Tom Swan and the Head of St George
Volume Six: Chios
Christian Cameron
Contents
Cover
Title Page
The Conqueror’s Ring: Part VI
Mytilini, Lesvos
Also By Christian Cameron
Copyright
The Conqueror’s Ring
Part VI
Mytilini, Lesvos
It was the English ship that had brought the warning and sounded the alarm.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Tom Swan had worked himself into a state of exhaustion. Working side by side with all the oarsmen, the mercenaries, the sailors and a hundred Greek fishermen, he’d helped to haul all five of the order’s galleys up the beach on rollers, and then, one by one, to haul the town’s fishing boats ashore.
The only ship still lying in the harbour was the very ship that had warned them. The Katherine Sturmy, an English vessel whose owner and captain were working stripped to the waist, at his side, was a round ship – her stern castle was almost fifty feet above the water, and her cavernous holds made her too big to beach in a crisis.
Out beyond the new-built breakwater in carefully dressed stone lay the reason for the near-panicked movement of the hulls – a two-hundred-ship Turkish fleet lying easily at anchor on a sea so calm that the west wind scarcely riffled it.
Swan paused and put a hand to the middle of his back like a much older man.
Richard Sturmy laughed. In English, he said, ‘I used to complain about the prices on Turkey goods – carpets and the like.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘If I live to light a candle in St Magnus Martyr by the Bridge at home, I’ll never speak ill of the Turkey merchants again. These are the most violent folk in the world.’
Swan had to laugh. ‘The French say that of us!’ he managed.
But Sturmy saw nothing funny in it. ‘What do you expect from your Frenchmen?’ he said. ‘Sweet Christ, I was a fool to allow the goodwife to convince me to bring her on this fool expedition. And my daughter – by Saint George, Sir Knight, I fear for them more than for myself. Hannah is but twelve.’ His voice wavered. Sturmy was a strong man – but not in the face of the level of calamity facing him.
Down the beach, Swan could see Fra Tommaso giving orders to a dozen Burgundian archers, but the Turkish fleet, despite its vast size, was making no motion of immediate attack. Swan bowed to the English party. ‘I must see if my lord has further orders,’ he said. ‘It is very possible that the Turk will pass us by and your ship will be safer here than most places.’
‘Except that this place is ruled by the fucking – pardon me – Genoese, who are allies of the frog-eating French and hate us,’ said the mate of the Katherine Sturmy, who was called – with rare appropriateness – John Shipman.
Swan grinned. ‘I can’t drive away the Turks, Master Shipman,’ he said. ‘But I think I can promise that Prince Dorino will honour your firman and your letter from the Council of Genoa. He is …’ Swan paused, trying to imagine how to describe the Prince of Lesvos, who was old and not old, clever, witty, dangerous, effeminate and masculine, aesthetic and vicious. And very hard to describe. ‘He is a fair man,’ Swan said.
Master Shipman shrugged. ‘Gentle is as gentle does, eh? But I’d be most grateful, and so would my owner, if you was to put in a good word for us.’
Swan bowed, and then ran, half naked, up the beach.
Fra Tommaso and Fra Domenico stood side by side, watching the Turks. Fra Domenico managed a brief smile at Swan as he ran up.
‘Ah, the energy of youth,’ Domenico said. ‘Or perhaps you were snug in bed when the alarm rang?’
‘Someone’s bed,’ Fra Tommaso said. But his look was mild. ‘These English sailors are good men.’
Swan bowed. ‘The English are afraid that their cargo will be seized,’ he said. ‘And afraid of the Turks, as well.’
Fra Tommaso narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll see to that. They’ve earned their keep with their warnings to us and their hard work.’
Fra Domenico waved at the Turks, the ring he wore flashing in the sun like a weapon. ‘Young man, can you swim?’
Swan’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘Well?’ Domenico asked.
‘Well enough,’ Swan said. Well enough to bathe in the Thames in February when the ice is running, he thought.
Domenico looked at Tommaso. Then, as if they had but one mind, the two knights turned and looked at Swan.
Swan quailed and wondered which of his sins had been discovered. The illicit cargo of mastic?
‘He wants you to try something insanely brave,’ Fra Tommaso said. He shrugged. Swan didn’t like the look Fra Tommaso gave his fellow knight. It held … reproof.
Fra Domenico’s eyes sparkled like his ring. ‘It is not so insane,’ he said. ‘I want you to cross the island, get a fishing boat from Kalloni and land on Chios. You’ll have to swim to get into the city. With a message.’ He grinned. ‘Twice, if my little plan works out.’
Swan sighed. He heard a voice say ‘I’ll do it!’ with reckless enthusiasm.
It took a moment to realise that the voice had been his own.
Fra Tommaso pursed his lips. ‘The Turks may sail away tomorrow …’
‘In which case, we will not risk Master Swan,’ Domenico said. ‘But they have stolen a march on us, and a dozen galleys can hold us pinned to this beach, and the Pasha knows that as well as you and I.’
‘How will a message help Chios? If the truth is that we are blockaded here?’ Swan managed.
Domenico smiled. ‘Truth? Who said anything about the truth?’ He looked at his left hand, and put his right on his sword hilt. ‘Quid est veritas? Pilate was right.’
‘He wants you to tell Chios that the Genoese Grand Fleet is at sea,’ Tommaso said. He glared at Fra Diablo. ‘You sail perilously close to blasphemy.’ To Swan he said, ‘Do not take any foolish risks. Don’t get captured.’
‘Better yet, get captured and tell the Turks,’ Domenico said. He shrugged. ‘I am what I am.’
Bathed and dressed, Swan drank three cups of watered wine and walked down into the town. Many shops were closed, and the market was shuttered, but the silversmith was sitting in the spring sun with a wine cup between his hands.
Swan sat down. ‘My apologies, Kyrie. My day has been rather spoiled by the advent of the Turks.’
The silversmith laughed. ‘In this, Frank, you are forgiven. I saw you working on the beach – indeed, you helped haul one of my brother-in-law’s boats up.’ He looked out to sea. ‘My brother-in-law has another boat around the headland at Thermi.’
Swan leaned forward. ‘What I need is a guide …’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry? Why does it matter that your brother-in-law has another boat?’
The silversmith smiled. ‘Before dawn, my brother-in-law was among the Turks, selling sardines and lobster.’ His eyebrows shot up and a frown flickered – a complex Mediterranean facial expression the registered mock surprise that such a thing could even happen.
Swan nodded. ‘Ahh,’ he said.
‘Maestro Cyriaco paid me silver for such news,’ the silversmith said.
Swan nodded. ‘I can only make you promises. I brought no silver.’
The smith frowned. He looked away, as if Swan had embarrassed him.