Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0) Page 2

  The wind freshened, and the vessel moved out upon the sea. Red Mark grinned at me. “This will put water into their knees! The lousy bunch of coasters!”

  They sprawled on the deck like dead men, their bodies moving slightly with the roll of the galley.

  There was a slight movement as one of the village women worked herself from under a man’s heavy arm. She moved with infinite caution, and we, who could see but little of the deck, held our breath in hope for her. We who were in chains watched her who was free, wondering what she would do and hoping she would do something.

  Her face was bruised and swollen from blows. She got to her feet, then drew his knife ever so gently from its scabbard, then she knelt beside the man and drew back the sheepskin jacket.

  Ah, but this one knew where a man’s heart lay! She lifted the knife high, then plunged it down.

  His knees jerked, then relaxed slowly. She cast the knife away and went to the rail. She looked once toward the shore, not too distant yet, then dove over.

  “She’s drowning herself!” I protested.

  “Maybe…yet it might be she will make it.”

  We peered past our oars and watched the sunlight flash upon her arms as she swam.

  We never knew. The offshore breeze strengthened, and the galley moved out upon the sunlit water.

  I wanted to believe she made the shore. The galley was five, perhaps six miles off the shore, but she was a strong-built wench with courage.

  The deeper roll of the vessel started a cask moving. It banged against a bulwark, then rolled among us. Eagerly, the slaves bashed in the head of the cask and passed along their cups for the strong red wine.

  Ah! There was a draft fit for men! The strong wine ran down my parched gullet, warming the muscles of my throat and setting my heart to pounding. It was a true wine, a man’s wine, filled with authority.

  We emptied the cask among us and tossed it over the side. Never had I been one for strong drink, but it was this or something which made me realize the wind that blew the vessel seaward might be a fresh wind for my fortunes.

  With satisfaction I felt the roll become deeper, the wind stronger. Behind us the shoreline vanished.

  A few drops of rain fell. One of the crew wiped a hand across his face and sat up. He stared stupidly at the sky, where clouds were now appearing, then a look of alarm flashed across his face and he leaped to his feet so suddenly he almost lost balance and fell. He grasped the bulwark and stared, aghast, at the deep-rolling sea beginning to be flecked with whitecaps.

  He shouted, then he ran to Walther and shook him awake. Walther, angry at being suddenly awakened, struck out viciously. Then as the import of the man’s words penetrated his awareness, he staggered to his feet. The crew scrambled up, too, staggering and falling and staring wildly at the empty sea.

  They were far at sea; a storm was blowing up, and they had no idea in which direction lay the land.

  Walther stared at the horizons. The sky was becoming overcast. No sun was visible.

  “Now look!” Red Mark was pleased. “He has lost the land and has no idea which way to turn!”

  Walther came along the runway among the slaves. Some of them must have been awake and would have noticed the vessel’s course. He wished to ask, but dared not. He feared they might deliberately give him a wrong answer.

  The galley wallowed in the sea, yet he dared give no order, for the direction chosen might easily take them further to sea. He glanced at Red Mark whom he knew to be a seafaring man, but the big Saxon’s face showed him nothing.

  At last he turned to me. I was younger than any other aboard but had come from a coast where all boys grow up knowing the ways of the sea.

  “Which way did the wind take us?” he asked. “Where lies the land?”

  My chance had come even sooner than I had dared hope.

  “Tell me…quickly!”

  “No.”

  The veins in his neck swelled. He gestured for Mesha and the whip. “We’ll have it from you or your back in ribbons!” he threatened. “I’ll—”

  “If that whip touches me, I shall die before I speak one word. Death is better than this.” I paused. “But you can make me pilot.”

  “What?”

  Without the strong wine I might have lacked the nerve, but I think not, for I was my father’s son.

  Leaning on my oar, I said, “Why waste me here? Had I been pilot you would have no worries now. I would not have drunk wine. Why waste a Kerbouchard at an oar?”

  Angrily, he turned his back and strode away, and when I looked around, Red Mark was grinning. “Now why didn’t I think of that? But if you become pilot, will you forget us?”

  “I shall forget nothing. I must wait my chance.”

  The clouds grew darker, and wind lay strong upon the sea. Waves crested and spat angry spray. The galley rolled heavily and shipped a small sea over the bow, the water rushing back and gurgling in the scuppers. Walther’s face had turned green, and the crewmen were shaking in their wet breeches.

  Walther walked back to me. “You shall try, and if you fail, you shall be hung head down from the bows until you die.”

  He turned to Mesha. “Strike the shackles.”

  When the chains fell from me, I stood and stretched wide my arms. It was good to be free. Then I turned upon the round-faced oaf who had stolen my knife. “Give me the blade!” I said.

  He laughed scornfully. “Give you—? By the Gods, I’ll—”

  I kicked him viciously on the kneecap, and when he howled in anguish and bent to grasp his knee, I doubled my fist and struck down like a hammer on his kidney. He screamed and went to the deck on his knees. Reaching down, I took the knife from his belt.

  “You will need a slave to take my place,” I said. “There he is!”

  Walther stared at me, hatred ugly in his small eyes. I knew then he would never be content until I lay dead at his feet.

  “Take us to shore,” he said sullenly, and walked from me. However, a few minutes later the moonfaced man was shackled in my place.

  Chapter 2

  *

  NO MAN UPON that deck was my friend, nor would I long survive unless I proved they could not do without me.

  Returning to the coast presented no problem. No doubt several of those still in chains could have done as well. It was my good fortune to have spoken first, a lesson to be remembered.

  Much debris littered the deck after their carousing, and once the galley was on course, I began cleaning up. Nor had I chosen a course that would take us immediately to the coast; I used every device to make it seem difficult.

  Standing by the bulwark, I consulted the water, then I looked at the clouds. Then I wet my finger and held it up to get the direction of the wind, although it was obvious enough. Pacing the deck, I suddenly acted as if a decision had been made, and taking the tiller from the man on watch, I used my own hands to guide the ship.

  Later, I relinquished the tiller to a crewman and went about making the place shipshape. Walther watched me suspiciously but approved.

  When land was again in sight, I held myself ready, prepared to fight rather than return to the oar, but my arguments must have impressed Walther, for he left me alone.

  There were sixteen oars to a side and two men to each oar. There was a deck forward and a deck aft, with narrow decks along the bulwarks above the heads of the galley slaves. Down the center where Mesha walked, it was open to the sky, and as he walked, his head was above the level of the deck. Constructed for coastal trade, she had cargo space fore and aft and more beneath Mesha’s walk. She was slow and clumsy but seaworthy.

  Aside from the slaves, sixty-two men made up the crew, and the number made it necessary to be constantly raiding to renew supplies. Originally, the vessel had probably been handled by no more than twelve men aside from slaves. Walther and his men feared to attack unless the advantage was obviously on their side. Several times they ventured close to a strong craft, but each time they sheared off and abandoned th
e attack.

  Working about the deck, cleaning up, mending rigging, and maneuvering the craft, I began to plan.

  Red Mark must be freed.

  The Moors on the seat before Red Mark were good men, and there was another Moor near the stern whom I had not seen before. He was a strong, agile-looking man, unbroken by either Mesha’s lash or the labor. He was a narrow-faced man with intensely black eyes and a hard, decisive look about him.

  Contriving to drop some rope yarns near him, I bent to retrieve them and whispered, “You have a friend.”

  “By Allah,” he said wryly, “I can use one! I am Selim.”

  Walking away, I felt Mesha’s eyes upon me. He could have heard nothing but was suspicious by nature. He liked me not, nor I him, and the memory of his lash lay hot within my skull.

  Young though I was, I knew the dangers a coward can offer, for his fear will often drive him to kill more quickly than if he were a brave man. Walther and his crew were cowards, and whatever must be done must be with care, for among them were a few good fighting men.

  The crew liked me not at all. Occasionally, they vented their fury with words, but I ventured no replies, biding my time. I think they feared me because of my sudden rise and my decisive move against the man who had taken my knife. They feared what they did not understand.

  Twice, they captured fisher boats, attacking lustily with swinging swords when the odds were seven or eight to one. And then, off the Mediterranean coast of Spain, they made a grand capture, and the fault was mine.

  The sky had been blue that morning, and the air breathless, the sea smooth as glass. While busy splicing a line, I felt a sudden dampness. Suddenly, we were shrouded in fog, moving like a ghost ship through the mist.

  A few minutes before the fog closed down I had glimpsed a merchantman sailing a course parallel to our own. Now, after a few minutes within the fog, I heard a faint creaking as of rigging, the slap of a loose sail, and a gurgle of water about a hull.

  For what happened I have only myself to blame. I hated Walther and all his bloody, misbegotten crew, yet there was in me the blood of corsairs.

  Walther came to stand beside me. “You heard something?”

  “A ship,” I said, “and not one of your scrawny fish boats but a fat, rich merchantman out of Alexandria or Palermo.”

  The glitter of greed was in his eyes. He touched his fat lips with his tongue. “They would be strong,” he muttered, “we could not—”

  “Why not?” I spoke with contempt for such fears. “Only one man was on deck when the fog closed in, and half the crew may be asleep. There was a storm last night, and they would be tired. Before they could organize resistance it would be over.”

  For once greed overcame caution. Grabbing a crewman, he sent him for others, and at his order I began to edge the vessel closer. Fifty men gathered along the bulwarks, keeping themselves out of sight.

  Water slapped her hull, rigging creaked. We shipped our starboard oars, and the watchman on their deck came quickly to his ship’s side, alarmed by the sound.

  He saw us; his mouth opened to scream a warning, but an arrow transfixed his throat, and then our men were scrambling over their side. There was shouting then, a clash of arms, a scream of mortal agony.

  That was the moment I had chosen to shear off and escape, but the chance was lost in the instant of birth, for Walther was beside me, a sword point in my ribs as if he had guessed my intent. I dared make no move.

  The surprise attack had been a complete success. The merchantman’s crew awakened only to die; moreover, the ship was well-found, with a rich cargo of silk and cinnamon. There was gold and silver coin…and a girl.

  She struggled to the ship’s side, the prisoner of Cervon, a huge Gaul, the largest man in our crew. Beside her an older man pleaded and argued with the Gaul. Her eyes, wide with terror, looked across the rails of the two ships into mine. She could have been no more than sixteen and was very beautiful. Her eyes met mine, pleading and frightened.

  “Stop him,” I protested to Walther.

  “He captured her. She is his.”

  There was envy in his tone, for he hated to see such a girl in the arms of another. It was an envy to be used.

  “You would waste such a girl? That is no shepherd’s daughter! Would you throw away a fortune for a moment in the scuppers? Can’t you see? This girl is worth more than all the loot combined! Think what her family would pay!”

  Greed won where any other argument would have failed. The Gaul was pressing her against the bulwark and fending off the older man with one hand. Even at this distance it could be seen that her flesh was soft and her dress woven with threads of gold.

  A fortune-hungry and jealous man, Walther seized the chance. “Stop!” he shouted to the Gaul. “Bring her here, and the man as well!”

  The older man spotted Walther and leaned over the rail of their ship. “We can pay, and pay handsomely if the girl is unharmed.”

  Cervon hesitated, angry, but found no sympathy, for envy as well as the idea of profit had turned the crew against him. Angrily, he swung her over the side and dropped her to our deck, where we were lashed alongside. He left the man to find his own way, and went away, disgruntled and furious.

  Already our crew was looting the vessel of both cargo and supplies. Bales and barrels came over the side, as the men stripped the vessel hurriedly, for fear a warship might intervene before the looting was complete.

  The girl threw a glance my way and spoke to the older man beside her who also looked my way. Knowing I had spoken for her gave her more hope than the moment deserved. Yet I smiled at her, and she smiled in return.

  When all attention was diverted by the stripping of the prize, I spoke softly to her, in Arabic. “Friend,” I said.

  The fog thinned, and our crew hurriedly abandoned the captured ship.

  Ignoring the complaints of Cervon, Walther turned to the man. “Who are you? What can you pay?”

  The man was not so old as at first he had seemed. He was well setup, a man of military bearing, gray of hair but clear of eye, and obviously accustomed to command. He had formed a quick estimate of Walther, and expected no mercy from the others.

  “She is the daughter of ibn-Sharaz, of Palermo, a wealthy man, and one with power.”

  “She has not the Moorish look,” Walther grumbled. “I think you lie.”

  “Her mother was Circassian, blonde as your northern girls. Treat her gently. If she is harmed, fifty ships will hunt you down.”

  “Fifty ships? For a slip of a girl?”

  The man was brusque. “Fifty ships for the daughter of ibn-Sharaz, friend and adviser to William of Sicily!”

  Walther paled. He had none of the sea rover’s disdain for landlubber princes, although even a corsair might hesitate at the name of William of Sicily, descendant of Norman conquerors, his ships upon every sea, his spies in every port.

  “Such a man can pay,” Walther admitted, but speaking as much to advise his crew as to acknowledge the fact.

  “Take us safely to any port in Spain, and you will be paid well and what you have done forgotten.”

  Of the first I was convinced, of the second I was not. This man and his kind were not likely to forgive such an injury, and I remembered the story my father had told me of the young Julius Caesar, taken by pirates. He promised to return after his ransom was paid, and hang them every one, and they laughed. Yet he did return, and he did hang them, and this man was of such a kind.

  Walther strode off to discuss the matter with the crew, and the man spoke to me. “You have helped us. I value such aid.”

  “My word carries small weight here. Until recently I was chained to an oar. They neither like nor trust me.”

  “They listened to you.”

  “They are ruled by greed and envy. Each wanted her for himself, and hence was willing to listen when I suggested ransom.”

  “Remain our friend, and I shall replace the weight of your chains with an equal weight of gold.”
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  When one is young, one does not think of gold but only of the light in a maiden’s eyes. Yet a time would come when I would discover that one might have both—if one had wit.

  Never had I seen such a girl. Our northern girls were stronger but their skin less fine from exposure to sun and wind, and they lacked garments such as she wore on this day. My father’s house had been filled with treasures looted from eastern ships, and often he had spoken of the life in Moorish Spain where I longed to go.

  Our northern castles were cold, drafty halls with narrow windows and few comforts, their floors scattered with straw and the accumulated refuse of months. My father had brought from Moorish Spain a love of beauty and cleanliness. So, accustomed to my own home, I could not abide the ill-smelling castles of nobles who had little but weapons and pride.

  The old Crusaders learned a little, but merchants and minstrels had picked up the Moorish habit of bathing, changing their clothing instead of allowing it to wear out and drop off. Occasionally, travelers brought books to their homes. But books of any kind were rare in the land of the Franks, and the few available were eagerly read—but read only in private for fear the church might disapprove.

  My father, not an educated man in the sense I was later to understand, was intelligent and observant, and like most of Brittany at the time was pagan rather than Christian. Christianity, for which my father had the greatest respect, had discarded much that was good along with the bad. The baths had been symbols of paganism, so baths and bathing were condemned, and few people bathed in Europe for nearly a thousand years. Books had been thrown out on the theory that if they repeated what the Bible said, they were unnecessary, and if they said what was not in the Bible, they were untrue.

  Travel, ever an enlightening influence, had revealed to my father a more agreeable way of life. He had learned to appreciate the seasoned and carefully prepared food of the Mediterranean countries as well as their silken garments. The first rugs seen in Armorica were brought home by rovers of the seas, and many of the first books, also. Two of those brought to our house were Latin; another was in Arabic.