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  I must have looked unconvinced, because he laughed and went on: We have not heard such a tale since-' and he looked at his companions '-since we told our own stories. I know Adric. He is an odd man, but very wise, and always welcome amongst us. If you have his friendship, you have ours. As to your burden, we will be happy to purchase it, but it is worth far more than your passage to France. The captain will know, and he will not cheat you.'

  The Lieutenant helped me to my feet. 'Now it is time to go. We were going to stay another night or two, but now we had better catch the tide.'

  The other men moved through the room quickly and soundlessly, gathering up the ledger, quill and ink and throwing clothes into drawstring sacks. The Lieutenant wrapped the reliquary in a damask handkerchief and hid it inside his robe. The swordsman handed me a tunic of fine, supple broadcloth, deep blue and woven with tiny silver circles. 'Put this on,' he said. I obeyed. It was the finest piece of clothing I had ever worn, and it fitted me well enough.

  'It suits you,' said the swordsman. 'Now keep your back straight and your wits about you. Come along.'

  Someone blew out the candles, and then we were in the corridor. We hurried down the stairs and into the tap-room, emptier now but still loud and bright. I thought I saw a signal, no more than a look, pass between Gilles de Peyrolles and the innkeeper. My three new companions ducked their heads together for a brief moment. The door opened, and we left the White Swan.

  Outside, the Lieutenant held the wrapped hand out to me. Would you carry this just a little further?' he asked. It was the last thing I wished to do, but I took the bundle and tucked it inside my new doublet. We set off again, hurrying down the crooked alley. I noticed with a lurch that the men were gripping the hilts of their weapons. We passed through the tunnel and I could see a narrow strip of moonlight twinkling on water, framed by the narrow mouth of the passageway. We were almost at the entrance when the moonlight vanished. Shadows blocked our way. The Lieutenant cursed and barked something to his colleagues. I did not catch his words, but suddenly Rassoul had me by the arms.

  'There will be trouble. I will carry you through – it will be safer for all of us, and you are all bones and air. Do not let go. And do exactly what I tell you,' he hissed, then he swung me across his shoulders as easily as if I were made out of straw. Guessing what he meant me to do, I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He drew his sword, and we were charging the shadows.

  In an instant there was a crash and thud as bodies collided. A staff swung by my head. I saw the swordsman leap up and it seemed he stood for a moment on a man's shoulders before they both tumbled. The Lieutenant ran full tilt at another figure, ignoring a falchion that swung too soon. His left elbow smashed into the man's neck, and as the figure lurched backwards, I saw de Peyrolles' dagger punch into his belly, three or four stuttering thrusts almost too quick to follow. The stave whistled past my head again. Then my bearer flicked his sword and the stave went spinning away. Something hot splashed my arms and I felt my grip loosening. But now we were clear of the alley and on the broad wharfside. In the dim light two figures lay on the cobblestone, one kicking its legs like a crushed frog, the other still. I heard moaning from back in the shadows. There was a shout from the right, and four more figures were rushing at us. The Lieutenant shouted something. Rassoul handed his weapon to the swordsman and turned, but he had gone only a few steps when a stave thwacked across his shins and we sprawled. I landed on my shoulder and rolled, my left ear mashing against the stones. Then Rassoul was up with a knife in his hand.

  'Big boat, serpent on the bows,' he gasped at me. 'Fifty paces upstream. Go!'

  I ran for it. Not from fear – there had not been time for that. But the swordsman's voice held the power of command. These people knew their business, and I did not. So I sped away up the wharf. The madness of a fight fills a man with energy that he must release somehow, and that energy carried me along now. I barely felt my feet on the uneven cobbles.

  It was surely fifty paces by now, I thought, slowing down a little and trying to see the boats tied up beside me. I thought I saw a bigger vessel just ahead, then was sure: a great, oceangoing ship with lights burning on deck. My breath was coming in gasps now, and my mouth filled with a bitter metallic taste. Head down, I ran for the gangplank.

  But at that moment a flash of white flame spurted deep in my skull, and then I was lying with my face to the dock, breathing a stench of old fish guts and my own blood. A voice muttered above me, and then my ears stopped ringing and I heard more clearly. It was a voice I recognised, and one that I expected.

  'Got you, Petroc!' hissed Sir Hugh de Kervezey, kneeling down upon me. His knee dug into the small of my back and I gasped with the pain.

  "What a tough little priest you turned out to be,' he said, and flicked my head down onto the stone. I felt something pop in my nose and blood gushed down the back of my throat and poured onto the ground. 'I knew you would come home, of course,' the silky voice continued. And your old librarian fooled me for a while. But your other… erstwhile brothers are not so gristly as Brother Adric, and they watch and spy on their fellows. A plump one – Thomas? Tobias? – let slip that Adric had met, from time to time, with a certain French collector of curios at the Sign of the Swan in Dartmouth. A collector, an outlaw and a stolen relic – all became clear. It is but a morning's ride, through such pretty country, and so here I am.' He smacked my left ear with a cupped hand and a frightening pain blossomed. And now I want the hand.' He smacked my other ear, the bruised one.

  'Give it to me. I'm going to kill you anyway, but if you make me grope in your filthy clothes I'll cut off your balls and make you eat them first.'

  'Don't!' was all I could say. The hand was digging into the pit of my stomach, winding me. Then: 'Turn me over. I have it!'

  He jerked me onto my back. 'Hurry up, boy!' he said, calmly, squatting astride me. 'Bring it out.' He passed his hands before my face and I saw he had drawn his knife, which I half-remembered had had a name. The sheath he dropped carelessly to one side. Now he rested the tip of the blade against my belly and held it upright, balancing it loosely with the palm of his hand. I dared not breath, in case the point slipped into my guts. Slowly, slowly I reached into my doublet and grasped the bundle. Then I remembered the forlorn little claw inside its golden coffin. Sadness welled up inside me.

  Why did you choose me, Sir Hugh?' I asked him, blowing little bubbles of blood as I did so. Why did you scatter the coins under my feet?'

  He leaned closer and pressed a little on the knife. 'Everything has to mean something, doesn't it, Petroc? All those prayers, all that sacrifice? But we are bags of blood and bones, and what we do to each other matters not one little bit. Perhaps you understand now. Even if you don't, you will in just a little while.' 'But why?' I croaked through the blood. 'Oh Christ! You fucking little scholar. I wanted to see if you would run when the time came, or if your little legs would fold under you. Like choosing a horse, or a dog. Now keep still, little boy. I will hurt you more if you struggle.'

  Seeing his face above me, his smooth skin shining, his mouth stretched in a half-smile, I saw what I would do next. It would be wonderful for a moment. After that, I would not care. St Euphemia's hand had come free of its wrappings. I closed my own hands around its cold wrist and thrust upwards at the face of the knight. The golden fingers, rigid in their frozen moment of benediction, caught Sir Hugh on bridge of his nose and slipped sideways into his right eye. I felt the eyeball resist for a moment and burst, then the tip of St Euphemia's index finger ground against bone.

  The Sieur de Kervezey howled. It was a worse sound than the foxes above Capton, more empty, more despairing, more devoid of humanity. His back arched convulsively, and he jerked backwards. I waved the hand feebly. 'Te absolvo,' I told him. I tried to roll away, but the knight's knife-hand was flailing at me and I felt an icy needle bury itself in my shoulder. As the street began to open beneath me and suck me I saw him rise to his knees. His goo
d eye blazed from a welter of blood. He shrieked again and I heard him stagger away as the darkness closed over me.

  Chapter Nine

  The heat of the sun on my face woke me at last – not the awakening that comes from a good night of sleep, but a sudden rushing-in of the world: one moment oblivion; the next, noise, smell, heat and dazzle. I lay on my back; beneath me was something soft. I was gazing up at a sky of the purest blue, and my first thought was that I had overslept by hours, and that there would be hell to pay at college. Then I noticed that everything was heaving, and although my head was spinning as if from the foulest hangover, the sickening lurches and plunges I felt were outside, as well as inside me. I started to look around, but a sharp pain in my neck made me hesitate. I gritted my teeth and turned a little further. Something came into view. I was looking at a tree-trunk festooned with ropes. Not a tree, exactly, but a high stout pole, supporting a great sheet of dirty cloth that ballooned out in the breeze. I was looking at a sail. With that revelation I jerked upright, and my body rebelled with a swarm of aches, pains, stings and twinges. I yelled, feebly. But I was still alive, apparently, so I steeled myself for another look around.

  I was indeed aboard a ship. The only water-craft I had ever been on were the little coracles that the Dart fishermen used. Imagine, then, my utter confusion now. It seemed as though I were on a floating island of wood. I lay on a thick pile of sheepskins, which I now noticed still smelled strongly of the tanners. The ship stretched away in front of me for several yards, rising up to a stubby point. Beyond, the sea rose and fell from view. Behind me, the deck ended in a wall that rose up into the glare of the sun. As my senses returned to their usual state I saw that men were working all around, heaving on ropes, moving barrels and sacks, scrubbing the deck. The wind hissed in the sail, and water hissed somewhere below.

  My head and face hurt. I explored with cautious fingers. My ears felt hot and swollen, but I could still hear. My forehead carried a lump the size of a hen's egg. My nose felt both numb and extraordinarily painful, numb when I breathed and raw when I tried to wrinkle it. I touched it very carefully, but it still seemed roughly in its rightful shape, although there was a big bump on the bridge, and as I felt a tiny scrape of bone on bone the silver mist of a faint poured over me. Then a hand was forcing my head down between my knees. I gagged, and then the world regained colour and form.

  'So you are alive, Master Petroc. I am so very happy – but not happy enough to welcome any more puke on my boots. Welcome aboard the Cormaran!

  The voice was clear, but strange. There was an accent – almost French, but not quite. I had heard it before, I thought, but as to where…

  'Drink this.' A flask appeared under my nose and, not really having any choice, I took a sip. The liquid was thick and strong, like mead but fiery and full of tastes I did not recognise. I took a longer pull. The man above me laughed. "You like it? Drink deep. You need it.'

  The mead was already buzzing in my blood, and I felt better. A great deal better, apparently, as I found myself staring into the face of the man with the odd voice.

  The sun was behind him, and at first I could make out only a halo of curly hair. It was dark brown, and later I would see that it was shot through with silver. The curls framed a dark, lined face, clean-shaven, in which shone a pair of slate-grey eyes that seemed to pin me to the deck. The man had an eagle's nose, but his mouth was wide and he was smiling. His teeth were very white against his tanned face.

  It was the smile – the first I had seen in a great age – that brought me fully to my senses. I was alive, possibly without serious damage, and in the hands of someone who smiled, laughed and dispensed strong drink. A rush of pure joy surged through me from toes to fading tonsure. I clambered to my unsteady feet, and tried to stretch my arms. Pain erupted in my neck, and the man with the white teeth grabbed my right arm and held me steady.

  'Keep still, master. I am sorry – that arm should be in a sling.' 'My arm? It is not my arm that hurts,' I said.

  You took a knife-thrust, lad.' He touched me gently on my left shoulder, where the muscle rose towards my neck. 'It went through here. Very lucky. A little lower and it would have been in a lung. A little to the side…' And he moved his hand to my neck, where I could feel my blood pulse strongly. 'But the knife was very sharp and thin, and made a clean wound. Keep it still and you will knit together in a few days.' 'Are you Adric's friend?' I asked suddenly.

  'Michel de Montalhac, sometimes called the Frenchman, also Jean de Sol. I'm honoured to meet you, Master Petroc. Gilles has told me something of your adventure.'

  Then everything came back to me, and I sat down heavily on the sheepskins. De Montalhac knelt beside me.

  'Do not call it an adventure, sir, please. I have lived in hell for… I don't remember. But I have pulled others down with me. My friend Will, and Adric. And Gilles: was he killed?'

  'Do not worry about Gilles. He is extremely good at looking after himself, as are Rassoul and Pavlos.' 'Did they bring me here?' I asked.

  'No, I found you myself. The…' he hesitated for an instant. 'You were brought down almost at our gangplank. I reached you just in time. Although you seemed to have given quite an account of yourself without my assistance.' What about Sir Hugh – the man who attacked me?' I asked.

  'Aha. It seems you put out one of his eyes. I would have run him down and cut his throat-' and I flinched as he drew his hand sharply across his own neck '-had not Gilles and the boys come up then with the Watch at their heels. But in any case he may well be dead. I confess that I have been on fire with curiosity these last three days-' de Montalhac saw my surprise, and went on: You did not come aboard last night. We have been at sea for two whole days and nights, Petroc. You were unconscious at first, and we worried, but then it seemed that you were just asleep, and we did not wish to wake you before you were ready.'

  I shook my head in amazement. The longest, finest sleep I had had in who knew how long, and I had taken it on board a ship, surrounded by strangers. But something in what the man had just said made me look at him more closely.

  'Do you know something of Sir Hugh de Kervezey, sir?' I enquired carefully.

  'Know of him? More than that. I know him very well, in some ways at least. But we are not friends. Or were not.'

  My face must have betrayed the horror that the thought of Sir Hugh brought back to me. The fragrant flask was again at my lips. I took a draught. The man was speaking to me gently.

  The sun is shining. You are safe. He cannot follow.' He patted my shoulder. 'Let me show you my ship. Then we will eat, and talk some more.'

  A little later, I was dressed in clean clothes and seated in a leather-backed chair in de Montalhac's cabin. My beautiful tunic, caked in blood and other things, had been given to one of the sailors, who expressed doubts that it could be rescued. Then de Montalhac had shown me below. Under the main deck was a long, dimly lit space where men slept in hammocks. It was ripe with sweat and old cooking, but not dismal. At one end a cloth had been hung, forming a private space where I found a pitcher of water and a large bowl. There were clean clothes: loose, ankle-length breeches of sailcloth, a sailor's tunic and a sleeveless sheepskin surcoat. I was left to wash myself. The water in the pitcher was perfumed with some kind of oil which smelled of roses. I hesitated before using it. 'Is this for washing or for drinking?' I called out. There was laughter from behind the sheet.

  'This is no monastery, Petroc,' de Montalhac replied. 'On this ship we keep our bodies clean, as well as our souls.' He was chuckling. 'Roses will not hurt you. Do not take offence, but we would all rather smell the scent of a rose than that of a dead horse. Give thanks that you could not smell yourself.'

  I had never thought about washing in these terms, and I confess I was shocked. The only person I knew who smelled like anything other than the day's sweat had been Sir Hugh, although as I thought longer I remembered that Gilles, Rassoul and the swordsman had also seemed faintly perfumed. But, I reflected, I was certainly
damned in so many other ways that one more aberration would not harm me now. I rinsed myself stiffly, trying not to jostle my wounded shoulder. Then I dressed and found de Montalhac waiting for me. He held out a pair of low boots made from supple deep-red leather. 'Spanish,' he told me. 'Good boots. But you would do better to go barefoot on deck. Less slippery.' He gave me a belt in richly tooled leather that matched the boots. I thought it was a curious choice to go with my sailor garb, but de Montalhac anticipated my question.

  'You need something to hold this,' he said, holding out his hand to me. In his palm lay something long and narrow. A knife in a sheath of some green material. I took it gingerly. The sheath was rough to the touch. I rubbed it experimentally with my thumb.

  'Shagreen,' said de Montalhac. 'The skin of a sting-ray. Do you recognise it?' I did not. The knife had a hilt of a cool green stone, and where the stone widened to form a pommel, two red gems twinkled. I drew the blade, and almost dropped it in shock. I was looking at the cold, slender steel of Thorn.

  'A prince once owned that knife,' de Montalhac was saying. 'It was made in Damascus a century and more ago. There are plenty of men on this ship who will be delighted to teach you its proper use.' Seeing my pale face and shaking hands, he added, 'Now put it away before you cut yourself.'

  He said it in such a solemn, parental voice that Thorn's spell was broken. I laughed out loud as I slipped her back into the green sheath. 'How…' I stuttered.

  'It was buried in your shoulder when I found you. And now,' said de Montalhac, let us eat.'

  He showed me to his cabin, where Gilles de Peyrolles, who was delighted to see me up and about, and who seemed unmarked by his brawl on the Dartmouth waterfront, was waiting. The room was small and low. An arched doorway gave out onto the main deck, and I had been lying next to it on my pile of sheepskins – which I noticed had now disappeared. Opposite the door was a line of three windows that looked out on the ship's wake. I had stuck my head through one of them on first entering the cabin and found myself looking down -quite a long way down, I thought – on the green water that boiled and foamed out from under the stern. Gulls were following us, swooping and sometimes hovering low over our white trail. It was then that I realised I did not feel in the least bit seasick; one of the few things I knew about boats was that they made land-folk feel terrible, but I was fine. Perhaps, I reflected, I had come to terms with the ship's heaving while I was dead to the world. Whatever the reason, though, I was famished, and was delighted to find, when I pulled my head back into the room, that a great cold ham was waiting for us on the little round table that took up most of the centre of the room. Sitting down, I was reaching for Thorn with my good arm – the other was now in a sling and strapped tight across my chest – when the captain laid a hand on my arm.