That sight had propelled him back into the quarters again, where he had fallen to his knees and emptied what little remained of the contents of his stomach into a bucket there for that purpose.
It did not help that the food offered with such little grace consisted of biscuits, salted herring, and weak mead. Merely the smell of the food within the bucket was often enough to make Thomas heave again into the smaller bucket, also meant to serve as a portable latrine.
Beast seemed oblivious to the sea. Indeed, he seemed to delight in the pitches and rolls of the ship, and bounded around the small quarters with enthusiasm.
“Traitor,” Thomas muttered to the puppy as he now attacked the food. “Is it no wonder you grow like a weed, taking my portion with such greed.”
The puppy did not bother to look up.
A vicious wave slammed the side of the cog and knocked Thomas a foot sideways.
He groaned at the nausea that overwhelmed him and prepared for the now-familiar tightening and release of his stomach. His ribs racked with renewed pain as he leaned over the slop bucket and violently threw up.
The cold wind bit the skin of his face and throat and provided Thomas a slight measure of relief as he lurched from his quarters at the rear of the ship.
Below him, in the belly midship, was the crude tentlike roof of cloth that sheltered the crew from the wind and inevitable rain. Men moved in and out of the shelter, all intent on their various duties.
Thomas carried the slop bucket to the side of the ship and braced his legs to empty it over the side. He was so weak that it took all his energy and concentration to keep his balance and not follow the contents overboard.
He turned back to retrace the few steps to his quarters. And nearly stumbled into the large sailor who blocked his path.
“By the beard of old Neptune,” the sailor said with a nasty grin, “you would favor us all by becoming food for the fish.”
Thomas saw something cold in the man’s eyes, and beyond the man’s shoulder, he noticed two other sailors entering his quarters in his absence. He understood the implications immediately.
“I had feared pirates at sea,” Thomas said. He had to swallow twice to find the strength to continue and was angry at the weakness it showed so clearly. “But I did not expect them aboard this vessel.”
The sailor leaned forward, his eyes yellow above a dirty beard. “Pirates? Hardly. We saw the color of your gold and know the ship’s captain charged too little by far for us to bear the insult of living so poorly while a dog lives so well.”
Thomas sucked in lungs full of cold air, hoping to draw from it a clearness that would rid him of his nausea.
“Rate of passage is the captain’s realm,” he finally said.
The sailor took Thomas’s hesitation as fear, and laughed. “Not when the captain sleeps off a night’s worth of wine!”
There was a loud yelp from the quarters, then a muffled curse. The other two sailors backed out. One held his hand in pain. The other held the puppy by the scruff of his neck.
“No signs of coin anywhere,” the sailor with the puppy said. He dangled the puppy carelessly and ignored its yelps of pain.
The other sailor grimaced and squeezed his bleeding hand. “That monster took a fair chunk from my thumb.”
The yellow-eyed sailor turned back to Thomas. He dropped his hand to his belt and, with a blur of movement, pulled free a short dagger.
He grinned black teeth.
“Consider your choices, lad. ’Tis certain you carry the gold. You’ll hand it over now. Or lose a goodly portion of your neck.”
Thomas knew the sailor was lying—once they had the gold, he would die anyway. Alive, he would later be able to complain to the captain, or once ashore, seek a local magistrate. The sure solution for them was to make sure no one was watching this far corner of the ship, and toss him—alive or dead—overboard. Then, no one aboard would be able to prove the crime.
Show weakness, Thomas commanded himself. Your only chance against three is to lull them into expecting no fight at all.
He sagged, an easy task considering the illness that seemed to bring his stomach to his throat.
“I beg of you,” Thomas cried, “spare my life! You shall receive all I have!”
The evil grin of blackened teeth widened.
“Of course we’ll spare your life,” the yellow-eyed sailor promised. He jabbed his knife forward. “Your coin!”
All three laughed at how quickly Thomas cowered in reaction to the movement of the knife.
Then Thomas fumbled with his cloak. “I keep it in a pouch hanging from my neck,” he said, not needing much effort to place an extra quaver in his voice. “ ’Twill take but a moment.”
Long before—it now seemed like a lifetime—Thomas learned something about swordplay in the dungeon cells of Magnus with Sir William. The knight had shown him the design of a leather sheath that was strapped around his upper body, so that a sword might remain hidden high on his back, between his shoulder blades. The knight had shown him the art of drawing the sword quickly, a Roman short sword capable of deadly work in close quarters. Later, when both were free from the danger and away from prying eyes, the knight had made Thomas practice the move again and again.
“Reach for your neck, as if scratching a flea,” the knight had said, “then in one motion, lean forward, draw it loose, and slash outward at your enemy.”
“T-the knot is a-awkward,” Thomas explained in a stammering voice as he fumbled with his right hand at his throat. He bent forward slightly, as if reaching behind his neck for a knotted string of leather. “But it will only take—”
He did not finish.
The hours of training had not been wasted.
In one silk-smooth move, the sword drew free over his ducked head. Head still down, he struck at the spot he had memorized before bending—the knife hand of the yellow-eyed sailor.
A solid thunk and squeal of pain rewarded him, even as he raised his head to give him a clear view of all three.
The sailor’s knife bounced off the wood deck.
Without pause, Thomas kicked the yellow-eyed sailor, sinking his foot solidly into the man’s groin. Then, even as the man fell forward in agony, Thomas charged ahead, slashing sideways and cutting steel into the flesh of the second sailor’s shoulder.
The third sailor only managed to step back half a pace, but even in that time had brought his arm back to cast the puppy overboard.
He froze suddenly.
“I think not,” Thomas grunted.
The sailor did not disagree. He slowly lowered the puppy, careful not to move in any way that might encourage Thomas to press the point of the sword any harder into the hollow of his throat.
“Let the puppy fall,” Thomas said softly. “He’ll find his feet. Or you might not find your head.”
The sailor could not even nod, so firmly was the sword lodged against his flesh. He simply opened his hand. The puppy landed softly, then growled and bit the sailor’s ankle. Tears of pain ran down the man’s face, but no sound could leave his throat.
“Obey carefully. This sword may slip,” Thomas warned. “My balance on these pitched waves has proven difficult.”
The sailor’s eyes widened in agreement.
Thomas pointed left with his free hand, and the sailor slowly shuffled in that direction. Thomas kept the sword in place and shuffled right, and in that manner of a grotesque dance, they continued until Thomas had half-circled and now faced the other two wounded sailors.
Beast stood directly between his legs and growled upward at all three sailors. “Listen to him well,” Thomas said. All three sailors bled soundlessly. The yellow-eyed one with the bones showing on the back of his hand. The second one with a gash through sleeve and shoulder. And the third from a torn ankle.
“Listen to my friend well,” Thomas repeated. “The next time your greed will cost you your lives.”
Even as the next words left his mouth, however, Thomas knew by the
hatred from their eyes that they would return. A colder, more ruthless man would understand this and kill them to eliminate a future threat. Tossing their bodies overboard would solve his problem—no one on the ship, save Beast, had witnessed the fight. It would be assumed the men had simply fallen overboard.
Thomas tried to will himself to slash out with the sharp steel. Saving his own life would be that simple. But he could not. He was helpless, for he would have to betray every instinct he held to kill them now in cold blood.
He allowed them to stumble away, and even then, one of them turned and mumbled a curse.
Thomas scooped up Beast and returned to his quarters.
Thomas could only guess the time when he next left his quarters, for low and angry gray skies hid the sun’s location.
He grinned upward despite the bleakness of the forbidding sky and endless swells of water. Dizziness and nausea had finally left him. After days without food, after days of constant vomiting, he was famished.
He carried the empty food bucket and swayed in rhythm to the motion of the ship as he walked to the edge of the rear deck. From there, he slowly studied the movements of the crew below.
Nothing seemed threatening.
For a moment, he considered seeking the ship’s captain to set forth his accusations against the three.
Then he dismissed the idea. Whose side would the captain chose? Certainly not his. With a crew of eighteen men, the captain would never risk becoming the focus of all anger by trying to discipline one-sixth of the crew.
No, Thomas could only hope that he had shown enough willingness to fight that the crewmen would not feel it worth the effort to cause more trouble.
Yet there was the sailor with the yellow eyes.
Thomas felt the man would return. And probably when all advantages were his. It would be a long, long journey, Thomas told himself, even if the cog were to reach Lisbon in the next hour. And there were many days ahead.
A slow, small movement below demanded his attention and tore him from his thoughts.
Yet, as he had been taught, Thomas refrained from glancing immediately at its source. No, by yawning and stretching and swiveling his head as if he had a sore neck, he was able to direct his gaze at the movement without showing any interest.
Only the cook’s assistant. Hat over eyes, shifting in sleep in a corner away from the constant menial work of preparing food.
Thomas looked elsewhere. Only briefly. The weight of the empty bucket was an unnecessary reminder of his intense hunger.
Thomas whistled, low and sharp.
He sleeps soundly.
Thomas whistled again. This time, the cook’s assistant raised his head and opened bleary eyes.
Thomas waved for him to approach the short ladder that led up to his quarters from the main deck of the cog.
“I beg forgiveness for waking you,” Thomas began, for he could remember his own days of back-grinding labor and little rest. “But I grow faint with hunger.”
Thomas lifted his empty bucket and smiled. “You could earn yourself a friend.”
The cook’s assistant shrugged, face lost in shadows beneath the edge of the battered leather cap, and took the offered bucket. When he returned, Thomas climbed down the ladder, reached into the bucket and used his teeth to tear apart a hard biscuit. He swallowed water from a jug in great gulps and then filled his mouth with the salted herring.
Thomas ate frantically in silence, half-grinning in apology between bites. When Thomas finally finished, he wiped his mouth clean with the sleeve of his cloak.
“You have my gratitude,” Thomas stated with good-natured fervor.
Once again, the cook’s assistant shrugged, then held out his hand for the bucket.
“A moment, please,” Thomas asked. “Have you any news of three crewmen in foul tempers?”
Raised eyebrows greeted that question. What face I can see is so dirty, Thomas thought, hair so filthy, he is fortunate it is cut too short to support many fleas. And his clothes are hardly more than layers and layers of rags.
“Of course,” Thomas said, laughing at the silent response to his question. “All sailors have foul tempers.”
A guarded smile greeted his joke.
“Three men,” Thomas prompted, “with wounds in need of care. Has any gossip regarding their plans reached your ears?”
Another shrug. Then the cook’s assistant touched his forefinger to his own lips.
Thomas understood. Mute.
The cook’s assistant set the bucket down and cupped his hands together, palms upward. He then stroked with one hand the air above the other.
“Puppy?” Thomas asked. “You inquire as to its well-being?”
The cook’s assistant nodded, almost sadly.
“His belly is fat with the food I could not eat.” Thomas smiled lazily, happy to be seasick no longer. “At least only one of us needed to suffer.”
The cook’s assistant opened his hands wide.
“Why?” Thomas interpreted. “Why so much trouble for a worthless puppy?”
He answered his own question. “That creature saved my life. It is the only living thing I dare trust.”
Then, speaking more to himself than to his audience, Thomas said very softly, “And it is the only living thing that trusts me in return.”
They attacked when the moon was at its highest.
The clouds had broken early evening, some six hours earlier, and the water had calmed shortly after. The dark of night provided peace to the weary crew. While the constant creaking of the ship continued, no longer did it groan and strain with every wave.
Thomas saw every move of their advance.
Crouched low, and silent with stealth, they slipped from bale to bale until reaching the ladder.
There were only three.
Thomas could enjoy the observation of their deadly approach because he was far from his quarters, hidden in the shadows of bales of wool. Far too easy, should the opportunity arise, for an unwary sleeper to be trapped inside those quarters, and far too easy for a knife of revenge to be drawn across his throat. So he had chosen the discomfort of the open ship.
Seek what treasures you will, Thomas thought merrily. Seek it until dawn. For what you desire rests safely with me.
Within his cloak lay his gold. Warm against his side lay the puppy, squirming occasionally with dreams.
I shall rest during the day, Thomas silently promised the three sailors, and spend my nights at constant guard among these shadows.
Much to his satisfaction, angry whispers reached Thomas. There was a light bang of the door shutting and a grunt of pain. More angry whispers.
Then silence. Minutes of silence.
It began to stretch Thomas’s nerves, knowing they were above him, out of sight, about to appear in silhouette at the top of the ladder at any moment.
Thomas wanted the warning, wanted to know as soon as possible when they were about to descend. But he did not stare at the top of the ladder.
Instead, he chose to focus on a point beyond it. Night vision, he knew, caught movement much more efficiently at the sides of the eyes.
Silence continued. Now the creaking of the ship seemed to be the low, haunting cries of spirits.
Suddenly, Thomas’s heart leaped in the terror of shock.
Directly above him, the edge of the deck detached itself!
He managed not to flinch, then forced himself to be calm, and slowly, very slowly, turned his head to see more clearly.
The black edge of the deck had redefined itself to show the black outlines of a man’s head and shoulders.
These men are shrewd. They have decided I must be hidden nearby. Instead of choosing the obvious—the ladder—they now watch from above, hoping I will not notice and betray myself with a movement.
Thomas told himself he was safe as long as he remained still. After all, he had chosen a deep shadow.
Yet his heart continued to hammer at a frantic pace. This is what the rabbit fears, h
idden among the grass. I understand now the urge to bolt before the hounds.
But Thomas did not.
Instead, what betrayed him was the only creature he trusted.
The puppy, deep in dreams, yelped and squirmed.
And within seconds, two of the sailors dropped to the belly of the ship. One from each side of the upper deck.
Beast yelped again, and they moved with unerring accuracy to the bale that hid him.
Moonlight glinted from extended sabers.
Thomas barely had time to stand and draw his own sword before they were upon him.
“A shout for help will do no good,” came the snarl with the approach of the first. “The captain’s drunk again, and the crew have turned a blind eye.”
“For certain,” a harsh whisper followed. “None take kindly to the manner in which you crippled my hand.”
Thomas said nothing, only waited with his sword in front.
Beast, now fully awake, pressed against his leg and growled at the attackers.
Another movement as the third sailor, the one with the limp, scuttled down the ladder from the upper deck. He, too, brandished a saber.
I have been well trained, thought Thomas, by Robert of Uleran, the man who surely fell in my defense at Magnus. I shall not disappoint his memory by now falling myself without a worthy fight.
The sailors circled Thomas, shuffling slowly in the luxury of anticipation. The silver light of the moon made it an eerie dance.
Impossible to watch all three at once.
From which direction would the first blow come?
Thomas heard the whistle of steel slicing air, and instinctively stepped back. He felt a slight pull against the sleeve of his cloak, then—it seemed like an eternity of waiting later—a bright slash of pain and the wetness of blood against his arm.
“Ho, ho,” the yellow-eyed sailor said, laughing. “My weaker hand finds revenge for the damage you did the other!”
Martyr's Fire Page 14
