Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [27]
‘I really don’t know him well enough,’ said Philippa, ‘to pass an opinion.’
It was the last time she was able to walk about the ship. After Formentera, the southerly wind freshened, and the silver whistle shrilled in their ears through the uproar of the seas and the creak and whine of the manœuvring galley as the sheets were pulled in and released on each tack. The brown backs of slaves and seamen glistened with light rain under a chalky grey sky, and spray fell rattling on the gangways as the hoarse voice of the Master shouted to helmsman and comite: ‘Notre homme, avertissez qu’on va mettre à la trinque … Forte! Forte!…’
The striped sails bucked and flapped and swelled again as the galley’s beak swung round, and Philippa thought, clinging to the prow rail with Jerott balancing beside her, ‘Tonight we shall be in Algiers, and perhaps we’ll wish ourselves back, and in a worse storm than this.’
Then Lymond, arriving noiselessly from the direction of the helm, touched her arm. ‘Magna pars libertatis est bene moratus venter. Otherwise meaning, the girl with the well-mannered stomach gets the most fun at sea. Would you mind, my formidable Philippa, if I asked you to retire to the captain’s cabin for a spell, along with Marthe and the melancholy Fogge? There is a galley advancing towards us in a profoundly single-minded way. You know what to do?’
Philippa smiled back, her hands cold. What to do when attacked at sea, lessons one to ten. They had spent their first morning at sea being trained, remorselessly, by Francis Crawford for this precise event. ‘I know what to do,’ said Philippa. ‘Offer them the raspberry wine and keep them talking till Mother comes in.’
‘They’re not allowed raspberry wine,’ said Lymond. ‘But you’ll think of an alternative, I’m sure.’ He hesitated.
‘You told me so,’ supplied Philippa.
‘I told you so, quite mistakenly. You are a perfect asset to any ship. This is only a precaution: I shouldn’t worry yet,’ said Lymond cheerfully. ‘He’s probably only coming to ask for a try of the spinet.’
He wasn’t coming to ask for a try of the spinet. Sitting on the Master’s well-worn mattress between Marthe, calmly expectant, and a whimpering Fogge, Philippa knew by the sudden hail of commands, the thud of bare feet on deck and the abrupt veer of the boat that the menace was real. What was she, the oncoming galley? A robber, manned by murdering renegades; a fighting ship of the Spanish Mediterranean fleet, hoping to capture or sink the lilies of France; an Algerine corsair, hating French and Spaniards alike, and bent on money and slaves?
The swinging lamp gleamed on the swords lying beside them; on the bare racks where the officers’ arms had been stored; on the ladder leading up from this one tiny room to the hatchway above. They were here, the three women, because the captain’s gavon lay under the poop, where stoving-in was unlikely, and because they had there an escape route on deck, but no door to the rest of the hold. Whatever the outcome, at least they were free of chance injury. And if pure robbery were the motive, the ship might be boarded and ransacked without their being discovered. There was enough in the chests in the main hold to satisfy most passing raiders. And the clock-spinet, of course.
Marthe said, ‘Listen.’ It was a low, rumbling thud, rolling the length of the deck above them. ‘They’re lifting the footrests to row à toucher le banc. He’s going to try and outsail them.’
Philippa had seen them row like that, leaving harbour, chained feet on the pédagues, arms and bodies leaning towards the loom of the oars. She remembered the oars entering the water, fifty-two blades as one; the surge as the slaves, second foot thrusting the bench, crashed back on their seats, arms outstretched, red-capped heads turned to the prow while the loom performed its semi-circle, touching the bench in front as it passed. It was the magnificent ceremonial stroke, too hard and fast to keep up for long; the tout avant measure of war. They felt the pull of it now, as the ship