate, he and his companions were now halfway along the Mediterranean Sea.

  Spain was behind them.

  And the pendulous islands of Corsica and Sardinia.

  Sicily approaching.

  Then Crete and Cyprus and, yes, as the murderous corsair had reminded him, the Holy Land awaiting him in the East.

  The Holy Land and the Cause.

  The Frankish nobility and the monarchs of the West.

  And Christiane.

  Her image reawakened in his mind, he studied the curve of the harbour of Losara, raised his eyes to the towering, sun-bleached castle that dominated the port.

  Then heard a rattling of chains, a splash as something solid hit the water. He turned from his position near the bows, shouted at Enrique, at Guthric, then ran the length of the deck to see Quillon waving wildly. Beyond the safeguard – thirty feet beyond the stern of the galley – two great counterbalanced bars protruded from either side of the entrance, a dozen chains suspended from each of the bars, the lower links attached to a pair of metal-sheathed beams.