Crossed Bones (44 page)

Here, they bade farewell to their nomad escorts. Rob was sorry to see them go, and, as he watched them ride off to sell the goats and barter their wares, he almost envied them.

They abandoned the mules among a hundred other of the beasts, left hobbled to posts near the watering troughs, and joined the mêlée in the winding, reed-roofed pathways, where the sunlight cast lovely, complex spiderwebs of shadow on the ground between the trampling feet. ‘The
kissaria
,’ Marshall told him. ‘The covered market. I’ve a contact on the other side. Keep close: if you get turned around here and separated from me, you’ll be lost in seconds.’

Rob blundered against people, elbowing them out of the way in his need to keep pace with Marshall, who bore through the throng like a bull with his head down. At last he ended by grabbing a handful of the Londoner’s robe so that there was a physical bond between them and held on for dear life, like an infant attached to its mother’s apron-strings. The market passed in a succession of dreamlike images of whiskered fish and bright spices, crates of chickens and lizards and snakes, bales of silk, sacks of wool, brass and glass and silver, and everywhere the raucous shouting language, not a word of which he could comprehend. He felt dizzy with it all, even nauseous.

At last they dodged leftwards up a side street off the main thoroughfare, and the noise receded. Marshall slowed a little; Rob noticed that he was breathing hard and his sweat was pungent. Fear: it was a smell Rob recognized well enough, and the recognition did not fill him with confidence. ‘Now what?’ he asked.

‘Now we go to the house of the man who knows another who can get us an audience with the marabout Sidi al-Ayyachi. This man and I have done business before; but he will not be happy I’ve brought another with me, let alone one who stands out in a crowd. If asked, I shall tell him you are my younger addle-witted brother. If made to reveal your face, loll your tongue and cross your eyes. If they perceive you as any kind of threat, they will run you through without a qualm.’

Just as you did those men sleeping in the forest
, Rob thought, but said nothing. He nodded and practised crossing his eyes.

Marshall grinned. ‘Perfect. You’d pass as an idiot anywhere in the world.’

He knocked on a nail-studded door. After a time a square hatch in the door swung inwards, and Rob caught a glimpse of a brown, wizened face in the shadows on the other side. Marshall said something, then the door swung open and Marshall gave Rob a little push in the back. ‘Go on. Quickly.’ Rob abruptly found himself inside, with the little foreign man staring up at him. On cue, Rob let fall his turban flap and conjured the most hideous face he could manage, and the man stepped back, making the sign of Fatima’s hand to ward off the evil eye. He and Marshall exchanged an explosion of guttural noises, then the Londoner turned to Rob. ‘Enough of that: job’s done. Follow me.’

They were ushered into a cool inner chamber, where a woman, dark-eyed and suspicious, brought them tea and ran away before Rob could curse her with his awful face.

Here they sat for what seemed hours. Every time Rob started to say something, Marshall put a finger to his lips and gestured to the door.
Spies
, he mouthed. So Rob covered his face and leaned back against the wall and dozed.

At last voices sounded in the corridor. Marshall got to his feet as another man entered. This one was younger and more dangerous-looking than the first, with lighter skin and a jutting black beard. He carried both sword and dagger at his waist, Rob noticed, and looked as if he knew how to use them. No formal greetings were exchanged: the younger man seemed nervous and distrustful. He prodded Rob with his foot. ‘Sit up, Robert,’ Marshall told him. ‘My poor mad fool of a brother,’ he said, turning back to the new arrival and shrugging. ‘There was no one I could leave him with.’

The man leaned forward and with a yank ripped the turban away from Rob’s head. Rob was so shocked it took him a full two seconds to remember his fool routine; by then it was too late. The man slapped him hard, and Rob stared at him, affronted and dazed by this sudden burst of violence. ‘It seems Hassan bin Ouakrim has worked miracle cure,’ the man said to Marshall. ‘I not think he so mad now.’ He drew his dagger – in the dim light of the salon its curving blade glimmered faintly – and held it with its tip towards Rob. ‘Who he is and why he here? He no brother you: too pale and white, like filthy pig, eyes blue like Devil. Tell true or I cut him death.’

‘His name is Robert Bolitho. He came to save his woman, taken by the raiders from Cornwall in the summer.’

The other laughed. ‘Al-Andalusi’s triumph, yes! How we laugh see white Christian women sold like cattle in Souk of Gazelle!’

Rob’s fists balled so tight he thought the knuckles might spring apart under the pressure. He willed himself not to lose his temper. ‘1 am able to speak for myself,’ he said as evenly as he could. ‘One of those captured women is my betrothed, my… ah… soon-to-be-wife, Catherine Anne Tregenna. She has long hair, red to here’ – he indicated his waist – ‘the same colour as this’ – and now he pointed to the tawny braided belt the other man wore.

At once the dagger whistled down, nicking Rob’s hand so that he yelped.

‘Keep filthy infidel hands off! Back, like dog, now!’

Seething, Rob complied. Marshall regarded him with a pursed mouth and narrow, furious eyes. ‘I beg your pardon for the rudeness of my companion, sir. He is no more than a hot-headed boy who has crossed the seas hoping to make a bargain with your venerable lord for his beloved’s release. And I have some private business to share with the Sidi, business which I can assure you will make your lord most happy. Put your dagger up and let us discuss these things like brothers.’

Hassan bin Ouakrim gave him a hard look, then sheathed his blade. ‘You lucky is Aziz who came to me: others would have kill you both. I never bother with infidel curs, but I know you made good business with Sidi last spring. Come.’

The Sidi Mohammed al-Ayyachi was not at all what Rob had expected the leader of such fearsome pirates to be; nor was his house grand or showy for that of a man whose followers had stripped the wealth from a thousand foreign ships and sold their crews for a fortune. Rather, it was as old and worn as the man himself, though spotlessly clean. They found him about to sit down to his lunch in a small chamber boasting only a single low table and reed matting on the floor. He wore a robe of cotton as white as his flowing beard, so that the only colour about him was his deeply wrinkled face and hands, and his bright black eyes. He stood up as lithely as a young man when they entered and bowed to them deeply, exchanging pious greetings with Marshall, who bizarrely bent and covered the old man’s hands with kisses. More strangely still, the Sidi responded by kissing the former actor’s shoulders like a long-lost friend.

‘
Salaam
, Sidi Mohammed, and blessings be upon you.’

‘May Allah’s blessing be upon all those who are for his Prophet. The good Lord be praised that he has brought you safe back to us again, William Marshall. And your young friend here.’ He gestured graciously to Rob, who bobbed his head stiffly.

‘Tell me,’ Sidi Mohammed said, leaning forward and fixing Marshall with those bright, inquisitive eyes, ‘what wonders have you brought for me this time? More Christians for our endeavours? It seems to me this young man could pull an oar with the greatest of ease. Why, he is so mighty he could likely row a galley on his own! Is he a part of the goods you bring me, Master Marshall?’

‘Alas, no, my lord. The young man who accompanies me is Robert Bolitho from the land of Cornwall, whence your bold captain, Al-Andalusi Raïs, brought away so many Christian captives earlier this year.’

‘Ah, our servant Qasem bin Hamed bin Moussa Dib: a fine warrior for the good God, may he live long and prosper so that all may prosper from his righteous deeds,
inch’allah
. Allah be praised.
Al-hamdulillah
.’

‘
Allah akbar
,’ Marshall agreed, bowing his head. ‘Praise be to the Most High, and those who serve him. But we have disturbed your lunch, my lord: pray let us retire for a time so that you may take your ease.’

The old man shook his head impatiently. ‘No, William Marshall, no. Sit, eat with me. And young Robert Bolitho, also: sit, please, like brothers: Hassan, please ask Milouda to bring bread for all, and water, that our brothers here may wash.’

A woman brought them a bowl and ewer, and two lengths of cotton on which to dry their hands. The Sidi himself poured the rose-scented water for them. He waited till the woman had taken the bowl away, then returned with bread and olives and a heavy earthenware dish. He lifted the lid so that a great billow of steam from the dish wreathed about his face.

‘Ah, chicken with preserved lemon. God is good to me.’ He pushed the basket of bread across the table towards Marshall and Rob. ‘Eat, please. Are your family in good health, Master Marshall? Your wife, your boys, your mother?’

Rob was astonished. All this time together the man had never once mentioned the existence of a family: for all Rob knew, he might be a bachelor or a widower, and an orphan, to boot.

Marshall answered the marabout at length and then inquired after the old man’s health.

‘I continue to be hale,
inch’allah
, though I am sure there are many in your country who would wish it were otherwise. I think your Master Harrison was most frustrated by me when he was here. But then’ – he spread his hands apologetically – ‘he did not bring me what I hoped he would, though I offered him much in return. But maybe the time was not right, and Allah willed it otherwise.’

They ate in silence for a while, then Marshall said, ‘You have had a fine trawl of captives this year, I have heard: captives from far and wide.’

The Sidi’s black eyes came away from the chicken leg he held. ‘Indeed, Allah has been most perceptive in supplying us with fine captains, bold crews and good weather for our ships. Four hundred and twenty-three Christian souls to strengthen our cause,’ he said evenly.

Marshall smiled. ‘A fine summer’s work, Sidi. But perhaps with only four hundred and twenty-one or two, the Lord’s work might go equally well?’

‘How should it go equally well? Four hundred and twenty-one or two is not four hundred and twenty-three. The scales will not balance: one would fall short of its mark, and that would be most grievous in Allah’s eyes.’

‘Is it possible that bronze and iron might make up the difference?’

The Sidi paused. ‘How may one weigh a soul in base metals, Master Marshall? It would be like weighing feathers and stones.’

‘Maybe so. But a ton of feathers is the same as a ton of stones.’

‘In weight, perhaps, but not in worth.’

‘What if the bronze was of best European origin, and there was enough iron to accompany it to last a year?’

The marabout’s lips twitched. He picked up the chicken leg and stripped the last scrap of muscle from it with teeth as sharp and yellow as a rat’s. ‘It would depend on the quality of the bronze and iron; and on what else was to go into the counter-scale.’

William Marshall thrust a hand into the neck of his robe and withdrew a roll of parchment. This he passed to the marabout, who took it after wiping his fingers carefully on the cloth and muttering his thanks to the Lord. He scanned the contents, his face impassive. ‘I know that our culture enshrines haggling at the heart of its trading, but I find it tedious to haggle. This is all most acceptable. Spanish gold we have in plenty; English too, if that would be more… practical to your master, but of course we should need proof of their good working order before we strike our deal.’

Marshall inclined his head. ‘All shall be as you decree, Sidi.’

‘
Inch’allah
. Your ship is… where, exactly?’

‘Within distance of an agreed sign. She will sail in when I call for her and you can have a boat sent out with trusted men aboard to verify the cargo.’

The marabout looked across the table at Hassan bin Ouakrim and they spoke rapidly in their language for a time. At last the Sidi said, ‘Hassan tells me the boy with you has come here to reclaim his wife.’

Rob sat up straighter and tried not to look too hopeful.

Marshall shrugged. ‘She is a worthless drudge, not even married to the lad yet, but he has a fancy to wed her nevertheless. I cannot imagine she is of much value to your cause, Sidi. If you could see your way clear to include her in our bargain, it would ease the boy’s heart.’

‘And Matty too,’ Rob said quickly. ‘Matty Pengelly.’

Marshall shot him a poisonous look. ‘Shut up, Rob.’

The Sidi looked affronted. ‘The boy seeks to bargain for souls, does he? You had better tell him that is business best left to the older and wiser among us, and that I trade only with those whom I know well enough to trust. It pains my heart not to be able to grant your request, Master Marshall, but Hassan tells me the girl with hair of fire is already sold to a master who has paid far more for her than you could possibly give him in recompense.’

Rob struggled upright from his place at the table, and at once Hassan shot to his feet, hand on the hilt of his dagger. ‘I have money!’ Rob cried. He hauled out the pouch of gold he had collected and threw it down on the table where it landed with a resounding clatter.

The marabout stared at it as if Rob had thrown down a dead dog. Then he addressed himself to the Londoner. ‘I realize that the boy is young and callow, but you are responsible for his manners, Master Marshall, and they are sorely lacking. I am greatly insulted. Perhaps I should take you both and put you in irons and send Hassan and Al-Andalusi to bring in your ship and its crew of infidels. How many more souls might that add to our cause, I wonder? Sixty, eighty, one hundred? In my time my corsairs and I have consigned to the Devil the souls of seven thousand, six hundred and forty-three Christians, and I should like to make it a round ten thousand before I die.
Al-hamdulillah
.’ He paused, then ran the palms of his hands down his face, kissed them and touched them to his heart. ‘This house has an exceptionally beautiful courtyard full of symmetry and peace. It is the perfect place in which to turn my attention towards the simplicity of spiritual truths and away from the complexities of the outside world. At the heart of my courtyard I have had a fountain made from a number of Nazarene skulls. I like to contemplate it each day after my morning prayers, to admire the subtle relationship between decoration and form. Water sounds most pretty falling through the eye-sockets of a dead infidel, Master Marshall; it is very pleasing to the ear. Perhaps you would care to join me in my contemplation? I think I might find room for another skull in its centrepiece.’