But one vessel is missing from the Safi anchorage, Nicholas notices. On the strip of beach where – on his previous arrival – he had seen the Moor corsair laid up, now there is nothing but furrowed sand. He wonders if Connell has made an escape aboard her. His fears are confirmed when he climbs over the side of the Marion.
Captain Yaxley is a compact, wiry little Devon sea-terrier with a yap for a voice and ocean-grey eyes. The sword he wears is almost too long for his legs. He exudes an air of quiet competence.
‘The town has been in uproar since noon yesterday, Dr Shelby,’ he says, casting a doubtful eye over Nicholas’s blue Berber gown. ‘What in the name of Jesu is going on? I can’t get any sense at all out of these heathens.’
‘A conspiracy, Captain Yaxley. A plot to overthrow Sultan al-Mansur and hand Morocco to the Dons. Connell was part of it. Have you seen him?’
‘Aye, he arrived yesterday. Wouldn’t speak to a soul, except Stawley, his sailing master.’
Nicholas recalls the rough-hewn character who’d stood at his side while the sandglass marked the changing of the watch. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Only the Almighty knows that, Dr Shelby. Or perhaps the Devil. Connell might be a fine seaman, but I’ve always held there was a whiff of Lucifer about that man.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since yesterday?’
‘When I asked him what was afoot, he cursed me for a savage and took Stawley away with him. Our people have been asking me what’s happening ever since. They’re all afeared the Moors will take us ashore and make prisoners of us.’
‘How long has that Moor corsair been gone?’
Yaxley casts a glance through the Marion’s cordage towards the beach. ‘The oarsmen came down to her yesterday in chains, from the Safi slave bagnio, just before sunset, along with about a score of janissaries. They’re off to do some slaving up the coast towards Lisbon, I shouldn’t wonder. They’ll have an easy job of it, too – there’s precious little wind. With oarsmen who know what they’re doing, a corsair galley will outrun a Christian sail easily in this weather.’ He lets out a grunt of appreciation. ‘It must be a goodly prize they’re after; I haven’t seen them get a galley that big off the beach so fast in all the years I’ve been sailing to the Barbary shore.’
Nicholas gives a tight smile of understanding. Connell has taken the speediest means of escape.
‘Captain Yaxley, you may know I was sent aboard the Righteous by Sir Robert Cecil. I was carrying messages of goodwill from the queen to Sultan al-Mansur.’
‘Aye, I’d heard the like.’
‘Then hear this also: Sultan al-Mansur is a valued ally of England. The queen’s Privy Council must know of what has happened here. In their name, I ask for your assistance to return to England as swiftly as possible.’
Yaxley does not hesitate. ‘That’s all the excuse I need, Dr Shelby. None of my people fancy getting caught up in a quarrel between the Moors. There’s enough English sailors languishing in captivity across Barbary as it is.’
‘How soon can you be ready to sail?’
‘The cargo’s already loaded. The tide’s in our favour. But with these slack breezes, we’ll have to warp the Marion out to sea. We can be away from the quayside inside an hour, but it could be several more before we’re far enough out to catch a proper wind.’
‘Then look to your task, Captain Yaxley,’ Nicholas says. ‘In the meantime I’ll tell Minister al-Annuri to get his marines off your ship. The sooner we’re away, the sooner your men will be downing English ale and spending the Cecils’ reward.’
Three children are driving a herd of goats across the track from the Kechla down to the waterfront. When they see the imposing figure of Muhammed al-Annuri escorting Nicholas and de Lisle back towards the quay after a final meeting in the governor’s mansion, their happy chatter ceases and they fall silent, driving the beasts quickly out of the way. Nicholas thinks how easily he too had fallen into the trap of misjudging the taciturn minister.
When they reach the quay, al-Annuri snaps his fingers. A minion who’s been trailing them at a respectful distance hurries up with a leather pouch trimmed with gold thread and pearls. The minion hands it to Nicholas, while al-Annuri makes an account of it in Arabic to de Lisle.
‘This contains the letter His Excellency has written to your Minister Cecil,’ de Lisle explains. ‘It is in Italian, in which His Excellency is proficient. He trusts Sir Robert will be able to find someone to translate it.’
‘If it was in the picture-writing of Rameses the Great, Robert Cecil could probably find someone to tell him what it says,’ Nicholas replies knowingly.
De Lisle seems uncertain if he’s joking. ‘Also, the pouch contains the gift the sultan gave you at the Badi Palace – the ring. It was recovered from al-Seddik’s house. His Excellency says it was given to you as a measure of the sultan’s friendship, and must therefore remain with you. Finally, there are the ducats you left in your chamber at Adolfo Sykes’s house. I understand Connell’s men would not return to the place where they had taken the bodies of the old woman and the two children. They thought it unlucky. One of them protested – before he died – that he was a warrior, not a common looter.’
‘Is that what’s happened to al-Seddik’s janissaries – all dead? Even the new apprentices from the Righteous?’
De Lisle looks troubled. ‘His Excellency has not seen fit to tell me. But conspiracy is a dangerous sport here, Dr Shelby. Even more so than in England or France. If you cross them, the Moors have little truck with mercy. Play the game of treason with them, and it’s wise to make sure you win.’
Yaxley was right. It takes hours to warp the Marion out of Safi harbour. Under a brilliant blue sky and a breeze that barely ruffles the hair, two of her boats row ahead, paying out a cable with the small kedge anchor attached. When the cable is extended, the anchor is dropped to the bottom of the bay. Then the ship’s crew toils on the capstan to haul her up to the anchor. The process is repeated, cable-length by cable-length, so often that Nicholas loses count. Eventually the boats’ crews are dropping the kedge into ten fathoms of water and the Kechla has faded to a pale smudge against the scrub and olive trees. Even the ramparts of the Kasar el Bahr on the waterfront lose their outline, becoming little more than a thin line of sandstone dancing in the heat above the surf.
And then the wind stiffens a little. The long pennants hanging limply from the mastheads begin to dance, and the sea lifts in long, slow heaves beneath the Marion’s keel. Captain Yaxley gives the order to make sail. As the crew race into the rigging above his head, Nicholas feels once again the self-conscious embarrassment of the inept thrown amongst the skilful. He allows himself the excuse of his healing bruises to sit quietly by the stern rail.
He has had time during the long haul out of the harbour to take the measure of the Marion. She is smaller than the Righteous, sleeker, with a low, gracefully sweeping prow and a high, raked sterncastle. She carries four cannon a side. He couldn’t be in a better ship, he thinks. All she needs now is a good southerly wind to fill her sails.