A Queen's Knight

by Sam Burnell

  The Santa Fe was a military ship, and although Jack had never served in a standing army, he could not help but admire the brisk precision of the well trained men on board. Initially, he had not seen the connection between them. Some were on the decks working with ropes and ratchets, others sat astride the mast beams, others clung to the polished wood by their feet alone, leaving their hands free to work the ropes securing the canvas sails. The more he watched, the more he became aware that their actions were coordinated. An order to set the sails had a series of men all over the ship working in unison, often without being able to see each other. All striving towards a single task, a task that had to be timed precisely, with all their actions executed together, otherwise one side of a canvas sail would flap down while the other remained taut in its lashings.

  Jack, standing alone with his thoughts, hands on the rail, did not initially hear Emilio approach.

  “My men are to begin practice. I thought you might enjoy watching.”

  As Jack watched, a small area was roped off on the deck, and the Santa Fe’s shifting deck brought a whole new aspect to their arms training.

  Jack looked on with interest. He was an admirer of skill, and of practice, keenly aware of the tight bond between the two. Often men spoke of talent. Talent was a concept he had mused on at length on occasion. He would freely admit he had none; all his skills were earned at the expense of time and practice. There had been no unseen gift of talent bequeathed to him. He’d seen men with a sword, men he would freely admit were better than he was. Was this the blessing of talent? Did that give them that advantage of extra speed? Did that ensure their blade was always set at the right angle? Did it bless them with a second sense to anticipate an opponent’s next move? He had never thought so. These men he had seen worked hard, and outside of the melee, he’d seen them in the practice ring. All it had done for him was reinforce his conviction that if he out-practised his opponent, he would be better.

  As Jack watched, he found himself becoming an engaged spectator. For an hour, his mind was released from the dread that filled him, of a meeting that was coming that he did not know if he was equal to. He traded comments with Emilio about the skills of the men they watched, and when the training was completed, and he was escorted back to the cabin, he was sad to leave. It had been a welcome release.

  †

  The next day when he was brought up onto the deck, Emilio invited him to join the men, not just watch them. This was an activity much to Jack’s liking. The new game was balance. In the constantly shifting Mediterranean Sea, the deck beneath his boots dipped and swayed, and when the wind caught the sails fast, the deck seemed to rush away beneath his feet. The weather had roughened the surface of the sea and the deck was slippery with salt water. Jack, soon in bare feet, skidded across the wood, and joined a sword school that was as dangerous as it was entertaining.

  When the training was finished, Jack, his hands clasped behind his back, stared moodily over the side rail of the Santa Fe. She was still in sight of land and Jack’s eyes were fastened on the coastline. He wished the ship would turn in and sail closer to the green line on the horizon that marked the edge of Italy. It was too far to swim at the moment, much too far. Jack would feel a lot more comfortable knowing he could make it to land. If she changed her course and hugged the coastline then he would be able to make the swim should he have to. Jack’s preferred method of passage would have been to remain drunk for the entire time, however he’d not seen ale since he’d boarded the ship, and with his brother insensible half the time it didn’t seem such a good idea joining him.

  Jack’s relationship with Emilio settled quickly into one of grudging respect. The man’s ability to command the men beneath him was unquestioned. It was obvious that they both feared and respected him in equal share. He was a member of one of the most elite fighting forces in Christendom. Jack saw no reason to underestimate the man’s training. Emilio was genuinely good humoured and if occasionally the eyes he laid on him were greedy ones, Jack had stopped caring overly. When Jack caught Emilio watching him at the end of a training bout, the look on the knight’s face languidly desirous, Jack just laughed, and after a sorrowful sigh, Emilio joined him.

  “How can you stand the man looking at you like that?” Lizbet said, coming to stand near Jack, close enough so her words would not carry. They allowed her out on deck for a few hours each day. Richard though stayed in the cabin. “It’s a sin, and him a bloody member of the Order as well!”

  Jack regarded Lizbet for a moment before he spoke. “God, I am sure, has little time to worry about Brother Emilio’s tastes.” Turing his eyes back, he regarded the coastline again. It was growing ever more distant. He’d drown before he got anywhere near it now.

  Lizbet could see the look on Jack’s face and misread it. “It’ll not be your sin to bear. God will not judge you for it.”

  Jack heard her words but his attention was wholly on the retreating land. Turning his back on Italy and Lizbet, Jack leant on the rail, gazing down at the Santa Fe’s three hundred trapped rowers. He normally preferred to keep away from the pit in the middle of the ship where the galeotti lived and laboured. Standing now though, next to Lizbet, his eyes could not avoid gazing upon the backs of the men in the crammed deck beneath him where they lived chained to the benches.

  Most were dark skinned Turks, Hospitaller prisoners. On their backs they were branded with the mark of the captive. A few were lighter skinned, and two were fair. God only knew what their crimes had been to send them to a life as a galley slave. Theft, desertion, piracy? It was, Jack mused, in many ways a harsher punishment than a sentence of death. At least an execution brought with it a certain finality to human suffering. The galeotti slaves were chained to their benches until they died, something that might very well take a long time.

  When the breeze that drafted the Santa Fe shifted slightly, it brought to his nose the rank scent of decay from the deck beneath him. Jack’s knuckles whitened on the guard rail. It was a smell that held a memory of Marshalsea. The aroma, ripe with the scene of sweat, urine, faeces, blood and rotten flesh, was an unpleasant reminder.

  Christ! Richard, I hope you know what you’ve done.

  Jack could almost feel a pull on his body dragging him towards the pit beneath him.

  Brother Emilio joined him, his fine tanned hands resting on the guard rail just that bit too close to Jack’s. Used to the attention now, Jack didn’t move.

  “Why so serious? Surely you do not feel sorry for those wretches?” Emilio ran his fingers across the whitened knuckles of Jack’s left hand.

  The touch, as unwanted as it was, he tolerated.

  “How long do they live?” Jack asked, his eyes still fastened on the backs of the rowers.

  Emilio shrugged. “Some, a few weeks, some of them last for months and the unfortunate ones live for years. The strong are at the inner ends of the benches and take the greatest strain, as the oars move the most for them. They have the job of keeping their bench rowing in time. Get it wrong and the oars will catch outside the ship with those in front or behind. Then the wooden shafts will be forced back into the rowing crews’ heads. I’ve seen a man killed by the blow before. So the rower on the end needs to keep the rhythm going. The rowers closest to the hull have the easiest work, and they swap with others on the bench. So a weaker man will be nearer the hull so he does not jeopardise the lives of the other rowers. They are treated better than many prisoners.”

  Looking down at them, Jack found that hard to believe. They were all practically naked. Even from this distance he could see the sores on the men’s feet. In front of each bench fastened to the floor was a raised plank. When the rowers were in action, their bare feet pressed against it, bodies braced, as they drove the oars through the water. Their toes, curled beneath their feet, had their skin ripped off where they pressed against the planking.

  Emilio, seeing the expression on Jack’s face, continued. “A galley master knows the value of the galeotti. If he
weakens them, if he overly punishes them, if he does not feed them, he risks his ship. They govern themselves as well. When a man cannot take his place anymore, they kill him themselves.”

  “How very reassuring,” Jack commented. He could see now that the rowers on the ends of the benches were indeed the biggest, strongest men. Roaming among them, unchained slaves carried water, filling cups held in outstretched hands. The Santa Fe rode the waves with her sails today. At the moment the oars were not needed. The men sat, some asleep, heads against the wood of the oars which were locked and lifted clear of the sea. Jack just hoped that he would not be joining them.

  †

  Lizbet had never given up talking to Richard, not when Jack was present, but when they were alone. If she was lucky, he would reply. Lizbet felt relief then, hoping he was coming back to them. Most of the time, however, he just ignored her.

  “I wish he would try and keep this clean.” Lizbet held up the doublet she had been rubbing vigorously with water. Inspecting the marks she was trying to remove, she grumbled and set to scrubbing them again. “It’s no easy task when all you have is water. I keep telling him he needs to present himself at his best. But when did he ever listen to me?”

  Lizbet knew she’d not get a reply, but she’d rather talk to herself than sit in stony silence.

  “That’ll have to do. When it dries it might look better.” Lizbet angled the jacket towards the light from the window and frowned, adding, “Or not.” She smoothed it out and hung it on the back of the bench to dry.

  “Who is Jack meeting?”

  “Lord! You made me jump. I thought you were asleep,” Lizbet exclaimed, a hand on her chest.

  “I could hardly sleep with you prattling on, could I, woman?” Richard replied.

  Lizbet, hearing the croak in his voice, slopped water into a cup and took it to him. His eyes met hers as she held it out and she said, “It’s just water.” She watched him drink and when he returned the cup to her, she refilled it and gave it him back. Laying back, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and closed his eyes. Lizbet was about to leave him when he spoke again.

  “Who is Jack meeting?” Richard repeated his question.

  Lizbet shook her head. “Where have you been? I sometimes wonder if you hear anything we ever say to you anymore, and now I know you don’t.”

  Richard opened his eyes.

  “Do you know where we are?” Lizbet’s stern voice enquired.

  The look on his face was answer enough.

  “We’re on a ship bound for Malta. Your foolish brother has taken your place and your name. When we arrive, they are taking him to meet with the Grand Master. Days ago you even told him about de la Sengle. Don’t you remember?”

  Richard didn’t answer, but she could see he was considering her words. Then he asked, “Why was he foolish enough to try and press for the deal on his own? They’ll never believe him to be me. He doesn’t know enough.”

  Lizbet was exasperated. “He wasn’t foolish. He was taking us home, all of us. We were leaving Venice. He’d given up on you and your plans. Before he could, Gent arrived and the Knights shortly after.”

  “Gent?” Richard sounded confused.

  “Yes, Gent. He’d tracked us down in Venice and Jack killed him. He killed him while you were laid on your back on the floor,” Lizbet added unnecessarily. “The Knights arrived looking for you and he’d no choice but to assume your name for himself. If not, we’d have had a dead man on our hands and we would be sat in Venetian prison right now.” Lizbet sounded cross.

  “How long ago was that?” Richard asked. He sounded confused.

  “Five days ago.” Lizbet said, and then corrected herself. “No, seven days. We spent three days locked in the room in Venice before we boarded the ship and then we have been in here for four days.”

  Richard, lying on the bed, brought up both of his hands and held them in front of his face. Both were pale, thin and trembling. He closed his eyes and covered his face with them. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, you do now.” Lizbet was still furious. “Not that there’s anything you can do about it. If they might not believe him, they would truly laugh at you.”

  Those words hit him painfully, and she saw him flinch. Lizbet’s eyes narrowed. She was not about to let him go. Fastening a small hand around one of his thin wrists, she made to pry it from his face. “Look at me.”

  Richard tried to wrench her hand away from his wrist.

  Lizbet laughed at him. “Once you’d have had me on the floor over there by the wall, but not now.” Violently, she tore his hand from his face and found herself looking straight into his dark eyes. What she saw there stabbed at her heart. “I’m sorry.” Lizbet let go of his wrist. Sliding an arm beneath his shoulders and another behind his neck, she drew him into a careful embrace. Her head near his ear, she told him over and over the words she hoped he needed to hear, and she didn’t stop until the ragged breathing of the man in her arms had lessened.

  Chapter 11

  A Unlikely Ally

  Jack spent as much time as he could on deck, away from the confines of the cabin and the company of his brother. His presence on deck, amongst Emilio’s men, was on the whole, welcomed.

  Jack, hands on his knees, breathed heavily. He’d won the match, wrong footing the man who now sat on the floor in front of him. Jack extended an arm, pulling him back to his feet. “That was unlucky,” he said clapping him on the shoulder.

  “That was not bad luck,” Emilio announced, coming to stand between them. Then to the other man, “Estrado, you are a clumsy oaf. If you let English here beat you, think what the Turks will do to you.”

  Jack looked hurt, Emilio grinned. “You have been taught well. But…”

  “ …But what?” Jack pressed, when Emilio paused.

  Emilio sighed. “It may be different in England.”

  “It’s not different, and you know it,” replied Jack hotly. “Tell me?”

  “You wrong-foot yourself constantly.” He kicked Jack’s left boot. “This foot is too far back, you’ve not enough weight over it. When you want to press forward you’ve not as much power behind the move as you could have.”

  Jack’s brow creased. “Yes, but it’s a compromise. If I need to go back then I’m balanced right.”

  Emilio shrugged. “As I said, maybe in England you have different ways.”

  “Anything else?” Jack pressed.

  “Your grip is too far forward. You never take the time to vary it to suit the strokes,” Emilio supplied, matter of fact.

  “I do change my grip, you’re not watching closely enough,” Jack replied defensively.

  “Perhaps,” Emilio conceded.

  “Is that everything?” Jack said, his blue eyes bright.

  “Yes, yes,” Emilio said, nodding, “apart from the angle you hold your blade when you attack.”

  Jack’s eyes widened, the final slight was too much for him to ignore. He missed the fact that Emilio was grinning at him.

  Emilio laughed and slapped him hard on the back. “It is too easy to raise your temper, Richard. And that truly is a fault. You have an admirable skill, but come and let me show you that if you place your back foot further forward it will give you a greater advantage.”

  Emilio selected two of the training swords, tossing one towards Jack. Then he ducked inside the ring, much to the delight of Emilio’s men. Jack was utterly surprised when he found himself facing a man whose skill had a polish well beyond his own.

  Sweating in the heat of the morning, both men were breathing heavily by the end of the bout. Emilio summoned one of his men to bring them water.

  Jack emptied the cup quickly, holding it out for a refill. “Your skill is enviable.”

  “And so it should be,” Emilio replied, accepting the compliment.

  “Why do you say that?” Jack asked, confused.

  “I was taught by the best. My father is brother to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V,” Emilio supplied
, as if this was explanation enough.

  Jack didn’t reply, but he knew the look on his face was one of open disbelief.

  “You seem surprised? The Knights of the Order are drawn from the greatest families in Europe. De la Sengle himself is related, through his mother, to the royal house of Valois.” Emilio sat down on the steps of the ladder leading up to the next deck.

  “I would not have expected a man of your birth to be guarding a store house in Venice.” Jack immediately regretted his words when he saw the Italian’s face darken.

  “I know, it is a constant annoyance. The Order expects proof of your skill many times over before they will recognise you with any advancement. It is even harder for me. I have to prove myself twice over, just to avoid any suspicion that my advancement is owed to my parentage,” Emilio replied sourly.

  Jack leant against the wooden panelling next to him. “Often our families are responsible for shaping more of our lives than they could ever know.”

  Emilio looked up at that. “Ah, so you are a man with secret troubles as well then?”

  “Maybe,” Jack conceded.

  Jack was wearing nothing but a linen shirt. The cuffs, pushed back for the sword play, showed his scarred wrists. Emilio’s hand reached across, his eyes on Jack’s, tugging the material down to cover the rucked skin. “Those are the brands from shackles. I’d be careful who sees them.” Emilio’s hand ran lightly down the back of Jack’s, his mouth twitched into a smile and his eyes locking with Jack’s, he said, “Dine with me tonight.”

  Jack, hesitating for a moment only, gave Emilio a slight bow. “That would be a pleasure.”

  Jack watched Emilio leave to go below deck, suddenly very conscious of the scars on his wrists. His eyes travelled up the ladders and there they locked with a familiar pair of brown ones regarding him quizzically, Lizbet. Next to her, watching him carefully as well, was his brother.