Rapscallion

orphanage run by priests outside Astariz. The boy had been abandoned in the confessional as a baby, wrapped in a blanket, his only possession a small silver crucifix strung on a bootlace around his neck. The child had been seven years old when Hawkwood had met him and something of a miracle, for no one had expected him to live beyond his fourth birthday. The boy's eyes had been sensitive to light, Hawkwood recalled, forcing him to spend most of his waking hours in a darkened room. It was one of the brothers who'd told Hawkwood that the word used to describe the boy's condition had been borrowed from Portuguese traders. It was the name they gave to the white Negroes they'd encountered on the coast of Africa. They called them albinos.

The colour of Matisse's eyes suggested he might be a victim of the same abnormality. Maybe that was how the Romans' alleged preference for the dark had got started. Maybe the stories were based purely on a distorted understanding of the Roman leader's affliction.

Hawkwood's thoughts were interrupted.

'Captain Lasseur! This is an honour! It's not often we get to meet one of the republic's naval heroes. Why, I was regaling my friends here only yesterday with tales of your exploits. Very impressed they were, too; especially with your taking of the British brig. Justice. Where was it now? Off the coast at Oran? I heard you were severely outgunned. That must have taken some courage. We admire a man with backbone, don't we, boys?'

There was a curious rough yet sibilant quality to the voice. The mocking words were heavily accented and didn't so much emerge as slither from the tip of the man's tongue. Hawkwood presumed that was due to the speaker's Corsican heritage. There was no response from the other men lounging at the table, who looked as dissolute as their leader and decidedly unenthused by the prospect of receiving visitors, irrespective of their reputation.

'And you'll be our gallant American ally, Captain Hooper! I regret to say, due to an oversight no doubt, Captain Hooper's reputation has failed to precede him. My commiserations, nevertheless, on your capture, sir. The Emperor needs all the help he can get. My spies tell me you're newly arrived from Spain; a bloody battleground, by all accounts. The newspapers here say that Wellington's giving us a roasting. Is that true? Or are they pamphleteering, I wonder?'

Hawkwood ignored the question. He stuck out his boot and shoved Juvert forward. 'I'm told this belongs to you.'

Surprise and gravity did the rest. The trip sent Juvert flying. Forced to put out his hands to save himself, he let out an undignified splutter as he slewed across the deck, forcing several of the onlookers to scramble back from his line of trajectory. The boy jumped nervously, his eyes wide. Shaken out of their insouciance, the men on either side of him sat up. Shock lanced across their faces.

The shaven-headed man's pose did not change. It was hard to read the expression in his eyes as he stared down at Juvert's prostrate body. Only the contraction of his jaw muscles indicated the essence of his thoughts. He looked up, his arm still draped across the boy's shoulders.

'You've a flair for the dramatic, Captain Hooper, I'll grant you that. From the look of him, I'd say Claude doesn't quite share your enthusiasm. It's true, he performs errands for me now and again. Not always to my complete satisfaction, it has to be said.' There was an undeniable hint of menace in the last statement.

Juvert got to his knees and winced. From the pallor in his cheeks, his ears had obviously picked up the nuance in his master's voice. He looked like a man trying to decide between advance or retreat, knowing in his heart and from the mutterings and the looks he was attracting that, whichever path he took, he was unlikely to recruit much sympathy.

The shaven-headed man gave a jerk of his head. 'Take him away.'

Juvert was afforded no opportunity to protest. Hauled unceremoniously to his feet, he barely had time to throw Hawkwood and Lasseur a backward glance before he was bundled through the curtain. No one looked sorry to see him go. A muffled grunt came from outside and then there was the sound of an object being dragged away. Then silence.

Matisse sat back. He looked composed, at ease with his surroundings. His spidery fingers played idly with the hair on the back of the boy's neck. 'You'll forgive us for not rising. We're not used to company. I apologize for the inadequacy of the illumination, by the way. My eyes have an aversion to light; daylight in particular. Even candle flames cause me some discomfort. An inconvenient ailment, but I've grown used to it.'

The words confirmed Hawkwood's suspicions. They also explained the rags draped over the scuttles.

'We don't give a shit for your health,' Lasseur snapped. 'We're here for the boy.'

The backs of the men seated around the table stiffened at this. The shaven head tilted. Lucien Ballard sat unmoving; he looked terrified. The hand on his neck stilled but did not relinquish possession.

Hawkwood tensed.

'He doesn't belong down here,' Lasseur said.

'Is that right? Who says?'

The fingers resumed their fondling. It reminded Hawkwood of a cat being stroked. Lucien Ballard was not purring, however. He looked mesmerized.

'I warned Juvert what would happen if he showed his face again,' Lasseur said. 'He disobeyed me - on your orders.'

The Corsican's hand froze once more. His chin came up sharply.

'Diso-beyed you? Juvert is not yours to command, Captain Lasseur. He's my emissary. In case you've forgotten, you're not on your quarterdeck now. This is my dominion. You're the trespasser here.'

'Commander Hellard might have something to say about that,' Hawkwood said softly. It wasn't only the man's gaze that was disconcerting, he realized. Matisse hardly ever seemed to blink.

'Hellard?' the bald man sneered. 'Hellard's a weakling. He's commander in name only. I hold sway here, not him.'

'King Matisse?' Hawkwood said, and wondered if that was the reason Hellard hadn't given the order to fire on the well deck.

The pink eyes shifted so that they were trained directly at Hawkwood. It was an unsettling feeling. But from the exchanges so far, Hawkwood sensed that, behind the grotesque facade, there was a dark, manipulative intelligence at play.

'Some call me that. Though, to tell the truth, I can't even remember how it started. Some would think it an indulgence, but why should I discourage it? It serves its purpose, helping keep the lower orders in check.'

The words were spoken dismissively. Hawkwood wondered whether Matisse included the men around him as part of the 'lower orders', and what they thought of it. There was no suggestion that any of them had taken umbrage. Maybe they weren't sure what it meant, or else they assumed it meant the rest of the Rafales.

A thin smile played along the bald man's lips. 'Personally, I like to think of myself more as a pastor, a shepherd administering to the welfare of his flock.' His fingers resumed toying with the boy's collar.

Not again, Hawkwood thought. A cold shiver passed along his spine. I had my fill of pastors and parsons the last time.

Maybe that was why Matisse was dressed in black; to perpetuate the illusion, or perhaps in some strange way to accentuate the ghostly complexion and make him appear more striking. Matisse's attire was remarkably similar to a priest's. There were no superfluous frills or finery or affectation, save for one: a tiny tear-shaped object that occasionally caught the lantern light. Hawkwood hadn't noticed it before. It was pearl pendant earring that dangled delicately from Matisse's left ear.

Lasseur growled, 'For the last time. Hand the boy over.'

The earring danced as Matisse turned. 'You know, when Juvert told me you'd taken an interest in him, I confess I was rather intrigued. What were we supposed to make of that? Perhaps you've designs on him yourself, Captain Lasseur - is that why you're here?'

'I'm here to keep him from harm.'

'Harm?' Matisse slid his hand from the boy's neck and placed it, palm flat, over his heart. His nails were long and discoloured; their tips sharp, like talons. 'You think I'd harm a child? How could you suggest such a thing? You wound me, Captain.'

'Don't play games,' Lasseur said.

'Games?'