Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [123]
As de Montfort, sallow and staring, left with his escort his manacled leader called to him from the ground. ‘My son … inform Commander Copier that it is my wish that he act in these straits as honour solely dictates.… And that he should regard the Governor of Tripoli as dead.’
This time, neither d’Aramon nor Graham Malett prevailed. In spite of all the Ambassador could do, de Vallier left that evening to be put in irons like a criminal on the General’s flagship, while the knight de Montfort returned to Tripoli with the General’s ultimatum.
Through all that night few of d’Aramon’s party slept, and Graham Malett not at all. Sharing his vigil was Nicolas de Nicolay, the only Frenchman who had known of Francis Crawford’s presence in the camp, and who had stayed with Gabriel since Lymond and the woman Oonagh had left.
Hands clasped over his comfortable belly, the little geographer was dozing on his pallet when the explosions began. He exclaimed, and began to squirm to his feet; but Malett was before him, striding out through the tent door to stare at the red sky over the sea; buffeted by running figures as the camp, like a shrouded anthill came suddenly alive.
They were still there when Francis Crawford was heaved into the settlement and tumbled on the coarse sand beside Sinan Pasha’s pavilion, where he rolled and lay still. As the flares identified the sun-bleached, sodden head Graham Malett took a pace forward, and then stopped. It was d’Aramon, roused by the explosions and for his own sake ignorant of all that had happened, who thrust forward saying, ‘I know that man. Where did you find him?’
From the darkness beyond a jewelled caftán glinted and the guttural, easy voice of Dragut replied. ‘He was found by some of my men who had been attracted to the brigantine in the bay by a little unexplained activity the other night. There was a woman with him.’
‘A woman?’ There was no mistaking the utter bewilderment in the Ambassador’s voice and Dragut, satisfied, permitted his bearded mouth a smile of serenest contempt. ‘He was evidently trying to escape with the woman belonging to the Governor of Gozo. It seems very likely that he was responsible for the firing of the ordnance before he left. You say you know him?’
‘He came here from Malta on one of my ships,’ said d’Aramon after a pause. Whatever damage this misguided chivalry had done, it was too late to deny it. ‘He is a Scotsman, a mercenary newly come to assist the Religion. He left the ship, I was told, after it anchored in Tripoli Bay, and presumably swam ashore.’
‘Where he has remained hidden under the sea-shells ever since?’
D’Aramon shrugged. ‘He may have joined the garrison in the castle. I have not seen him since.’
The ritual crescent bright on his turban, Dragut stepped into the torchlight and bent. Lymond’s stained lids were heavily closed and his bruised and blistered skin sparkled with salt. They had had their fun with him, clearly, but no bones were broken—by order, perhaps. Below de Nicolay’s uneasy gaze, Dragut took between finger and thumb part of the dark cloth that still clung to the swimmer and said, ‘His presence here, at any rate, is not unknown to the Knights of St John.’ And straightening, the corsair turned his jewelled slipper into the inert body and kicked, so that like a puppet it rolled spread-eagled to d’Aramon’s feet.
De Nicolay, behind, drew in his breath with a hiss and held it, as the corsair’s treacle-dark gaze fastened, first on him, then on de Seurre, d’Aramon, Gabriel … all the pale-skinned, silk-clad gentlemen standing about. ‘He is thy lover?’ he said. ‘Or the mate of another among thee?’
From the darkness, Gabriel’s deep voice spoke. ‘In the Christian world, these things are forbidden.’
‘Then who cares what becomes of him?’ said Dragut. ‘He is not a knight. If we find he is guilty of these unhappy accidents