will be taken with him. As for Leggitt, he is but a man of weakness, of inaction: he knew of the rebel plans and yet he did nothing.”
“A weak man, indeed. I will take warning.”
“Good. Do not let the men carouse in my absence. It is unfitting for a man of war to also make love.”
“Yes, sir,” and the officer saluted Montague, then turned and carried out his orders. Nicholas returned to his former thoughts and continued to pace around the deck with his long, limber strides.
Meanwhile, below deck in the airless rowing room, twenty desperate looking men continued to heave and ho to the beat of the timer’s drum, which still kept double pace from the night before. They were all shirtless and many were scarred by the jailer's whip. Most of them were beasts of men, marked by years of captivity. There were some, however, who looked as though they had but recently been imprisoned. Each man was chained to the floor, and his wrists to an oar. These chains chinked together to the rhythm of the beating drum and to the rhythm of the moaning boards around them. It was the rhythm of death.
There was a row of men on either side of the ship – each with his own oar – and they were separated by a narrow aisle, with beams every few yards that obstructed the view from front to rear. The officer in charge had strolled down this aisle for the first hour of his watch, to see the prisoners behind the pillars, but then he grew tired and sat down in the front. As far from him as possible, in the rear of the room and chained to the last oar, was a particularly unkempt man. He looked to be of middle age, though worn by many hardships. His hair came down to his shoulders, as did his untrimmed beard, but his body was in the peak of physical perfection. In front of him sat a youth: no more than nineteen, but already endowed with a strong form and a fiery spirit. His hair was no less fiery, for it was orange and left to wave and wrap about his head however it would. His nose was short, his lips thin, and his skin freckled and not yet hardened by the beatings he was given. In front of the youth sat another man. Contrary to the others, his hair was kempt and his beard perfectly trimmed. These three men talked among themselves as they rowed, to keep their minds from despair.
“Leggitt,” said the dark-haired man, his voice clouded with a Spanish accent, “Observe the wrath of your master, and the justice of mine.”
“Perhaps, de Garcia,” the other responded calmly, “But I have also observed your own wrath, in relation to your merciful master.”
De Garcia’s face was a shrouded with his shame for a moment. Then he looked up and answered Gylain’s former chief guard. “I pay my penance and I do not complain. For this fate is mine by choice.”
“We both see the errors of our past,” Leggitt said as an apology. “Yet let us remember them no more. Perhaps we will escape and atone for it, but lift your countenance, for the past is gone and will come no more.”
“If it were not gone, would it be the past?” de Garcia’s answered. “Yet the eyes of Nicholas Montague are never passed. There is no escape.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” the red-haired youth said, “And I will escape this evening, alone or with you two at my side.”
“You bleed the exuberance of youth,” de Garcia said. “Still, you do not look like a criminal. How is it that you join us here, for we are but the swine of the people. What crime of hatred have you committed?”
“Hatred is not a punished crime where I am from; only to love, truly and freely. For that I am condemned.” The young man’s lips pressed together tightly.
“A lover’s angst,” de Garcia said. “But do you have any more reason to weep than the other broken-hearted children of the world?”
“If I am a child than you are an old man.”
“I do not deny it,” the Spaniard laughed quietly as he rowed. A moment later, he went on, “I am called de Garcia.”
“I am not deaf.”
“Hearing is not understanding. Will you not introduce yourself?”
“I am Patrick McConnell, an English peasant.”
“Indeed? I have heard more,” Leggitt said from the row in front of them. “But the pleasure is mine, of course.”
“What of our escape, then?” asked Patrick McConnell.
“I will make no attempt to disguise myself,” Leggitt answered. “Until yesterday I was the captain of Gylain’s guards. It was I who planned the layout of this vessel.”
Patrick trembled. “Then you are here to spy for the beasts of power?”
“I do not know why he is here,” de Garcia said gravely, “But I was for nine years a prisoner in the castle dungeons, under the authority of a man named Leggitt. I was in the trenches, in the second lowest level. I was starved and beaten without mercy. Though I had deserted to Gylain and the Montague brothers and had betrayed my comrades to them, my only rewarded was torture. It was only this Leggitt that eased my sufferings and kept the guards from killing me. I have not forgotten the table scraps I was brought, nor the ale to soothe my madness. If you lead us in escape, Leggitt, I will follow.”
Leggitt turned completely forward and rowed with vigor, as if to disguise the tremors of emotion that shook through him. “If a devil gives some small reprieve, is he not still a devil?” he whispered to himself.
Aloud, he said, “All the chains which Gylain employs use the same variety of lock. To each of the lesser guards there is given a key which will open only a certain group of locks; but to the master guards – Gylain, the Montague brothers, and myself – is given the master key, which opens them all. When I realized the rebels would escape the castle, I hid the master key upon my person, knowing the fierce anger of my master. I have it with me.” At this point an iron key – no more than three inches long – was slid under the benches to de Garcia, who retrieved it from the floor without altering his rowing rhythm.
“Very good, Leggitt.”
“Unlatch your fetters, but do not open them. When we reach Bordeaux, and the main body departs, we will slip away between the watches. I have a friend who will give us supplies and send us on our way.”
“A friend from Gylain’s service?”
“Yes, but I can fool him. I can continue the charade.”
“And if he reports us to the authorities?”
“Gylain is quick to anger, but quicker to wisdom. Do you think I was arrested without cause?” Leggitt asked in a whisper.
“What? Do you mean that you were—”
“Yes, it is as you say. Long live the King of Atilta!”
Chapter 49
In the harbor at Bordeaux, the sea was mild. The water was a cloudy green, with little humps of waves jostling between the ships and the docks. Overhead, the sky was open and sharply blue, with wispy holes here and there that gave a glimpse of the great whiteness beyond. Though there were many ships about the harbor, one in particular rose above the others. It was a Romanesque trireme, flying the colors of Gylain – the colors of the beast, as the French said. The ship had three masts, each with as many sails; but at this time they were tied down, as it was moored with both port and starboard anchors.
Its only visible crew were a half dozen soldiers lounging on the deck, and they gave little attention to the harbor around them. Three played a game of tittle-fritz while the others sat on the stern deck, enjoying the serenity of the scene. Despite their easy ways, however, each was fully uniformed: their breastplates were of iron and covered only their mid-sections; their arms were covered with a ring mail sleeve stretched over a leather jerkin; their upper legs wore greaves similar to their breastplates; and their lower legs wore leather and ring mail similar to their arms. The sides of their helmets came to their shoulders, open in the front. A single plume came out of the top, but it was nothing more than a small hole in the helmet, through which the soldier’s own hair was taken up.
“This station is not so bad as I had feared,” one of the lounging soldiers said to his companions. “I worried Montague would take me to my death, but without him there is only life,” and he sipped the wine he held in his hand.
“No death, perhaps, but neither a chance for honor. Will we not waste away to mere guardsmen, without the chance for battle? Soldiers grow with blood, not wine!” He clenched his fist and spit at the sun. But breeze from the ocean was too strong and his spit was blown against his comrade’s helmet.
