To Lie with Lions (52 page)

It was then, from the other ship, that the hail came.

De Fleury, if it was he, was a big man, and fluent in the German the Hanse merchants spoke. With moderate politeness, he was inviting Benecke to take the way off his ship and surrender.

‘You must excuse me, Nikolás-riddari,’ Benecke said, cupping his hands. Then, gesturing, he sent for a trumpet. Every moment’s delay
was of use. The cliffs were ahead. In a very short time, he must either turn or tack to the south, presenting his beam to the guns of the
Svipa
. He needed time to set guns amidships. Those in the poop were already half restored to their moorings, and his hackbutters and bowmen in place. There were more of them than
Svipa
carried. The trumpet came, and Benecke spoke through it. ‘I have no quarrel with you. You must excuse me. A ship has run upon reefs. Men are dying.’

‘We shall gladly offer our chaplain,’ said the hollow voice helpfully. ‘Meanwhile, we are too close for our guns to miss. I suggest that …’

‘Fire,’ said Paúel Benecke in a murmur. He did not speak through the trumpet, but directed it at the gunner beside the one culverin primed and ready. The gunner lifted his taper and stretched. The roar that followed came not from his gun but the
Svipa’s
. With intolerable prescience, de Fleury had fired before he did.

It was a direct hit. The mainmast broke with an echoing bark; the noise shot about within the deeper reverberations of the cannon, and the ship jarred as if rammed. He would have been thrown off his feet but for his grasp of the rail. He knew from the screaming behind that some of the men in the stays had been hurled to the ground; he could see others clinging. Arrows were flying aboard. He lifted his mailed arm to his bowmen, to command them to answer the fire. There was a hiss as they shot. He found, to his amazement, that his arm would not drop to his side.

He assumed at first, with annoyance, that he had been wounded. Then he saw that a thick piece of cordage had settled across his gorget and cuirass, and was tightening fast. He drew out his sword, but already his feet were leaving the deck. He dangled, half-choked. Men were picking themselves up and running towards him, staggering as timber and blocks rained about them. The cans had spilled, and there was powder all over the deck; he saw his gunners, returned to their posts, looking up at him with blankest astonishment. Then, with a stupendous jerk to his ribs, he was taken sailing over the gunwales and across the patch of rough sea that separated his ship from the
Svipa
. He saw there was a ship’s boat below.

He gave the whole matter a moment’s consideration: they had rigged a cargo hoist from a spar, and someone had hurled over a noose. They did such things, he had heard, in the Tyrol. He gave further consideration to the benefits of travelling light. He was sufficiently stirred to decide to make his own gesture. As he swung over the boat, he lifted his sword and slashed through the rope by which he was suspended. He rather hoped, as he landed in a welter of splintering timber, that he had killed somebody.

*

‘He’s broken his arm,’ Robin said. ‘Father Moriz says he’s black and blue everywhere. He’s got a cut on the face from his helm, and a stave got through the joint in his greaves and he’s still got a headache from being knocked out by the fall. Otherwise he’s just fine.’

It had been his first engagement, and there had been eight injured and no dead, and they had taken Paúel Benecke hostage, and the enemy’s ship had surrendered, to save the life of their famous commander. For the moment, Robin had forgotten that the enemy was the man who had the right to be here, and that M. de Fleury was the pirate.

Father Moriz said, ‘Get that boy out of here. I am ashamed. I collaborated in a piece of chicanery while men on Adorne’s ship were drowning.’

‘The
Pruss Maiden’s
physician has gone to them,’ Robin said. ‘In our boat, with a crew from the
Maiden
. There’s no one of Ser Adorne’s on the
Unicorn
now, just the Vatachino and their friends. And they’re on rocks: they can’t drown, and it’s dark now. We’ll put it all right in the morning.’ He lingered, reluctant to leave M. de Fleury. It was as if the magic would stay if he stayed. He longed to tell Kathi.

M. de Fleury said to the priest, ‘There. Do you hear? God and St Barbara will forgive you. Do you think our Flying Danziger may be visited?’

‘I suppose it is safe. John and Crackbene have returned from his sickbed with their lives. I dare say so will you, provided his teeth are removed.’ Father Moriz sounded sour. Robin was sorry. He bobbed up hopefully when M. de Fleury rose and made for the door, but was told firmly to go off to bed.

Laid in the dimly lit quarters usually occupied by Crackbene and his companions, Paúel Benecke wore, inadvertently, the livery of his captors, being picked out by the white of his bandages and the black of his bright eyes and his lank hair and his beard. His feet, projecting over the end of Yuri’s mattress, were long and bony and thin, and he had the frame which in a sick man seems gaunt, and in an active, lithe one is simply due to a misarticulation of the limbs. He looked, for a man covered in bruises, quite at ease. ‘The Nikolás-riddari,’ he said. ‘I am told you kept a knife at my throat until my deputy agreed to surrender.’

‘The Bergenfahrer,’ Nicholas returned with equal politeness. ‘By that you may know how highly you are esteemed in the Artushof. Being practical men, my crew would have bargained and sailed off.’ He sat. ‘Apart from your freedom, is there anything I may offer you?’

‘Your master gunner,’ said Benecke. ‘He is good. Engrained powder, not riddled. One of sulphur to seven parts of saltpetre and two of charcoal, unlike most. And I’ll swear my man went to fire before he did.’

‘He is John le Grant,’ Nicholas said. ‘I hope you made him an offer.’

‘He prevaricated. Trained in Germany, I hear. Your chaplain also is German.’

‘My counter-masters are Danish and Scottish and Muscovite. Crackbene was born in mid-ocean. I have no one from Poland as yet.’

It was not an observation he would have made, for example, to an Ochoa. He risked it because of something he glimpsed in the man’s face. Nothing of appeal, nothing of complaisance, nothing of softening but something. A gleam, perhaps.

The man said, ‘Perhaps we are good at prevaricating as well.’ He let a pause develop before adding, ‘I hear you have friends in Murano.’

Nicholas lifted his brows. ‘And little good have they done me when it comes to getting ships built. But I always say it’s good to have friends on an island.’

‘I would not deny it,’ said the other man. ‘You are familiar with Venice, of course. I hear their custom is to whip a nail-thief round the Arsenal, with his nails hung in ropes round his neck.’

‘Indeed?’ said Nicholas. ‘Ropes round the neck. A barbarity. Why did you cut yourself free? If you had hit the sea, we couldn’t have saved you.’

‘I contemplated it,’ the man said. ‘But it seemed a trifle flamboyant. The Hanse don’t pay me that much. No. I cut the rope to remind myself not to be so stupid next time.’

‘You didn’t think I would sail up behind you?’

‘I assumed that, having arranged the diversion, you would fly. I apologise.’

‘Apology accepted,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although, of course, there was no question of leaving. Why should I? After all, I helped you to capture the
Unicorn
, and in return, you sanctioned two weeks of authorised fishing. I have to thank you.’

There was a silence. At length, the thin man said, ‘You are staying to fish?’

‘There is still room in the hold,’ Nicholas said. ‘And all that salt in the
Unicorn
, if it hasn’t dissolved. And while we fish, I trust the
Maiden
will wait in the harbour. Minus her remaining masts and her sails and, of course, without yourself until you are better. But we shall be sure to reunite you all with one another about the time that we leave.’

The man stared thoughtfully at him, saying nothing.

‘That is,’ Nicholas went on, expatiating. ‘You are a Hanse ship from Bergen, and licensed. I shouldn’t want to interfere with your fishing. Only to do all mine first.’

‘And the
Unicorn?’
asked Paúel Benecke gently.

‘A wreck. The prize of the first person to reach it. I have sent your scaffmaster to watch her tonight, and we shall see what needs doing tomorrow.’

‘I seem to remember,’ said the other, ‘that I was the first person to reach her?’

Nicholas pondered. ‘I have it,’ he said. ‘You take the man Martin to ransom, and I shall take the equivalent worth from her cargo.’

The other man thought. ‘That seems fair,’ he remarked.

‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where I come from, we seal a pact with some wine. That was what was wrong with the last deal we made. There was no wine. You remember.’

‘I am not sure that I do,’ said Paúel Benecke. ‘But I am willing to celebrate this one. Nevertheless I have to warn you: I have a very hard head, as you see.’

‘Would you like to make a wager?’ said Nicholas.

Two hours after midnight, a semaphoring lantern in the cold windy dark announced the return of the boat which had gone to the wreck of the
Unicorn
. It was full of exhausted men on their way to the
Maiden;
their physician, grim of face, insisted on boarding the
Svipa
to report. Father Moriz, roused, met him and listened. Then he said, ‘Follow me. The patron will have to hear this.’

Had he been less disgusted with Nicholas, he would have left the man outside the cabin. As it was, the priest flung open the door and ushered him in. ‘Go and tell him yourself.’

‘Which one?’ said the physician distastefully.

Father Moriz moved forward. The bodies of Crackbene and Lutkyn Mere, both snoring heavily, first caught the eye, an overturned tankard between them. A third recumbent form, languidly stirring, turned out to be that of Paúel Benecke, his bandages scarlet.

‘Dear God!’ said the physician, starting forward. ‘Dear God, is that blood!’

The Danziger slowly looked down. ‘Dear God,’ he repeated. ‘Oh, dear heaven, thank heaven, it is. Is there any more of the wine?’

‘Behind you. You lost the wager,’ said Nicholas. ‘Check. Yuri, you bastard, it’s check.’

‘It isn’t,’ said the voice of the Muscovite. The box upon which the chess was laid out could hardly be seen, so fragmentary was the candle beside it. Both the players sat preternaturally upright.

Father Moriz said, ‘You’re both drunk. I thought you were waiting for news of the
Unicorn.’

‘Are we?’ said Nicholas.

‘No,’ said Yuri.

‘Yes we are,’ said Paúel Benecke from the floor. He had lain down again.

‘But not till the candle goes out,’ Yuri said. ‘We have a wager.’

‘You are not concerned about fifty men’s lives?’ Moriz asked.

The Muscovite sketchily crossed himself. ‘When the candle goes out,’ he said. ‘Mate.’

The candle went out. ‘Hell,’ said Nicholas.

‘Not here,’ said Paúel Benecke drowsily. ‘You do not invoke Hell on this island. Who won?’

‘He did,’ said Nicholas. His voice, in the darkness was placid. ‘Martin is going to Moscow.’

‘What?’ said the physician.

‘Martin of the Vat – Martin is going to Moscow,’ said Paúel. ‘Yuri has won him from Nikolás.’

Father Moriz, groping, found the lamp and laid hands on the tinder. ‘Martin is not going to Moscow,’ he said. ‘Nor is anyone else on the
Unicorn
. The doctor is waiting to tell you his news.’ The lamp flared, lighting his inimical, troglodyte’s face.

On the floor, Crackbene turned over and mumbled. Lutkyn snored. The bandaged Danziger opened one eye and then closed it. ‘Tell us,’ he said.

Yuri was clearing the chess from the box. The pieces clicked into their bag, or on the floor, or slid from the folds of his clothing. ‘Tell us,’ Nicholas echoed. He made no effort to help.

‘The
Unicorn
has gone,’ said the doctor.

‘You missed one,’ said the Danziger. Stretching his unbandaged arm, he picked up a crudely hewn queen.

‘You missed them all,’ said Father Moriz.

‘They’ve sunk?’ Nicholas said. His beard gilded the rims of two dimples.

The German priest leaned over the table and slapped his face hard with one palm. With the other he swept the cups, the bag, the table, the pieces to the floor. Then he sat down beside Nicholas, who was staring at him in a slow, aggrieved way.

‘The
Unicorn
has gone,’ repeated Father Moriz. ‘Not sunk. Not wrecked. Not floating upside down on the tide. But sailed away with Svartecop and Mogens and Martin, after they patched up the damage – superficial – and bribed someone to find enough nails, and planted all the
Maiden’s
prize crew on the rocks and abandoned them. The
Maiden’
s men were very cold. The doctor here had to revive some of them. We brought the worst cases back, and will fetch all the rest in relays.’ He broke off. His chest heaved like a portative organ. He said, ‘You had better play another game, for a different prize.’

‘Oh,’ said Nicholas. He was looking at Benecke.

‘Ah,’ said the mercenary, returning the look. Between the knobs of his throat, something quacked. Nicholas coughed. The cough turned into a splutter. Then he laid his head on the table and laughed. On the floor, the bloodstained master of the
Pruss Maiden
brought his knees up and began laughing too. Yuri looked cross and, still looking cross, slid under the table.

Crackbene opened his eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said.

Nicholas rested his chin on his hands. Happy tears had run into his beard. ‘We’ve lost the Vatachino,’ he said. ‘They’ve sailed off with their ship and the salt and all the bits of the cargo that Danziger Diavolo here didn’t transfer from its hold and its arse and its fokkedeck. You could say,’ added Nicholas wildly, ‘that the
Unicorn
has fokkedecked the
Maiden.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Father Moriz. ‘Nor did the doctor.’