To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [65]
‘But Gelis will.’
‘Then she has only to leave,’ Nicholas said. His voice had become curt.
‘But she won’t,’ Father Moriz said slowly. ‘Because she, too, is bent on this extraordinary duel. Can neither of you understand it is wicked? I shall tell her to go, with the boy. I shall compel her, if need be.’
‘Do,’ Nicholas said. ‘Although I should point out that the challenge was hers, and not mine. She may even win. She has scored quite a few points, most of them visible, were I to undress. She won’t go.’
Moriz restrained his voice with some trouble. ‘So what are we to expect for the future? A reign of fear? A sequence of impossible trials?’
‘An interlude of picardesque fougousité? I dare say,’ Nicholas said, ‘she will have some such in mind, but I shall try to match and even survive it. I’m sorry. You’ve done your best. The Patriarch would have been proud of you. It isn’t your fault that the maiden turned into the dragon and sent the unicorn off with two horns. I shall try to confine the harm to ourselves.’
‘Will you?’ said Moriz.
‘I don’t aim at Père Dieu,’ Nicholas said. His voice was easy. ‘Only a small speaking part with a gridiron. You might even discover that Gelis schemes better than I do.’
‘I know how you scheme,’ Moriz said.
‘I have a Bank to run,’ Nicholas said; and looked at him, finally.
The clouds passed and repassed. The bows crashed, like a bucket slamming into a well. The shadow of seabirds slid over the sails and snatches of talk rose from the decks, and the rattle of rings, and the clank of pails, and the bleating of animals. And the shrill sound of a young, imperious voice.
Abruptly, Nicholas released him from scrutiny. Moriz turned his eyes away, more exercised than he wanted to show. Far off, a line of green, the English coast hung in the mist. Down below, the helm creaked in the grip of the big Scandinavian shipmaster whose name had been mentioned so casually at camp, and who for some reason always disturbed him. Moriz said, with sudden annoyance, ‘Who is that person?’
Nicholas glanced down at the helmsman. ‘Michael Crackbene? Not a churchgoing man. Prefers the sea to the land. Is currently the Bank’s personal pirate, retained at a basic fee topped up by booty, plus a Yule timber of furs for his Ada. He’s the reason you’re here. It’s true that he’s friendly with Andreas, but to forgive us for what Crackbene does, we need more serious help than the Fortune Books.’
Father Moriz laid a hand on the rail and prepared to get up. He said, ‘I don’t mind your insulting my intelligence and my cloth. But there is a child down there, and innocent families where you are going. Unless you come to your senses, you are going to harm both.’ He was so angry it obliterated all his dislike of heights. He had descended crook-legged to the deck before he realised that the shipmaster’s narrow blue gaze had been examining him. He stumped off below.
The last person to express his opinion on the voyage was the same Michael Crackbene. He did it ten minutes later, when his duty was over, and Nicholas had slid to the deck to stand with him.
Crackbene said, ‘The priest’ll wreck it. You said he wasn’t to come. He’ll stop your divining.’ His eyes were like Gelis’s: chilly.
‘I didn’t know I was going to divine,’ de Fleury said. ‘He’s just jealous. You’re going to Valhalla and he’s only going to Heaven like me.’
‘Le Grant is over-free with his talk,’ Crackbene said. ‘The priest is learning too much.’ Then he swore, for the leather cap he had been carrying had been lifted out of his hands and tossed to hang high on a yardarm.
‘You’re overweight,’ de Fleury said. ‘The priest is one of your truly great metallurgists. He is going to have to be told what to do when we’re ready. Meantime, we want him to think we need saving.’ He threw back his head. ‘Two ducats I’ll beat you.’
Crackbene got to the cap first, but only just. It didn’t matter: it kept the ship cheerful. Later, he and de Fleury got drunk.
Over the years, Michael Crackbene had sailed both for and