The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [63]
Nicholas looked at him. There were people standing in doorways and watching them. Women and grandfathers, mostly. All the able men were down by the shore. All except the owner of one hundred and thirty-eight feet of floating debt, now consolidating itself into cinders.
Nicholas said, “You wouldn’t remember her.”
“Who?” He thought he knew.
“Catherine,” Nicholas said, proving he didn’t. “The little one. Marian’s…He’ll have her back on board. A boat. I need a boat.”
Catherine. “Catherine de Charetty?” Tobie said. He didn’t show disbelief. He said, “How? Where?”
“With Doria,” said Nicholas. “The white page. With the black one.” He looked at Tobie, and the red light striped his cheek, over the scar. He said, “Don’t you remember? He married in Sicily. She was on board. Veiled. Twelve or thirteen, they said. She was even in Florence. She was in Florence, and I didn’t do anything.” He looked at Tobie with recognition and almost with a recognisable manner. He said, “Go to the Ciaretti and do what you can. I have to board Doria’s ship.”
“Why?” said Tobie. He had had time to think quickly. “Kill him; take her away? She’s been his wife ever since Sicily. Tonight, he has fifty men on that ship, and he’ll laugh at you. Your galley is burning. He’ll laugh at that as well. You have to see to that first, or give the family another disaster to deal with. What will a few hours do to the girl that hasn’t been done already?”
He conveyed brisk impatience. He had no idea whether the man had had a nightmare or whether there was an atom of truth in what he was saying, nor did it matter. He thought he could get him back to his ship. The question was whether, once there, he had any stamina left to do any good. But even that mattered less than getting there.
Tobie said, “You really can’t desert your own crew. Tomorrow, let’s try something that has a chance of succeeding.”
You could hear the roar of people, far away, behind the nearer sounds of shuffling feet and people talking. After an agonising space, Nicholas said, “Yes.”
On the way downhill, Tobie quickened his pace and then broke into a run. Nicholas did the same, after a moment. The wetness had dried on his face: he had been unaware of it. On the shore, the waves slapped at the quays in scarlet peaks and black shadows. Between the sea and the shore, the crowds of would-be helpers were in disarray and, dismayingly, Julius and the rest were still among them. Where skiffs and ships’ boats had claimed every stanchion by daylight, now the places were empty. Ranging fast round the beach, someone had found a shallop, but it was holed. By the time a shed had been unlocked and a boat launched, the smoke, pumice-grey, was pouring towards them and turning the water to lava.
Godscalc, Julius and le Grant were scrambling in just as Tobie pounded towards them, Nicholas following. Tobie sprang into the boat, his fingers dug in the notary’s shoulder. Julius, who had opened his mouth, slowly shut it. Nicholas stepped into the boat as if it were empty and sitting, got hold of his oars and settled them, too, as if they belonged to somebody else. When le Grant barked, he leaned forward and pulled with the rest. They were well into the harbour when Tobie saw his eyes become aware and his lips part. He inhaled: a vast breath, which went on to include all the air in the Morea. Then, with visible purpose, he turned his head on his shoulder and began to study the fire on his galley.
First, Astorre and the crew were still on board, and active. So much could be glimpsed as the smoke wavered and curdled. In the same uncertain moments of vision, you could see that the ships at anchor were supplying help also, sending skiffs or moving up cautiously. Two of the boats from the Doria were prominent among them. When, coughing furiously, the Charetty rowers swung their way through the murk and came at last near the flames at its centre they could hear the shouting from the far side of the galley, and the splashing and hissing of water.