'You weren't the only one,' Hawkwood said wearily, and winced. He waved away Lasseur's extended arm and lifted the edge of blood-soaked shirt to examine his injuries, noting the blood across his knuckles. The gash along his side didn't look too deep, but it would probably benefit from a stitch or two. As for the cut across his chest, the resulting scar would more than likely make it appear worse than it was. More war wounds, Hawkwood thought. He knew he'd been lucky. He looked down at the Mameluke's corpse. It could so easily have gone the other way.
Lasseur followed his gaze and his face clouded. He turned to where Matisse was standing with his arm around Lucien Ballard's shoulder. 'It's over. Your man lost. Give us the boy.'
Matisse said, 'I'm sorry, Captain. I'm not with you. Why should I do that?'
Hawkwood went cold.
Lasseur nodded towards the Turk's prostrate body. 'Our agreement. You said if Captain Hooper defeated your champion, you'd hand the boy over.'
'You're mistaken, Captain. I said no such thing.'
'What?' Lasseur said, his voice dripping venom.
A half smile played across the Corsican's lips. His hand rested lightly across the back of Lucien Ballard's neck. The boy was staring at the Mameluke's corpse.
Hawkwood looked around. Had a pin dropped, the whisper of it hitting the ballast would have sounded like cannon fire.
'The thing is, Captain,' Matisse said, 'the more I think about it, the more it occurs to me that it wouldn't be right. I've a reputation to maintain. I can't have newcomers coming down here and dictating terms. If I allow that to happen, what's to stop every other worm crawling out of the woodwork and questioning my authority? How would it look if I handed the boy over to you? It would make me seem weak. It'd give every other poor wretch on this ship ideas above his station. Where would it end? More to the point, where's the profit?'
'Did it occur to you that you might actually gain some respect?' Lasseur said.
'Respect?' The Corsican gave a coarse laugh. 'That's my point, Captain. I don't want respect. I want them to
'If you'd no intention of keeping your word, then what was the point of
The Corsican shrugged. 'We all have to make sacrifices. But then, who says I'm breaking my word? Not me, Captain. You merely misinterpreted the terms. I never said I'd hand the boy over. What I said was, I would set him free.'
'I don't understand,' Lasseur said. 'What's the difference?'
Matisse reached down and cupped the boy's face. He stroked the smooth cheek lovingly and in one swift move wrenched his hands sideways. There was a sharp crack and Lucien Ballard's body went limp. With a dismissive shrug, Matisse pushed the body away and dusted his hands. 'There, it's done. I've freed him. The problem is solved.' He jerked his head at Dupin. 'Kill them both.'
Lasseur's scream of rage reverberated around the hold. Before anyone could stop him, he leapt forward, scooped up the Mameluke's discarded razor and scythed it towards the Corsican's throat.
If there was a look of shock in Matisse's eyes, it was eclipsed by the dark lenses. Only his mouth showed animation, opening and closing soundlessly as he tried clasping his hands about his neck in a futile attempt to staunch the jet of blood that spurted like a fountain from his severed artery.
As the Corsican collapsed in a bloody heap across Lucien Ballard's still body, Lasseur swung round, the razor still in his fist. Teeth bared, he had the look of a berserker, his appearance made all the more extreme by the crimson splashes on his face and clothes. He stepped quickly to Hawkwood's side and they turned back to back.
'Who's next?' Lasseur roared.
A curse sounded from Hawkwood's right. One of Matisse's men came out of the shadows, barrel hoop raised. Hawkwood ducked and drove his elbow into the attacker's belly. The man faltered. Hawkwood slammed his boot against a knee and as the man went down Hawkwood wrested the hoop out of his grip and drove it across the back of his attacker's skull.
Behind him, Lasseur, wild-eyed and blood-splattered, wielded the razor like a man possessed. Another of Matisse's crew reeled away, shrieking, his cheek ripped through to the gums. 'Come on, God damn you!' Lasseur yelled. 'I'll take you all with me!'
Hawkwood felt warm liquid flowing down his left side and knew his brief exchange with the last attacker had aggravated the wound made by the Turk's razor. His right hand was also slick with blood. He adjusted his grip on the barrel hoop. Small beads of blood bubbled out from the cut across his knuckles and dribbled between the cracks in his folded fingers.
Hawkwood wondered about the irony of dying with a Frenchman defending his back. Nathaniel Jago would have thought that funny. In fact, he'd have thought it bloody hilarious.
He wondered too why Matisse's men were still willing to wage war with their leader dead. It didn't seem to make sense, unless they thought that he and Lasseur had designs on Matisse's kingdom. No time to debate the matter now, though.
Lasseur swore suddenly and Hawkwood had a half-formed view of a hoop sweeping towards the privateer's head. He sensed that Lasseur had widened the distance between them to give himself room to manoeuvre. There was the sound of a blow, metal on wood, followed by a cry and then he was turning to fight his own corner as two more of Matisse's men waded in. Hawkwood swung the hoop to block the strikes. He managed to evade one, but the second attacker's home-made blade caught him high on the shoulder. His left arm went numb.
Lasseur was still trading blows when there came a splintering sound and the noise of a body hitting the shingle, followed by a cackle of glee which could only have come from one of Matisse's henchmen. He heard Lasseur call out; the words unintelligible. Then, too late, from the corner of his eye he saw Dupin. The Corsican's lieutenant was behind him, swinging the hoop-like club above his head.
Hawkwood felt a massive impact across his back and something hard caught him a glancing blow at the base of his skull and he was falling. He tried to keep hold of the barrel hoop, knowing it was his only means of defence, but he couldn't feel his fingers. They'd gone numb, too.
He crashed to the deck and looked up through pain-filled eyes.
'Nice boots.' Dupin grinned above him. He raised the hoop.
Hawkwood watched, helpless, as the hoop began its descent. Then there was a sharp report and the back of Dupin's head exploded.
More detonations followed, then a mass of surging bodies, as suddenly the hold was filled with scarlet uniforms. He looked for Lasseur and tried to sit up, but the task proved beyond him. His head felt as though it was about to burst. It was a lot less painful just to lie back and let himself drift. The strategy seemed to work. Sensation in his limbs was slipping away. It was rather a pleasant feeling. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand touched his forehead and he jerked back. The movement sent pain shooting through his skull and into his chest. Then he felt an arm under his shoulder and a face came into view. It was bearded and looked vaguely familiar.
He was still thinking that as the darkness rose up to claim him.
CHAPTER 9
Hawkwood realized his mistake when he tried to move. Opening his eyes hadn't been a problem. In fact, that had been the easy part; no real expertise involved: a quick flicker of the eyelids and, presto, he was back in the land of the living. But when he tried to raise himself on to his elbows to find out where he was, it was like getting hit across the back of the head and shoulders all over again, only a lot more painful.
He lay back down, lowered his eyelids, and waited for the hammering inside his skull to abate. The seconds, or it could well have been hours, ticked by. Hawkwood was more than content to wait, feeling no obligation to repeat the experiment until he was sure he could cope with the immediate after-effects.
When the pounding had eventually dwindled to a dull ache, he took a deep breath and tried again, cautiously.
