CHAPTER XIII
He was back at the theatre, hammering on the tiring-house door as the other actors pressed at his back. Smoke seared his throat. Someone was screaming–
Gabriel jerked awake. Another low rumble. Just a thunderstorm, he told himself. Go back to sleep.
A moment later the ground shook. A crack of breaking timbers, followed by the scrape and whisper of falling roof-tiles that smashed on the ground below. Not thunder; cannon fire. He rolled over on the thin mattress and shook Ned awake.
“Get up! The town is under fire!”
Ned blinked at him. “What?”
“The Pasha’s fleet, I’m guessing, come to rescue Hennaq.”
They snatched up their few belongings – the knives and purses they’d kept under their pillows – and joined the other men pushing and jostling their way down the inn stairs to the common room. Gabriel suppressed a yelp as the rough sole of someone’s boot scraped the back of his bare calf, and prayed none of them would fall in the press and be crushed to death.
At last they emerged into the common room and the pressure eased as the men dispersed.
“Which way?” Ned panted.
“Front door,” Gabriel replied. “I think I saw Danziger heading that way.”
They ran out onto the quayside. Dawn was breaking, and against the rose-gold light they could make out a line of galleys, their sails reefed, spanning the bay. The cannons were silent, waiting, but perhaps they would not remain so for long.
“I thought they weren’t supposed to get here until the day after tomorrow,” Gabriel said to Danziger, who was likewise staring into the sunrise.
“Evidently Amin was more persuasive than we expected,” the Dutchman said quietly.
Someone pushed past them, running northwards towards the fort that stood on an arrowhead-shaped promontory at the northern end of the bay.
“Come on, this is our chance!” Ned tugged at Gabriel’s sleeve.
“What?” He could hardly drag his eyes away from the advancing ships.
“Everyone’s fleeing to the fort. This is our chance to get inside, find Hennaq.”
“You are right,” Danziger said. “Raoul! Pierre! With me!”
Gabriel turned away and hurried after Ned, trying not to lose him in the throng which grew thicker the nearer they came to the red-walled fort.
“You think this will work?” he muttered in Ned’s ear as they halted about fifty yards from the gate, squeezed between a heavily laden mule and a man carrying a child on his shoulders.
Ned craned his neck round. “You have a better idea? Besides, we can hardly sail away with that lot blockading the port. Our crew are all Christians; that was part of Danziger’s cunning plan, after all.”
Gabriel’s retort was cut off by a blare of trumpets from the gate. One of the guards shouted something in Spanish. He went on at great length; Gabriel could only make out a word here and there, but it sounded like regulations on who would be allowed inside the fort. His heart sank.
A tap on his shoulder made him start. He turned to see Danziger behind him. Their young captain grinned and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. Gabriel grinned back. Money could always be relied on to get around the rules.
It took them the best part of an hour to get inside the fort, and by then the chill of morning was giving way to the oppressive heat of another Moroccan day. Gabriel’s throat was as dry as the desert and the stink of humans and animals crammed together in the hot sun threatened to make him pass out, but he shuffled along patiently, taking comfort from Ned’s closeness. He daren’t reach out for his lover’s hand in case he found someone else’s, but just seeing him there was enough.
At last they stumbled into the shade of the gateway and Danziger spoke with the guard, pointing out his crew with one hand whilst slipping coins to the man with the other. The guard waved them through and they found themselves in the outer ward, a narrow low-walled enclosure against the western end of the fortress. The southern half, closest to the harbour, had been fenced off and all the townsfolk’s livestock was being herded inside: sheep, goats, donkeys, mules and pigs mingling together, all competing to see who could make the most noise. Outside the corral, families sat huddled around their belongings, women and children weeping or simply blank-faced in terror. They knew they were the intruders here, but perhaps they had not expected the Moors to reclaim the port just yet.
The fort’s southernmost cannons were firing now, keeping the Pasha’s fleet from getting any closer. Between the constant barrage and the noise of the refugees, Gabriel felt like he was already in Hell. Still, he followed Ned and Danziger across the outer ward as far as they were allowed, which was still some distance from the gate into the main fortress. The captain paused and gathered them all round.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said in French, “we have penetrated the enemy’s initial defences. I suggest we wait for nightfall, then try to advance further.”
“What if the Moors capture the town first?” Gabriel asked.
Danziger shrugged. “We will have to take that chance. God is on our side, is he not?”
The day dragged by in a haze of thirst and boredom. The Spanish soldiers came round with baskets of bread at noon, but with only a single jug of water between the five of them and no prospect of getting more, Ned could barely choke down his share of the half-stale loaf. At least as the afternoon wore on the sun began to sink below the western wall, throwing long shadows across the outer ward.
“I’ve been watching the guards,” Gabriel said softly, leaning his shoulder against Ned’s. “Most of them seem to be on the walls and the outer gatehouse; they can’t spare many for the refugees or the inner gate, so those men are on longer shifts.”
“So they’ll be weary, and bored,” Ned replied.
“Exactly.”
“So we wait until dusk, when their sight is dimmest; that’s a trick Mal taught me.”
“And when their thoughts, and those of the refugees, are turning to supper.”
“Still, how do we get through the gate?”
“I think we’ll need a diversion.” Gabriel beckoned Danziger over. “Can you ask Pierre and Raoul to start a fight on the other side of the ward? Perhaps when the soldiers next come round with food.”
Danziger nodded and grinned. “I’m sure they would be happy to have something to do.”
They didn’t have long to wait. The scent of onions and herbs drifted across the ward as a pair of soldiers carried out a cauldron slung on a couple of pole-arms balanced across their shoulders. The refugees began to get to their feet and close in on the food. Danziger nodded to his men, who pushed their way through the crowd.
At this distance Ned couldn’t see who threw the first punch, but soon there was shouting from the direction of the cauldron and the crowd shifted and swirled like a swarm of flies disturbed from a dungheap. He exchanged glances with Gabriel. It was now or never.
The guards on the inner gatehouse were already moving forwards to assist in subduing the riot. Ned, Gabriel and Danziger halted in the shadows until they were out of the guards’ line of sight, then slipped through the gate.
“What if someone asks us who we are and where we’re going?” Ned whispered.
“We kill them,” Danziger growled. “Now quiet!”
The vast inner ward – twice as long as the entire plot of ground occupied by Tower of London but somewhat narrower – stretched before them, with, to either side of the gateway, a large fortress with crenelated walls. Smaller towers punctuated the curtain wall at intervals, and newer-looking outbuildings were ranged across the open space. A large pen held horses rather than livestock for eating, though Ned had heard enough of Mal’s stories about sieges to know that they would serve double duty if need be. Christ forfend it should come to that, though.
“Look!” Gabriel pointed to an outbuilding from which men were emerging at intervals with baskets of bread and covered pots. Some went towards the main fortress to their left, overlooking the harbour, others into the low triangular tower to their right. “Looks like it’s supper time for the garrison.”
“I wish it were my supper time as well,” Ned muttered under his breath. Thankfully the others didn’t hear him.
“Which do we choose?” Gabriel asked. “Hennaq could be anywhere.”
“If I were expecting an attack from the harbour,” Danziger said, “I’d put my prize prisoner as far away as possible. I say we try the north tower.”
Gabriel ducked into the empty guardroom and emerged a few moments later with a basket covered in a napkin, a kettle and a couple of wine bottles.
“With any luck no one will notice they’re mostly empty,” he said, handing them round. “Come on, before the guards get back.”
Danziger led the way, striding confidently towards the north tower as if he belonged there. Ned hefted the empty basket onto his shoulder and followed. This was all going a little too easily for his liking.
It was hard to make anything out inside the fortress; no torches burned anywhere, and the light was fading fast. Daylight. Ned looked up. The fortress was open to the sky.
“You know,” Gabriel hissed, pressing his back against the stonework, “I don’t think there’s a building in here at all. Not like in an English castle. It’s just a series of angled walls for the defenders to man, and stairs up to the wall-walk.”
“So where’s Hennaq?” Ned whispered back.
“I don’t know. In one of those outbuildings, perhaps?”
Ned sighed. “I knew this was going too well. Which outbuilding? There must be at least a dozen just on this side of the ward.”
“I think we can ignore the kitchens. And the open one that looks like a smithy.”
Danziger re-joined them. “We should leave the ‘supper’ here; it’ll look strange if we carry it out again.”
Ned set down his basket. His stomach ached with more than hunger, clenched around a tight knot of fear.
“So we just wander around the buildings until we get arrested?”
“It’s nearly dark. I say we wait here a while longer, then make our move. Find the skrayling, break him out and be gone before dawn.”
“How? We can hardly smuggle him out through that lot,” Ned said, pointing back towards the gatehouse.
“We’ll have to climb over the walls.”
“In the dark? You are completely insane, you know that?”
“So I’m told.” Danziger showed his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile. “I like to think I’m just a little bolder than most men. It gives me the element of surprise.”
Ned shook his head. They would be caught and executed as spies, he was sure of it.
The guns had fallen silent, both sides hoarding their ammunition for a last assault at dawn, most likely. The three men walked quietly across the near-empty ward, past the kitchen and the smithy. A long, low building appeared to be barracks; they skirted it cautiously, slipping from one shadow to the next. Beyond was a small solidly built brick shed, perhaps a powder store or armoury. However its door was bolted and barred, which seemed an unlikely way to leave an armoury in the middle of an attack. He nudged Gabriel and pointed to it. The actor nodded.
Thankfully the armoury door was shielded from direct view by the back of the barracks. Gabriel and Danziger gently lifted the bar and slid back the bolts. Ned winced at every squeak and scrape of metal, but no one raised the alarm or came running. Danziger took hold of the door handle and Gabriel hefted his cudgel. Ned remembered Mal’s account of the Corsican watchtower and the skrayling captives who had killed themselves rather than be sold into slavery. Dear God, please say Hennaq had not resorted to the same.
The door swung open and they peered inside. At first Ned could see nothing, then the lines of shadow resolved into the tattooed face of a skrayling. Gabriel beckoned to him.
“Captain Hennaq?”
The skrayling didn’t move. Ned stepped inside the hut and held out his hand.
“You want to leave here?”
A rough palm scraped against his own, and strong fingers closed around his hand. Ned pulled the skrayling to his feet, and sniffed.
“Is there still gunpowder in here, or has the smell of it seeped into the walls?”
The explosion made a perfect diversion. The entire garrison, or so it seemed, rushed to the south wall, convinced the fort was under attack again. The three men and their skrayling companion slipped into the north tower unseen and paused, panting, in the shadows. Ned wiped the sweat from his brow with his good hand and willed his heart to cease its frantic pounding.
“Well, that worked a treat!” Danziger said. “Now we just have to get over the wall.”
“How?” Gabriel looked around at his companions. “We left our best climber in the outer ward, and in any case we have no rope.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Dutchman said. He unwound his sash and pulled up his tunic to reveal a layer of rope wound about his torso.
“You’ve been wearing that all this time? Why didn’t you tell us?”
Danziger shrugged. “We had no need of it until now.”
“What about Pierre and Raoul?” Ned asked. “We can’t just leave them here.”
“They’re no fools. Probably out of the front gates already and on their way to meet the Hayreddin. Come on!”
He led them up a flight of steps to the wall-walk, which was thankfully deserted. The four of them crouched behind the crenelated wall and peered out through the embrasures.
“Hah, as I hoped.” He pointed out to sea. “I knew our good captain would not fail us.”
Barely visible with the glare of burning buildings behind them, the Hayreddin stood out to sea about a mile offshore. Danziger lashed the end of his rope to one of the merlons and paid it out gently.
“How am I going to get down that with only one hand?” Ned muttered. “Rigging’s one thing, but this…”
“I’ll show you,” Danziger replied.
He looped the rope under his right leg and over his left shoulder.
“Your bottom hand–” he took hold of the rope behind his back “–controls your descent, your top one–” he clasped the end tied to the merlon “–only steadies you. You can do that, yes?”
Before Ned could answer, Danziger climbed over the wall and began to lower himself down. Ned leaned over to watch. The young Dutchman made it look so easy…
Muttered curses came from below.
“What is it?” Ned hissed.
“The rope’s a few yards too short. I’ll have to jump.”
He did so, landing on the rocks below with an ankle-crunching impact. To Ned’s relief Danziger stood up, seemingly unhurt, and waved for the rest of them to come down.
“You go next,” Ned told Gabriel.
“You’re not planning something stupid, are you?”
“No, I just don’t trust Danziger with Hennaq.” It was part of the truth. Enough of it. He took Gabriel’s head in both hands and kissed him soundly, sun-chapped lips grazing on stubble. “Now go.”
The moment Gabriel disappeared over the wall, Ned turned back to the eastern side of the fortress. The soldiers were still running back and forth, loading muskets and cannon. He had only moments alone with the skrayling; better be quick.
“Tell me something, captain,” he said softly. “What happened to that Venetian whore we sent west with you?”
Hennaq looked puzzled. Ned racked his brains for how to put it in Tradetalk.
“She-fellah you take of us to Vinland. She die?”
“She go,” the skrayling answered. “With sea lord of south, he who take I.”
“The Moors rescued her? Dark-skin fellahs?” Ned pointed east, towards Al-Jaza’ir.
“Yes.”
“God’s teeth, that’s all we need,” Ned muttered to himself. “Where is she now?”
Hennaq shrugged. “I slave. Not see, not hear.”
Well, that put a different complexion on things. If Olivia was on the loose, he had no choice but to warn Mal. In person, if need be.
He peered over the wall. Gabriel was almost down. Ned held his breath as Gabriel dropped gracefully to the rocks, then hauled up the slack rope with shaking hands.
“Now you,” he said to Hennaq.
He had been worried the skrayling would be weak from his captivity, but Hennaq wrapped the rope about his body and climbed over the wall with calm determination. Ned wished he felt half as confident.
All too soon the rope went slack again.
“Well then, this is it,” Ned muttered to himself.
He pushed up his sleeve and slid the lever forward. The metal fist opened, and he placed the rope across the studded palm then returned the lever to its original position. He wound the next few feet of the rope under his left leg and over his shoulder in a mirror image of Danziger’s demonstration. Finally he swung a leg over the battlements, reached behind his back and grasped the rope. A heart-stopping moment as he swung the other leg over, his bare feet scrabbling for purchase. Rough stone scraped against his toes, but at last he had his feet planted flat against the wall.
“Hurry, Englishman!” Danziger hissed up at him.
Ned swore under his breath and walked his feet down a yard or so, gritting his teeth as the rope scoured his thigh and shoulder.
He made it about halfway down without mishap, but now he was soaked in sweat which turned the rope burns into lines of agony across his flesh. To his relief he found a temporary foothold, a hole in the wall big enough to wedge both feet into. He pressed his cheek against the cool stone for a moment, wishing he were at the bottom already, but voices floated up from below: Danziger’s impatient, Gabriel’s encouraging.
He tightened his grip on the rope and prepared to resume his descent, but flung himself back against the wall as the rope burn on his shoulder erupted in fresh agony. His linen shirt had worn right through, exposing bare flesh. He took the weight on his feet again and used his teeth to shift the fabric over, covering the burn, then moved the rope along an inch or two. Now it would rub against his neck as well, but better that than be scoured to the bone. Tears stung his eyes, as much from shame as from the raw flesh. Have to go on or fall and – no, don’t think about it, Christ, just do it…
With a final prayer he kicked off again and shuffled the rest of the way down, cursing under his breath with every yard. When he could no longer feel any rope below his left hand, he twisted round and saw Gabriel standing right below him, almost close enough to reach Ned’s feet.
“Jump! I’ll catch you.”
Ned transferred his left hand to the taut rope in front of him, shook the loose end free of his trembling limbs, and let go. A heartbeat later he landed in Gabriel’s arms and they collapsed onto the rocks together.
“Careful!” Gabriel held him tight when he tried to roll over and get to his feet. “These rocks slope down to the cliff. One misstep and you’ll tumble to your death.”
Rough hands helped them both up. Hennaq. The skrayling grinned at them, showing his fangs. Ned supposed it was meant as a friendly gesture, but he still found it disconcerting.
They climbed with painful slowness over the rough terrain, feeling their way like blind men. Ned’s surefootedness compensated a little for his utter weariness, but it was tough going all the same. He flinched every time his feet kicked loose a chip of rock that rattled its way down the slope, and expected musket fire to erupt from the fortress wall at any moment. But gradually Mers-el-Kébir shrank behind them, and he began to breathe more easily. The dangerous part of this mission was over; now came the tricky bit.
“What do you mean, we’re not going to hand him over to the Pasha?” Danziger crossed the tiny cabin in a couple of strides and grabbed Ned by the front of his ragged shirt. “Look here, Englishman, I didn’t risk my life to let that creature go free. He’s a slave, and he’s worth a fortune to the man who can deliver him–”
“–to his own people,” Ned replied. “You think the Pasha is rich? The skraylings come from a land dripping in gold and silver and jewels. Besides, you think the Pasha will really pay you for him? Most likely he’ll reward the captains of his fleet first, and you and me’ll be lucky to get enough for a round of drinks.”
Danziger relaxed his grip and Ned shook him off.
“Look, we ransom him back to his clan, we can all retire on the proceeds. Everyone’s happy.”
“Apart from the Pasha,” Danziger pointed out.
“How’s he going to find out, unless one of the crew betrays us?”
“I agree with Ned,” Gabriel said. “The Spanish will claim Hennaq escaped, the Moors won’t believe them. Or they’ll think he was smuggled out on a Spanish ship before the Pasha’s fleet arrived.”
“So you’re going to sail all the way to the New World? In this old tub?”
“No need,” said Ned. “We can take him to Sark. Plenty of skraylings there, and it’s close to home for us.”
“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” He stormed out of the cabin, swearing in the mix of French and Arabic common on board their vessel. Ned didn’t need to understand either language to get the gist of it.
“You think it’s safe to go back to England?” Gabriel said.
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. Maybe Mal’s been able to get us a pardon by now. It’s not like he can write to us and tell us.”
“What about the guisers?”
“Fuck the guisers. I reckon if I’m going to die, I want to die among friends, with beer in my belly and you–” he pulled Gabriel closer “–in my bed. Fat chance of either at sea.”
“I can wait a few weeks longer,” Gabriel replied, brushing his lips against Ned’s brow. “Good work, my love.”