were lined with them: all sizes, from half-ankers to hogsheads. He heard Lasseur click his tongue in what sounded like admiration and turned, just in time to see Isaac closing the tunnel entrance behind them. Lasseur's reaction was fully justified. The end of the tunnel was formed from a huge cask, one of several stacked on their sides. Hawkwood could only guess at the volume of spirits each one might have contained - several hundred gallons at least. Each cask head had a wooden spigot driven into it. Curious,
Hawkwood turned the tap in the cask from which they'd just emerged and watched as a trickle of dark liquid splashed on to the floor. He cupped his hand beneath the tap and raised it to his lips. It was wine. He turned and saw Isaac regarding him with a sly grin. 'Pays to have an escape route in case the Revenue decides to drop in.'
'What is this place?' Hawkwood asked.
'Cellar room of the Smack.' Isaac indicated the casks. 'Local inn; figured it was best bringin' you this way rather than parade you down the 'igh street. Like I said before, folks hereabouts don't 'ave much liking for the authorities, but you can't be too careful.'
Sounds came from above: a dull thud as though someone was moving furniture, and muffled voices.
'Wait 'ere,' Isaac instructed. He placed the lantern on the top of a nearby tub and headed for the cellar door. Before he left the room, he turned. 'An' don't bleedin' touch anythin'.' The door closed behind him.
Lasseur stared around him. 'Well, at least we won't die of thirst.' He indicated the muslin sack that Hawkwood was still carrying. 'I could eat a horse. Is there anything left?'
Hawkwood tossed Lasseur an apple and shook the earthenware jug. He was rewarded with a faint sloshing sound. He held out the jug to Lasseur, who wrinkled his nose and walked over to the false cask. He turned the tap, cupped his palm, and took a swallow. His face contorted. He turned the tap off hastily and threw Hawkwood a look of disgust. 'How can they drink this piss?'
'They probably don't,' Hawkwood said. 'I doubt they'd put the good stuff in there. It's only in case the authorities decide to search the place.'
Lasseur took in the other barrels. Hawkwood could tell he was debating whether or not to try their contents.
There were footsteps outside. The door opened and Isaac entered with another man. The newcomer was stoutly built with a florid face, impressive side whiskers and small, piercing eyes. He was wiping his hands on a dirty apron.
'This is Abraham,' Isaac said. 'He owns the place.'
Lasseur bowed. 'Honoured. I'm Captain -'
'Don't need names,' the whiskered man cut in. 'You ain't stoppin'.'
'You're leavin' tonight,' Isaac said. 'There's a run on.'
'Run?' Lasseur said. 'Where are we running?'
Isaac and the landlord exchanged glances. The landlord shrugged.
'It means a delivery,' Isaac said. 'Contraband; brandy and tobacco. Same boat as brings the stuff in will be takin' you out. It'll be after dark, so we've got a couple of hours to kill. Might as well make yourselves comfortable.' He eyed the muslin sack and the cider jug. 'I'll bring you some food.'
'Bandages, too,' Hawkwood said.
The landlord swung round. He stared at Hawkwood, his eyes hard.
'He's a Yankee,' Isaac said.
'He's a long way -'
'Everybody tells him that,' Isaac said.
The landlord took in Hawkwood's scarred face, matted hair and the blood on the front of his shirt. He turned to Isaac. 'Thought you said you had no trouble.'
'We didn't,' Isaac said. 'He was bleedin' already.'
The landlord's gaze moved towards the bruises on Lasseur's face and his brow furrowed. 'Either of you need a doctor?'
Hawkwood shook his head. 'Just the bandages.'
What might have been relief showed in the landlord's eyes. He nodded brusquely. 'I'll see what I can do.'
The victuals and bandages were delivered a short time later. The food consisted of two bowls of mutton stew, a loaf of bread and a pitcher of ale. The stew was very tasty, with solid chunks of meat and thick gravy. Even Lasseur was impressed, though after the prison fare Hawkwood knew both of them would probably have eaten toad pie and pronounced it exquisite. But then, if a Sheppey cook couldn't provide a decent mutton stew, who could?
Isaac had also provided a kettle of hot water from the inn's kitchen, a bowl and a towel. Hawkwood and Lasseur cleansed the rest of the blood from their faces.
'How are you feeling?' Lasseur asked.
'Better than I've a right to,' Hawkwood said. He was aware of a faint throbbing behind his eyes and was glad he was in the relative dark of the inn's cellar rather than in the open with the sun beating down. The hats provided by Isaac might have given the two of them an oafish look, but they had been a godsend.
Lasseur watched as Hawkwood unwound the used dressing from his side. He hesitated and then said, 'In the hold, before you broke the Mameluke's neck . . . when you turned away; you knew he was going to attack, didn't you?'
Hawkwood didn't reply immediately. He examined his wounds by lantern light. Contrary to his concern, the cut across his side had not reopened. Surgeon Girard's sutures remained intact. He wound the fresh bandage around his belly. 'I thought it likely.'
Lasseur frowned. 'That sounds as though you were inviting him to attack you.'
Hawkwood shrugged. 'You think if I'd been on my knees, my arm broken, he wouldn't have finished the job quickly? He wouldn't have thought twice.'
'You're not telling me you were giving him a chance?'
Hawkwood shook his head. 'That's one thing he never had.'
Lasseur's eyes narrowed and then widened again as he gasped, 'My God, that was your intention! You lured him into the attack! You killed him for the effect it would have. You were toying with him.'
Hawkwood tucked in the end of the bandage.
An expression of disquiet moved across Lasseur's face. He shook his head sorrowfully. 'I see a darkness in you, my friend. I saw it in your eyes in the hold when we were fighting. I think I see a measure of it now. It saddens me greatly. I'm glad we're on the same side.'
Hawkwood buttoned his shirt over his wounds. 'You take advantage of an opponent when you can. You might only get the one chance. Nine times out of ten, it's not pretty.'
Lasseur put his head on one side and said, 'There was a Malay I sailed with many years ago who got into a fight with a fellow crew member, a Sicilian. The Sicilian had a knife and yet the Malay disarmed him using only his bare hands. It was one of the strangest things I ever saw. The Malay moved as if he were dancing. It was like watching water flow. There was something similar in the way you broke the Mameluke's arm after you lost your razor. It was as if you had anticipated what you were going to do even before you struck him. Where did you learn such skills? Or did I imagine it?'
Hawkwood rinsed his hands in the rest of the water from the kettle. 'I knew a soldier once. He'd travelled in the east, selling his services to any army that would pay him. There was a nawab he fought for, a prince of the Mogul empire who had a Chinoise bodyguard. The soldier said that the Chinoise used to be a priest and that there was a rebellion and priests were forbidden to carry swords and knives. So they learned to make their own weapons from farm tools and to fight with their hands and feet. He said it took years of training. He learnt a few of the skills from the bodyguard. He taught some of them to me. It isn't always effective. I'd rather use a pistol.'
The soldier in question had in fact been a Portuguese guerrilla named Rodriguez, a small but energetic man who looked as though a stiff breeze would have knocked him off his feet. Hawkwood had taught him how to fire a Baker rifle. In turn, Rodriguez had taught Hawkwood how to defend himself, unarmed, against knife and sword attacks. The guerrilla had been quick to tell Hawkwood the techniques didn't always work. If in doubt, and if you had one, use a pistol. It was a lot more effective.
