“Run!” shrieked Gwennec, pulling at his horse’s head. He was holding the reins in an awkward, clawed way, and Fatima saw, belatedly, that his hands were bound together with twine.
“Run!” he repeated. Fatima pelted away. Her insides burned. She could feel every contraction of her muscles as she ran, a screaming, labored push-pull beneath her skin. There was cursing and shouting behind her and a hand reached for her borrowed cloak, but the general’s men, clad in armor that weighed half as much as Fatima herself, were slower than she was. Behind her, Gwennec’s horse was squealing. Fatima saw a blur of copper and green and realized Hassan was following her, or trying to. By instinct, she had run toward the cog, though it was only when her feet hit the gangplank that she realized how foolish this was: the three ships at the mouth of the harbor hadn’t moved. But she was propelled by sheer momentum now, tumbling onto the deck as Hassan collided with her, sending them both sprawling on their sides.
Over the rumbling of the tide and the clamor of horses and men, Fatima heard Gwennec cry out. There was a mechanical thud and a crack as an arquebus discharged: the tart smell of gunpowder filled the air. Fatima knew they should push off, tighten the sail, pull the tiller until it pointed away, but all she could see was a monk’s habit surrounded by steel.
“Gwennec,” she said, struggling to her feet.
“Leave him,” called Hassan. Fatima pretended not to hear. She stood at the edge of the gangplank, watching as a soldier reached toward the reins of Gwennec’s terrified gelding. Gwennec looked up and met Fatima’s gaze. The distance was too great; the soldiers were too many and too well armed. A terrible resignation settled over his face. The reins slid uselessly through his bound hands and into those of the soldier, who yanked the horse’s head down, dragging it to a halt.
Fatima unsheathed the dagger at her hip.
“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Hassan. Fatima breathed in and out, steadying her hand. On the third breath, she loosed the dagger. It flew end over end, glinting in the new sun like a fish leaping into the air, and clattered off the soldier’s breastplate into the mud.
Fatima howled in frustration.
“Give me yours,” she ordered Hassan.
“No!”
She reached for his sash.
“At least throw it properly this time,” pleaded Hassan, sitting down where he was. “Hold it by the blade, Fa, not the hilt—the blade, the blade.”
Fatima took the blade of the dagger between three fingers, trying hard not to cut herself. The impact of her first attempt had prompted the soldier to turn and look at her: his helm was tilted back, and she could see his lightly bearded face, his disjointed nose, broken in undiscoverable circumstances. He had a home; he had come from somewhere; someone had loved him. For a moment, she was moved: if not for all of this, all of the steel and the quartered arms, the borders drawn and redrawn on maps, they might be something else to one another. Perhaps not friends, but at least not enemies.
The soldier twitched. Fatima didn’t realize she’d thrown Hassan’s knife until she saw it lodged between his brows. He twitched again, grimacing reflexively, and collapsed into the mud.
Gwennec stared at her in disbelief. Then his gelding bolted and he lurched forward, clinging to its mane as it thundered away from the throng of soldiers. A second arquebus discharged, a third, a fourth. The railing closest to Fatima exploded into splinters. She skittered away, giddy and horrified, as Gwennec grabbed at the gelding’s reins with both hands and forced it up the gangplank, which bounced and dipped under its weight. The horse leaped the last stride onto the deck. The force of its hooves dislodged the gangplank entirely and sent the narrow beam into the churning water below like a body thrown overboard. Free at last, the cog began to spin, sail flapping, the tiller rotating in half circles under pressure from the eager tide.
Fatima heard high, disbelieving laughter. Gwennec slid off the gelding’s saddle and looped his bound wrists over her head, pulling her into a clumsy embrace. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the pulse at her temple. Fatima felt points of heat where his lips had been that lingered after he withdrew them. Then he was gone: Hassan was tearing the twine from his reddened wrists, and he was running, throwing himself over the prow with his legs hooked around the bowsprit, reaching down over his head to unfurl a second sail, a spritsail, which Fatima had never noticed.
“Speed!” he shouted back at them. “Get on the damned tiller, it’s flapping like a drunkard!”
Fatima left Hassan to placate the hysterical gelding and sprinted up to the stern castle. She threw her weight against the tiller, ignoring the surge of fire in her middle. Wind snapped into the mainsail and the cog jerked forward as if stung by a whip.
“Point us between those two big carracks,” called Gwennec, hurrying back toward Fatima along the deck. “It’s our best chance. They’ll not be able to turn as quick as the little caravel off our right flank over there.”
Fatima heaved the tiller to the left. The cog tilted and veered, sending the horse into a frenzy: it reared, dragging Hassan with it. Fatima watched the animal’s panic unfold in silence. The sound of the prow cutting through the surf muted everything else. Fatima could see figures hurrying across the deck of the nearest carrack, sunburned men, some armed and in hauberks, others in sailors’ caps; they swarmed toward the rail and into the rigging as if caught by surprise. She narrowed her eyes at the gap between the two ships, through which the open sea was visible: it was wide enough to admit the cog, but only just, and they were closing in on it very fast.
“Make your peace with God,” called Gwennec, sounding almost merry. A volley of noise cut through the roar of the surf: a dozen arquebuses, two dozen, half a hundred perhaps, fired at the cog from both sides. Shattered wood flew up from prow and railing and hull, sending a rain of splinters down on their heads. Fatima flinched, sheltering beneath the tiller.
“We’re still too slow.” Gwennec leaned over an uninjured portion of the railing to assess the damage. His hair was damp with salt spray and curled across his brow, making him look younger, almost like a boy. “If we don’t get out of range of their guns, they’ll put a hole in the hull and sink us right here. We’ve got to lose something.”
“Not the horse!” shouted Hassan, who was standing with the poor animal’s face pressed into the front of his robe.
“Then throw yourself overboard, you bony heathen! Christ Jesus!” Gwennec was gone again, shimmying up the mast until he reached the very top, where the boom of the mainsail met the mast and made a cross.
Fatima went cold. “What are you doing?” she called, convinced he was about to martyr himself. Gwennec didn’t answer. Beside him, the Castilian flag flew stiff and proud, yard after yard of expensively dyed canvas and rampant lions pulling at the rope that secured it. Gwennec reached out and loosed one knot, then another. With a roar, he flung the colors away. The lessening of the drag against the mainsail was slight, but sufficient: the cog slipped between the two larger ships like a well-oiled bolt.
“Reload!” Fatima could hear someone overhead shouting in Castilian. “Reload!”
“They timed that last volley all wrong,” said Gwennec gleefully. “They’ll pay for it now. We’ll be well past them by the time they’ve reloaded those great clanking things.”
A canyon of interlocking pine planks enclosed them. The hulls of the two carracks sat many feet higher in the water than the little cog, and loomed overhead, echoing with the thwarted cries of soldiers. The sound of rushing water quieted. A bluish gloom fell over the deck of the smaller ship as the shadows of the carracks enveloped it.
“They’ll crush us,” came Hassan’s voice, sounding thin and metallic.