The Edge of the Blade

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

  Goaded ahead by Falkan’s threat, the Italian led them at a brisk enough pace, Quillon herding the three remaining sailors. Guthric occasionally blundered as blood ran from his peeled forehead, Enrique de Vaca assisting him, then turning to act as the rearguard…

  Ashamed of the way he’d been lured into port by Moretti – and the corsair incensed by Atzeri’s treachery – the men now shared a common fear; the tolling of a bell; the blare of a trumpet from the walls of the Rocca di Losara.

  ‘How much further?’

  ‘What do you think, that I bring the girls up this sheep-path?’

  ‘The guards you spoke of… When we get there…’

  ‘I told you… There’s a gate that’s kept locked… The guards are in a house inside it, to the left…’

  ‘Move faster! We’re borrowing time.’

  The column struggled upward through the thorny, summer-dry brush. They halted once as a cloud trailed its cloak across the moon, the men stooping to gasp in the fast-chilling air of the island. Then Falkan grunted, jarring the corsair’s spine with his fist. ‘Get us there quick, damn you! I want that pig caught at his trough!’

  The pirate opened his mouth to yelp at Falkan’s blow. But the yelp came out as a snarl of achievement, the man stabbing a finger ahead of him, to the left. ‘That’s it, there, do you see? And that roseate light? It’s leaking through the shutters of the house. And that other one, that glimmer below; it emits from the gatehouse. Now I tell you what, m’sieur; tell you what, Crusader. Leave me to keep watch from here and—’

  ‘Lead the way, mi angelo. It’s not just Tremellion’s money we’re after, but your own slippery ship.’

  * * *

  Some of them determined, others reluctant, the ill-matched group of Crusaders and corsairs descended in stealth to the walled-around property that housed Atzeri’s harem.

  Falkan leading one group, Enrique the other, they climbed the wall wide of the ornate, barred entrance, edging between the shrubberies of the garden, intent on catching the guards in their small, stone gatehouse.

  It was then that one of the sailors stumbled, tearing the tendons of his ankle, the pain of the fall wrenching an instinctive shriek from his lips. The bloodied Guthric lurched toward him, intent on silencing his cry.

  But too late.

  Armed men emerged from the gatehouse, lanterns lifted, helmets pulled down to protect their skulls. Swords were apparent in the yellow of the lantern-light, the yellow of the moon.

  The poorly equipped invaders ran to overpower the sentinelle.

  Brief in time, the skirmish seemed long, for although Atzeri’s men were outnumbered, their armour deflected the bamboo spears and gutting knives, whilst their own swords cut terrible, unrestricted swathes.

  Yet Baynard and Enrique knew their weak points, the Spaniard edging inside the swing of a sword, lifting the hem of a guard’s link-mail cowl, then stabbing at the gullet with the blade of his fisherman’s knife.

  Falkan threw a second soldier off balance, chopped at his hand and, without hesitation, prised the weapon from his victim’s unstrung grasp.

  But by then one of the sailors had been killed.

  And Quillon flung back with a sword thrust in his shoulder.

  And the smiling liar whom Baynard would never trust, yet had come to accept as a fish who’d ever escape the hook – he too had been landed, the slice of a blade across his groin.

  Guthric fought in the way he knew best, a knife in one hand, a thin handled trident in the other. Thrusting the spear ineffectually at one of the armoured guards, he snarled with disgust, and hurled his dagger at the man’s face to disconcert him. Then he plunged irresistibly forward, the spear discarded, his massive hands reaching to lift the soldier and slam him against the rough stone wall of the gatehouse.

  Protected though it was, the man’s neck broke with a satisfying snap.

  Pino and Massimo crowded the final sentinella, darting away from the slash of his sword, then slipping in close, teasing him to attack.

  But the guard was less easily fooled than the sailors believed, advancing on Pino, then checking his stride, his arms extended, his double-edged weapon cutting clear through the top of Massimo’s skull.

  Over-reaching, he was met by Pino, who howled for the loss of his shipmate and drove his knife in so hard that the blade tore through the links of the armour, snapping at the hilt.

  And then there were only the noises of dying, the moans of the wounded, the taint of murder that mingled with the scent of the summer trees.

  * * *

  Baynard Falkan crouched beside Quillon. ‘I must teach you,’ he said. ‘When we get to Palestine; teach you to watch for the thrust.’

  The Sicilian’s sword had laid the safeguard low. It was a deep and agonizing wound, but it had missed the main pipes that carried his blood, allowing him to say what Falkan wanted to hear.

  ‘You told me once – a long time ago – how they were, those women of Cyprus. I’d like it well, m’lord – when you’ve sorted out your business here with Atzeri – if we could get along to that island…’ Then he fainted with pain, Baynard commanding Guthric to stay with him. ‘Dress his wound as best you can. And see to Moretti. Meanwhile, I’ll take Señor de Vaca with me to the house. Remain here till the alarm’s raised – and God knows time’s against us – then get this motley crew away to the hills. I want you to know, old Guthrie; you’ve been as loyal—’

  ‘Be on your way,’ the Saxon told him. ‘You and Sir Geoffrey, you both wasted time in talk.’

  * * *

  Each now armed with a sword, the Knights of Santiago and Tremellion hurried toward Silvano Atzeri’s harem. Moving together, they ran up the steps, pounded across a wide, trellised porch and shouldered their way through the doors.

  Once inside, they were halted by the opulence of the place; the complexity of the patterned carpets; the wealth of coloured fabrics that pleated the walls. Brilliant mosaics studded the tables; tasselled cushions scattered at random; all the colours turned to a deep, seductive haze by the candles that spilled their wax into odd-shaped receptacles – sculptured erotica, purchased by Atzeri.

  A moment later, they were confronted by a severely dressed siciliana, the woman’s eyes narrowed with fury, an arm extended in rigid accusation. ‘What are you? Demente? You have no right! This house is private! You understand what I’m saying?’

  Enrique de Vaca smiled grimly, propelled the woman to an ornate, satin-backed chair, then held his sword as a lateral barrier between them. His language foreign to her ears, the sense of his question was clear. ‘Speak quiet and tell me. Where can he be found, your guest, Atzeri of Losara?’

  Seemingly fearless, the woman matched his expression. ‘I don’t speak your tongue, signor, so I hope you – or your dark-skinned companion there – understand mine. Are you friends of Atzeri’s, or would you wish him harm? To have got past the guards—’

  Falkan came forward. ‘Wish him harm, signora?’ he measured. ‘Oh, yes. We wish your favoured guest nothing but harm. You, no. But Silvano Atzeri. All the harm in the world.’

  The woman let her gaze swing from Baynard to Enrique, then. Calmly she raised a hand to smooth the tight-combed gloss of her hair. ‘His behaviour,’ she murmured, ‘it was always bestial. I have long prayed the monster would come to harm.’ Then, ignoring them both, and as if to remind herself of some half-forgotten detail, the haughty siciliana mused, ‘The Governor Atzeri… He’s in rooms on the second floor this evening… Along where the passageway’s carpeted with shells…’

  * * *

  Climbing quickly, quietly, they edged along the shell-patterned carpet, pausing briefly to listen at the doors that flanked the passage. Then Enrique nodded in silent indication; the door at the end; weren’t those moans he could hear?

  Now Falkan could also hear them, moved to within a yard of the panels, balanced himself and kicked out hard, the sole of his boot smashing the flimsy lock. Plunging forward, he swerved to let the Span
iard in beside him, the young knights traversing the chamber with their glare.

  For a second time they were halted, though no longer by the opulence of the setting.

  Totally naked, five young girls lay contorted and writhing on an extravagant, canopied bed. Startled by the splintering of the lock, they twisted around, their eyes wide with astonishment – wider still as they glimpsed the swords.

  The plaited thread of a whip lay like a snake near the foot of the bed.

  Two of the girls were marked by the welts of the whip.

  Another bore beaded cuts on the side of her face – evidence of further bejewelled brutality.

  Musing aloud, Baynard murmured, ‘Harm’s in the air, so it seems.’

  Enrique snarled something in the dialect of his birthplace, then roared at the innocent, terrified victims, the sheer force of his bellow dispersing them from the bed.

  To reveal the porcine Silvano Atzeri, Governor of Losara, respectable married man, son-in-law of the powerful and prosperous Don Flavio Abruzzo – who would surely see him suffer through the dictionary of pain, if he ever learned of this!

  * * *

  Atzeri caught at the hem of his discarded robe, hauling the gold-and-silver gown across the pinkness of his flesh. As he did so he babbled; the words without formation, the gluttony of his mind unable to comprehend what his veined eyes told him was the truth.

  The prisoners were secure in the Rocca di Losara – but they weren’t!

  His sentinelle were on guard at the gate – but how could that be, if his enemies were here!

  And their weapons – they didn’t have any weapons – but just look at them! They did!

  He pulled the robe to his chin, as if the flowered fabric was magicked and would save him from the agonies of a blade. Then he squirmed against the carvings of the headboard – further erotic designs to whet the voluptuous appetites of the governor. And all the while he babbled, his mind cowering, insensate.

  Enrique recounted to his friend, ‘In the village where I lived, it was the thing to do to keep pigs. They were well looked after. Oh, yes, Halcón, we always cared for our pigs. Then the time would come, as for all of us, and we’d hoist them upside-down from a frame in the yard, hold a basin under their snouts and slit their throats. And you know what would happen then, amigo mio? We would stand for a while and say how well it had died, that pig. With dignity. As befits all life at the end. And we’d nod in respect to the poor, suspended animal, for its flesh would keep an entire family alive throughout the winter.

  ‘Now, I don’t say we should string Atzeri to the frame of his cushioned bed. But it’s not as if his flesh or blood are of value. All I ask is – Let me slice his throat anyway! Allow me that single pleasure!’

  He moved as if to do it, striding toward Atzeri, and Baynard could only hope to stop him by shouting, ‘Too costly, de Vaca! Kill the man now, and where’s Tremellion’s treasure? Believe me, my friend, we need this pulpy monster. For the moment at least, he’s of value to us alive.’ Alarmed by Enrique’s insistence, he pulled firmly at the Spaniard’s sword arm, then edged ahead to stare at the man who’d five times slashed his face with his pudgy, jewelled fist.

  ‘Stop whimpering, Atzeri. Wet the bed if you must, but listen to me. I have only to urge my friend forward and your life will end with a smile – across your throat. If that’s what you wish—’

  ‘Oh, no! No, no! I’ll – no – I mean yes! I’ll—’

  ‘What you’ll do is what you’re told, you overfed bastard. Decent men have been cut because of you. I fear your friend Moretti may die. Your friend… The one you chose to cross for the sake of the money… My money, or better yet, Tremellion’s—’

  His own anger building, he fought to control it, to somehow get his message across to Atzeri.

  ‘Hear me on this. You could be killed for stealing the money. For striking me time and again down there at the port. For your abuse of these innocent girls. For the pleasure it would give de Vaca. But that’s not all of it. There’s your wife to be considered—’

  ‘Oh, no. You’ve no call to – whatever you want – your money, well, of course you shall have your money – and extra – for the errors I’ve made. If it’s simply a matter of money, Signor Falkan—

  ‘It isn’t, and I’ve not yet finished speaking! I have yet to remind you of Don Flavio Abruzzo. And ask how he would greet the news of your frolickings here.’

  The portly Sicilian collapsed against the tumescent carvings of the headboard. Then he gabbled at the men, begging them to spare his wife’s feelings, and not only hers, but the elderly Don Abruzzo’s. ‘It’d be the death of him if he heard—

  ‘Oh, I doubt it,’ Falkan rejected. ‘He would surely not permit himself to die until he’d exacted his revenge upon you, the unfaithful husband of his daughter. I’m touched by your concern for the master of Caltanissetta, though aren’t you confusing Don Abruzzo’s death with your own?’

  * * *

  They allowed the man time to dress, dip his feet into his soft leather shoes, then buckle the jewelled belt around the protuberance of his belly. As they were leaving the chamber Enrique de Vaca said, ‘One moment.’ He reached forward to snatch a purse from the governor’s belt. ‘He’s omitted to pay for his pleasures, I believe.’

  Atzeri winced as the Spaniard scooped out half the coins; stared in horror as the Knight of Santiago called sharply to the girls, then tossed the gold and silver currency on to the bed.

  They descended the stairs, Falkan nudging Atzeri ahead. With the governor unaware of it, he took the half-empty purse from Enrique.

  Once again confronted by the fearless siciliana, the Crusader gave her no time to speak, but pushed her brutally aside, condemning her as quite the sort of sow who’d protect the swine.

  ‘When we asked where he was, you lied to us, signora. Told us he’d departed the house. Whatever his troubles, and they’ve only just begun, he can at least count on you in time of need.’

  The woman accepted his insults, knowing he’d lied to save her. Then she watched as Baynard urged the governor through the doorway, the young knight stooping quickly to let the purse drop on to one of the tasselled cushions.

  Once again raising a hand to her glossy hair, she couldn’t help but wish the foreigners well. And all the harm in hell to Silvano Atzeri.

  * * *

  They returned to the gatehouse to find the safeguard hunched in silence, Pino still mourning the loss of his shipmate, Renato Moretti attended by the Saxon, a line of congealed blood across Guthric’s scalp.

  The constable clambered to his feet, beckoned Baynard to the shadows. ‘There ain’t much time for ’im, the corsair. Belly wounds are the worst.’

  ‘How’s Quillon?’

  ‘That tough young joskin? Don’t you worry about him, Falkan. He’ll live to bury us all.’ The words were unfeeling, yet belied as Guthric glanced toward the safeguard.

  ‘But not so Moretti? Will he live as far as the Rocca di Losara? We must go back there, with Atzeri as our hostage, if we’re ever to reclaim the chest.’ Then he turned away for a moment, Sir Geoffrey’s second son fighting to cope with the mounting losses of this personal crusade. Speaking low, so only Guthric could hear him, Baynard murmured, ‘All those men who died, alongside my father… The sailors who were swept from the Gossamer… The men we killed when we were accosted in Spain… And now this… Christ, is it worth it? How high a price must we set upon these coins?’

  The Saxon leaned close to growl at him, the dismal mood shattered by the resonant tolling of a bell. Then the repeated blasts of a trumpet. Distant roars of anger and alarm, the sounds sweeping inland, upward from the fortress, all of them summoning Silvano Atzeri from the cushioned cruelty of his sty.

  * * *

  The young Tremellion discarded his doubts, casting aside the comforts of self-pity. What else did you expect, you damned fool? That Ranulf would give you his blessing? That bandits and corsairs would bow you on your way? That creatures
like Atzeri would recoil from the sight of money? God in Heaven, what you carry’s a temptation to the world!

  What you carry? No…

  What you’ve allowed to be taken from you!

  Striding from the shadows, he told Guthric and Pino to take charge of the wounded Moretti. Enrique escorted the quivering governor, the safeguard assisted by his master.

  Atzeri and the Spaniard led the way, Baynard and Quillon following, Renato carried by Guthric and the tear-stained sailor.

  They left six corpses behind them – the entry fee to Silvano Atzeri’s harem.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  They reached the northern edge of the village without incident, once again following the sheep-paths, then rejoined the road that led behind the headland to the fortress. His wound bandaged tight by the constable, Quillon was able to move unaided, his main concern that he’d lost his fisherman’s knife.

  Peering across in the moonlight – and with cheering disrespect – he said, ‘’Ere. You got a blade I could use, m’lord? I’m as good with one ’and as the other.’

  ‘Keep your voice down! The closer we get to the castle

  Obedient at least in this, the safeguard whispered, ‘Well, ’ave you?’

  Content with the sword he’d taken from the sentinella, Baynard surrendered his knife. If attacked by armed guards, the weapon would be of little use to Quillon, though the mere possession of it seemed to raise the young man’s spirits. ‘You’ll see,’ he promised. ‘Good with one as the other.’

  They moved slowly, approaching the Rocca di Losara.

  Renato Moretti suffered with a stoicism only Guthric could appreciate, for none but the Saxon had seen the extent of the corsair’s wound. The man would die – a fact beyond question – and only his determination and resolve could prolong the moment.