Rapscallion (16 page)

"I'm
here to keep him from harm."

"Harm?"
Matisse slid his hand from the boy's neck and placed it, palm flat, over his
heart. His nails were long and discoloured; their tips sharp, like talons.
"You think
I'd
harm a child? How could you suggest such a thing? You wound me, Captain."

"Don't
play games," Lasseur said.

"Games?"

"Fouchet
warned us."

"Ah,
yes, the teacher.
And what
exactly did he warn you about?"

"He
warned us about you," Lasseur said. The disgust in his voice sounded like
gravel at the back of his throat. "He told us about the others."

"Others?"

"The
other boys you've brought down here."

"Did
he now?" The Corsican pursed his lips. "That old man's become rather
belligerent of late. I shall have to have words with him." The
maggot-white face lifted. "He needs to be reminded of his place."

"You
don't deny it?"

"Why
should I?" Matisse stroked the boy's cheek and turned Lucien Ballard's
face towards him. The boy's lower lip began to tremble. "Have you ever
seen anything so precious?"

"He's
a child."

"Yes,
he is. He's a sweet child, but you make it all sound so sordid, Captain. You
think we're all apprentices of Sodom? You couldn't be further from the truth, I
assure you. If we weren't shut away in this foul place, do you really think
we'd be having this conversation? We're a long way from home; from our wives
and sweethearts. What's a man to do? All we crave is a small measure of
comfort. There's nothing wrong with that, surely? A man's not meant to be on
his own. A man has needs. What's so bad in trying to find companionship and
affection to see us through these dark days? Would you deny us that? What right
have you to judge?"

"Affection?"

"Yes,
affection.
Tell them, boy. Tell the captain.
Has Matisse hurt you? No. There, you see? Not a hair spoiled. He's perfectly
safe."

"Safe?"
Lasseur stared at Matisse. "You'd take him into your bed; you'd turn him
into one of your catamites? You'd share him among
these scum
- and you call that
safe?"

Chairs
scraped back as the men at the table rose around their leader.

A
nerve flickered along Matisse's jawline. "D'you
hear
that? He called you scum; and queer scum at that. I'd take care, if I were you,
Captain. The navy may hold you in high esteem, but you'd do well to remember
where you are. As for this particular boy, who elected
you
his guardian?
You've no legitimate claim on him, have you?" There was a pause.
"After all, it's not as though he's your son, now, is it?"

"God
damn you!" Lasseur swore. He took a pace forward. His face was rigid.

A
warning growl sounded from deep inside Dupin's throat. He raised the hoop
blade.

Quickly,
Hawkwood put a restraining hand on Lasseur's sleeve. The muscles along the privateer's
arm were as taught as knotted rope. Hawkwood's hold was enough to restrain
Lasseur, but only for as long as it took for the Frenchman to shrug his hand
away angrily. "I demand you hand the boy over, now!"

The
deck went deathly quiet.

The
black-clad figure placed both palms on the table and pushed himself to his
feet. The movement was effortlessly sinuous. The Corsican didn't so much rise
from his seat as uncoil.

"Demand?
You dare to
come here and demand of me? Look around you, Captain. This is
my
kingdom.
I
reign here; no one else. You're
newly arrived, so you're not yet acquainted with the order of things. Go back
to your gun deck and take Captain Hooper with you. And if you're thinking of
summoning assistance, think again. Do you really believe the British control
the lives on this hulk? Oh, they may have the uniforms and their fine muskets.
They may even have the authority, but do you think for one moment that they
hold the power? There are more than eight hundred of us imprisoned on this stinking
barge. What do you think would happen if there was a full-scale rebellion? The
British don't keep the inmates in check here; I do. Matisse! Commander Hellard
may despise me. He may even fear me. But you can be certain that he and the
rest of his crew thanked God the day I came on board!"

"You
utter filth!" Lasseur hissed.

For
one heart-stopping moment, despite Dupin's proximity, Hawkwood thought the
privateer was about to hurl himself across the table. The moment he did that,
they were both dead. But then, as quickly as he had let it slip, Lasseur seemed
to recover his equilibrium. He looked Matisse straight in the eye. "Very
well, name your price."

"My
price?"
The bald head swivelled. The
movement was performed so fluidly, it reminded Hawkwood of a cobra winding
itself up for the strike.

"You
heard.
How much?"

"You
offer me money?" The mocking tone was still there.

"We
want the boy. We're not going back without him."

"Brave
words, Captain.
Have you
considered the possibility that you might not be going back at all?"

"You
think you can stop us?" Lasseur said.

"Of
course I can stop you. I need only click my fingers. How far do you think you'd
get? This time, you really are outgunned."

Looking
around, Hawkwood knew the man was right. Despite Lasseur's attempt at bravado,
neither of them had a hope of taking on Matisse's crew. They'd be fools to even
contemplate it. It had been a mistake to have come so unprepared. They'd
underestimated the hold that Matisse had over the lower deck; and indeed, if
his boast was to be believed, the rest of the ship.

"We
need to settle this," Hawkwood said. "We need to settle this
now."

Matisse
shook his head, though whether this was an expression of bafflement or merely
amusement was hard to decipher. "You really want him that badly?" The
earring jiggled again. Matisse looked to his lieutenants, who were gazing back
at him in renewed, bright-eyed anticipation. They had scented blood. He turned
back slowly, a shrewd look on his face. He pouted. "All right, perhaps there
is a way."

"How?"
Lasseur said.

Matisse
paused.
"A contest."

A
murmur ran around the compartment.

Lasseur
looked nonplussed. "You mean a wager? You'd decide the boy's future by the
throw of a dice?"

"Not
dice."

"The
turn of a card?
I'll still have
no part of it!"

"There
are more ways of proving a man's mettle than by having him win a hand of whist,
Captain."

"Like
what?" Lasseur enquired cautiously.

"A
trial."

"Prisoner's
tribunal?"
Lasseur looked
sceptical. "You want us to plead our case?"

"Not
that kind of trial."

"Then
what kind do you mean?"

"I
mean trial by combat."

The
deck erupted in excited chatter. It took several seconds before it grew still
again.

"He
wants you to fight for him," Hawkwood said, not quite believing it
himself.

Matisse
gave a short, harsh, humourless laugh. "You make it sound so vulgar,
Captain. As if I was suggesting some kind
of brawl. I
prefer to think of it as a contest of arms. 'To the victor the spoils' - isn't
that what they say?"

Lasseur
stared at Matisse in horror. "I'm not going to fight you!"

"Fight
me? You misunderstand, Captain. I was referring to the old-fashioned way of
settling a dispute, when kings did not cross swords themselves. They nominated
a champion; a valiant knight to fight on their behalf, someone versed in the
art of war - a warrior." Matisse looked directly at Hawkwood. "You,
Captain Hooper; you're a warrior. You've the scars to prove it. I nominate you
as Captain Lasseur's champion."

"What?"
Lasseur said disbelievingly.

"It's
your only chance of getting him back. What do
you
say, Captain
Hooper?"

"I
think you've been down here too long. It's addled your brain. You want the
boy's fate to be decided by the outcome of a bout?"

As
he spoke the words, Hawkwood's brain began to spin. What the hell was happening
here? What had Lasseur been thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. How in the
name of all that was holy had he allowed himself to be dragged into Lasseur's
private war?

"
Adds
piquancy to the broth, doesn't it?" Matisse said,
grinning. "And it's been a while since our last diversion. When was that?
Does anyone remember?" He regarded the ring of faces expectantly.
"No? Ah well, that's the trouble; you lose track of time on the lower
levels. Each day just seems to merge into the next. Anyway, there it is,
Captain Lasseur.
A sporting chance.
If my man wins,
the boy stays with us. If Captain Hooper emerges victorious, I'll set him free.
What do you say to that?"

"Leave
Captain Hooper out of this," Lasseur said. He looked at Hawkwood. His face
was ashen.

"Too
late for that," Matisse said.

Hawkwood
saw the excitement in the eyes of the other men around them. Lasseur was still
staring back at him in disbelief.

"Who's
your
man?"
Hawkwood asked. "Dupin?"

"Dupin?"
Matisse expressed surprise. His chin came up. "Oh no, not Dupin. While
Corporal Dupin is a true and faithful lieutenant, I can see he'd be no match
for a veteran of your calibre. No, do not protest, Corporal. You know I speak
the truth. Captain Hooper is an experienced soldier, whereas you are merely a
courtier with a stick. You wouldn't last five minutes, and where's the sport in
that? No, Captain, I choose another; a much more worthy opponent. Call it royal
prerogative."

Matisse
turned. Several of the men at the table exchanged knowing grins.

"Kemel
Bey!"
Matisse called.

A
pale wedge of light appeared in the wall of darkness behind the table. For the
first time, Hawkwood saw the opening in the bulkhead over Matisse's shoulder,
indicating there were yet more compartments further forward.

Lasseur
drew in a breath. Hawkwood saw why.

An
apparition stepped into the lantern glow. The man's skin was so dark it looked
as if he might have been carved from the hulk's timbers. He was not as tall as
Hawkwood, but neither was he small of stature. His face was broad. His nose was
wide and flared. Below it there grew an extravagant, raven-black moustache. His
hair was long and oily and curled away from the base of his neck in tight
ringlets. Each ear was pierced with a golden ring, which gleamed brightly in the
lantern light. His eyes, in contrast to those of Matisse, were as black as
olive pits.

His
striking looks were offset by the incongruity of his dress. He wore a yellow
prison jacket stretched tight across a compact, muscular torso. His legs were
encased in a pair of voluminous maroon pantaloons. His feet were bare. He
looked, Hawkwood thought, as if he'd stepped out of the illustration in a
children's book or from the ranks of a theatrical masquerade.

Hawkwood
had heard reports of Bonaparte's Mamelukes from guerrilla fighters in Spain,
but he'd never seen them in action. They enjoyed a fearsome reputation. It was
said that the Emperor, despite having defeated them in battle, had been so
taken with their fighting skills during his Egyptian campaign that he'd
authorized two squadrons to accompany him on his return to France. A plea from
their commanding officer and a vow that they'd defend France to the death had
been enough to justify their immediate incorporation into the ranks of the
Imperial Guard. Mameluke cavalry had played a decisive role in Murat's brutal
suppression of the Madrid uprising.