With the onset of evening, lanterns were lighted all along the quay. Wooden cranes lifted foodstuffs aboard, then huge strapped bundles, each containing a thousand, two thousand arrows. Packhorses and palfreys were led up the gangplanks, another crane swinging to load barrels of salted fish, kegs of fresh water, personal baggage and lances and wine and baskets of hard black bread. Crates of chickens were tossed from hand to hand. Squealing pigs were herded into pens on the crowded decks. Courier pigeons huddled in their coops. Knights snarled at their sergeants, who roared in turn at the common soldiers, the men now less afraid of their commanders than of what lay in wait for them beyond the harbour mouth. To risk their lives in battle with the dark-skinned Saracen – the infidel – was one thing. But to go out there on the surging swell of the sea, the foam of rage on its lips, oh, that was different. It’d take some getting used to, that vast expanse of water, with nothing on the horizon to mark its end…
* * *
The safeguard asked, ‘Which ship d’you ’ave in mind, m’lord?’ Then he watched as Falkan indicated a double-castle, clinker-built vessel at the far end of the quay. The fore and stern castles resembled the crenellated towers of a fortress, the deck between tented with canvas, a single mast rearing amidships, its square sail furled to the trees.
Without further ado, Quillon strode forward, shouldering others aside. They protested angrily, saw the cleaver he chose to carry, then muttered as Falkan and Guthric widened the wedge. Each of the three led a packhorse. The animals were laden with hauberks and helmets, swords and lances, the boiled-leather saddlebags, cloaks that would double as blankets, sacks containing a change of undershift, linen surcoat, oil and blades for their faces. The belt at Falkan’s waist held a purse of coins, a two-edged dagger. Quillon wore a scabbard for his cleaver, Guthric a pair of flat, empty pouches, carefully fashioned triangles of leather.
The safeguard leading, they made their way to the distant, broad-bellied vessel.
* * *
One hand curled to shade the light of the lanterns from his eyes, Captain Gregorius Bigorre watched the men approach his ship. Gazing down from the stern-castle, he waited for them to come level with the carrack, the bulky transport he’d sardonically named the Gossamer.
‘You’ve wandered off-course, messires, or come ’ere with a purpose?’
Falkan handed the reins of his horse to Guthric. Then he moved a step forward, stared up at the captain and told him most certainly they’d a purpose – ‘To take passage aboard this ship.’
‘You’d best find one of the others. Ain’t got no room for passengers this time out.’ Landsmen, he decided. Eager to find glory in Palestine. The lean one anyway. As for his companions, the long-haired barley stook was in it for the mischief he could make, while the ugly one was probably wanted for murder. They’d likely be trouble, this trio, wherever they went.
Glancing the length of the Gossamer, Falkan said, ‘I’ll admit you’re well laden, master, but you’ve room and to spare for three men and their mounts.’
His broad jaw hedged with a salt-and-pepper beard, Gregorius Bigorre leaned on the wooden battlements of his castle. ‘You heard what I just said, messire. She’s the very bitch of a vessel, the Gossamer, and I shan’t have the time to nurse you when you go green. For all I know the three of you are marvels on horseback, but the sea has a way of turning a man’s belly inside out. Go and find a steadier vessel, that’s Captain Bigorre’s advice.’
He was turning away when Falkan snapped, ‘I’d have another moment of your time, Captain Bigorre.’
‘Oh, you would? To tell me what?’
‘Quite simply, that appearances deceive. You, for example. You look like a sailor, yet are guilty of wide misjudgement. It saps my confidence, Captain. I’m forced to ask – Is Captain Bigorre the sailor he appears to be, or did he nurture that beard in the safety of Plymouth Sound?’
The master of the carrack wheeled in fury. ‘You dare to question Gregorius Simeon Bigorre? Thirty-six times crossed the Channel! Five times sailed to Bordeaux! Been as far north as Trondhjem, as far south as Oporto! And you, you would-be adventurer, who’s never set foot on the deck of a ship—’
‘Save to fish with the Irish trawlers. And sail to the Norman port of Cherbourg. And return – like you, Captain Bigorre – from Oporto.’
The men annealed their gaze.
Quillon stroked the muzzle of his horse.
Guthric studied the clumsy-looking carrack.
Then Gregorius Simeon Bigorre moved to the steps that led down from the stern-castle, peered the length of his ship and gave a series of low, permissive grunts. ‘Well, possibly… If we moved some of the stores about… Damned extra work… But possibly…’
‘You’d be fairly paid for your trouble, Captain Bigorre.’
‘And expect to be,’ he grumbled, jerking his head in ungracious invitation.
* * *
In the grey of the dawn, beckoned by the tide, seventeen of the nineteen Crusader vessels slipped from their moorings in Plymouth. Of the two ships they left behind, one was burning fiercely, the result of a lantern toppling on to a pitch-coated cask. The other ship had cleared the quay, swung around as her steer-board jammed, then gouged a hole in the overlapped planks of her hull. She was settling fast, listing to port, men struggling to release the palfreys from their stalls, or rid themselves of their link-mail tunics, the mishap already donning the cloak of disaster.
Small boats were rowed to the aid of the sinking vessel, her blazing sister, though none of the other ships dared shorten sail or turn about. The tide was ebbing, calling them to sea. If they were ever to leave as a fleet, they must stay together, abandoning those who’d fallen by the way.
Yet from all the seventeen ships that cleared the harbour, men looked back at the flames and smoke, at the angled mast. It was a bad omen, and some believed they heard the desert-dry laughter of Satan’s most cunning disciple, the Sultan Saladin.
* * *
Accepted aboard the Gossamer by Captain Gregorius Bigorre, the constable and safeguard prayed that Heaven would take their souls. Clinging to the rail amidships, they were violently seasick, their eyes streaming with tears and the sting of the spray. Groaning in agony, the Saxon huddled on deck, Quillon sprawled a few feet astern, the younger man cursing with each lift and plummet of the clumsy, barrel-like transport.
So far unaffected, Falkan took the opportunity to crouch beside Guthric, a hand on the victim’s shoulder. Shouting with the wind that scoured the Channel, the young knight said, ‘My sympathies, old Guthric… Not unlike having a tooth pulled… Wouldn’t you say…?’
Then he went away grinning, happily revenged, to join Captain Bigorre at the steer-board, and share with him a gulp of good French cognac.
‘Your men seem unwell, my Lord Falkan.’
‘Nothing they won’t outlive, Captain Bigorre.’
‘Like this, was it, when you sailed with the Irish trawlers?’
‘One time, in February, I remember – But that story will keep. I’d be better pleased to hear of your own escapades, Captain Bigorre. In the north, say, up near Trondhjem?’
Liking the young knight more by the minute, the master of the Gossamer wiped water from the grizzled sponge of his beard. ‘Trondhjem,’ he recollected. ‘Now there was a voyage. A vessel the size of a bucket, an’ we were half a day out of port, when…’
* * *
This small part of King Richard’s Crusader fleet was headed for Bordeaux. After that they would skirt the Iberian peninsula, docking at Oporto or Lisbon. From there they would pass through the Straits of Gibraltar, sail wide of the Moorish dominated south, then turn north between the mainland and the Islamic-held islands of Majorca, Minorca, Ibiza and Formentera. Clear of the Balearics, the ships would plough north-east to reach Marseilles – and greet King Richard.
That was anyway the plan, good as far as Bordeaux, where the sailors aboard the Gossamer grinned in amusement, as Guthric and Quillon made their uncerta
in way ashore.
And good for some way beyond, the contingent of the Crusader fleet cutting the corner of the quick-tempered Bay of Biscay.
Then suddenly bad, an April squall dancing with reckless abandon across the gulf. A storm so severe, so childishly spiteful, that it kicked the vessels aside like unwanted toys. It sank two of them within moments, drove another two on the dune-edged coast of Les Landes, expelled a further twelve to the grey Atlantic. As for the clumsy Gossamer, the transport was blown southward, her sail shredded by the infantile fury of the storm. Falkan’s three trusty palfreys were tossed to death in their stalls. Crates and casks were swept overboard, as were two of Bigorre’s sailors. Another was crushed, his injuries so terrible that the captain crouched beside him, saw there was nothing to be done for the man, then split his skull with the unseen swing of a plumb. Unceremoniously, the sailor’s body was toppled from the stern.
Obedient to the commands of Gregorius Bigorre, the passengers worked alongside his depleted crew. All of them bore the weals of rope burns, livid bruises, stinging lacerations. Another sailor was lost to the waves, one of his shipmates screaming as a cask broke free, rolling jauntily to crush him against the rail. For a day and a night the wind and waves pounded the Gossamer, mocking its imitation castles, smashing them to driftwood.
Then, with a final kick of its heels the storm abated, and the shattered nautical fortress drifted, listing, into the tiny Spanish port of Zarueza. The ship’s mast was down, her steer-board splintered, planks sprung along both sides of the hull. Carried by the current, the transport collided with the single wooden pier, blundered onward and embedded her bows in the sandy beach of the port. Listing more acutely, the carrack came to rest.
Baynard Falkan looked astern at Gregorius Bigorre. Then slowly, in the fashion of the time, the young knight hammered with his fist in rhythmic recognition of the man’s courageous efforts. Guthric joined in. Then Quillon and the crew. Then the fishermen and villagers, Spaniards and English alike beating acknowledgement of Captain Bigorre’s achievements aboard the barrel he’d named the Gossamer.
* * *
The injured were taken to a Cluniac hospice a few miles west of the village. That done, Falkan and the captain returned to Zarueza to review the situation.
A careful inspection of his vessel, and Gregorius Bigorre splashed ashore, shaking his head in weary acceptance of the damage.
‘A full month’s work, maybe more,’ he reported. ‘I’ll have to send to Bilbao for masting wood, cordage, carpenters skilled in the patching of a carrack. I’d advise you to wait for another Crusader vessel, my friend, except that we’re far off their route. You could travel up the coast to Bordeaux, I suppose. What’d it be, close on two hundred miles?’
‘No less,’ Falkan nodded, though in truth he’d already dismissed the idea of retracing his steps to the north. Likewise, he rejected the thought of crossing the Kingdoms of Castile and Leon, then the width of Portugal to Oporto. He could only guess at the distance – maybe five hundred miles – yet all of it leading away from his destination, the Kingdom of Jerusalem. And Christiane.
The obvious thing to do was ride east, skirting the southern edge of the Pyrenees. He knew the range of mountains guarded Iberia’s northern frontier; knew too, of the city-port of Barcelona. From there, the three travellers could take passage for Marseilles, offer Tremellion’s money to the Cause, then sail with the bulk of King Richard’s Crusader fleet. Reach Marseilles, and maybe Richard would be there in person to greet them… thank them for Sir Geoffrey’s contribution, safely delivered… smile as the knight, the constable, the safeguard knelt before him…
But first they must survive the crossing of Spain.
* * *
A brief dispute with Gregorius Simeon Bigorre.
‘I intend to see your courage rewarded,’ Falkan told him. ‘In the manner of which, I’ll finance the repairs to your ship.’
‘You will not!’ the captain retorted. ‘You paid your passage before we left Plymouth, and it’s no concern of yours if I let the old bucket get caught in some springtime squall.’
‘You’re a good enough sailor,’ Falkan snapped, ‘but damned ungracious ashore. Take the money and be glad of it. Think of your injured sailors, in the hospice. Think of the stores and weapons you still carry. They’re needed in the East, Captain Bigorre. You’ve a duty to see they get there.’ Then, knowing what he said next would win the day, Baynard Falkan shrugged and murmured, ‘Perhaps you’re right. That leaky old bucket. Hard to imagine she’d get back to England, never mind around Spain and out to the East. Tell you straight, Captain Bigorre, she always did seem unbalanced in the water.’
‘I can’t even write my name,’ Bigorre thundered, ‘but suppose a gentleman like you’s not unskilled with the pen. So we’ll draw up a paper, a copy for you an’ for me. A loan against the next – let’s see – the next five years earnings of the Gossamer. Write it like that, my Lord Falkan, an’ in five years time you come to me in Plymouth. Leaky old bucket? She’ll earn you half again what you lend her! Unbalanced in the water? By God, but she’ll be plyin’ her trade when you an’ me are gone!’
Then he watched Falkan smile and extend his rope-wealed hand. ‘The first thing you do with the money, Captain Bigorre – not to tell you your business – is have someone here in the village sew a flag. A red cross on white. Something your crew can hoist on a pole. Just to show the world what that tub of yours is about.’
* * *
Leaving the captain to busy himself with the myriad problems of his beached and battered ship, Falkan strode into the village, drawn by the sights and sounds of the weekly market. He’d already sent Quillon to reserve a night’s stay in one of the waterfront taverns; Guthric to purchase three reliable horses and saddlery. Ignoring their whereabouts for the moment, the young Tremellion gave thought to the dangerous road that lay ahead.
He offered a portion of his purse to a slate-eyed merchant, saw what the man would give him in exchange and snatched back his English coins. ‘Yo lla estube en esta region,’ Falkan lied. I have been in these parts before.
The merchant offered half again as much, by way of exchange.
Remembering his earlier travels in the Peninsula, away to the west, and the promise he’d made to his father to speak only the language of the country, Falkan said, ‘No es bastante. No es nada bastante.’ Not nearly enough.
The merchant decided to be prudent, wary now of the dark-skinned foreigner who spoke his tongue. He added another handful of coins, bowing as he said, Perdóneme, señor. Pensé que usted era un pelegrino. ’
Did you indeed, Falkan thought with disgust. So you supposed me to be a pilgrim? Someone you could cheat with impunity… Then he strode ahead, forcing the merchant to retreat, setting the man’s stall of trinkets swaying perilously as he passed.
Gazing hard at the marketeers who took his money, Falkan purchased three brass cowbells, a length of bleached linen, then three S-shaped cauldron hooks, hanging them from his belt. Along with these he bought shapeless woven hats, water flasks and stiffened panniers in which the riders would store their food.
He then returned to the port to find the Saxon and the safeguard sprawled comfortably on a tavern bench beneath a canopy of vines.
Ridding themselves of their wine mugs, they came to their feet, Guthric jabbing a thumb toward a narrow alley that led beside the taberna. ‘You ask me, my lord, I’d say the saddles are better than the horses. The best mounts they had, you can trust me for that, though you’d win ’em at a fair, back home.’
Falkan nodded, aware that Guthric had purchased the best he could. ‘And you, my young safeguard? Have you found us a lodging for the night?’
Quillon delayed his reply, brushing aside the salt-stiffened mane of his hair. ‘I done what I could, m’lord. Even had to, what you might say, get forceful with the landlord. But it seems – is there a market around here?’
‘There is, back in the village.’
‘Tho
ught that’s what he said. Well, bein’ as it’s market-time, he ain’t got no rooms to spare. So what he’s done – he’s put us up on the roof.’ He waited for Falkan’s reaction, then frowned with disbelief as the knight said, ‘You’ve done well, Master Quillon. It’s the best place to be, in summer, on the roof.’
‘He thought we’d slide off,’ Guthric muttered. ‘I told him to raise his eyes from the gutter. Told him the roofs were flat.’
‘Never troubled to look,’ Quillon said. ‘Funny sort of a place, to go without thatch.’
* * *
They shared their meal of sopa gallega, chorizos and local wine with Gregorius Simeon Bigorre. The captain ate hungrily, as did Falkan and the constable, while Quillon poked suspiciously at the rough-cut lumps of fat that surfaced in his soup. He was no happier with the spicy stew that followed, finally restricting himself to bread and the vino del pais. ‘Flat roofs, a language I can’t understand, an’ stew as sets fire to your mouth. We going to be here long, m’lord, in Spain?’
Falkan ignored him, leaving Guthric to mutter, ‘Fuss with your food, an’ you’ll be too weak to travel. You know what then, joskin? You’ll get left, that’s what, left to die in the hills somewhere, or down on some dusty plain. An’ the animals they got here ain’t half as picky as you.’
The captain assured Falkan he’d do everything in his power to see the Gossamer repaired. ‘You say she’s a leaky old bucket—’
‘A remark to provoke some sense in you, Captain.’
‘Maybe it was, my lord, but you’ve my word on it, she’ll one day be anchored in Tyre.’
‘I have no serious doubts,’ Falkan smiled. ‘And who knows? I might risk a homeward voyage in the barrel, time and the tides coinciding.’
The Edge of the Blade Page 9
