Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [89]
Then he knew what it was, and wondered briefly if the superior military expert at the poop was aware of the old Mediterranean trick. Galleys had been brought inland, on rollers, to serve as buttress and platforms for mounting the heavy cannon against the castle.
He worked out distances rapidly. The angle was too acute for the castle cannon to bear, and the hulks were not yet within range for arquebus fire. Arrows would not hurt them, and he guessed they were well soaked against incendiary shafts. But.…
‘Question: Why isn’t the fort at the end of the harbour offering cross-fire?’ said a pleasant voice at his ear. ‘There’s a garrison there: I’ve been watching them. Do you suppose,’ said Lymond, oblivious to Blyth’s uncontrollable dislike, ‘that the Marshal has put two hundred green Calabrian shepherds into it to perform feats of valour if so inclined, and if not so inclined, to insulate Tripoli from their gun-hysteria?’
‘Or maybe the Irishwoman is keeping them busy,’ said Jerott Blyth cuttingly, and went moodily off.
At two paces, he was brought back by a painful grip on his arm. ‘Gently, little monk,’ said Lymond, still pleasantly. ‘Tell me: does your divine calling on earth teach you to swim?’
‘Why?’ said Jerott, not a fraction less sweetly, his long dagger brought lightly, with practised ease, between his fingers.
‘Because an Osmanli boat is approaching us full of armed Janissaries, and of d’Aramon and the saintly Gabriel there is no sign at all. Something has gone wrong,’ said Lymond cheerfully. ‘Allâh’s intervention, no doubt. If you are interested in going ashore, there is only one method, now.’ He had released the knight’s arm and was already stripping methodically to hose and shirt, tossing his doublet to the deck and unbuckling his dagger. Lymond threw it high, once, and catching it by the handle, began to move silently to the lee rail in the shadows.
The ship was quiet. The look-out, if he had noticed, had not interpreted the coming skiff as Lymond had done. Jerott hesitated and turning, Lymond observed it.
‘Well, well, Mr Blyth,’ he said, sympathy in the light voice. ‘If you won’t fight for money and you’re frightened to fight for Jesus, you might as well come in for the bath.’ He had a wrestler’s grip the young knight recognized, but was far too late to prevent. Beautifully built and hard as iron, Blyth’s compact body hit the sea side by side with Lymond’s; and then he was on his tormentor, lurching wave-slapped through the water, the dagger high in his fist.
Below him Lymond twisted, dived, and as he was turning locked Jerott’s legs in his own and pulled. As the water closed over his head, the black-haired man felt his right arm wrenched free of the knife and when he rose choking to the night air he found both arms gripped tight at his back. His legs, already numb, were still locked and immovable. He jerked once, and was treated instantly to a choking plunge under the water. When he came up from that, he couldn’t speak, and the undisturbed voice in his ear said, ‘Do that once more, and I’ll duck you unconscious. The Turks are on the other side of the galley and can hear splashing quite clearly. Do you hear me?’
Blyth threw up, indiscriminately, the filthy inshore water and his last, meagre meal, but had understood well enough to do it silently. The ruthless hands let him go. ‘All right,’ said Lymond, suddenly bored. ‘Kill me now, sweetheart … if you can catch me, that is.’
Jerott Blyth, cast suddenly free, lunged weakly as his knife arched towards him, handle first, and caught it. At the same moment, in a surge of black sea and a long green wraith of phosphorescence Lymond struck off, the water closing and unclosing in long strokes over his pale head.
The Chevalier Blyth did not pause. The recovered knife fast between his white teeth, he slid fast in pursuit.
*
It had been clear