Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [148]
‘It’s a spirit,’ said Marthe, without charity. ‘Almighty God: what are the fools doing?’
‘Fighting a battle,’ said Georges Gaultier mildly. ‘It takes time. The Knights sailed for Zuara only ten days ago, and the wind was against them.’
Marthe turned with angry impatience from the poop rail. ‘They may be dead,’ she said. ‘How long will you wait before we sail to Aleppo?’
Turning his head, her self-styled uncle glanced at where Salablanca sat, silent and unregarded in a corner. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘That is, once our good patron arrives back on board. Or we have news of his death.’
Freed from Djerba on Güzel’s instructions after the escape of Jerott and Lymond, the Dauphiné with her crew and all her remaining passengers had sailed, as directed by Lymond through Salablanca, straight for the island of Malta. There they now lay, in the great harbour under the guns of Fort St Angelo on one side and Leone Strozzi’s fine new fortifications on the other. The creek leading to Birgu, the Knights’ city, was barred to them, and they had made no effort to enter; but had dipped their flag in salute to the white cross flying from every battlement, and had satisfied the skiff which put off to ask them their business.
They had no business, they said, other than to await the return of the Knights of St John from their attack on Zuara, and to take on board their patron and two others whom they had reason to believe might be with them. His patron, M. Zitwitz had said, entrusted with this reception, was a dear friend of the Chevalier Leone Strozzi, who would respond favourably, he was sure, to any kindness shown the Dauphiné during her enforced stay.
That the kindnesses, materializing, should take edible form was not therefore altogether surprising, though Marthe, in her impatience, could be heard to say that she wished Fate would take M. Onophrion and hang him to cool in a brook, like a jar of his own preserved Leipzig cherries.
The fleet came back from Zuara next morning; and watching them come, sails full and banners streaming in a following wind, those on the ramparts of Mount Scibberas and St Angelo, no less than on the decks of the Dauphiné, soon realized that something was wrong. The galleys were intact. No staved wood or torn sail spoke of disaster: only a silence which lay on the water like the white haze of humidity which made the sweat check and run like a thief over spine, loins and ribs.
Men could be seen: pale punctuation of flesh among the timber and metal and cloth. But no trumpets blew, carrying far over the water; no voices cheered; no hackbuts sparked off with joy. Instead, as the galleys came nearer and nearer, all those watching saw that the ships themselves were half empty: that the walks and platforms which had left crowded with soldiers and knights showed shining wood to the sky except where, under an awning, a few lay recumbent. The only sound in Leone Strozzi’s fleet came from the open hatches, and it was the sound of his wounded. The chain was raised, and the leaderless fleet passed in to its anchorage, and its dead to their tombs.
Salablanca alone was still on deck when at dusk a boat put off from Birgu and brought the French Special Envoy and his escort at last back to his ship. Jerott, climbing aboard one-handed after Francis Crawford, saw Salablanca smile and say, ‘Allah is beneficent,’ but did not hear what Lymond answered, if anything. By the time he in turn landed on deck Lymond had already made his way aft, where the voices of Marthe and Gaultier could be heard.
Salablanca was looking at him. Jerott said, ‘Gabriel is dead. He betrayed the Knights into the Aga Morat’s hands, and the cream of the Order has gone.… Strozzi’s badly hurt, but he’ll live. They kept us, to answer for what had happened … but