by Judith James
Le Chevalier de Valmont sat up, blinking with surprise. “St. Croix? Is it you?”
“Oui, c’est moi.”
“Bon Dieu! What’s happened to you? You look like a desert prince!”
“Never mind that now. I’m leaving, Valmont. There’s not much time, and I want to be as far from here as possible before daybreak. Do you come with me?”
“Yes. Yes, of course!”
“Good. Try your chains with these while I work at the door.” Gabriel tossed him a set of keys.
“What … how … what’s become of our guards?” the chevalier asked as he worked at the lock. “Ah, there, I have it!”
“They’re dead.”
“All of them?” he asked incredulously.
“No, there should be two more on the roof, and two at the front gate.”
“What is your plan, and what of our … patron?”
“De Sevigny is no more, and my plan is to escape,” Gabriel grunted, giving the cell door a shove with his shoulder and forcing it open. “Come, follow me.”
“How do you know him? Was he your lover?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Gabriel said sourly. “I was little more than a child, Valmont.”
“You are not his catamite, then?”
“No! Leave off, Chevalier,” he said dangerously, “or remain behind. I do not care to discuss it.”
Chastened, but still curious, the chevalier followed Gabriel up the stairs. Surveying the carnage in the hall, he eyed his companion with newfound respect. Stepping fastidiously over the two dead bodies on the second floor, he was surprised to see yet another corpse as they entered the luxurious apartments at the end of the hall.
“Bon Dieu, mon ami, you frighten me! Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“My cousin taught me.”
“The privateer captain? Who is this cousin of yours?”
“He’s called Gypsy Davey.”
“Is it so? I have heard of him. He is a famed captain of mercenary. They say none can best him. How fortunate for you to have such a man as your teacher!”
“Yes, very. Shall we take our leave now, Valmont?”
“Yes, indeed, my dear.”
“Come,” Gabriel motioned, “you can equip yourself in here.”
Two things caught the chevalier’s immediate attention as he entered their former patron’s bedchamber. One was the bubbling fountain splashing against the tiles, and the other was their former patron’s corpse, lying splayed on the floor in a pool of blood. “You’ve been terribly busy, I see. And very … efficient. In fact, St. Croix, I would have to say that you are one of the most efficient men I have ever met.”
“Hurry up please, Valmont. Take what you need and let’s go.”
“Yes, of course, after I have availed myself of a bath.”
“We haven’t the time.”
“J’y suis, j’y reste. Go without me if you must, Gabriel. You smell sweet as sin, but it’s been six months since I’ve felt clean and I am covered in filth. I will bathe.”
“Hurry, then,” Gabriel said, pulling out clothes for him.
The chevalier happily immersed himself in the fountain, scrubbing away months of filth and grime before contentedly dressing himself.
“Et bien, mon frère. What is our plan from here?”
“We will remove the sentries on the roof, slip down to the stables and take some horses, remove the guards at the front gate, and quietly leave town as two wealthy renegados. You speak their language fluently, we both speak the lingua Franca, and if we are well armed and mounted, no one will question that we are what we seem.”
With Valmont’s help, Gabriel’s plan unfolded exactly as he’d hoped. Well before dawn, they slipped out of the gate and moved quietly through the town, and by sunrise they had left Bilda well behind and were approaching the Atlas Mountains. The night’s adventures had eased the awkwardness between them, and they grinned at each other, intoxicated with their success and the taste of freedom. At midmorning, they sighted a large caravan ahead of them, and a party of horsemen approaching fast from the east. Gabriel reached for his sword, but Valmont grasped his arm, staying him.
“They are not from Bilda. They come from the wrong direction, mon vieux, and there are too many of them to fight. We must brazen it out, or flee.”
Wheeling to face them, Gabriel let his horse dance beneath him, and threw back his cloak, displaying his weapons and armor. We are not runaway slaves. I am a renegado, a wealthy and dangerous man, and it will be as Allah wills, he thought with a grim smile.
They rode up in a cloud of dust, a motley collection of hard-eyed Turks, Moors, and Europeans, milling around Gabriel and Valmont, horses snorting and prancing, bridles jingling, encircling them and crowding them together. Gabriel eyed them impassively, steadying his mount while the chevalier gave them a broad grin. “Good day, brothers,” he said in flawless Arabic. “May Allah, peace be upon him, guide you and keep you safe. Is there so little room on this wide plain that you must inconvenience us with your dust?”
Good, Gabriel thought. He knows how to play this game.
The one who appeared to be their leader, a blond, blue-eyed, bearded giant in a combination of Turkish garb and Spanish armor, motioned the other men back. “Your pardon, friend. We protect yon caravan and could not help but be curious as to why two strangers with swords and pistols should follow so close.”
“Why? Do you take us for thieves?” Valmont said with rising indignation, placing his hand on his sword hilt as Gabriel did the same.
“I mean no offense, brother. We are merely doing our job. I would simply know who, and what you are, and why you are here.”
“We are renegados, just as you. Our formal employer has angered the Dey, and we thought it prudent to seek employment in Morocco, at least through the winter months while the ships are in port.”
The blond man nodded, and then turned to look at Gabriel. “And you, brother. What’s your story?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Mohammed pays better than Jesus does, friend.”
Everyone broke into laughter, and the tension eased. “Serve with us then, brothers. The mountains are dangerous, and we travel the same route. You can help us protect the caravan, and you will be safer with us than alone. My employer is a wise and generous man. We go to meet him in Meknes. He will pay you. He may even offer you further employment.”
They had little choice but to accept. It was a generous offer given their supposed circumstances, and they would have surely aroused suspicion had they refused.
Trained to fight, intrepid and used to the company of rough men, Gabriel and Valmont fit easily into the mercenary troop, and they were always careful to prostrate themselves in the dust, heads toward Mecca where the prophet lay entombed, whenever everyone else did.
The rough and desolate mountain passages were home to numerous bandits and robbers, mostly poor and desperate Berber or Kabyles tribesmen, and ambush was a constant threat. Some days they rode ahead with the vanguard, checking each hill and pass, exposed, vulnerable, and alert for danger. At other times they traveled in the rearguard, shaking dust from their robes and spitting grit from their teeth, guarding the caravan from being waylaid from behind. On good days they rode along the flanks. There were several skirmishes along the way. They lost two of their men and slaughtered upwards of a score of bandits, bows and arrows being no match for muskets. Gabriel supposed he should have felt some pity, but he didn’t have any left.
Crossing the frontier into Morocco, they traded ragged bandits for garrisons of soldiers, and snowcapped mountains for fortresses capped with severed heads on pikes. There were well-marked roads now, olive groves and farms, and vultures lazily circling overhead. The current sultan, Mulai Slimane, had been fighting a civil war for control of the country with factions from Fez and Marrakech. It resulted in a poor harvest for simple folk trying to raise their crops and families, and a bountiful one for mercenaries and other agents of war.
Th
ey arrived in Meknes at sunset as the plaintive call of the muezzins drifted over the city, summoning the faithful to prayer. They prostrated twenty times before Mecca, and entered the city. Gabriel and the chevalier had decided they would take their leave here, and head for the coast. They hoped to attach themselves to a corsair crew for the spring, so that they might find a way to slip across the sea to Europe. Unfortunately, el Inglezi, their captain, had other ideas.
“I cannot allow you to leave, brothers. You have been very helpful, it is true, but your circumstances trouble me. Two Europeans, leaving Algiers in somewhat of a hurry, and now in a great rush to head for the coast. I would be lax in my duties if I did not investigate further. What if you are not who you say? What if you are slaves, trying to escape? I have only your word. Show me that you are circumcised, and I may believe you.” He motioned to his men. “Hold them, and we shall see, eh?”
Eyes flashing, Gabriel threw back his cloak and drew his sword so quickly it sparked. “You are welcome to try … brothers.”
The chevalier had drawn his scimitar and stood behind Gabriel so that they were back to back. “This should prove interesting, mon frère.”
“Now, now,” el Inglezi laughed, raising his hands placatingly, motioning his men back with a shake of his head, “there’s no need for that. Not every convert is circumcised. It is the custom, surely, but not an absolute requirement. Perhaps you are just who you say you are. I will present you to my employer, as we have already agreed. He needs good fighting men. There is much opportunity. He is a great and important man. If you serve him, none will dare to question you, yes? I shall introduce you tomorrow. Now go and take your ease, gentlemen. You’ve earned it.”
They were escorted to an agreeable little house complete with pleasant furnishings, three timid servants, and a cook. They could not fail but notice the guard posted pointedly outside the only exit. After a bath, a shave, and an excellent meal of lamb, wine, and honeyed apricots, Valmont turned lazily to Gabriel and belched. “Pardon me, dear fellow. I do believe, Gabriel, that we have just met the civilized version of a Mohammedan press-gang.”
“I believe you are correct, Jacques. It is far superior to slavery or impalement, though. I propose we bow gracefully to the inevitable for now.”
“I agree, my friend. Oh, look! How delightful!” The chevalier sprang to his feet with even more alacrity than he’d shown in battle, as two nubile, giggling young women were ushered into the room. “Mais c’est charmant!” Performing a courtly bow and grinning from ear to ear, he escorted them gallantly to the pile of cushions that served as their fauteuil. “God in heaven, St. Croix, but these Mohammedans put a lot more effort into recruiting a fellow than your British friends do! I am quite overcome. Have you a preference, or shall we share?”
“I leave it to you to carry the day, Chevalier.”
“But there are two, St. Croix, one for each of us.”
“I feel certain you will rise to the challenge,” Gabriel said, gathering his pallet and retreating to the covered gallery.
“A votre santé,” the chevalier said, raising his glass in a toast and watching Gabriel’s retreat with puzzlement. What was wrong with the fellow? Understanding dawned, and he gave a slight shrug. Chacun à son gout. It wasn’t to his taste, but St. Croix was a solid enough fellow otherwise, quick-witted, and coolheaded, and damned good with a sword. Dieu, but it had been over six months! With a playful growl, he scooped up his female companions, one under each arm, and they dropped together in a giggling, groaning heap amongst the cushions.
Gabriel sat on the gallery sipping his wine. It was not uncommon for renegados to drink alcohol, despite the Muslim prohibition against it. They would do without pork, even their foreskin, but they would not do without their liquor. The stars were brilliant. Venus was rising over the horizon, and for a moment he thought of Sarah and their last moments beneath the ancient oak. Pain clutched at his heart, worse than anything he’d endured through blows or broken bones, and he winced and shuddered before taking a deep breath and willing it away.
He didn’t deserve her anymore. Perhaps he never had. His sins had multiplied in this seductive, alien land. He killed for pay, he’d murdered a man in his own bedchamber with his own knife, he’d sold his soul for revenge with a single kiss, and he regretted none of it. He frightened even himself. He had promised to love, honor, and protect her; but that promise had been made by someone else. All he could do for her now was protect her from the man he’d become. He couldn’t afford anything soft, anywhere inside him. He pushed her firmly from his thoughts.
El Inglezi came the next morning to take them before Meshouda Murad Reis, a Scottish adventurer and corsair captain of some renown, formally known as Peter Lisle.
“Well, gentlemen, here you are, converts both of you, sons of the Prophet, or so my captain tells me,” he greeted them. “What’s more to the point, he tells me you can find the pointy end of a sword. I’m no fool, gentlemen, but I am short of soldiers, and I’ll be needing crew in Algiers when I return in the spring. So …” he said, steepling his fingers, “I can send you back to your master, to do with as he sees fit. I can turn you over to the authorities here, which might be most unpleasant … or … you can serve me and be well paid for it.”
He pointed to Valmont. “You, I will take. You look like a soldier and I’m told you are fluent in Arabic, but I’m not sure about the other one.” Murad Reis motioned Gabriel forward and examined him carefully. “You appear far too young and slight to be an experienced soldier. You look more like a pretty child. No matter, I’m sure I could find other uses for you. Perhaps I will find your master and purchase you from him.”
“I have been ill, and I’m older than I look,” Gabriel replied coolly, “and I have no master. He who thought to call himself that, now lies dead and gutted.”
“Indeed? Then you are a very dangerous man, I suppose. You must think yourself so if you dare to threaten me. Perhaps you will demonstrate.” He turned to his men. “Who among you would like to teach this dog a lesson in manners?” The men were laughing now, eager for sport, and several stepped forward. “You,” Murad Reis said, pointing to a Turkish giant brandishing a long, wickedly curved blade, “and you have my permission to kill him.”
El Inglezi looked at the chevalier regretfully, and shrugged his shoulders. He had thought Gabriel an able man from what he’d seen in the mountains, but there was nothing he could do.
The giant stood over six and a half feet, wore chain, and must have weighed a good twenty stone, most of it muscle. He had the brawny arms of a swordsman and the feral glint of one who took pleasure in dealing death. He roared and beat his chest, to the delight of the growing crowd, then played with his blade, weaving intricate patterns in the air, ending with a dramatic flourish.
Valmont stepped next to Gabriel and put a hand on his shoulder. “How are you going to fight that?”
“I’m not going to fight him. I’m just going to kill him.”
El Inglezi pulled the chevalier aside before he could do anything foolish and anger the Reis further.
Laughing and beckoning Gabriel forward, the giant cooed, “Come, beardless one. I would have some sport of you. I will take your ears first, child, and then your arms, next your manhood, and only then your head.”
“I’m a very well-trained child, my dear, but you are welcome to try.” It was hot, his opponent was better protected and had a longer reach, but he was also overconfident and the heat would slow him down. Gabriel would be much faster. Best to strike quick and clean. The giant held his sword out in front of him with both hands, in a theatrical attack stance, playing to the crowd. Gabriel waited, unmoving, until the big man took a step forward. Taking three quick steps of his own, he drew his sword screaming from its scabbard, whirling it back one-handed, and whipping it around in an arc so quick it was only a blur.
The giant stood motionless, a look of stunned surprise on his face. His eyes rolled upward, the sword slipped from his grasp wit
h a dull thud, and then he toppled to the ground, his head rolling along the floor to stop, almost at the feet of Murad Reis. The shocked silence was broken by the sound of the chevalier clearing his throat.
“Ahem … Yes … well … I have said it before, St. Croix. You are very efficient.”
Murad Reis stepped forward with a hearty laugh, slapping Gabriel on the back. “Welcome to my employ!”
And so their disguise consumed them and they became mercenaries in truth. They fought throughout the rest of the winter and into the spring, for Meshouda Murad Reis, who fought for the Sultan Mulai Slimane, who fought for control of Morocco, and they were paid handsomely for it. They returned to Algiers in the late spring as Murad Reis’s men, and no one gave them a second glance.
CHAPTER
29
Gabriel and the chevalier cruised the coast throughout the summer and into the fall, alert for any opportunity to seize a boat or take passage on a ship and escape, but Murad Reis kept them busy, and he kept them close. They were both his lieutenants now, but they were always watched and surrounded by others of the Reis’s men. Renegados caught attempting to escape could expect to be dealt with harshly. At best they would be severely bastinadoed and returned to slavery at hard labor, in heavy chains. They might also be burnt alive, crucified, or impaled. The unlucky ones were thrown from a tower on the battlements. It was equipped with iron hooks to catch them on their way down, holding them as they writhed and screamed in agony, slowly consumed by carrion birds as they prayed for death. It was a fate a fellow would much rather avoid.
The Reis preferred to use ruse and deception when stalking his prey. Disguising themselves as a merchant ship, they would lure their victims in close by masquerading as friendly countrymen, flying the flag of whichever nation’s ship they stalked, and hailing them in their own language. Once their unwary quarry came within range, they would terrify them with a thundering broadside and a hail of musket fire, grappling their ship and swarming onto the deck in a screaming horde, waving pistols, knives, pikes, and swords, in a ferocious display that usually resulted in a quick and terrified surrender.
