Rapscallion (17 page)

It
was also patently obvious that, compared to the majority of the hulk's
population, the Mameluke was in good physical shape. But the same could be said
for the rest of Matisse's crew. It was clear they weren't suffering the same
privations as the others. On the hulk, Matisse and his court were like a wolf
pack, where the dominant animals took the richest morsels. In fact, Matisse
appeared the most undernourished of the lot, which meant that he used brain not
brawn to stamp his authority, and that, Hawkwood knew, made him more dangerous
than any of them.

"Colourful,
isn't he?" Matisse said. "Kemel Bey's a prince of the blood.
Leastways, that's what we think he told us. He doesn't speak our language very
well. He was taken captive on board a transport off Tangier a year back. Did
you know the Emperor still has a Mameluke bodyguard? Helps His Majesty shave
every morning; a steady hand with a razor, they say." The side of
Matisse's mouth lifted. Several of his minions responded in kind; a private
joke shared.

"They
also say a Mameluke's training starts from birth. I dare say that's an
exaggeration, but they do possess a wonderful abundance of skills:
swordsmanship, spear-work, archery, the use of firearms . . . Fine wrestlers,
too. They're completely fearless. I choose Kemel Bey as my champion, Captain
Hooper." The red-rimmed eyes threw out the challenge. "So, what's it
to be? Will you stand, or will you run? Do we have our contest?"

Lasseur
stepped close and gripped Hawkwood's arm. When he spoke his voice was low and
urgent. "This is not your quarrel."

Hawkwood
looked around at the ring of grinning faces, at the sardonic smile on the bald man's
lips, at the haunted expression and the dried tear-tracks on the boy's face.

"It
is now," he said.

"But
it's my fault we're here. I should be the one to fight, not you!"

"It
isn't a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's a contest of arms."

"I
forbid you!" Lasseur hissed. His hold on Hawkwood's arm intensified.

"You
can't forbid me," Hawkwood said evenly. "It's not your quarterdeck,
remember? Besides, it has to be me. If you take on Matisse's man and you lose,
the boy will have no one in his corner. I'm not a father. I don't have the same
bond with him as you do. If anything happens to me, you'll still be here."

"And
yet you'd fight for him?"

"It's
not a fight," Hawkwood said. "It's -"

"I
know," Lasseur said wearily. Reluctantly, he let go of Hawkwood's arm.
"Well, at least you're honest, my friend. I can't deny that. A little
strange, too, I think."

"And
practical," Hawkwood said softly. "You're financing my way off this
bloody ship. I don't want anything happening to you. If I lose, it won't matter
much, the chances are you'll still make it."

Lasseur's
mouth opened and closed again quickly.

"In
your own time, Captain," Matisse called sarcastically.

Hawkwood
stared at Lasseur. "You hadn't thought about that, had you? About what
would happen to him once you were gone?"

Lasseur
looked suddenly contrite.

"Dear
God!" Hawkwood swore. "Tell me you weren't thinking of taking him
with us. You know that's impossible!"

"I'll
think of something," Lasseur said, though his expression suggested he
wasn't too sure.

Hawkwood
watched the doubt creep across the privateer's face. Things had just moved from
bad to worse and they had run out of time. He searched for options. From what
he could see, there weren't any, save one, if he was to keep to his agenda and
maintain the charade. He looked at Matisse and sighed.

"All
right, where do we do this?"

"Excellent!
Spoken like a true officer and gentleman." Matisse pointed to the deck.
"Down there."

The
pink eyes finally blinked. They alighted on the hovering Dupin.

"Bring
the boy."

Entry
was through the floor of the gunner's storeroom.

At
the Corsican's signal, the men bent down and began to remove boards from the
deck. They did so quickly and in silence, setting the boards against the bulkhead.
It was clearly a well- rehearsed routine.

"There
used to be a hatchway," Matisse said in a conversational tone. "It
was sealed when they converted the ship into a hulk. We found it and opened it
up again. The old magazine rooms are directly below us. They used the hatch to
pass cartridge boxes to and from the gun decks during battle. We guessed it was
here. They modelled these ships on the design of our seventies. There's not
that much difference between theirs and ours. We know the inside of this one
like the backs of our hands. After lights out, we have the run of the place.
Not that we need lights. We can find our way in the dark. Some of us don't have
any choice."

The
last board was laid aside. A steep stairway was revealed.

Matisse's
men led the way down, carrying lanterns. Most of them also carried beaten
barrel hoops. It was a deliberate display of force, Hawkwood knew, intended for
his and Lasseur's benefit. It was to let them know there was nowhere for them
to run. They were not shackled or bound and no one had hold of them, but it was
Matisse's way of telling them they were there at his whim, prisoners within a
prison.

Entering
the hold after the constraints of the orlop, Hawkwood felt as if he was walking
into a cathedral. For the first time since leaving the top deck, he found he
could stand upright. The relief was exquisite. They were deep inside the belly
of the ship. Broad wooden ribs curved high around them. Shingle ballast cracked
as loudly as eggshells beneath their heels. Matisse picked his way between the
deck joists like a spider crossing the strands of a web.

Provision
casks, including the water barrels, were embedded in the shingle and stacked in
tiers about them, with the larger casks at the bottom to take the load. Wedges
had been driven under the stacks for additional stability.

A
mixture of strong odours dominated the hold's interior: leakage from the casks,
stagnant water and rotten food, along with tar and cordage. There were other
pungent smells, too. The whiff of vinegar and sulphur, a legacy from the last
time the hold had been fumigated, did little to mask the smell of the rats.
With a ready-made food source at their whisker-tips, the rodents had grown
numerous and bold. Dust from their droppings drifted in the air like dandelion
spores, accumulating at the back of the throat, while at every turn a swift
flash of sleek, silken fur would catch the eye as the animals scampered away
from the approaching glimmer of the lanterns.

"Top
hatches are closed," Matisse said. "Next delivery boats aren't due
till morning. We've got the place to ourselves."

At
a signal from Matisse his men strung the lanterns from the beams. As the
darkness withdrew and the candleglow grew stronger, Matisse reached into an
inner pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles. He placed them carefully on his
nose and made great play of securing them behind the backs of his ears. At
once, his face was transformed, for the spectacle lenses were round and dark
and matched almost exactly the circumference of his eye sockets. When the pale
face was viewed full on, the resemblance to a naked skull was uncanny and
disturbing.

"When
you're ready, Dupin!" Matisse said. He looked at Hawkwood. "My
apologies, Captain; we're a little short of pistols and foils. We've had to
turn to our own devices; as you'll see."

Lasseur
frowned.

Hawkwood
looked around at the flattened barrel hoops. An uneasy feeling began to spread
through him.

Dupin
walked into the circle.

"Catch,"
he said.

Hawkwood
had barely time to react. As he snatched the object out of the air, he saw what
it was. It looked the same as the sticks the fencing class had been using the
day the well deck was invaded, with one noticeable augmentation. Bound tightly
by twine to the end of the stick was an open razor.

"What's
this?" Lasseur demanded.

Matisse
tipped his head to one side. The spectacle lenses were like black holes in his
face. "What did you think 'trial by combat' meant, Captain?
A boxing match?"

"British
law forbids duelling," Hawkwood said.
"Even on the
hulks."

"British
law doesn't apply here, Captain. We make our own law - Matisse's law."

Hawkwood
gazed down at the weapon. It was remarkably light and almost as flexible as a
real foil. There was a momentary gleam as lantern light glanced off the
six-inch blade.

Matisse
grinned. "A shade crude, perhaps, but in the right hands it's very
effective. It was Corporal Sarazin over there
who
came
up with the idea. He saw them used to settle disputes when he was a prisoner on
Cabrera."

Hawkwood
recognized the name. Cabrera was a tiny island, ten miles to the south of
Majorca. From what he'd heard, the prison there made
Rapacious
look like
paradise. It had achieved its notoriety following the French defeat at Baylen,
when the Comte de l'Etang surrendered his entire corps of eighteen thousand men
to the Spanish. The senior staff officers were repatriated. The rank and file
were sentenced first to the Cadiz hulks and then to the island. Some had later
been transferred to England. It occurred to Hawkwood it had probably been some
of those men who'd been cast into Portsmouth Harbour by the crew of the
Vengeance.

"Sarazin
was at Millbay for a time, too. They used compass
points
there instead of blades, but we found they're not quite as effective. Not so
readily available, either. I put it down to your friend Fouchet's geometry and
navigation classes." The Corsican gave a dry chuckle.

Hawkwood
stared at the blade then at Matisse. "And if I choose not to fight?"
he asked.

"Then
you forfeit. The boy remains with us. His future's in your hands,
Captain."

"And
if I win, you'll give the boy up?"

"I
told you: in the event of that happening, the boy will be set free. You have my
word."

"What
are the rules?"

"There
are no rules," Matisse said.

Several
of the men laughed.

Lasseur
frowned. "Then what determines the outcome of the contest? Is it the first
to draw blood?"

"No,
it's when one of them stops breathing."

The
interior of the hold went still. Only the creaking of the hulk's timbers broke
the silence.

The
blood drained from Lasseur's face. "This is madness!"

"No,
it's how we maintain order. There has to be order. You see that, don't you?
You're military men. You understand the need for discipline. Without it,
there'd be anarchy.
Can't have that.
It would upset
the balance."

"No!"
Lasseur said. "You cannot do this!" He threw Hawkwood a despairing
look.

"Oh,
but I can. Down here I can do anything I like."

He
stared at Hawkwood. It was a blatant challenge.

A
voice spoke softly inside Hawkwood's head.
Walk away now!

"At
least take the boy outside," Hawkwood said. "He doesn't need to see
this."

Matisse
shook his head. "On the contrary, I think it will do him the world of
good.
His first blooding.
It could be the making of
him. If Kemel Bey does his work, it might even be his first time for experiencing
other pleasures, too." Matisse chuckled softly and squeezed the boy's
shoulders. "How's your Latin,

Captain?
You strike me as an educated man. Do you know the phrase:
Jus primae noctis?
It means the
law of the first night. We call it the lord's right in French.
My
right.
I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to it. Our evening
entertainments have been lamentably dull of late. It's why we look forward to
fresh arrivals. It gives us a chance to meet new . . . friends."