The Edge of the Blade

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

  Cleverly constructed, they formed a barrier, a net, a boom that sealed the entrance and exit from Losara.

  * * *

  His features pinched tight with anger at his own stupidity – ‘Christ, I should have known!’ – Falkan returned wearily to the bows.

  The Lampreda slipped toward the quay, where armed soldiers were already waiting, more troops running from the side streets. A trumpet blared from the ramparts of the castle. Archers and crossbowmen stood ready. Other members of the garrison hefted spears or long-shafted axes, the port of Losara glittering with blades.

  Renato Moretti smiled as Baynard approached. ‘If you were really just a scribbler, m’sieur, I could understand it. But a Crusader knight? Tut, tut.’ He enjoyed Baynard’s defeat, waited to be freed from his bonds, then pulled himself upright, massaging his wrists and the rawness around his neck.

  He extended a hand for Falkan’s sword. ‘A bitter moment, eh, Crusader, but resistance would be – unwise.’ Glancing cheerfully at the port, he said, ‘It’s true what I told you before, how unloved I am in Palermo and Messina. But here, in Losara, I’m their very best of friends. One might say I have friends in high places.’ Then he used Falkan’s sword to indicate the castle. ‘The Governare Atzeri has been a, how should I put it, a client of mine for years. He has a weakness for the Arabic opiate, hashish, and for pretty young Moorish girls, and well, almost anything I come across on my travels.’

  ‘You mean plunder, don’t you, Moretti? The profits from piracy, the objects of abduction?’

  ‘Ask me how you were hoodwinked, Crusader. How we lured you into port. You won’t? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Look up there at the mastheads.’

  Falkan hesitated, then shrugged abruptly and turned to gaze at the tops. He’d been well and truly gulled by the corsair, the young knight a victim of his own success in the Gulf of Asinara. God alone knew what the governor would do with his unwanted visitors. Free them? Hold them for ransom? Lock them away to rot in some stinking dungeon? If he was so enamoured of Moorish women, so addicted to the drug hashish, he’d have little reason to love the Christian Cause. Even less when he discovered the contents of the salt-pitted chest.

  ‘So what do you see, Crusader?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing up there to see.’

  ‘That’s true. But there should be, don’t you understand? A bright red pennant at the foremast. Yellow at the other. The one shows the Lampreda’s here to trade, the second to show there’s no one in pursuit, no other corsair eager to gobble the Eel. Without them, the port’s alerted. Atzeri too. And the boom, as you’ve just seen, m’sieur, is lowered.’ Another wide, hard smile and the corsair added, ‘Eels are slippery things, Crusader. You must never expect to tie a cord around their necks and think them caught.’ Then he snapped at his crew, and they cheerfully, vengefully goaded Enrique and Guthric and Quillon to stand with Tremellion.

  The Lampreda nudged the quay. Men from the Rocca di Losara swarmed aboard. Moretti spoke to their leader, nodded at something the Sicilian told him, then turned to relay the news to the men he’d outwitted.

  ‘You should feel flattered, messieurs. Salvino Atzeri is on his way down to greet you. Though what happens to you after that—’ And he allowed them an eloquent expression, wordlessly conveying his doubts and fears for their future.

  Chapter Nineteen

  But the game was not yet over, the dice still in play…

  Closely guarded, Falkan and his men were made to stand like exhibits in the bows. Moretti was kept busy, explaining – and calmly distorting – the events that had taken place in the Gulf of Asinara. The garrison captain knew him for the liar and cheat he was. But it had to be admitted, Renato Moretti spun a story you could weave into a multicoloured cloak. A blanket to keep you warm in winter. A tapestry for the walls.

  Then a disturbance in the side streets caught their attention. The garrison captain gestured urgently at his men, and even the corsair’s smile lost its grip. The governare was descending to the quay.

  Driven brutally from the ship, the Crusaders were run down the gangplank, stumbling as they reached the stippled, unyielding cobbles. Guthric snarled at one of his guards and was rewarded with the jab of a wicked, needlepoint dagger. Blood welled from his forearm, staining the sleeve of his woollen shift. He blinked with the shock of it, then settled his gaze, reminding himself that if ever – then this one—

  * * *

  Salvino Atzeri might, for all the world, have been mounted on a low, wheeled trolley. His jowled face dripping with a carefully razored moustache, he was fat and bald, his eyes too small, his lips cherubic, his pudgy fingers sparkling with rings. Swathed in satin, in gold-and-silver weave, he wore a floor-length robe so exaggerated in its decoration that the stitched flowers seemed to bloom as he advanced, the orchard fruits grow ripe.

  His feet concealed – and Falkan realised now the man walked with tiny, tipping steps – Governor Atzeri progressed smoothly across the cobbles.

  Halted to speak with his garrison captain and the corsair.

  Then he tiptoed forward to peer at Baynard, swept upward with his arm and cut the young knight’s face with a backhanded slap of his jewelled fist.

  ‘Whatever Moretti may have told you, I have no love for him. But he’s of value to me. He brings me things I enjoy. So I will not’ – and he struck again – ‘allow the likes of you’ – and struck – ‘to interfere! – with the running! – of his ship!’ His too-small eyes fixed on the lacerated Baynard, the governor heeled his way delicately back.

  The corsair watched the punitive display, though no longer smiling. Until, suddenly, he remembered the sea-worn chest.

  ‘I don’t know what these men would be worth as ransom, Governare, but they’re doubtless carrying something for their expenses. They brought a chest aboard the Lampreda. Half to me for luring it here, and half to you as usual?’

  Turning to spit blood from his savaged lips, Baynard let his shoulders sag with the weariness of defeat. It was too late now to warn Moretti; too late now to let the corsair know the dice were still rolling… And that only the disgusting, decorated Salvino Atzeri could win.

  ‘Produce it,’ the governor commanded.

  ‘And half to me, half to you—’

  ‘We’ll see, Moretti. I never was one to take women in the dark. And I always hold gem stones to the light.’ Then he ignored the pirate, ignored the prisoners, and centred his porcine gaze on the leather chest.

  * * *

  With the discovery of the Tremellion treasure – the saddlebags packed tight on the floor of the chest – the quayside of Losara erupted with a shriek of delight from Atzeri, a bellow of fury from Renato Moretti, shrills of command from the governor, and a low moan of anguish from Baynard, his eyes closed tight in disgrace, but the frowning displeasure of Sir Geoffrey Falkan burning in his brain.

  Only as far as this, my son? Crossed by a pirate, then double-crossed by some fattened Sicilian official? I’d hoped better of you, boy. Counted on you for a greater achievement than that.

  ‘Oh, but there’s real wealth here!’ Atzeri crowed. ‘Enough to be rid of you, my sinister friend! Drown the lot of you! Sink your slippery ship!’

  ‘But we agreed! Half and half!’

  ‘Agreed nothing, Moretti! You and I were never agreed! All you’ve been to me is the cheapest supplier of girls and goods and – Hah! If I could remember the number of times I’ve fooled you, seeing you sell me emeralds as glass. The stories you’ve swallowed! The fictions I’ve fed to you! You’re as drab a man as the daubings of your ship, caro mio. When I needed you, I made use of you. But no more. Not with what the good Lord Falkan has brought me from the rainy isle of England.’

  ‘So what do you—?’

  ‘What do I plan to do with you, Moretti? Why, enter you in our contest, what else? Our jumping contest. The one in which you leap the fifty feet from the ramparts, hoping to clear those horrid rocks below.’ Then the cruel, cherubic creature turned away,
pretended to remember and swung back to add, ‘Did I say to you fifty feet, Capitano? And with a forty-foot rope around your throat?’

  * * *

  Herded together, the Crusaders and corsairs were pricked and pummelled up the slope to the Rocca di Losara. Their individual fates not yet decided, they were taken to a bare, fourth-floor room in the castle, the prisoners left to nurse their cuts and bruises, the triple-hinged door slammed and bolted behind them.

  The crew of the Lampreda sprawled in frightened disarray. Never well-disciplined, these scavengers of the sea were now out of their depth, ironically high above the waves.

  They held life cheap in others, happy to rape or murder. But never imagined they too, could be taken, their own merciless careers brought to a sudden halt.

  More proficient in his trade, Moretti left his crew to mew and murmur, sinking beside the ring-whipped Crusader.

  ‘You should have told me about the contents of the chest, M’sieur Baynard. Had I known—’

  ‘Had you known,’ Falkan moaned, ‘you’d have brought us all the quicker to Losara. Remember, Moretti, it was we who controlled the Lampreda, beyond the gulf. And you, you saddened creature, who placed your trust in Atzeri.’

  ‘It was always half and half before.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. Didn’t you hear him say? How he valued your jewels as glass—’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘And deceived you with his stories, the fictions you swallowed like bread. Sweet Jesus, but he’s right, that decorated devil. You’d fare better with your enemies, Moretti, than the friends you’re fool enough to choose.’

  At other times confident, Renato Moretti now crouched at the feet of his master. ‘Tell me then – you who I’ve just seen repeatedly slashed by Salvino Atzeri – tell me, Crusader. How do you see us out of here, four storeys up above the rocks? And how will you reclaim your money? And escape this island—?’

  ‘I don’t yet know, but—

  ‘And me? Am I to regain command of my galley? Liberate my crew? Slip away and—

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Falkan mumbled, his lips beaded with congealed blood. ‘I do not yet know how we’ll do it. But you’d be advised to join us in our efforts, Moretti, before the governor sends for his forty feet of rope.’

  * * *

  There was not one single stick of furniture in the prison.

  No bedding, no candles, no picks or shovels left negligently in a corner.

  Quillon produced the three-inch blade of his whittling knife. He was treated to a sneer of laughter, all he needed to throw the knife through the bars of the single window.

  The single window…

  At first glance an obvious escape route, for the window was no mere hole in the outer wall, but a caged balcony, floored with stone, projecting above the rocks that fringed the port.

  Guthric and Quillon hauled a number of Moretti’s crew to their feet. ‘Time to work, friends. Time to loosen the grille.’

  But nothing so easy, the bars holding firm, their ends mortared deep in the stone.

  Quillon said, ‘There was a time I got caught in a village near Tremellion. No need to name names, but it was me an’ this girl, an’ her hus— her brother came home an’ I had to get out fast. Funny fellow, her brother. Anyway, what I thought to do was skinny up through the roof. See what I mean, Guthric? Shift the tiles and climb out over the bars.’

  But nothing so simple, the slabs of slate too heavy to be moved.

  Angry now – and aware that Atzeri might have them hauled from the room at any moment – Moretti and his crew joined the Crusaders as they slammed their heels against the flooring of the balcony.

  But the single jutting stone would not be broken.

  Intention gave way to fury, the men taking turns to wrestle with the bars, scrabble at the roofing, stamp until their feet were raw.

  They were free to stand in the high, caged window, gaze out to sea, look downward at the surf that spumed from the rocks. But try as they might, they could not bend the metal, lift the slabs, or break the solid, buttressed platform.

  * * *

  Exhausted by his efforts, Falkan stumbled to a corner of the room. A few moments later Moretti joined him, the corsair snarling imprecations at the name of Silvano Atzeri.

  ‘So! All these years he’s cheated me, that tinselled pig! Swore he was paying me fairly, then afterward squealed with pleasure at—’

  ‘Tell me about him, Renato. Whatever you know of Governare Atzeri. But spare me your flytings. I like him no better than you do.’ The corsair sank dispiritedly to the floor. Falkan turned away to wipe blood from his face, then hitched around to repeat, ‘All you know about him. He and his family. Whatever comes to mind.’

  It took a while to control Moretti’s fulminations, but he finally recounted what he knew of their jewelled gaoler. ‘The pig’s not as important as he pretends. He’s just one of a number of governors on the island. Palermo, Catania, Ragusa, Messina, maybe a dozen others. But it’s true he controls the port of Losara. There’s nothing you can do to prevent him stealing your money, Crusader; nothing any of us can do if the swine decides to hang me.’

  ‘Does he live here in the castle?’

  ‘Somewhere below us, though on the side away from the sea. He’s got a garden there, well, more of a walled courtyard, filled with a mass of spiny, bright-flowered plants. He took me there once, laughing when I got scratched by the spines. Told me most of them were poisonous; I’d likely die in agony in the night.’

  Gazing across the room at the solid, barred window, Baynard watched as Enrique de Vaca hurled himself at the grille, then sagged in bruised defeat. Turning toward Falkan, the Spaniard shook his head…

  ‘Does he live alone, our Silvano Atzeri? That’s to say, him and the young Moorish girls you supply?’

  ‘Live with the girls? God, no. He’s a respectable married man, il porco. His wife is the daughter of Don Flavio Abruzzo, Governor of Caltanissetta, one of the most prosperous towns in all of Sicily. It’s how Atzeri came to be Governor of Losara. As for his girls, his private harem, he keeps them in a house up there in the hills.’ With a snort of reluctant admiration, the corsair added, ‘He chose well when he married Signorina Abruzzo, for rumour has it she never leaves her rooms, unless it’s to walk the fifty or so paces to her private chapel. It seems everyone knows of Atzeri’s pretty sows, except his wife. It’d suit us well, eh, Crusader? A genteel wife at home, and a storehouse of puttani—

  Ignoring Moretti’s humour, Falkan asked, ‘Have you ever met the Signora Atzeri?’

  ‘Met her? I wouldn’t say met her. Seen her, yes, with a cross in one hand, candles in the other. She was veiled, of course, though you could see she was as hard-faced a bitch—

  ‘Then not the type to overlook her husband’s infidelities?’

  His spirits somewhat recovered, Renato Moretti barked with amusement. ‘Learn of his, what you so delicately call infidelities, Crusader, and she’d have him dragged around his garden till the flesh was ripped from his bones. Might even venture out and do it herself. But why do you ask? Are you planning to shout it, as we’re led up to be noosed and thrown from the walls?’

  ‘You exaggerate,’ Falkan snapped. ‘It’s you who’s been invited to the jumping contest. No one else.’

  * * *

  They tested the walls of the fourth-floor chamber, though without much hope of finding some convenient secret exit. Inspected the triple-hinged door, not really believing an unknown saviour had silently slipped the bolts. Flung themselves in fury at the bars of the buttressed window.

  Spat their frustration. Retired to the latrine in the corner. Emerged to curse the high, vaulted roof, ladle brackish water from a twenty-gallon keg, glare around at their well-constructed prison, the room as austere as their hopes.

  Chapter Twenty

  Baynard Falkan gestured to the Knight of Santiago. ‘I’ve a mind to visit the garderobe, amigo mio. Will you come?’

  Seeing where the men w
ere headed, Renato Moretti called after them. ‘Is that how it is with the English, the Spaniards? The one goes, the other holds his hand? And me? What should I do for you? Dance to divert the crew?’

  Once again Falkan ignored him, continuing to the south-east corner of the chamber, where a stone partition offered a semblance of privacy to whoever was in the alcove of the latrine.

  Enrique waited as Baynard leaned into the narrow, doorless cell. What he saw was a single, rough stone slab laid two feet above the level of the floor, a chiselled hole in the centre.

  And far beneath the hole, the dimness of light.

  Moving back from the alcove, he said, ‘Look.’

  Enrique de Vaca frowned at him, pointed at the latrine and asked, ‘There? You say I should look down there?’

  ‘So I do. Study the sides of the shaft. Tell you what you see.’ Holding his breath to keep the unpleasant odours at bay, the Spaniard performed the task his friend had requested. Then he emerged from the cell, allowing himself the right to say, ‘Had I known it would come to this, amigo mio, I might well have stayed in the encomienda.’ But he said it without rancour, his thoughts already in tandem with those of Baynard.

  ‘Worse is to come if we peck about here like mournful pigeons. So tell me. Do you think the slab can be lifted?’

  ‘Lifted entirely? I don’t know. But tipped back, perhaps.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then below it there’s a stinking shaft, cut all the way down to the rocks.’