The Tenth Gift (14 page)

He waved his hand at the pirates who had freed them from the hold, and they came forward, driving their captives before them. One of them prodded Cat painfully in the back, but when she turned to complain at such unmannerly treatment, she saw he was a man with blue eyes, carrot-colored hair, and a skin darkened only by a vast multiplicity of freckles, utterly unlike the outlandish-looking foreigners who made up the rest of the crew. Seeing her surprise, this man grinned at her and dropped a slow, insulting wink. “Not expectin’ an Englishman among this possel, eh, my bird?”

Cat’s jaw dropped. “And not only an Englishman but a West Country man, from your accent,” she said, horrified. “For the love of God, can you not speak for us and save us from these savages?”

The other laughed and spat. “I have no more love of your God than our fine raïs there: I turned Mahometan two year back. Gone is my birth name of Will Martin, and now they call me Ashab Ibrahim—Ginger Abraham—which suits me a darn sight better. In Plymouth I were a poor and despised man, a turner of staves and apprentice cooper, till I was pressed into what’s left of His Majesty’s navy, may God rot their souls. Then along came my saviors and sank our fine ship, took me and my fellows captive. So I turned renegadoe and went to sea with these fine picaroons. Now I have a house in Sallee, two wives priddier than all the women of Devonport put together, and more gold than I could have made in three lifetimes.
Allah akbar.
God is great! And do you know how I came by such a fortune?”

She shook her head, though she already suspected the answer.

He leaned in closer, conspiratorial. “For each slave we take and sell, I shall have a hundredth share for my part in the capture. If we get all of ‘ee to Sallee alive and kickin’ and in good enough fettle for the market, I’ll make a proper packet, and that’s for sure!” He winked again, lewdly. “Mebbe I’ll buy ’ee myself, me ’andsome. I bet that priddy hair could keep a man warm a’nights!”

Cat stared at him, aghast. If even Christian men had turned against their fellows in such a cruel fashion, there was surely no justice in the world.

“Ibrahim?” It was the seated man who had spoken.

Will of Plymouth, now known as Ashab Ibrahim, snapped to attention. “Yes, Al-Andalusi?”

“Silence! Only I speak now.”

The renegade hung his head.

“You there, man in black robe.” Al-Andalusi indicated the preacher with the beak of the strange device from which he had been smoking. “What your name?”

Walter Truran threw back his shoulders and looked the pirate chief in the eye. “My name I shall keep between me and my God.”

The raïs sighed. “How we ask family for ransom if you not give me your name?”

The preacher looked even more outraged. “Ransom? Sir, my soul is my own. I shall not have my family blackmailed into buying it back from whatever godforsaken corner of the world you are taking us to!”

“Sir—raïs—my name is John Polglaze, and I am alderman of the town of Penzance. Return me and my wife now to the bosom of our family and I promise you will be handsomely rewarded.”

Al-Andalusi raised an eyebrow at this interruption. “Write it down, Amin. All information useful.” He turned his attention back to the alderman. “You not poor man, I can see by your girth. Empty your pockets and show me your hands.”

John Polglaze frowned at him, not understanding the request.

“Ibrahim!”

The renegade caught hold of Polglaze and rummaged expertly through his clothing, coming away with a handful of coins and a pair of handsome rings. Then he took the alderman’s arm and turned the hand palm up for his captain’s inspection. The raïs grunted. “So white and soft, you no good in galleys or working in field, you last a week, no more! So how much they pay me for you?”

Alderman Polglaze looked flummoxed. “I … I … ah … I don’t know, sir … er, raïs.”

“Four hundred pounds?”

The alderman went white. “Impossible! Never.”

Al-Andalusi waved a hand. “Say four hundred pounds, Amin. One hundred fifty for John Poll Glez, and two hundred fifty for his wife. Is she comely? What her name?”

“Elizabeth, sir, but—”

“Ah, like old queen, excellent. She good friend to Morocco, bring us much trade, timber with which to build ships, many guns, enemy of bastard Spanish. Amin, write down two hundred twenty English pounds for wife Elizabeth Poll Glez—her name earn discount. Three hundred seventy pounds for pair.” This he repeated in his own language for the benefit of his scribe, then waved Polglaze away. “Next.”

The next man was a fisherman in his thirties, spare and short in stature, his face almost as brown as the pirate’s, except where crow’s-feet had left white streaks around the eyes, but his muscles were like whipcord. His pockets contained no more than a pocketknife, which the raïs weighed in his hand, then tossed back to Ibrahim, a ragged kerchief, and two groats.

“Henry Symons of Newlyn. My family are poor. Thee’ll get no money for me from them.”

The raïs laughed. “Can you row?”

Symons looked puzzled. “Aye, of course, and sail.”

The pirate said something in his own language and the clerk wrote it down, smiling.

The next man was older, and his seafaring days were long spent. Cat recognized him as old Thomas Ellys. Arthritis had swollen his joints and age had bent his back. His silver thruppenny bit was still in his pocket, ready for the collection, along with a yellowed bone comb. The raïs inspected his hand, which was callused and rough, confirming that he was a worker, and no rich man’s father. He turned to the clerk and they debated for a few moments; then the pirate called for one of his men, made a curt gesture, and indicated the old
fisherman. Without a word, the crewman jostled Thom Ellys away to the ship’s side and without ceremony upended him over the gunwale. There was a pause, a splash, and then silence.

“You barbarian!” the preacher started. He stared out at the rolling, empty sea. They were already far from land. Even a young, fit man had no chance of gaining the shore from here. “May the Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on his soul.”

The raïs shrugged. “We short on provisions—cannot waste on useless old man who no one ransom and who fetch nothing in auction. If your Jesus care for his soul, he will arrange miracle.” He held the preacher’s furious regard coolly. “It was Romans first called my people ‘barbari,’ ‘the uncultured,’ but they ignorant and so are those who use same word after them. My people call ourselves the Imazighen, the free men: We are Berber and proud. At home in mountains I speak language of my own people, with business partners in the qasba I converse in Spanish, with fellow corsairs I speak Arabic and the
lingua franca
of ports; I speak also some English and a little Dutch. I have read every page of the Qu’ran and from curiosity some of your Bible. In my collection of books I have copies of Ibn Battuta’s
Travels
, poetry of Mawlana Rumi, Ibn Khaldun’s
Muqaddimah
, and Al-Hasan ibn Muhammed al-Wazzan’s
Cosmographia Dell’ Africa;
I have read them all. Now, tell me who the barbarian?”

“To steal innocent human beings—women and children—from their homes and sell them into slavery is the act of a barbarian.”

The corsair raised an eyebrow. “Then all great nations of world also barbarians—Spanish and French, Portuguese, Sicilians and Venetians. I manned an oar for year on Sicilian galley, have many scars on my back. English also: Your great heroes Drake and Hawkins also barbarians, and they far worse than the corsairs of Slâ, which ignorant call Sallee, for they took captives solely for personal profit and treated their cargoes with contempt.”

“And you do not?”

“I am
al-ghuzat
, warrior of Prophet. My men and I carry jihad— holy war—into seas and onto shores of our enemies, take captive many infidel for sale in our markets. Money we raise from such trade is invested in welfare of our people and glory of God. Is pleasing to Most High that riches of infidels be returned to Allah.”

“Then not only are you a barbarian, but also a heretic!” The preacher’s eyes were flashing now. His beard flapped in the wind. He looked, Cat thought, like one of the Old Testament prophets, like Moses calling down the ice storm upon Egypt.

Al-Andalusi leapt to his feet, knocking the pipe over so that smoke and water poured across the deck. “You not use that word to me! The Spanish called my father heretic. Inquisition broke his bones on their vile rack, but they never broke his spirit.” He turned and shouted at three of his sailors who ran to do his bidding. In no time they had returned. One of them carried a stave of iron with a flattened end; the other two, a small brazier. This latter was set down on the deck beside the raïs, and the first man at once set the end of the stave to the coals in the brazier and held it there till it glowed red, then white. Walter Truran watched it with something approaching fascination, unable to take his eyes from it. Then he started to pray.

Al-Andalusi shouted an order and the men tore the boots from the preacher’s feet.

“You have such faith in your crucified prophet, now you forever honored by bearing his mark.”

And with that, he gestured to the men, one of whom held the preacher down while the other applied the iron to the man’s white and wrinkled soles. Cat closed her eyes, but she could not erase from her senses the sound of the brand as it burned through the skin and sizzled in blood, nor the stink of burnt meat that rose into the air.

While the preacher lay moaning on the deck, Ashab Ibrahim rifled his pockets, coming away with an ivory-handled fruit knife, a handful of small coins, and a little leather-bound Psalter. This last the raïs flicked through with some curiosity, then tossed back to the
preacher. “If you not give me your name, you go down on manifest as the Imam.”

“Give me no heathen title! My name is Walter Truran, and you can write beside it ‘Man of God.’ But I warn you now, there is no one from whom you can extort a ransom.”

The raïs shrugged. “You have strong spirit and strong back. Perhaps galleys take you. Or perhaps Sultan Moulay Zidane will be amused by your rantings. Your feet will not be bound until all have seen what happen to those who think to defy me. From today know whenever you set foot on ground you tread on symbol of your bastard religion, and that is how it should be.”

Now Cat was brought before the captain of the pirate ship. So frightened was she by the Reverend Truran’s ordeal that she could hardly bear to look upon his tormentor. She kept her eyes on her feet and prayed silently that he would pass her quickly by. Even the mire, discomfort, and darkness of the hold was preferable to this. Her knees shook uncontrollably.

“What your name?”

“Catherine,” she started. Her voice was the squeak of a mouse. Drawing a breath, she tried again. “Catherine Anne Tregenna.”

“You wear green dress, Cat’rin Anne Tregenna. Why?”

This was such an unexpected remark that her head shot up and she found herself looking the raïs in the eye. His gaze burned into her. “I … ah … it is an old dress, sir.”

“Green is color of Prophet. Only his descendants may wear it. Are you descended from the Prophet?”

Horrified, Catherine shook her head, her tongue stuck fast to the roof of her mouth.

“Take off! Is insult to Prophet to wear his color unless entitled.”

Cat’s eyes widened. “I … can’t … it laces up the back—”

Al-Andalusi leaned forward. “A woman cannot dress herself must be dressed by a slave. Are you rich woman, Cat’rin Anne Tregenna?”

What was the right answer? Cat searched for inspiration. She reasoned that it was best to suggest it worth keeping her whole and fit for ransom; she did not want to be thrown overboard, branded like the preacher, or worse, passed as a worthless bawd to the bestial crew for their pleasure. She squared her shoulders. “I am Catherine Tregenna of Kenegie Manor, and I am not without means.”

The raïs translated this for the scribe, and Amin wrote quickly on his block. “Turn around,” he told her then, taking an ornamented curved dagger from his belt.

Fearing the worst, Catherine did as she was told, and waited for the cold blade at her throat. Instead, there was a sudden shearing sound and an ease of pressure, and suddenly the green dress lay around her ankles, leaving her shivering in her cotton shift. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the eyes of the crew crawling over her pale white skin like the unclean touch of insects.

Al-Andalusi bent and shook out the fabric. From it fell the little pouch, which at once he snatched up. “What this? Is Bible or prayers to your god?” He brandished her little book.

All at once, she felt a powerful sense of ownership. No one must touch her book: Her most secret thoughts lay within. Without thinking, she reached out and took hold of it. For a moment, their eyes locked; then the pirate released his grip on the soft calfskin cover. “It is a book on embroidery,” Cat said in a low voice. “See, here—” She opened it on a page she had not yet written on, showing a spray of stylized flowers that might be reproduced on a cuff, or a pair of stockings. “It contains patterns to copy. Like this.” Daring now, she raised her petticoat an inch or two to show him the fine clocking at her ankles.

He tilted his head to examine it. “And you have done this work yourself?”

“Yes.”

The raïs said something to the scribe, who added something to the list he made. Then he tossed the little pouch back to Cat. “Women
of sultan’s court pay much for work like this. Perhaps you teach them new patterns.” His eyes narrowed. “And perhaps Sultan Moulay Zidane pay me well for such addition to his harem, particularly with such white skin and hair color of sunset. We set price of eight hundred pounds for such rare prize.”

Eight hundred pounds! It was a huge sum. Cat clutched the pouch to her chest with her heart hammering. Foolish, foolish wench, her head scolded her. Thinking you could outwit a man like that. Now he has set such a price on your head that no one can ever afford to redeem you, and you will end your days in some foreign land, pining away for the sound of an English voice or the touch of Cornish rain, for Rob and kindness and all the ordinary things of the world that you have spurned, and all for vanity. One of the pirate crew threw a thick woolen robe over her head and led her back down to the hold. She stumbled before him as if in a dream, one from which she might never be able to awaken.