Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset (21 page)

Aylwin sent down his third bale and was gratified to see it enlarge the fire caused by his first. He laughed aloud with pleasure. As with the first vessel attacked, some weak hearts were already beginning to abandon ship.

Kieron also sent down his third bale. It fell truly, but he was mystified to see no burst of fire as it hit the deck. Perhaps the clouds of smoke obscured it, or perhaps it had passed clean into the depths of the ship through an open hold or hatchway.

Aylwin was fairly jumping with excitement. Kieron saw that the rigging was now burning and that soon the grapnel that held them to the vessel would be burnt loose.

‘The goatskins!’ he called. ‘Drop the goatskins of oil!’ There were not many left. Kieron began to drop his supply over the side as fast as he could reach them, not pausing to see where they fell.

The deck of the vessel was now a blazing inferno. Aylwin either had not heard Kieron’s command about the goatskins, or he did not care. He stood up in the small craft – a perilous thing to do – and hung on to one of the ropes that held it to the net harness over the shark of of the sky.

‘Sit down!’ Kieron called.

Aylwin did not respond. His face was alive with immense pleasure. He waved the stump of his wrist proudly and shouted words that Kieron could not comprehend down at the freebooters.

Suddenly Kieron felt a sharp lift as the grapnel came free from the burning rigging. The balloon soared. At almost the same instant, there was a great explosion below as the ship blew itself apart. Evidently, fire had reached a supply of black powder.

The balloon’s own buoyancy, relieved as it was of the weight of the bales and the goatskins of whale oil, together with the force of the explosion, shot it upwards like a cork from a shaken bottle of sparkling wine.

Aylwin uttered a great cry, and seemed to leap from the craft into the air. Kieron caught a brief glimpse of him, apparently motionless, spreadeagled in the sky, a look of great contentment on his face. Then Aylwin fell; and Kieron
lost his balance as
Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge
rose. And the miller’s apprentice was seen no more.

Somehow, as he sprawled in the bottom of his frail craft and hung on for dear life, Kieron managed to keep his wits about him. He looked up and saw that the force of the explosion had blown various small holes in the fabric of the balloon. But, as yet, the rents were small.

Presently, the balloon became steady. Kieron picked himself up and glanced cautiously over the side of his small boat. The sight took his breath away. He had never been so awed, so exhilarated. He must be at least five hundred metres above the ocean.

There below, like tiny toy boats at the edge of a great mill-pond, lay the freebooters’ ships. He counted eleven all together – and four were burning! The explosion must have spread the fire to the two nearest ships. The pall of smoke was heavy; but it was clear that three of the burning vessels were certainly beyond saving.

From the height he had attained, everything that was happening below seemed to be in slow motion. Regardless of his own safety and the trim of the balloon, he studied the effects of his attack carefully. It would be something to remember always – no matter how long or how short a time he had left to live.

After a few moments he noticed that the most devastated ship, almost a burning hulk and probably the one that had suffered the explosion, was moving, drifting with the current. Evidently it had been torn free from its moorings by the blast. And now, no doubt assisted by the current of the river Arun in its sea reach, the vessel was bearing down upon two of its fellows, as yet undamaged.

Even from this great height – the balloon was still rising – Kieron could see the flurry of activity on the decks and in the rigging of the threatened ships as seamen desperately weighed anchor and made sail in their attempts to escape a fiery doom.

As Kieron watched, his heart swelling with pride at the destruction that had been wrought, there was a huge puff of smoke from one of the other burning ships. Spars and fragments of timber flew out from it. The sound of the explosion came afterwards, dulled by distance, but still sounding as sweet music.

For a moment, Kieron forgot his plight. ‘See, Aylwin!’ he called. ‘Have I not more than kept my promise?’ But even as he spoke, he realised that there was no Aylwin to witness. ‘No matter, my friend, my brother. I saw the look upon your face, and you were content. Rest easy. It has been a great accounting. Likely, I will join you soon.’

One of the vessels in the path of the fiery hulk could not get under way fast enough. In its death frenzy the burning ship struck the other vessel amid
ships. ‘See, Aylwin,’ said Kieron stupidly, knowing full well that Aylwin was not there to hear, but still feeling an overwhelming need to speak. ‘The destruction multiplies. Of eleven ships, we have now accounted for five. We two poor prentices have accomplished more than could be achieved by a thousand armed men on land. Did I not offer you the chance to live for ever?’

And then the tears came. Alone in the sky, Kieron was not ashamed to weep as a child. It was a private luxury. No one would ever know. Presently, no doubt, he would drown – he knew nothing of the skill of handling a small boat far out to sea – but it was a good day on which to die, as Aylwin had already discovered.

‘Kristen, my mother,’ he sobbed, ‘Gerard, my father. I am sorry that I could not become a great painter as you required … Master Hobart, you who gave me great love, sorrow not that I forsook the brush and pigments.
Mistress Fitzalan’s Leap
was truly your painting. I was but an extended hand, a youthful eye … Alyx, my dear one, I would have defended you, if I could. But you, whom I loved and who are now dead, if there be an afterlife, which I being perhaps purblind, doubt, look upon what I have done … Petrina, my wife, my seed has entered your womb, and I pray that a child may be born. I hope you will remember this day with pride.’

Kieron was exhausted both in the body and in the spirit. Days and nights of hard work and hard thought, the elation he had felt while fire was being rained upon the freebooters, the sadness of Aylwin’s death – all these things had drained him of emotion. He was too tired to think clearly, too tired to act. He lay back in
Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge
and closed his eyes. At the best, he thought drowsily, life was but a short journey from darkness to darkness. He had been lucky, very lucky, to know the love of fair women, to paint a great portrait, to construct a hot-air balloon and sail the skies like a god, bringing death to those who trafficked in death. Yes, he had been very lucky for a poor young man barely turned eighteen. A look of great peace came over his face as he slept.

Two braziers still burned; and the shark of the, sky, lightened of the greater part of its burden, continued to rise. Kieron, still profoundly asleep or unconscious, was not aware that the balloon had climbed to nearly two thousand metres above the level of the sea. It passed through a tenuous cloud layer; and dew formed upon his face and hands and hair. Then it rose once more into the gold of sunlight.

The dew made Kieron shiver, and he awoke. He awoke to find himself above gold-capped clouds, drifting, in realms of infinite beauty. He looked down at the islands of cloud. They seemed substantial enough to step upon.

He marvelled at the splendour of the sight. ‘Perhaps no man has seen this from an aerial machine for centuries,’ he said aloud. ‘Likely I am the first of the Third Men to look down upon such clouds and behold their glory. Truly, I am fulfilled.’

But the charcoals in the braziers were burning low and the rents in the balloon were releasing hot air. Kieron was granted only a minute or two of ecstasy before the balloon began to fall through the cloud layer.

He watched, fascinated, as the white mist closed about him and the moisture of the clouds caused the dying charcoals to sizzle and spit. The balloon descended slowly, as if it were reluctant to end this its final flight. The fabric, now slack, was flapping noisily, and the holes in it grew larger. Kieron gazed gloomily down at the sea. There was a light swell; but it was not enough, he thought, to swamp the boat. He looked all round for land, but could see none. Perhaps Aylwin had had the better end after all – a quick clean death. Kieron was no seaman and, despite the quietness of the water, held his prospects to be poor.

Mistress Fitzalan’s Revenge hit the water quite hard. For a moment or two, the fabric of the balloon was billowing all about him as if it intended to claim yet one more victim in its death throes. He felt hot charcoals against his legs and tried to cry out with the pain; hot linen and scorched paper pressed about his face as if to smother him.

But presently, relieved of its burden, the tattered shark of the sky tried to rise once more. Hastily, Kieron unhooked the harness ropes. Flapping noisily and self-destructively, the balloon lifted itself like a doomed beast, hovered uncertainly, then rolled over on its side and fell to the sea. Before it sank beneath the water Kieron saw once again the baleful eyes and toothy open
mouth he had painted. He smiled, remembering once more the astrologer’s prediction, remembering that day long ago when all the world, it seemed, was young.

And now he was alone on a wide sea; and he had no strength and no food, and little hope. It was odd that he should have neglected to stock the vessel with food, particularly so since he had not forgotten a pair of light oars. A man could not row far on an empty belly. Perhaps he had known all along that he did not intend to row far.

He felt even more weary now that all was over. I will rest, he thought. I will close my eyes and rest and think on all that has happened, and try to make my peace. Sooner or later, the sea will receive me. And that will be the end of Kieron-head-in-the-air.

He lay down in the boat, making himself as comfortable as possible, drawing his clothes about him. The motion of the boat was gentle and soothing. It reminded him of a long-lost summer when his father had made a small hammock for him and had hung it between two apple-trees. Kieron had lain on the hammock with his eyes closed, making it sway gently, and pretending that he was a mysterious and magical lord of the air.

‘Well, for a short time I became a lord of the air,’ he murmured. ‘That much, at least, was achieved.’

‘Comment vous appelez-vous?’ Kieron felt a sword point at his chest. He tried to reach for his own sword, which had lain all the while by his side in the small boat. He could not find it. The sword at his chest pricked him, and he lay still, trying to gather his wits.

‘Je m’appelle Kieron. Je suis anglais.’ His small knowledge of French had been gained from the occasional matelot who bad ventured inland to Arundel. He realised that it would not stretch far.

‘Alors … Vous connaissez l’amiral mort?’

‘Oui. Je le connais.’

‘Vous êtes ami ou ennemi?’

Now there was a life or death question! Kieron did not care greatly which way it went.

‘Je suis l’ennemi d’Amiral mort. Parlez-vouz anglais?’

There was a laugh in the semi-darkness. Kieron looked away from the swaying lantern that dazzled him and saw that the sky, dominated by a bright full moon, was rich with stars. The lantern waved high above his head, but he looked past it and concentrated on the beauty of the night sky. If he were to be killed, the stroke would not be long in coming.

‘Un petit peu,’ said the stranger. ‘I speak the little English … You can stand?’

‘I think so.’

‘Bon. You will please to follow aboard my ship. You see the rope ladder?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can climb it?’

‘Yes. What about my sword?’

‘Rest easy. I have it. Come now. Your boat is made fast.’

Kieron climbed up on to the deck of what looked like a small fishing vessel. The lantern had been held almost directly above him by one of the crew. Now that he was no longer dazzled by it, and now that he had fully regained his senses, he was able to see quite clearly in the moonlight. Yes, perhaps a fishing vessel – or one of Admiral Death’s supply tenders. It was odd that the Frenchman had immediately mentioned Admiral Death …

‘You are fishermen?’

‘Comment?’

‘Fishermen. You take fish from the sea?’

‘Ah, pêcheurs!’ Again there was a laugh. ‘Yes, Monsieur Kieron, you shall say we are fishermen. It is a joke. It is good.’

Kieron glanced round him. It really was a very small vessel, carrying, perhaps, a crew of four or five at most. One man was at the wheel, one man had held the lantern, and there was the stranger who now confronted him. He spoke with authority and carried himself with authority. Very likely, he was the master.

Kieron gazed at him in the moonlight. He was heavily bearded, but he seemed like a young man. He spoke like a young man also.

Kieron wished he had his sword in his hand. But it was in the hand of the French captain. The thought was irritating.

‘If you are going to kill me, strike now. I will not play games. The day has been good, and I am content.’

‘Monsieur Kieron. Who speaks of killing? We find you – heureusement, luckily, because Etienne sees well in the dark – we find you, I say, drifting in a small boat. You were already bound for death, monsieur.’

That was something Kieron could not answer.

‘It is we who must make the questions, monsieur. For what we know, you may be – how I say it? – un homme dangereux, un felon, un pirate, peut-être.’

‘Monsieur, I do not understand,’ said Kieron wearily. ‘My name is Kieron Joinerson and I am a man of the seigneurie of Arundel on the island of Britain. You find me adrift in a small boat because I have this day inflicted much damage on the vessels of Admiral Death. I struck at him from the air, having constructed a hot-air balloon. It is something he will remember. Now, do with me what you will.’

‘Un ballon!’ exclaimed the Frenchman excitedly. ‘
Vous êtes l’homme du balloon? Magnifique! Monsieur
, forgive me. I am
Jean-Baptiste Girod, Capitaine
of the
Marie-France
of
Arromanches.
Today I am make – make is right? – the reconnaissance of the forces of Admiral Death. We in France know that this is bad man, very bad man. We know he hold some British coast. We wish to understand his plan. Today we see marvellous thing. We stand off, you understand. But we use
télescope
– glass, glass! We see this thing
dans le ciel.
It gives
feu
– fire?
Quatre ou cinq vaisseaux sont finis. Merveilleux! Henri, Claude, void l’homme du balloon! Aù est le vin?
’