by Hana Cole
Rousing up, the waggoner comes at Agnes square on, growling like a mastiff. Both hands clenched around her hand axe, Agnes readies herself to meet him. She strikes out, catching his hand, hears the crack of his knuckle. The big man cries out angrily. Pawing at her like a bear, he finds the axe, rips it from her grip. Momentarily her mind empties. She has no way to fight this hulk of a man. She fills her lungs to scream and she remembers – the arming sword. His arm extends to her neck. She thrusts the blade from its belt, swiping it across his flesh. With a roar, he throws himself upon her.
Seizing the distraction, the bailiff slams his elbow to the face of the man holding Octavia. He pivots back to Agnes. Octavia runs free, weeping blindly. The bailiff jerks the waggoner back by the neck, then delivers a double handed blow with his sword hilt. Agnes reels from the spatter of blood, turning just in time to catch hold of Sister Octavia who collapses into her.
‘They caught me outside the convent,’ Octavia sobs. ‘The children were already in there.’ She flaps a hand in the direction of the wagon.
Agnes races over. Four girls, cower in the wagon behind a large chest.
‘It’s gold,’ Octavia stammers. ‘I saw them load it…’
Agnes beckons to the slave girls, encouraging them to her. But she has no moment to order the world as the bailiff grabs her by the waist, pinning her to him.
The force of his grip hits her like a branding iron. Briefly she struggles, but he is too powerful. She fights to turn her head. ‘What is this?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he says, without meeting her eye.
‘Run!’ She yells at Octavia. The novice stumbles over the scrubland and into the night. The children scatter in different directions.
‘Go to the forester!’ Agnes calls, summoning the energy to try and squirm free.
‘Cease your struggling,’ the bailiff hisses into her ear. ‘Where do you think you can run to?’
He hoists her up on his horse, and she knows he was not here to free those children. He was here for her.
Chapter Thirty-two
The governor has twice as many servants as there are rooms in his three hundred- room palace. It is impossible to turn the corner without finding one of his pristine men hovering with a tray, stooping over a floor tile, or flicking at a bit of imaginary dust with a cloth. Gui knows it will take him weeks to familiarise himself with all the short cuts, dead ends and secret passages; weeks more before he has any chance of passing by unremarked by the staff. Before then it will be useless to contemplate escape.
Servants are chattering in the courtyard below in a mixture of Occitan and Arabic. Gui paces his cell. Barely wider than the span of his arms, it contains a mattress and a washing bowl. A space designed to clip the wings of the mind. It presents him with two choices - quieten his thoughts or go insane. The governor’s birds have wider horizons, he thinks, placing an eye to the window. Covered in a lattice of eight-pointed stars, it interrupts a proper view of the boys lined up outside. Etienne is among them, awaiting orders to depart, but he is at the back of the tail that snakes beyond Gui’s sight.
The window does not allow him to stick his head out, so Gui pulls away and sits back down on his pallet. All he wants is one last look, a nod of reassurance to his boy that all will be well, that he will be thinking of his every step. A man shouts out and there is the shuffle of footsteps as the governor’s convoy of slaves moves off. Gui shuts his eyes tight. Usually he would pray, but he finds he cannot. The frustration of powerlessness courses through him - a livid brew sparking in his veins, demanding action that he knows he cannot take.
At the conclusion of afternoon prayer he must descend from his tiny garret and cross the gold and ivory serenity of the palace complex to the salon where he instructs the governor’s young sons in French - the language of their enemy. They are seven, eight and ten years old. The older two sit cross-legged, staring out to the gardens at the array of house servants, gardeners, traders and courtiers that scurry to and fro. They are the middle sons of the powerful administrator and their path in life is spread comfortably before them. Chins jutting, aloof, there is simply no reason to believe the ramblings of this foreign servant could offer any advantage. The younger one is different though, alert, full of wide-eyed nods and endless questions. He reminds Gui so much of Etienne that the idea of facing the curious little boy now makes him want to weep.
His skull feels tight, as though it is bearing down upon his brain. He rubs his brow, seeking a balm, and it conjures an image of he and Etienne aboard a boat. He, in his tattered merchant’s garb and, at his side, Etienne wears an oversized cloak that trails on the deck. Are we really going home, father? Gui pulls the cape more snugly under his boy’s chin. We are, son. Etienne laughs into the stinging wind that is blowing away the foul stench of the port, carrying them towards France. And to Agnes. Out of nowhere her face appears so vividly he extends his fingers to touch the golden braids. His breath tightens as the muezzin’s call shakes his fantasy.
*
Etienne feels sick. The dust and the jolts are bad enough, but it is the thought of the waiting boat that really churns his stomach. He feels as though he is already aboard, being tossed and slammed by the waves, not knowing for sure that there isn’t some storm brewing which will see the end of them all. That, and the fact he really has no idea where the governor’s ship is going. He has never even heard of Gibraltar, much less how to get back to France from there. That’s if the governor even keeps his promise and lets him go. He clears the dust from his throat and checks his thoughts. Father Gui will come. It won’t be like before. Father Gui will be there, just like he said. He will find a good boat and everything will turn out just fine. You don’t have to worry about the rest.
Except he is worried about the rest. The map on Gui’s note clearly shows where he is to go and wait, but it’s vaguer about how he is supposed to escape the governor’s convoy. When you are loading up the boat, his father told him, there will be a lot of traffic and confusion at the docks. Use that to pick your moment. Easy for you to say, thinks Etienne. He knows that imagining how things could go wrong is often worse than what actually happens. Still, he can’t help it. His insides feel like gelatin. Please God let this be over with soon. And please make it obvious when I am supposed to run for it.
They are sitting in a cart, a heavy cotton tarpaulin overhead. It is hot as Hades. Etienne shuts his eyes. It makes his nausea worse. Please don’t let me be sick, he asks of no one in particular. One of the other boys was sick earlier and the warm stink is getting unbearable. We must be nearly there by now. Peeling back the cover he peeks outside. All he can see are the dust and stones from their convoy skittering about in the wheels. The air smells of shit. Maybe they are passing an animal transport. One of the boys jogs his elbow and he re-ties the flap of the canopy.
A couple of hours later he can hear sea birds squawking in the air currents above raucous, busy streets. His backside is completely numb. He pulls the canopy back again - carts, camels and donkeys jostle for space along the dirt track. Not long now. Etienne bites at the skin on the side of his nail. Please be here soon, Father Gui. I just don’t think I can get on another one of those boats by myself. As far as he has come, he can’t remember feeling as nervous as he does now. Perhaps it is the knowledge that freedom is so close. For the first time since his journey began, he actually has something to lose. If it goes wrong now, he isn’t sure he will be able to live with it.
Light floods the cart and someone barks at them to get out and get on with it. There is always slaving to be done, thinks Etienne as he shuffles along the bench and stretches his legs to stand. They feel like they have been in irons. His back aches too. By the side of the road, an old beggar with a withered arm rattles a can. Is this how old people feel all the time? Like they just rode two days solid through the desert on a wooden bench?
He surveys the governor’s four wagons, all fully laden with crates, barrels, and bags, and sighs. Now they are portside, the aroma of
bread and stew curls its way over from the eateries. He realises he is ravenous. Some bean stew would be good, even heavily spiced like the Mohammedans eat it. He doesn’t mind that anymore.
‘You, boy. Get moving!’
Etienne feels a prod. The others already have their backs into offloading. He slopes off to join them, casting a glance around for the places that Father Gui has marked on his map. He has memorised them as well as he can, but amid the thump and yell of the port’s daily business nothing looks like it fits. Etienne heaves up a box and troops off behind a boy he hasn’t seen before.
The governor’s boat is a fine vessel. A sleek, single-decked ship, brightly painted with two sets of sails and a proper enclosed wheelhouse at the back. A red and gold canopy covers the whole stern, so at least they won’t get burned pinker than a spit roast washing down the decks. Down below the hold smells of new wood and nutmeg, not piss and fear. He dumps his box down. There is no one else there, so he sits down and wipes his brow. If he wasn’t just about to escape this wretched household forever he would lay down right here behind these boxes - to Hell with it if they find him.
‘Boy!’ The holler comes from outside. ‘Get back here!’ Etienne jumps to his feet and scuttles back down the gangplank. He is just about to heave up another crate when he hears a commotion.
‘Christ,’ he mutters as he sees Christophe fleeing across the quayside, Nasir the slave master in his wake. Instantly he regrets encouraging his friend to stow away with them. What now? Instincitvely, he feels for Father Gui’s note at his waistband. Is this it? His opportunity? A quick cast around. Everyone’s head is turned, watching the debacle unfold. It is.
Darting through the busy docks, he finds himself on the other side of the main square. It is easy enough to hide behind the stacks of crates and pallets waiting to be loaded. Eyes fixed on Nasir, he watches as the slave master inevitably chases down Christophe. Head in his hands, he tries to talk himself out of it - it is far too dangerous to try and save Christophe when no-one has even noticed he is missing yet. But Nasir is already showering blows with his whip upon the hapless French boy and Etienne knows what they do with runaways.
‘Hey! Over here!’ he yells.
Before he knows it he has thrown himself back into the crowd and is engaged in a game of dodge with the hulking Egyptian while Christophe runs round and round on himself, like a beetle that has fallen on its back. The map says they have to exit by the copperware stalls, so on his next pass, he grabs Christophe’s sleeve and flings him in the right direction.
‘Follow me,’ he hollers, and they chase down the alleys towards the main market. Dull thumps and shouts tell him that his pursuers are not far behind. Heart racing in his throat, he doesn’t dare look back. He doesn’t want to see how close they are in case it makes him trip.
Out of the covered market they swerve left where the men are weaving reed baskets, pass the mosque with the blue tiles in the courtyard and straight on until they reach the alley where the cobblers sit. Second right now and one, two, three, four doors down, a threshold with flowered tiles and a red painted grille on the door. He pounds on the door. The grille slides back.
‘I am Etienne,’ he pants. ‘Gui’s son. He told me you would help. Please let me in! They are chasing us.’
He hasn’t even drawn breath when the door opens and a bare, olive-skinned arm snatches him inside. He grabs the wheezing Christophe and they tumble in, nearly barrelling over the woman called Yalda. Flinging her arms around him as though he were some lost relative, she offers him comfy cushions to lie on and some sugared almonds. Yalda seems to think he has suffered something terrible, and coos at him in a soft voice, leaning over him so her breasts are practically in his face. How brave he is, does he want more to eat? Something to drink, maybe? He is fairly sure from the way she is dressed that she is a prostitute, all wrapped up in a tight silk robe that draws the eye to her bosom, and necklaces of large gems and jangly gold coins. Etienne can’t imagine for the life of him how Father Gui came to know her with his serious face and his awkward manner.
‘Don’t worry, little one. He will be here soon.’
Etienne wants to tell her that he isn’t little but then thinks better of it. He isn’t sure what Gui has told her and he has no idea how long he is going to have to wait with her. She squeezes her eyes at him. Etienne shifts uncomfortably on the cushion.
‘He is a brave man, your father. He would do anything for you.’
Outside they can hear Nasir the slave master and his henchmen hollering dire warnings in the streets to anyone who gives harbour to runaway slaves.Yalda presses her lips together and gives a wan smile that Eitenne imagines is supposed to be reassuring but isn’t anything of the sort. How in heaven are he and Christophe supposed to pass the time sitting here with this woman?
Someone knocks at the door at Etienne’s heart leaps into his mouth. Yalda adjusts her cleavage, blots her lipline with a finger.
‘Through there,’ she mouths, stabbing her index finger towards the courtyard door.
Etienne and Christophe scurry outside. It is a very small but beautiful garden, crowded with lush plants and herbs. They squeeze between a spiky aloe bush and two fig trees with big, wavy leaves, and crouch down. It is the middle of the day and the sun’s rays reflect off the walls of the enclosed space. Itchy beads of sweat run from Etienne’s hairline into his eyes but he is far too frightened to move. He can hear Yalda’s voice drifting from within, and although it doesn’t sound as though there is any shouting, in the tongue of the Mohammedans you can never really tell. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays to the one true God that it is not Nasir the slave master.
When it seems like an awfully long time has past and Etienne’s shins are burning beyond endurance from the confined squat, he looks over at Christophe, who has the same look of expectant misery as always. He is desperate to say something aloud, if only to reassure himself that even if it was Nasir come to search Yalda’s rooms, there can’t possibly be that many places to be search – and wouldn’t they have come out here to look anyway? In the end he mouths, ‘What’s going on?’ even though Christophe’s wide, robin’s egg eyes are glued to his feet, so he can’t possibly have seen.
Behind them there is a large clay pot of rosemary, its small blue flowers in bud. It reminds Etienne of his mother’s herb garden back home. Stripping the spines from a twig, he releases the oil into the palm of his hand and inhales deeply. It is the smell of his old kitchen in the summer. It still bothers him that he cannot recall even one time when he had an inkling that his mother and Father Gui were lovers. Why hadn’t they told him? If he hadn’t been captured would they ever have told him? He massages at his brow as though it might somehow rub out his confusing thoughts. Maybe he would just have realised when he got older. It must have been so obvious to see them together. He scratches at his shoulder – what else has he pulled the wool over his own eyes about?
Suddenly they hear a man cry out, a low, enduring groan. Christophe twitches in surprise and throws out a hand to steady himself, catching Etienne, who topples into the aloe bush.
‘It must be a customer,’ Etienne whispers to Christophe.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
*
A rap at the door jolts Gui from half sleep. It is still dark outside. He peels himself up, and clothed in his nightshirt, opens the door to find himself squinting into the flare of a torch. Nasir the slave master pushes him aside and enters the cell. Forearms covered with scars and burn marks, he towers over Gui - slave master now because he had once been the best slave.
‘It will be better for you if you tell me the truth.’ The way his voice grinds conjures up instruments of torture.
‘The truth,’ nods Gui. ‘With regard to..?’
‘The boy has escaped and you will tell me where he has gone.’
Gui tries not to swallow as his mouth runs dry. His son is free.
‘Escaped?’
The slave master s
tays silent. With his unusually wide-set eyes, he resembles one of the animal-gods of his people’s ancient religion.
Gui shakes his head in confusion. ‘I have travelled from the other side of the world and given up my freedom so an innocent boy could win his. Why would I see him escape from safe passage back to his home?’
Arms folded before him, Nasir growls. ‘If you want I can beat it out of you.’
‘Beat me?’ Gui’s voice pitches in outrage. ‘Your master, the great governor himself, guaranteed the boy’s safety, and now you want to beat me because you have lost him?’
The slave master’s jaw tightens. ‘We will find him. But until we do you should remember...’
‘You should remember that I agreed to remain here only subject to Etienne’s freedom and well-being. Am I to go and find him myself?’ Gui pulls on his robe.
The Egyptian’s eyes narrow. ‘When we find him we will bring him back here and then…’ He draws as breath, and Gui detects an uncertain thought travel across his face. The governor doesn’t know you have lost him yet, he thinks as he looks into the dead eyes of the other man. Nasir lifts his chest, but an invisible shift in the balance of power has taken place. He is not able to threaten information out of Gui, and now he knows it.
‘We will be merciful when he tells us how he came to escape.’ The giant slave master sneers as he closes the door behind him.
Gui sits heavily on his pallet and rubs the knuckles of his hand. It has been three days since Etienne departed through the portcullis with a dozen other slave boys and an eight-horse baggage train. He has been anticipating this news, holding his breath every time he is summoned to receive his duties, or sees a member of the household running across the gardens. Now it has come, he feels the throb of apprehension. Somewhere out there, the governor’s men are hunting for Etienne while he is trapped in this gilded cage, under suspicion.
Gui had planned to wait a few days before he attempted flight, but the news of Etienne’s escape has brought with it a sense of urgency that he knows he cannot resist. The chances of the governor’s men tracing Etienne to Yalda are slim - if Etienne has managed to find her. But the longer he leaves it, the more likely it is that his son will be caught. He peers through the heavenly patterns of his window. The lights are on in the servants’ quarters across the way and he can sense dawn hovering just beneath the blanket of night.
