The Edge of the Blade

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

  ‘You say it as though you intend to quit the ship, Renato. How would you desert us? Steal the dinghy and—’

  ‘No, no, I’ll leave you the rowboat. But there are things I shall want from you, Crusader. Some good strong sacking, and a generous length of chain.’

  Wish it as he might, Baynard could not pretend ignorance of the man’s demands. It was apparent to all those aboard the Eel that Moretti’s time was up. His periods of lucidity were brief now, the pain of his wound sapping what little strength remained. It was incredible that he’d lasted this long, his face cadaverous, his diet a few sips of water. He drifted into senselessness, awoke to boast of the hundreds, nay, the tens of thousands of women he’d enjoyed… His secret hoards of booty stored in hidden caves on Sardinia, or buried among the sand dunes of North Africa… Had he told them how loved he was, along that coast?

  He asked Baynard to fetch the young Pino, then to stay and witness what was said.

  ‘You’re not very clever, are you, Pino?’

  ‘Not very clever, captain, not at all.’

  ‘Nor very much given to killing, or the stealing of goods?’

  ‘In truth, my captain, I am not.’

  ‘Then I wonder why I ever… A fellow like you… Aboard my slippery Eel…’ He drifted away, jerked with a sudden spasm of pain, then hurried his words. All his life, time had been against him, justice and revenge in close pursuit. He’d been a hunted man, chased the length and breadth of the Mediterranean Sea, not really so well liked as he pretended.

  But he’d never been caught – slippery as an eel – and here he was now, reclining on his ship, and never more safe from capture than in these, his final moments.

  ‘I leave her to you, young Pino. The Lampreda. She is yours to run as you wish. A stronger fellow than you, and she’d be the scourge of the seas. Built for it. Slippery as… Slippery…’

  Then he lifted his head, managed the semblance of a smile for Baynard and fell away, curling and shrinking, to be just another corpse.

  * * *

  No one but Pino was allowed to help with the stitching of the canvas, the winding around of the chain. When it was done the sails were lowered, the shrouded body laid on a plank, then tipped from the stern of the galley. The weighted bundle splashed into the water, Pino staring downward for a moment, before turning to Domenico Balbo.

  ‘Understand this. Your task is to guide us to Crete. Signor Falkan and Signor de Vaca are our masters. But I am the captain of the Lampreda.’

  Balbo gave a casual, affirmative shrug, then directed the raising of the sails. Baynard felt he should mark the passing of command with some formal gesture, however slight, though all he could think to do was extend his hand, the Knight of Tremellion offering his respects to the skinny, one-time sailor of this dull-daubed corsair ship.

  ‘When we disembark in the Holy Land, Captain Pino, your vessel will be very much in demand by the Christian forces. I tell you this now, so you’ve time to reflect on the Lampreda’s future – and your own. What Renato Moretti told you may be true; become ruthless in your ways, and this blade of a boat could threaten half the traffic on the seas. But it could also be the scourge of the Saracen navy. Or a fast-moving messenger for the leaders of the West. It’s for you to decide.’

  ‘You mean well, Signor Falkan. I think you did, even when you deceived us in the Gulf of Asinara. So I’ll promise you this. When we reach your precious Holy Land, I’ll tell you straight what I intend to do with the Eel.’ Then he grinned and said, ‘But don’t be surprised if I set her to hunt for innocent women and the illicit wealth of merchants.’

  * * *

  Favoured by the wind, they reached the island of Crete in the second week of August, restocking the ship in the port of Hierapetra. The slash across Guthric’s scalp had healed to a long, narrow scar, while Quillon could now discard the sling that had held the weight of his arm, easing the wound in his shoulder. He still suffered the ache of the sword thrust, but his spirits were high, the safeguard indulging in fantasies of eager anticipation.

  According to the foul-breathed Domenico Balbo, their next landfall would be Cyprus. And wasn’t it there, so Lord Falkan had promised, that the women were special? And much to be enjoyed by a lusty fellow like Quillon?

  His imagination stretched beyond its limits by the journey that had taken him from Tremellion to Plymouth, south to the Bay of Biscay, along the foothills of the Pyrenees, away from Tarragona to the island of Sardinia, then in a downward sweep to Sicily, and the prison in the Rocca di Losara – then eastward again to Crete and – not much longer now – toward the promises of Cyprus – all that, and he dreamed his dreams.

  The girls would be waiting, near-naked, on the shore.

  They would single him out from all those aboard the Lampreda, calling to him in some strange, enticing language that, as luck would have it, only Quillon could understand.

  It was hard to envisage what Cyprus would be like. But mostly warm sand. Yet with sheltering trees. And rivers where he could show off his prowess as a poacher, the near-naked girls applauding as he scooped a trout from the rapids, their leonine hero raising his arms, a squirming fish in each hand, the smell of woodsmoke drifting from the fire they’d lighted, the strumming of guitars as—

  ‘’Ere! What’s that? I just saw a bloody great fin, big as me arm.’ Dreams dashed, a pallor to his skin, he gestured to where, ahead of the ship—

  ‘There it is again! Hey, Guthric! M’lord de Vaca! Someone! Anyone! In the name of— What kind of fish is that!’

  With Baynard as translator, Domenico Balbo told the foreigners of the flesh-tearing sharks that cruised the Eastern Mediterranean. More than half the length of the galley some of them. And with jaws that could chew through oak. Through mooring chains. Their teeth filed to points by the devil. Their mouths were fenced with not just one, but two and three and sometimes four razor-edged rows, a single bite enough to sever a grown man at the waist.

  Quillon’s spirits collapsed. His dreams became nightmares. He marked Baynard Falkan as a liar, realising now he’d been tricked from his homestead in Cornwall. All these promises of Cyprus, and what would he find? A blackened, grim-girt shore, the island swarming with lunatic hags – and the waters around it alive with the thrashing of sharks as big as the vessel, their fins cutting a greenish slice through the sea…

  The safeguard now preferred to hunch amidships, wishing himself back beside the Hexel River, far away from the boiling, shark-infested waters; the basalt rock with its crazy, shrilling women…

  * * *

  With Quillon the victim of a terror-ridden sleep, the galley approached the sun-stroked island of Cyprus.

  Guthric nudged the safeguard awake, saw him recoil from his remembered phantasms, then said, ‘On your feet, joskin. Time to haul rope.’

  The young man turned in alarm, pulled himself upright—

  And gaped at the beauty of Pafos; the clear blue water devoid of monsters; whitewashed cottages clustered on the flowered slopes behind the port. And villagers watching from the quay. Bearded men and their straight-backed wives. And, yes, in spite of his fears and nightmares, all he could have hoped for in the way of fine young women.

  Not near-naked of course. But attractive enough for Quillon to toss the mane of his harvest hair, then wave at them, his broad grin showing how pleased he was to be there; and Lord Falkan not a liar after all.

  * * *

  Pino and Domenico would stay aboard the ship. Baynard told them to find out all they could about the final passage; the two-hundred mile crossing from Cyprus to the Frankish ports of Tyre and Acre. Then he made his way into Pafos, where he paid rent for a cottage on the slopes above the village. The whitewashed house contained four small rooms, three of them little better than cubicles, the low- pitched roof sagging beneath the weight of Roman tiles. Uneven stone slabs formed a terrace in front of the cottage, the hill below wooded with olive trees, a narrow path winding from the port.

  Pino’s crew
men laboured the chest up the unkempt track.

  A mule was used to bring food and wine, the owner of the cottage leading Baynard to a well at the side of the house. The man raised a hand to his lips, fingertips pressed together, then gestured to show the purity of the water. ‘You will find none better on the island. See! I draw up this bucket! I drink the water! I smile at the sweetness of it! I look sixty years of age, not more! But do you know! You know? I am more than four-times-twenty!’

  The deliveries completed, Baynard Falkan invited his companions to join him in the cottage. He volunteered a generous sum of money – an earthenware pot placed where only the four men would find it – then told them to use the coins as they wished. It was the first time since leaving Tremellion that Baynard and Guthric and Quillon, and with them now Enrique, could set aside the importance of their quest and relax beneath the caress of the summer sun.

  But they had other forms of caress in mind; a single, identical reason for taking money from the jar…

  * * *

  The only inconvenience was the narrowness of the path, for the men found themselves passing en route, Enrique guiding a pretty young girl up from the village, Guthric returning his exhausted companion to the foot of the winding track.

  Falkan preferred to wait till the path was clear, though the safeguard strutted his way cheerfully up and down, willing young women fondling his tangled, cinnamon hair. With coarse good humour, he told Baynard, ‘You were right, m’lord, the way you said they’d be. An’ they are!’

  * * *

  It suited them well, the tired Crusaders, this respite on the island. It gave them time to refresh their thoughts, their wounds now healing, the pain of their bruises lessened and forgotten. They ate fruit and fresh meat, hauled the stiff leather bucket from the well and yelped like deep-voiced children as they splashed their muscled bodies.

  Eight days passed in the slow, sun-warmed spinning of sensual pleasure, the recounting of stories, the dreamless sleep of exhausted men, the knowledge that they’d come this far, and with not much further to go.

  Another two hundred miles and they’d be there. In the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The Holy Land of Christ.

  * * *

  Spitting the bones from a strip of salted fish, Domenico Balbo climbed the path to the cottage. The exertion made him sweat, the stink of garlic and anchovy exuding from his pores. Not that he noticed, nor would have cared if he had. He’d more important things in mind than to worry about the odour that emanated from his skin.

  It was Quillon who saw him first, the safeguard engaged in a desultory game with pebbles and sticks near the edge of the terrace. For once devoid of female companionship, the young lion was content to play about in the sun.

  Seeing Domenico, he waved in greeting, stooped to collect a few pebbles from the stones and called through the open door of the cottage. ‘We got a visitor, m’lord. ’Im what chews those roots.’

  Falkan emerged to find the Sicilian level with the terrace.

  ‘How goes it, Signor Balbo? You’ll need something for the dryness in your throat. We’ve a good enough wine, though sweet to my taste, or water from—’

  ‘I’ll have them both, Crusader – but not now.’

  Baynard glanced sharply at him, sensed the visit was important and gestured him to the shade beside the house.

  Domenico paused to catch his breath, his hands pressed to his thighs as he leaned forward, the build of the man a perfect match with the Saxon. Set them together, Baynard decided, and they’d bar the way to anywhere.

  His lungs again filled with air, Domenico muttered, ‘I’ve been sent up here by Pino. He says I’m to tell you there’s men down there at the port. Countrymen of yours by the look of their blistered faces. Not that I ever saw ’em. But it seems they came asking if there were Englishmen around. Crusaders set for the East.’

  ‘And what did Captain Pino tell them?’

  The question offended Balbo, and he barked his reply. ‘Maybe he’s young, that Pino, but he’s careful with what he says. Told them to keep on searching, along the coast. But he thought you should know they’re about.’

  Falkan nodded, silent for a moment as he gazed across the olive trees that clung to the slopes of the hill. Countrymen of mine, by the looks of their blistered faces… Demanding to know if there are Englishmen around… And more precise than that… Crusaders aimed at the East…

  Two names sprang to mind.

  The first was Roger Grevel, whom recognition had shown to be a kinsman of Justin de Vallen. The master of the Hawksbill, sent from England to snare Baynard Falkan and recoup Sir Geoffrey’s treasure.

  And the second name – well, who else but Ranulf Falkan himself – his henchmen scattered wide, scouring the ports of Spain and Italy, the islands of the Mediterranean and, yes – even this far to the east, even here to Pafos.

  Addressing Domenico Balbo, Baynard told the man he’d be needed in the house. Then he called urgently to Quillon, beckoning him from his game.

  A moment later and Falkan was rapping on the inner doors of the cottage, telling Guthric and Enrique to evict their women, hurry them down to the village, then assemble on the terrace. ‘I fear the respite is over, my friends. If the news is to be believed, we’re once again overtaken.’

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The shutters of the two, main-room window apertures were closed, lantern oil dripped on their hinges, the shutters then swung open against the wall.

  Domenico Balbo was told to light a fire in the hearth.

  Meanwhile, Quillon and Baynard edged through the rear door of the room, stripping the straw-filled mattresses from two of the cubicle beds.

  The Saxon and Spaniard were sent to tear planks from a mule pen near the house. Each returning with a stout length of wood, they left them propped beside the shutters.

  The stiff leather bucket was hauled from the well, water poured on the palliasses. The bucket was then unhooked from its rope, the empty pail passed to Domenico, who stood it behind the entrance door to the house.

  Guthric coiled the rope, looping it over his shoulder.

  Falkan jammed the door key in his boot.

  Then, their preparations made, the knights of Santiago and Tremellion abandoned the cottage, taking Guthric and Quillon with them. They left Domenico Balbo to tend the unseasonal midday fire, the Sicilian reaching in his pocket for a clove of stinking garlic.

  * * *

  Concealed on the rocky hillside above the house, the Crusaders settled to wait.

  And long was the waiting as the August sun scorched the ground, its heat intensified by the bright, white rocks.

  Insects droned in the air, their monotonous sound making the men drowsy…

  Guthric would never admit it, but for a heat-drugged moment he dozed. Jerking awake, he applied the rough device of watchguards, pressing his thumbs hard into his eyes. The pain was intense, but it brought him alert and he once again squinted down at the olive grove.

  And sensed movement.

  Then saw movement, watching as cowled figures clambered cautiously up the tree-dotted slope from the village.

  He looked away to the left, saw Falkan nod from the cover of rocks, then turned to the right to see Enrique de Vaca gesturing as if to pat some invisible dog. Yes, yes, I have them in sight. Now we stay calm.

  A few yards below the constable, Quillon crouched behind a stack of winter wood, the dampened mattresses folded beside him. Guthric tossed a pebble in warning, the young man glancing up to acknowledge the chink and rattle of the stone.

  And all the while the figures were advancing, the four, no, five, no, six men slinking quietly between the trees. Their long, hooded travelling cloaks disguised them, but from time to time they were forced to look upward – their faces reddened and blistered.

  * * *

  The Crusaders waited unmoving as the men reached the low, dry-stone wall that supported the front of the terrace. Spread out in a line, they studied the whitewashed cottage, saw the feathe
r of smoke that rose from the squat, open chimney, scowled at the absence of voices.

  Those at the end of the line gazed quizzically at their leaders.

  How to be sure this was the place they were after? What if it was just some peasant’s hovel? Or the bastards had left it already?

  Maybe so. But what if Falkan and his band had grown sloppy, believing themselves safe, and were even now away from the house – yet the money inside, unguarded?

  As so often happens, caution was banished by greed. The scent of victory was high in their nostrils, for these men had travelled far on behalf of Lord Ranulf of Tremellion. They imagined how it would be – storming the cottage – locating the treasure – then waiting with weapons drawn as Baynard Falkan and his friends came wearily back from, well, from wherever, to be silenced – the killings unwitnessed – in this commonplace cottage above an unfrequented port, on a foreign island far from the House of Tremellion.

  Recover the money, and Ranulf would be pleased.

  Add that his brother was no more, and he’d be overjoyed, generously rewarding his blistered peers, and the men they’d brought from England.

  So – a murmured consultation between the leaders, a nod of agreement, then an urgent, onward wave to their flanking companions. Swords were drawn, the six men scrambling upward to the terrace, charging across it, converging on the doorway.

  * * *

  His eye to a crack in the boards, Domenico Balbo pulled the door open and met the charge.

  Gusting a mixture of garlic and fish in their faces, he pretended to be unaware of their blades, addressing them in a language they could not know. But even as he spoke he was thrust back inside, a mailed fist slammed at his head, a knife point slashing the storm-hardened leather of his jerkin.