Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [88]
He did not see Lymond, watching him, suddenly make up his mind and move over, quietly, to speak to the Spanish commander, or the change of direction which took the whole company across the gritty sand-flats to Gabès. He was aware, first, of an occasional relief as they passed the more and more frequent handfuls of palm trees, and then of the skyline of greenery and tall, interlaced trees that spoke of the presence of water. Sitting up a little, his inflamed eyes tightened against the glare, he saw the first white mud walls of Gabès come into sight, and the sharp moving shadows of horsemen, breaking out through the trees. The sun, sinking golden into unsophisticated textures, suddenly struck off tinder sparks of hard light among the palm trees and these, Jerott saw, came from the riders who thronged out with their shadows from the huddle of buildings.
They poured out, a great many of them, their turbans like bog cotton above sallow faces and wide-sleeved jackets and trousers; and in their grasp the lances and bows and wide-bladed swords of Damascus flashed and glittered and the sound of their voices, shouting, fell thin and crowded on the wide desert air. Jerott felt Salablanca’s grip on his reins tighten, and saw that Lymond was already on his other side, his drawn sword in his hand.
‘A hundred … two hundred, at least,’ said Francis Crawford’s even voice. ‘And they’re behind us as well. I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Marthe … Jerott. It’s a perfect trap, I’m afraid. Stay in the trees, and don’t try to escape. We’ll have to surrender.’
Jerott’s disused voice was barely audible. The Spaniards won’t. It would cost them their Uves. That’s the standard of the Aga Morat, the Governor of Tripoli. He’ll kill every Spaniard he can reach.’
Lymond, his head bent, had already knotted a large white scarf to the point of his cane. Then let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that they feel rather differently about a Special Envoy of France.’ And leaving the girl and Jerott still mounted, waiting under the palms, he spurred forward, with Salablanca, to the head of the troop.
Marthe and Jerott watched them go: watched the white-robed circle of horsemen closing inwards on the knot of armed Spaniards, the light arrows already beginning to fly. ‘They’re poisoned,’ said Jerott, and shut his lips hard. A poisoned arrow might be the kindest death an Arab army could offer a woman under the protection of Spain.
Then they saw, within that trapped band of horsemen, the snatched words between Lymond and the Spanish commander apparently come to an end. Among the polished steel something fluttered—the white scarf Lymond had tied to his whip. Holding it high, Lymond rode out from among the circling group of frantic horsemen, straight out among the falling arrows and towards the Aga Morat’s blue standard.
Jerott did not look at the still face beside him, but he drew a long, shaking breath, and spoke. ‘Do you see?’
And with her eyes also on the solitary horseman: ‘What else could he do?’ Marthe replied.
It was a long ride. Presently, the arrows stopped falling while the Arab horses stood still in their wide circle and the rearguard, at Gabès and within fifty yards of Jerott’s back to the west, made sure that none breaking through should escape. They saw Lymond, swordless, reach the standard, and brown hands close on his stirrups and reins before the robed figures hid him completely. ‘The Aga Morat …’ said Marthe suddenly. ‘He is Turkish, is he not?’
‘Yes,’ said Jerott; and forced himself into coherence. ‘He commands an army which used to be based on Tagiura. He was the lieutenant of Barbarossa, the corsair, when Algiers was taken, and he helped two years ago to fling the Knights of St John out of Tripoli. He’s not inimical to France, but Francis will have to persuade him that he is a French envoy …’ Jerott fell silent. Two years before, Francis Crawford had fought for the Knights of St John at Tripoli, as Jerott