'Do not ask a Moslem blade to cut pork if you wish her to serve you well,' he said gravely and handed me a plain, wooden-handled knife. You can keep this one,' he said. 'It is an apostate and won't care what you carve.'
Gilles gave a snort of rueful amusement from across the table. 'I'm sure that our guest is too hungry to give the faith of his cutlery much thought,' he said.
He was right. The food was plain but good, and I ate a great deal of it, and drank all the wine that Gilles poured into my pewter goblet. When at last I was full, and fell back in my chair with a barely stifled belch, I realised that my hosts had been silent the whole time. They had eaten too, but less ravenously than I, and they had taken care to keep my plate well stocked. But now de Montalhac spoke.
'Gilles called you our guest,' he said, 'but that is not strictly true. No, you are not our prisoner,' he added quickly. 'But you cannot return to England, as you know, and we will not be making landfall anywhere that you would wish to stay, not for a very long time. So-' and he glanced at Gilles, who nodded gravely,'-I propose to take you on as one of my crew.'
"Where are we going?' I asked, suddenly uncomfortable. My mouth was perhaps a little behind my mind, or else I would have been more worried about my sudden transformation from cleric to seaman.
The two men laughed. They seemed pleased. 'North. Far, far to the north, where the Skraelings live,' said the captain. 'And then, with a little luck, south.' Seeing I was ready with another question, he held up a hand.
'Don't worry, Petroc. We won't make you climb the mast if you don't want to. Your head will be more use to us than your muscles, although they will not go amiss. No, you have a quick wit and a strong spirit. Anyone, boy or man, who could keep one step ahead of a wolf like Kervezey – such a man has skill enough to find honour on this ship.'
'And now is the time to tell your story, before the wine sends you to sleep for another three days,' Gilles said, filling our goblets once more.
And so I told them. Beginning with Sir Hugh's golden trap at the Crozier and the next evening's horror in the cathedral, I let the tale unfold. And indeed, now that I was looking back on things and not living them, I found that it all seemed like invention, more a tale than reality. The memory of the deacon's blood made me pause. The knife that had killed him was now at my belt, and I wondered at the grim circles that fate drew with men's lives. I hastened over Will's death, but then I was explaining my escape, and my long days of travel, and finally my return to the abbey. De Montalhac interrupted to ask about Adric, but Gilles silenced him with a raised finger. I glossed over the final stretch of my journey. In those early days I was filled with a confusion of emotions: sorrow for my lost future; mourning for Will; burning regret; and a creeping sense of shame at my flight. My body would knit fast, but these other hurts would be long in the healing. So now I hastened on to my stay under the graveyard tree, and my audience had the good grace to laugh at how the gravediggers provided me with lunch. 'And the rest you know,' I finished.
'That is by no means true,' said the Captain. 'But you are tired. We have overtaxed you already. Sleep will heal your wounds and spread a little balm over past horrors.'
And indeed, I had not realised the depth of my fatigue. I made to stand, but my legs had no strength and I would have collapsed onto the table if Gilles had not caught me round the waist. To my great embarrassment, he swung me over his shoulder and carried me from the cabin as a hunter carries a fresh-killed deer. But there was no censure in the Captain's eyes as he watched us leave the cabin, only concern – or perhaps sadness. And then we were on deck, in the strong salt of the wind. It was late in the afternoon, and low clouds were scudding across a pale sky. The great sail was full and straining, and sailors were passing to and fro, attending to their mysterious duties and sparing us not even a glance. Gilles carried me below. A pallet had been laid out in the sharp angle of the bow. Eyes closed, I sank into the sweet, fresh straw and barely felt Gilles cover me with a soft and heavy blanket. For a minute or so I felt the ship heave and fidget under me and felt myself speeding along, head first, like a seabird over the water. Then came sleep, and no dreams.
Chapter Ten
I awoke to dim light, the rushing of water beneath me and a crushing weight on my chest. Opening my eyes, I found another pair of eyes staring back at me. They were large and golden, and set rather close together. I realised I was pinned down by a gigantic cat. Judging by the cosy warmth of our two bodies, and the contented look upon its furry face, it had been there for some time. The creature was truly enormous. It was covered in long, grey-golden hair, which fanned out around its head. Its ears were pointed and topped by long tufts of hair. In amongst all this fur, the animal's face seemed oddly small, and its close-set eyes above a small black nose gave it a sweetly intelligent look, like a quizzical monkey. I raised a cautious hand to stroke its head, and a great paw stretched out and touched me gently on the chin. I rubbed behind the tufted ears and it began to purr. I could feel the vibrations right down to my liver. 'Good morning,' I ventured.
The beast yawned, and its whiskers tickled my neck. Who might you be?' I persisted. The cat stood up and stretched, unfurling its plumed tail. It leaned down and butted my face in a friendly sort of way, turned and picked its way down my body, and trotted off into the gloom, still purring.
I rose and, following the cat, climbed up on deck. The sun was bright and the air, cold and damp, blew away the last rags of sleep. As always, men were hard at work all around, scrubbing the decks, mending sails and doing all manner of other things that looked completely baffling. No one greeted me, or even looked my way, so I decided to have a look around. Yesterday had passed in a blur, but now the ship began to form itself as a definite presence around me.
It was a great, wide thing. From where I stood under the mast, which reared up in what seemed to be the dead centre of the deck, the ship seemed to curve up both front and back. In front, the deck rose and met in a sharp point, and above this stood a kind of large wooden hut, sturdily built and topped with a circlet of crenellations. Beyond this jutted a short mast that pointed our way through the green and white sea. Behind me the deck ended in a wooden wall, in which was set the door to the Captain's cabin. Above this was another, smaller deck, surmounted again by crenellations. I confess that I, a landsman used to stone walls, found the effect of all these slightly ridiculous. A little castle, made of wood. A little wooden castle afloat on the sea. Even the mast was topped with a fortress in miniature, a turret the size of a big half-barrel. Then I looked about some more and noticed weapons stacked neatly here and there: pikes and ugly, wicked-looking halberds that sprouted notched hooks like talons; big, gnarled grappling irons. And the crew: they were all shapes and sizes, some fair, some dark. All were burned by the sun, and all seemed grim. Any one of them looked ready to take up one of those savage halberds and split heads apart like firewood. I shuddered, but then the ship gave a lurch, the sail flapped and snapped overhead, and everyone looked up from their tasks, alert and ready. Then I saw that I had mistaken grimness for concentration, that these were men who lived in a world encompassed by these wooden walls and who had mastered their world completely. This really was a fortress and would be defended to the last drop of blood.
The wind seemed to have shifted slightly. Commands were passed to and fro, and ropes were hauled on until the great square of cloth filled once more. I was in the way, although I might have been a lifeless piece of cargo for all the attention the crew gave me. Dodging between them, I made my way to the back of the ship, where a kind of ladder led up to the little fortress atop the Captain's cabin. I climbed up and found myself in a small, enclosed space. The wooden battlements were much more formidable close-to: thick, scarred and as high as my head. And there in the middle of the deck stood a figure, legs braced wide, seemingly bonded to a great spar that quivered and jerked in his grasp. The sun was behind him, and in my eyes. I had exchanged the frenzy below for an audience with a shadowed giant. Turning b
ack to the ladder, I collided with the Captain, who fended me off, laughing. Awake and about, Petroc? How did you sleep?'
I told him my night had been dark and dreamless. 'But who,' I added, 'was the monstrous creature who woke me?'
De Montalhac frowned. 'Monstrous, you say – not Dimitri, the master-at-arms?'
Now it was my turn to laugh. 'No human creature, sir. This one had four legs, lion's teeth and a tail like a fox. Unless that was indeed your Dimitri.'
'Aha. Fafner found you. Bigger than the master-at-arms, although not as fierce. He is a skaukatt, one of those cats that live in the forests of Norway, that mate with the wild lynx. We had him as a runty kitten. Rassoul took him off a market-woman in Trondheim who was set on his drowning. Sweet as a baby and clever as an ape. I've seen him swallow a rat in one gulp.' 'I believe he could have done the same to my head.'
'Like as not. But I see you are curious about our ship. That is good. What have you noticed?'
'I have seen sailors who look like warriors, wooden castles and…' I lowered my voice and motioned over my shoulder to the figure behind me, 'and that one.'
You mean Nizam,' said the Captain. 'Another giant, but he must be, to handle the tiller. Come, let us meet him.' And before I could decline, he was leading me up the sloping deck.
Without the sun in my eyes, I saw that Nizam was human after all, bigger than myself or the Captain and powerful, but no monster. And he was a Moor, the first I had seen. I was face to face with one of the Infidel demons loosed upon the world, devourers of children, worshipers of the idols of Mahomet, defilers of the Holy Places. I had seen their images on tavern signs and the like: coal-black gargoyles with red eyes and sharp, white teeth. Here, though, was a man with light brown skin, almond eyes, a strong, curved nose and ordinary-sized teeth. His hair was short and black, a small ruby hung from each ear, and he wore a close-cropped beard that came to a point below his chin. We were introduced, and he nodded solemnly and touched his right hand lightly to his chest, his lips and then his forehead. 'Peace be with you,' he said.
'The same to you, sir,' I replied. To my horror, the man barked with laughter, leaned over the tiller and slapped my good arm.
'My dear young fellow, you must have a Moslem soul,' he cried. 'Salaam aleikum is our greeting – the reply is wa'aleikum salaam… "and with you"… Where did you find this prodigal?' he asked the Captain. 'The usual Frankish dolt would have thanked me or invoked his Christ or some other nonsense. This one thinks. I like him.'
'No talk of souls until after the noon bell, old friend,' said de Montalhac. As to where I found Master Petroc, the truth is he found me. And looked death in the face to do it.'
'I have heard a little of your story, my young friend,' Nizam said, turning to me, 'but perhaps you can tell it yourself Seeing my face fall, he quickly added, 'In a few days, of course – after you are a little more at home. These long watches are lonely. Your company would place me in your debt.'
'I will gladly keep you company, sir, and no more talk of debts,' I said. 'Gallant, very gallant,' said the Captain. 'But beware, lad you have fallen into a nest of storytellers. My advice is to demand a tale before you part with your own. Most of them are wild and bloody, but you will find that yours will hold its own with the wildest.'
He turned and made his way back down to the main deck, and I murmured a farewell to Nizam and tripped down the ladder at the Captain's heels. I cannot deny that my new home, with its armed, scowling denizens, was beginning to fill me with misgivings, especially as I could see that what I assumed to be dry land was but a long blue blur on the horizon. De Montalhac, Gilles and Rassoul I counted as allies, and Nizam was by no means the ogre I had at first taken him to be, but I was painfully aware that I was more or less alone, hurt, in surroundings that at the very least were unfamiliar and in fact downright outlandish. Even the ship's cat seemed a furry titan. My best chance for survival, then, must be to keep a tight hold on the hem of the Captain's cloak.
That morning, however, de Montalhac had, unbidden, appointed himself my guide and protector. One by one he introduced me to his crew, each man seemingly happy to turn away from whatever task occupied him to make my acquaintance. At first I felt myself shrinking back behind the Captain, but to my great surprise I soon found that the crew were by no means as menacing as their countenances might suggest. Each gravely bowed to me, some taking my hand, others saluting me in the manner of their own country. Several favoured me with the gesture which Nizam had used, although, strange as it seemed to me then, there were no other blackamoors aboard.
The next introduction was the most terrifying. The Captain had mentioned Dimitri, the monstrous master-at-arms, and now he led me towards the odd little fortress that sprang from the front of the ship – 'She is a ship, Petroc, never a boat,' he told me firmly – where a hulking figure was sharpening halberds on a stone wheel, sending sparks flying in the scant shade of the wooden wall. I saw that he was passing the sharpened blades to another man, who packed them into rough wooden chests filled with what looked like tallow.
Hearing the Captain call his name, the man at the wheel looked up from his work, showing me a face that seemed a jumble of bumps and crags, as if sharp pebbles had been worked into dough. Smallpox had ravaged it, and one cheek had been sliced flat to leave a shining plane of scar-thickened flesh. The fleshy nose had been broken high up between the eyes, which were small and brown. The man's close-cropped hair was iron-grey. As he turned towards us, I saw that the razor-keen blade which had removed his cheek had also carried away his right ear.
'This is Dimitri the Bulgar, who carries us all upon his shoulders,' said the Captain. The monster shrugged and fixed his gaze on me. It was bright and alive, and stabbed like an awl.
'This is Petroc. I'd be delighted if you could put him under your eye,' the Captain went on. 'I would have him learn our ways and the ways of the ship. You will find him promising, I think.'
'Petroc?' said Dimitri. His voice was hoarse, and his accent guttural. He leered, and I realised that this was how a grin appeared on a face that lacked a cheek. I took his proffered hand, as big as one of his halberds, and as hard. 'I have seen you.'
That was all. My presence noted, Dimitri went back to his whetstone. I glanced at the Captain for an explanation, but he was already introducing me to the man packing the blades in grease, a thin, sunburned man whose blue eyes twinkled as he told me his name was Istvan, from the island of Split in Dalmatia, and that he was overjoyed to make my acquaintance, a stream of words which poured out in barely intelligible English in an accent close to, yet oddly different from that of Dimitri. I stammered and bowed in return, and Istvan winked, holding out a tallow-daubed hand to me and cackling when I hesitated to take it in my own. I blushed furiously.
'A smart one, this one, Captain,' the man laughed. 'Looks out for tricks. I like him.'
I bade Dimitri and Istvan farewell, and the Captain led me towards a group of men sitting cross-legged on the deck, sewing patches into a great expanse of sailcloth. 'It is well that you are in favour with those two,' he murmured. 'Dimitri looks fierce, does he not? And he is even fiercer than his countenance promises. But Istvan too is a great warrior. Those two fear nothing, but are clever enough to keep blood and breath in their bodies. Listen to what they tell you, be grateful if they teach you a little of what they know and stay close to them in a fight – should occasion arise,' he added quickly, seeing the look I darted at him.
And thus we spent the morning, de Montalhac taking care that I met every man aboard the Cormaran. I learned that not all – indeed almost none – of the evil-visaged crew were as forbidding as they appeared, but were happy or at least curious to make my acquaintance, knowing that I came to them trailing dark clouds of some sort and so, in that way at least, already one of them. I still remember every face and every name, although there is no time in my story to dwell on all of them. Men like Zianni the Venetian; Horst the German, who had been no less than a knight of the Teutonic Order;
Isaac the surgeon and his friend the poet and cook Abu, Jews of Valencia; and Pavlos, the swordsman from the White Swan at Dartmouth, who had been a guard of the Despot of Epirus -a Greek princeling of whom I had never heard, to my embarrassment – but had run foul of a palace intrigue and been lucky to escape with his life. Then there were Elia and Panayoti, brothers from Crete, Rassoul, who was a Sicilian Moor; Snorri the Dane and Guthlaf the dour ship's carpenter, also a Dane; and scores more besides, from every nook and corner of Christendom and many places beyond.
In all, the crew of the Cormaran was a strange stew of vagabonds, men of faith and of the sword, scholars and minstrels. These men, who almost without exception had found themselves unable to live in the everyday world, here worked together, lived together, died together. Quarrels were rare. Fights were rarer, and quickly over: although every man aboard knew war and death as well as they knew the lines of their own hands, I believe that very few of them loved violence for its own sake. And if some of the crew had little regard for each other, they were all joined in their devotion to the Captain.
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