diversion. When was that? Does anyone remember?' He regarded the ring of faces expectantly. 'No? Ah well, that's the trouble; you lose track of time on the lower levels. Each day just seems to merge into the next. Anyway, there it is, Captain Lasseur. A sporting chance. If my man wins, the boy stays with us. If Captain Hooper emerges victorious, I'll set him free. What do you say to that?'
'Leave Captain Hooper out of this,' Lasseur said. He looked at Hawkwood. His face was ashen.
'Too late for that,' Matisse said.
Hawkwood saw the excitement in the eyes of the other men around them. Lasseur was still staring back at him in disbelief.
'Who's
'Dupin?' Matisse expressed surprise. His chin came up. 'Oh no, not Dupin. While Corporal Dupin is a true and faithful lieutenant, I can see he'd be no match for a veteran of your calibre. No, do not protest, Corporal. You know I speak the truth. Captain Hooper is an experienced soldier, whereas you are merely a courtier with a stick. You wouldn't last five minutes, and where's the sport in that? No, Captain, I choose another; a much more worthy opponent. Call it royal prerogative.'
Matisse turned. Several of the men at the table exchanged knowing grins.
'Kemel Bey!' Matisse called.
A pale wedge of light appeared in the wall of darkness behind the table. For the first time, Hawkwood saw the opening in the bulkhead over Matisse's shoulder, indicating there were yet more compartments further forward.
Lasseur drew in a breath. Hawkwood saw why.
An apparition stepped into the lantern glow. The man's skin was so dark it looked as if he might have been carved from the hulk's timbers. He was not as tall as Hawkwood, but neither was he small of stature. His face was broad. His nose was wide and flared. Below it there grew an extravagant, raven-black moustache. His hair was long and oily and curled away from the base of his neck in tight ringlets. Each ear was pierced with a golden ring, which gleamed brightly in the lantern light. His eyes, in contrast to those of Matisse, were as black as olive pits.
His striking looks were offset by the incongruity of his dress. He wore a yellow prison jacket stretched tight across a compact, muscular torso. His legs were encased in a pair of voluminous maroon pantaloons. His feet were bare. He looked, Hawkwood thought, as if he'd stepped out of the illustration in a children's book or from the ranks of a theatrical masquerade.
Hawkwood had heard reports of Bonaparte's Mamelukes from guerrilla fighters in Spain, but he'd never seen them in action. They enjoyed a fearsome reputation. It was said that the Emperor, despite having defeated them in battle, had been so taken with their fighting skills during his Egyptian campaign that he'd authorized two squadrons to accompany him on his return to France. A plea from their commanding officer and a vow that they'd defend France to the death had been enough to justify their immediate incorporation into the ranks of the Imperial Guard. Mameluke cavalry had played a decisive role in Murat's brutal suppression of the Madrid uprising.
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.'
CHAPTER 8
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
