Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [26]
Philippa, with hitherto no more than cross-Channel experience, was thankful to find that the iron stomach of the Somervilles had apparently been granted her. She could have put up with being sick before Lymond, but not before Marthe, with whom she shared the chambre de poupe next to the Master’s own cabin.
Marthe, it was obvious, was not the motherly type. Nor was she the sisterly type. Possessed of perfect English when it was required of her, she displayed also perfect self-command, perfect courtesy, an exceedingly well-equipped mind and a cultivated and unalterable coolness towards Francis Crawford and all his lesser companions. During most of the journey she read: occasionally she spent an hour with the captain, who welcomed her as an experienced traveller and a beautiful young woman; occasionally she and Gaultier would sit on a hatch-lid and talk.
Lymond she had hardly exchanged a dozen words with since they met: at their daily formal meal with the Master she sat, her cool, sardonic blue gaze resting on him as he spoke, and contributing herself almost nothing at all. She made no inquiry about the purpose of their proposed halt at Algiers, and none about Philippa’s presence on board. Philippa had a feeling that she was completely informed on both counts. It did not do to forget that the Dame de Doubtance stayed in Georges Gaultier’s house.
For friendly company, Philippa had Fogge to fall back on—a broken reed, as Fogge was not a Somerville and took to her bed straight away. That left Jerott Blyth and Lymond himself, who, watchful during the rough weather, rescued her from Fogge’s side and took her up into the raw grey daylight to see the ship in full operation.
He knew a great deal about it. As she walked the high gangway between stem and stern, looking down at the two long ranks of oars with their chained rowers—nearly three hundred of them, unwashed, unshaven, naked to the waist; as she was shown the sakers and demi-culverins arming the bows, the chains to prevent main and mizzenmast falling inboard during battle, and below, the divided rooms of the hold, for stores of food and barrels of wine, for munitions and sick men, for the captain’s coals and the officers’ baggage, for the livestock which a seaman, bucket in hand, was feeding as she passed—Philippa began to realize how much.
Coming back, he showed her the cordage of the two lateen sails, now tight to the wind, and explained, as the bos’n’s silver whistle blew, that they were rowing à quartier, using a third of the oarsmen at a time, in order to help the galley to hold a few points nearer the wind without exhausting the rowers. ‘One depends on them and them alone during battle, so one cherishes them, as you can see,’ Lymond said. His face, when she glanced at it, was as totally unimpassioned as his voice. ‘These benches, and these, need the most powerful oarsmen. It’s usual to stock them with Turks, but we’ve avoided that this voyage, for obvious reasons. These are mostly Flemish and Spaniards, or criminals culled from French prisons.’ But she knew that already, as they jerked back and forth on the smooth pinewood benches, by the letters burned in their backs.
Later, struggling with tangled hair and soaked skirts in her cabin, Philippa spoke of that tour, and Marthe listened, impeccable as always, her bright hair tucked inside a close cap and her quilted skirts still without blemish. The long mouth tilted a little, as Philippa finished. ‘It is a sobering thing, one’s first close view of a galley. Were you impressed by the vogue avants du banc des espalles?’
‘Where they used to have Turks?’
‘Where for two years they had M. Francis Crawford,’ said Marthe. ‘Did you not know?’
‘He knew I didn’t,’ said Philippa.
‘But he could be sure that, sooner or later, someone would tell you. He has to perfection, M. le Comte, the art of living his private life with as much public attention as possible. You don’t agree?’