Rapscallion

'Fouchet warned us.'

'Ah, yes, the teacher. And what exactly did he warn you about?'

'He warned us about you,' Lasseur said. The disgust in his voice sounded like gravel at the back of his throat. 'He told us about the others.'

'Others?'

'The other boys you've brought down here.'

'Did he now?' The Corsican pursed his lips. 'That old man's become rather belligerent of late. I shall have to have words with him.' The maggot-white face lifted. 'He needs to be reminded of his place.'

'You don't deny it?'

'Why should I?' Matisse stroked the boy's cheek and turned Lucien Ballard's face towards him. The boy's lower lip began to tremble. 'Have you ever seen anything so precious?'

'He's a child.'

'Yes, he is. He's a sweet child, but you make it all sound so sordid, Captain. You think we're all apprentices of Sodom? You couldn't be further from the truth, I assure you. If we weren't shut away in this foul place, do you really think we'd be having this conversation? We're a long way from home; from our wives and sweethearts. What's a man to do? All we crave is a small measure of comfort. There's nothing wrong with that, surely? A man's not meant to be on his own. A man has needs. What's so bad in trying to find companionship and affection to see us through these dark days? Would you deny us that? What right have you to judge?'

'Affection?'

'Yes, affection. Tell them, boy. Tell the captain. Has Matisse hurt you? No. There, you see? Not a hair spoiled. He's perfectly safe.'

'Safe?' Lasseur stared at Matisse. 'You'd take him into your bed; you'd turn him into one of your catamites? You'd share him among these scum - and you call that safe?'

Chairs scraped back as the men at the table rose around their leader.

A nerve flickered along Matisse's jawline. 'D'you hear that? He called you scum; and queer scum at that. I'd take care, if I were you, Captain. The navy may hold you in high esteem, but you'd do well to remember where you are. As for this particular boy, who elected you his guardian? You've no legitimate claim on him, have you?' There was a pause. 'After all, it's not as though he's your son, now, is it?'

'God damn you!' Lasseur swore. He took a pace forward. His face was rigid.

A warning growl sounded from deep inside Dupin's throat. He raised the hoop blade.

Quickly, Hawkwood put a restraining hand on Lasseur's sleeve. The muscles along the privateer's arm were as taught as knotted rope. Hawkwood's hold was enough to restrain Lasseur, but only for as long as it took for the Frenchman to shrug his hand away angrily. 'I demand you hand the boy over, now!'

The deck went deathly quiet.

The black-clad figure placed both palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. The movement was effortlessly sinuous. The Corsican didn't so much rise from his seat as uncoil.

'Demand? You dare to come here and demand of me? Look around you, Captain. This is my kingdom. I reign here; no one else. You're newly arrived, so you're not yet acquainted with the order of things. Go back to your gun deck and take Captain Hooper with you. And if you're thinking of summoning assistance, think again. Do you really believe the British control the lives on this hulk? Oh, they may have the uniforms and their fine muskets. They may even have the authority, but do you think for one moment that they hold the power? There are more than eight hundred of us imprisoned on this stinking barge. What do you think would happen if there was a full-scale rebellion? The British don't keep the inmates in check here; I do. Matisse! Commander Hellard may despise me. He may even fear me. But you can be certain that he and the rest of his crew thanked God the day I came on board!'

'You utter filth!' Lasseur hissed.

For one heart-stopping moment, despite Dupin's proximity, Hawkwood thought the privateer was about to hurl himself across the table. The moment he did that, they were both dead. But then, as quickly as he had let it slip, Lasseur seemed to recover his equilibrium. He looked Matisse straight in the eye. 'Very well, name your price.'

'My price?' The bald head swivelled. The movement was performed so fluidly, it reminded Hawkwood of a cobra winding itself up for the strike.

'You heard. How much?'

'You offer me money?' The mocking tone was still there.

'We want the boy. We're not going back without him.'

'Brave words, Captain. Have you considered the possibility that you might not be going back at all?'

'You think you can stop us?' Lasseur said.

'Of course I can stop you. I need only click my fingers. How far do you think you'd get? This time, you really are outgunned.'

Looking around, Hawkwood knew the man was right. Despite Lasseur's attempt at bravado, neither of them had a hope of taking on Matisse's crew. They'd be fools to even contemplate it. It had been a mistake to have come so unprepared. They'd underestimated the hold that Matisse had over the lower deck; and indeed, if his boast was to be believed, the rest of the ship.

'We need to settle this,' Hawkwood said. 'We need to settle this now.'

Matisse shook his head, though whether this was an expression of bafflement or merely amusement was hard to decipher. 'You really want him that badly?' The earring jiggled again. Matisse looked to his lieutenants, who were gazing back at him in renewed, bright-eyed anticipation. They had scented blood. He turned back slowly, a shrewd look on his face. He pouted. 'All right, perhaps there is a way.'

'How?' Lasseur said.

Matisse paused. 'A contest.'

A murmur ran around the compartment.

Lasseur looked nonplussed. 'You mean a wager? You'd decide the boy's future by the throw of a dice?'

'Not dice.'

'The turn of a card? I'll still have no part of it!'

'There are more ways of proving a man's mettle than by having him win a hand of whist, Captain.'

'Like what?' Lasseur enquired cautiously.

'A trial.'

'Prisoner's tribunal?' Lasseur looked sceptical. 'You want us to plead our case?'

'Not that kind of trial.'

'Then what kind do you mean?'

'I mean trial by combat.'

The deck erupted in excited chatter. It took several seconds before it grew still again.

'He wants you to fight for him,' Hawkwood said, not quite believing it himself.

Matisse gave a short, harsh, humourless laugh. 'You make it sound so vulgar, Captain. As if I was suggesting some kind of brawl. I prefer to think of it as a contest of arms. 'To the victor the spoils' - isn't that what they say?'

Lasseur stared at Matisse in horror. 'I'm not going to fight you!'

'Fight me? You misunderstand, Captain. I was referring to the old-fashioned way of settling a dispute, when kings did not cross swords themselves. They nominated a champion; a valiant knight to fight on their behalf, someone versed in the art of war - a warrior.' Matisse looked directly at Hawkwood. 'You, Captain Hooper; you're a warrior. You've the scars to prove it. I nominate you as Captain Lasseur's champion.'

'What?' Lasseur said disbelievingly.

'It's your only chance of getting him back. What do you say, Captain Hooper?'

'I think you've been down here too long. It's addled your brain. You want the boy's fate to be decided by the outcome of a bout?'

As he spoke the words, Hawkwood's brain began to spin. What the hell was happening here? What had Lasseur been thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. How in the name of all that was holy had he allowed himself to be dragged into Lasseur's private war?

'Adds piquancy to the broth, doesn't it?' Matisse said, grinning. 'And it's been a while since our last