Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘A little,’ said Jerott. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just——’

  ‘He is hurt!’ Springing to her feet, Marthe swung to confront the Governor, her face hard and bright as her sharp little teeth. ‘How is this? What have you done to Mr Blyth? I warn you, the Grand Master of his Order …’

  His jaws sawing the air like a starling on the edge of a puddle, the Governor finally emitted a croak. ‘You!’ to the Syrian. ‘Explain!’

  With the only unalloyed satisfaction of that hideous night, Jerott heard the Syrian try, in five hand-wringing minutes, to explain. It sounded exceedingly lame. He had been told that, under guise of seeking a child, the perfidious French Special Envoy might try to gain access to Mehedia. And when one such had come, he had assumed … The man had been overpowered and left to await the Governor’s pleasure … and then the unfortunate fire, of which he knew nothing, nothing …

  Jerott took a deep breath. ‘Your Excellency … fool though this man may be, I begin to see that folly and not ill-will may have been at work. Much of what he says is indeed truth. I sought a young Christian soul in Mehedia, a boy enslaved by mischance, for whose safety his father was prepared to pay many thousand ducats in gold. Believing this a mere spying device, our Syrian friend may well have deceived himself. Learn now that the boy I sought was indeed in the care of the Syrian’s sister. As an earnest of his goodwill and yours, let him be found, and no more need be said of this matter.’

  Almost parallel with his own voice, the secretary’s low translation came to an end. The Syrian’s face, like a weeping child’s, puckered. ‘Many thousand ducats of gold?’

  ‘For the return of the boy, alive and well. Some of this of course,’ said Jerott smoothly, ‘would be the rightful property of the city.’

  Sitting up, the Governor addressed the Syrian sharply. ‘Where is the child?’

  ‘Bey Efendi …’

  ‘Speak! Does he live? Where have you taken him?’

  ‘Bey Efendi … with her livelihood destroyed in the fire, my sister lost heart.… She took ship today, with the children, to find a new home elsewhere.… I do not know where she is bound!’

  Jerott’s voice was even sharper than the Governor’s. ‘What was the ship called?’

  ‘I do not know! Yes, yes! I remember, Efendi. It is an English ship called the Peppercorn.’

  ‘What was her cargo?’ said Jerott. ‘The name of her master, her pilot, her officers?’

  ‘I do not know! But she will write, Efendi! She will write to tell where she is; and then shall I seek out the Lord and inform him. Thousands of ducats in gold! And all my silk vanished!’

  Jerott stared at the Governor. ‘A sad mess, Your Excellency. I wonder how far I may rely on this information finally reaching me? I fear I must ask you to make yourself responsible.’

  ‘I shall. News of this ship will be brought to me: I shall see to that, as soon as this woman writes to her brother. Regardless of cost, I shall dispatch it to you, Mr Blyth, at Malta.’

  Hell. Jerott, flogging a sick brain, looked solemnly at the uneasy Spaniard. ‘Not to me, señor. This information is for one more exalted by far. Address it to Signor Leone Strozzi, Prior of Capua. That is the man whose path you have so carelessly crossed.’

  ‘Madre mia …’ said the Governor. ‘And your own plans, Mr Blyth?’

  To rejoin my ship somewhere off Djerba, as soon as I may arrive there, ‘said Jerott austerely. ‘I imagine a horse might be forthcoming? An escort …?’

  Donna Maria sprang to her feet. ‘But Mr Blyth will of course come with us. We go to Jerusalem, Jerott. Why not come with us first? Does Malta need you so badly?’

  Jerott smiled. ‘I must go. But I shall come part of the way gladly. Tomorrow, if the Governor permits?’

  The Governor permitted. The Governor gave him a feather bed to repose on, and wine and chicken for breakfast, and an Arab mare and two sumpter-mules on to which he could load his monkish possessions from outside Mehedia. The Governor also would in no way be dissuaded from allotting him an escort of twenty armed men to see him part-way to Djerba, and to attach Donna Maria and her party to a suitable caravan, since her camels and most of her luggage, as she explained with aplomb, would be awaiting her a good deal ahead. They were about to leave, Marthe sitting sidesaddle in a magnificent cloak, with Lymond and Salablanca discreetly behind her, when the news came that the Syrian had been found dead by poison in bed.

  ‘How, then, shall we manage?’ said the Governor. ‘When the sister writes to say where she and the child will have landed?’

  Jerott’s eyes and those of Francis Crawford met and parted. ‘She will not write,’ said Jerott. ‘Now. If she does not know of it already, she will know of her brother’s death soon.’

  ‘But …’ said the Governor. ‘If she hears of this generous reward …’

  ‘If she makes inquiries,’ said Jerott, ‘I am sure you will hear of it and send the news, from your courtesy, to the Prior in Malta. But I fancy she values her life more.’

  The sun was shining as they rode out through the gates of Mehedia, the twenty horsemen behind them; and, after collecting Jerott’s possessions, and many others under that pretext from the village, turned their horses’ heads east towards Djerba.

  They rode silently; Jerott with a high temperature that showed itself about noon, and enforced a rest during which Marthe scientifically rewashed and rebound his injuries, fed him orange-juice, and watched the dispassionate face of her steward. When, presently, Lymond came over, she spoke to him quietly. ‘Mr Blyth needs rest. Is it quite beyond your ingenuity to get rid of these men?’

  ‘Not at all, if you fancy a slit throat or a spectacularly close view of a lion,’ said Lymond. ‘Otherwise you must suffer them, I’m afraid, until we catch up with some other protection. Once we’re near Djerba, it’s simple.… Jerott?’

  Jerott stared up through his headache. ‘I can manage,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I think you’ll manage better tied to your horse,’ said Lymond. ‘Salablanca will do it. Mademoiselle, you look hot.’

  Adjusting her girth, Marthe paused, exasperated, as he came over. ‘It is difficult, on the whole, to look anything else in eleven God damned ells of Lucca velvet. Mr Crawford, do you know the English ship Peppercorn?’

  Pausing, his hands cupped to give her a lift, Lymond looked sharply up. ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Yes. She has a regular run. When I do work for Georges I meet her at the same time always in all her various ports. If she left Mehedia yesterday, I know where she’s bound.’

  ‘Then so did the Governor?’ suggested Lymond, his eyes on the clever, impatient face.

  ‘Of course. He wanted the money. But if you board the Dauphiné now, you’ll get there before him. The Peppercorn goes from Mehedia to Scanderoon.’

  ‘Scanderoon. The port for Aleppo?’

  ‘Aleppo, Persia, and all points east and south. I imagine you were going to use the Dauphiné anyway to track the other ship down?’

  ‘Yes …’ He gave her a lift, neatly, and, as she settled herself in the saddle, gazed speculatively up at her. She said, on a spurt of unusual temper, ‘If you say I look hot once again, I shall die of boredom, I think.’

  ‘Don’t die,’ said Lymond pleasantly; and swinging into his own saddle, gathered the reins. ‘Have a fit.’ And the procession moved off.

  The sun that day, for the first time, showed its real strength. Out of the shade of the olive trees, it struck, ringing as bronze, on the flat plains outside Sfax; on the grey flinty plains of the desert that stretched beyond, interrupted by the oasis at Gabès. The Spanish soldiers, surcoats over the burning shell of their armour, rode in bitter discomfort, silent except for the occasional command: even the open longing with which they stared sideways at Marthe gave way, in time, to gloomy endurance. Jerott, with Salablanca’s dark hand on his reins, was hardly conscious at all.

  He did not see Lymond, watching him, suddenly make up his mind and move over, quietly, to spea
k to the Spanish commander, or the change of direction which took the whole company across the gritty sand-flats to Gabès. He was aware, first, of an occasional relief as they passed the more and more frequent handfuls of palm trees, and then of the skyline of greenery and tall, interlaced trees that spoke of the presence of water. Sitting up a little, his inflamed eyes tightened against the glare, he saw the first white mud walls of Gabès come into sight, and the sharp moving shadows of horsemen, breaking out through the trees. The sun, sinking golden into unsophisticated textures, suddenly struck off tinder sparks of hard light among the palm trees and these, Jerott saw, came from the riders who thronged out with their shadows from the huddle of buildings.

  They poured out, a great many of them, their turbans like bog cotton above sallow faces and wide-sleeved jackets and trousers; and in their grasp the lances and bows and wide-bladed swords of Damascus flashed and glittered and the sound of their voices, shouting, fell thin and crowded on the wide desert air. Jerott felt Salablanca’s grip on his reins tighten, and saw that Lymond was already on his other side, his drawn sword in his hand.

  ‘A hundred … two hundred, at least,’ said Francis Crawford’s even voice. ‘And they’re behind us as well. I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Marthe … Jerott. It’s a perfect trap, I’m afraid. Stay in the trees, and don’t try to escape. We’ll have to surrender.’

  Jerott’s disused voice was barely audible. The Spaniards won’t. It would cost them their Uves. That’s the standard of the Aga Morat, the Governor of Tripoli. He’ll kill every Spaniard he can reach.’

  Lymond, his head bent, had already knotted a large white scarf to the point of his cane. Then let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that they feel rather differently about a Special Envoy of France.’ And leaving the girl and Jerott still mounted, waiting under the palms, he spurred forward, with Salablanca, to the head of the troop.

  Marthe and Jerott watched them go: watched the white-robed circle of horsemen closing inwards on the knot of armed Spaniards, the light arrows already beginning to fly. ‘They’re poisoned,’ said Jerott, and shut his lips hard. A poisoned arrow might be the kindest death an Arab army could offer a woman under the protection of Spain.

  Then they saw, within that trapped band of horsemen, the snatched words between Lymond and the Spanish commander apparently come to an end. Among the polished steel something fluttered—the white scarf Lymond had tied to his whip. Holding it high, Lymond rode out from among the circling group of frantic horsemen, straight out among the falling arrows and towards the Aga Morat’s blue standard.

  Jerott did not look at the still face beside him, but he drew a long, shaking breath, and spoke. ‘Do you see?’

  And with her eyes also on the solitary horseman: ‘What else could he do?’ Marthe replied.

  It was a long ride. Presently, the arrows stopped falling while the Arab horses stood still in their wide circle and the rearguard, at Gabès and within fifty yards of Jerott’s back to the west, made sure that none breaking through should escape. They saw Lymond, swordless, reach the standard, and brown hands close on his stirrups and reins before the robed figures hid him completely. ‘The Aga Morat …’ said Marthe suddenly. ‘He is Turkish, is he not?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jerott; and forced himself into coherence. ‘He commands an army which used to be based on Tagiura. He was the lieutenant of Barbarossa, the corsair, when Algiers was taken, and he helped two years ago to fling the Knights of St John out of Tripoli. He’s not inimical to France, but Francis will have to persuade him that he is a French envoy …’ Jerott fell silent. Two years before, Francis Crawford had fought for the Knights of St John at Tripoli, as Jerott had done. And even if he were not remembered from that, how could he explain, how in God’s name could he explain how twenty armed Spanish soldiers came to be escorting them?

  ‘If he is wise,’ said Marthe smoothly, with the uncanny aptness which he found so disconcerting, ‘our friend will represent himself and us to be prisoners and the Spaniards our captors. The Spanish are killed; we are free, and the Aga Morat escorts us to Djerba. How Mr Crawford will take pleasure in moving his pieces. Meredoch, son of Hea, with his holy hands severs the knots.’

  ‘That’s … less than generous,’ said Jerott. ‘I should trust him to try to save the Spaniards’ lives as much as our own.’

  ‘Would you?’ said Marthe. ‘Then, Mr Blyth, sit up and look.’

  There was no sign, this time, of the white flag. If Lymond was there, he was unseen, among the rearguard of the Arabs. But the Aga Morat’s standard was moving. Slowly taking the forefront, it was moving inwards, towards the small band of Spaniards, and at the same time, all the horsemen in that wide circle put their mounts to the trot. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, with the grey dust rising high above their white turbaned heads and obscuring the the deep blue of the sky, the Aga Morat’s trained army, swords flashing, arrows flying, galloped in towards that tight knot of soldiers and, arriving with a crash and a shout that shook the choked air, they raised their blades and started to kill.

  True to their training, the Spaniards held together. Back to back, with sword and dagger and the hooves of their horses as weapons, they fought and killed in their turn, were wounded, and died. Without looking round, Jerott knew that as the sound lessened, as the blinding fragments of armour showed less and less among the twisting robes of the horsemen, the line of men at his back had drawn nearer; had encircled the small grove in which he and Marthe sat their horses, and that at a sign from the standard their fate, also, would be decided.

  Beside him, Marthe, perfectly white, had not moved. Jerott said, ‘You saved my life at Mehedia. There has been no time to thank you.’

  She did not look at him. ‘I enjoy acting,’ said Marthe in her clear, intolerant voice. ‘As … he does. The human scene is well rid of us both.’

  Very soon after that, the carnage was complete, and the signal they expected came clearly from the blotched and littered sand of the battlefield, where the Arab horsemen, little reduced, had already dismounted to pillage the dead. There were no Spaniards living. Some, their horses cut down beneath them, had attempted in the end, blindly, to run, and had been hewn down, delicately limb by limb and feature by feature, while begging for death. Two, released from their armour, had had the flesh of their backs slit for spreadeagling.

  Jerott saw the signal pass, and the Arabs waiting outside the palm trees begin to filter towards Marthe and himself. His head swimming, he none the less pulled himself straight in the saddle and began, slowly, to pull out his sword. In Marthe’s hands a little dagger winked in the sun. Jerott said, ‘Though I can’t help you, I shall still pray for you. Who are you, Marthe?’

  She had moved to face their assailants, but at the question she turned, and he winced at the irony in the brilliant blue gaze. ‘Qui nescit orare, discat navigare.… Why ask now? Do you expect to live to gratify Mr Crawford’s curiosity?’ said Marthe.

  ‘… No. You said,’ continued Jerott, weakly dogged, ‘that the world was well rid of you both. I cannot believe it.’ The Arabs were very close now: he could see the high saddles and the tasselied housings on each little horse.

  ‘Oonagh O’Dwyer would believe it,’ said Marthe. ‘And the branded baby at Bône. And the woman Kedi and these twenty soldiers, and the infant catamite, wherever he may be going. Don’t you think they would all have been happier if Francis Crawford had never existed?’

  ‘It’s easy to blame. What can you know of him?’ Jerott said.

  ‘All I know of myself. Too much. And nothing,’ said Marthe.

  She cut a man to the bone before she was overpowered, and the knife wrenched from her as she tried to turn it on herself. Jerott saw it, and in a fury of pity and anger pulled his sword up with both hands and brought it, weakly, again and again across the thrusting mass of his assailants before they overwhelmed him. Aga Morat’s men did not kill either Jerott or the girl there and then. They took them, cruelly lashed on horseback, across that strewn and b
loody arena under the hot sun to Gabès, where in a clearing between the deserted white walls the Aga Morat, sitting under an awning of reeds, studied the smooth umber flesh of a young Moorish girl he had just accepted as tribute.

  On the edge of consciousness, Jerott saw the scene as he was cut from his horse: the silken thighs and underfed ribs of the girl as she swayed round and round, smiling vaguely, under the prod of her handler; the intent black eyes of the Turk, as he sat crosslegged on the latticed shade of his carpet, the jewel-handled knives glinting dimly in the silk of his sash, and in his turban the Pasha’s feather in gold.

  In the shadows behind him, Francis Crawford, resting at ease, stirred, and murmured in Arabic, ‘… No. I favour the other. Sweet to be taken up, as medicine is by the lip; sweet as the swelling out of the new moons, and full. Take the other.’

  ‘It shall be,’ said the Aga Morat comfortably, and snapping his fingers, followed the girl with his eyes as she was forced away, running. Then he turned. ‘Ah. Mr Blyth. I have been sharp with thy friends. Thou wilt in thy heart forgive me, for as a stone with which perfume is bruised, I release thereby the truth. It is long since I entertained a Knight Hospitaller of your Order.’

  Swaying, Jerott stood in the sun, hanging on to his saddle. In Lymond’s averted blue gaze he found no advice and no help. He said, ‘As Mr Crawford I am sure will have told you, Lord, I am no longer of the Order.’ The brute was not only gross: he was scented. Competing with the reek of sweat, of spiced food, of blood Jerott inhaled unspeakable emanations of sweet basil and spikenard.

  ‘It is strange,’ said the Aga agreeably. ‘Doubly strange, when so short a time past thou exerted thyself at Tripoli so mightily. Triply strange, when at Mehedia, I am told, thou wast vehement in proclaiming the attachment. He who now calls himself Crawford was in Mehedia no more than the steward of this lady. And this lady, whom I am asked to believe is a Frenchwoman, there called herself a noblewoman of Italy. How may one poor in understanding as myself resolve such a tangle?’