William Napier - Blood Red Sea

‘By God, Hodge, we’ve made it. We’ve actually made it!’

They embraced and danced like madmen on the quayside. Fishermen stared.

‘Food,’ said Hodge.

‘Wine,’ said Nicholas.

They went to a quayside tavern and sat down on a bench in the gathering dusk and wiped their sweating brows. ‘Wine. And fresh water.’

‘Lemons,’ said Hodge, ‘or oranges. Bread. Shrimps, mussels, anchovies, sardines, olives. Those little sausages, how d’ye call ’em, churiscos -’

‘There’s bread and stew,’ said the girl. ‘So bread and stew you’ll get.’

She brought them a loaf and two platefuls of steaming stew, and two jugs and cups. They drank. Nicholas raised his cup to her.

‘Freedom. Sweet freedom.’

‘You are drunk already,’ she said.

‘Only drunk on the sweet wine of freedom, lady, and your unearthly beauty.’

She said, ‘You should know, if you vomit in my tavern I will beat you so hard you will crawl out of here on all fours.’

Nicholas laughed, and then stopped and regarded her. ‘Did you. . did you used to serve wine in an open-sided shack on the quayside down that way?’

‘What of it? I work hard, I am thrifty, I save the money that is thrown my way by drunken fools like you.’

The tone of voice, the stance, hands on hips, the wonderful haughtiness, the arched brows — and her flashing dark eyes, along with her haughtiness, and her fine figure. . ‘Hodge,’ murmured Nicholas, when he had drained another cup and the girl turned away. ‘Think back, six years ago — when we first came to Cadiz, whenever it was. You remember that quayside bodega that Smith and Stanley took us to?’

‘And started a fight, and then ran and left us to it. They said it was for our. . martial education, or some such horse shite. And we got badly beaten about too. I remember.’

Nicholas nodded at the girl. ‘That’s her, isn’t it? Our ministering angel.’

Hodge remembered back to the fight, and the bruised aftermath, when a pretty bar-girl of sixteen or so, fierce of speech but gentle of hand, had tended their wounds. When Smith and Stanley had returned she gave them such a tongue-lashing for their conduct that the two knights had cowered visibly. Now Hodge stared at her where she stood in the shadows, filling another jug from a barrel. Her dress was modest, she was no whore. Yet still it showed the outline of her neat bosom, her hips. He swallowed. It had been a while. ‘I think you’re right. And better preserved than we are too, I’d say.’

‘Eh! Señorita!’ called Nicholas.

She came swiftly. ‘Señora.’

‘But you wear no wedding band?’

‘What business is that of yours?’ She was more cold than haughty now, verging on real anger.

‘I. . I am sorry. It is none. Forgive me.’

Well, he had manners after all. And the carriage of a gentleman too, she had to admit, though he wore a patched old linen shirt and scuffed boots and had behaved like any other drunken churl in her tavern. And on his bare arms, she now saw, he had cuts, and scars, a great white cicatrice on his left elbow, and gunpowder burns as well. They may have been no more than tavern brawls, of course. Yet something told her — something in their eyes, these two with the strange accents, and blue eyes in sun-darkened faces — something told her that they were no ordinary tavern braggarts.

‘My husband was killed,’ she said. ‘Soldiering in the Alpujarras. The Moors killed him.’ She spat and twisted her foot in the dust. ‘And you? Where did you come by those burns? What is your accent?’

‘We.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘We-’

‘We may need more wine before we divulge all that,’ said Hodge, tapping the side of his nose.

She softened a little more. They were no ruffians. ‘And more food too,’ she said. ‘Both of you together have hardly enough meat on you for one man.’

‘That’s life on the corsair galleys for you,’ said Nicholas.

‘The galleys!’ She tossed her head scornfully. Her hair was midnight black and glossy. ‘Now you are a bag of wind.’ And she went for more bread and wine.

The wine worked quickly, and they ate ravenously in between swilling.

Hodge sat back and belched. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

‘Then get outside and hurry up about it,’ said Nicholas, tearing off more bread and dunking it in his wine. ‘Or there’ll be nothing left when you come back.’

He reached out and tried to take the girl’s arm. She slapped him.

‘Six years ago,’ he said, ‘we were in a fight in your quayside tavern. There was a blubbergut boastful Frenchman-’

‘What other — hic — kind is there?’ said Hodge.

‘And we beat him. We were with two Knights of St John of Malta.’

The girl frowned. A hazy memory did come back to her. ‘They were. .’ She scrutinised Nicholas. ‘You are English?’

‘And you are,’ he said, delighted with himself for having dredged up the name from so wine-hazy a memory, ‘you are Maria de l’Adoracion!’

For the first time she smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Then it went again as she took a hold of herself. ‘Perhaps I am,’ she said.

Darkness was falling, and a small scruffy boy appeared in the doorway. ‘Where are the strangers?’ he said in a piping voice.

‘Out, out!’ she cried, waving her apron.

‘They came off the knights’ ship. They fought at Malta, someone said.’

Maria stared back at the two drunken Englishmen, and then waved the urchin away.

She came back and stood at their table. ‘You really fought at the Siege of Malta? That is where you got your scars?’

Nicholas looked at her dreamily. Women loved a hero. Maybe he was on to something now.

‘We did, señora. And after. . Algiers, Tripoli, the Greek islands. . the galleys.’

With her dark hair and dark flashing eyes, he knew he was confusing her with a girl he had known and loved on Malta. This Maria was a bar-girl and a widow, though yet only twenty or so, and more radiantly beautiful with every cup of heady wine. Well, let him be confused. Let confusion reign, he thought.

He pulled her to him. ‘Sit on my lap.’

She slapped him again, a considerable blow. He laughed.

‘You think to come swaggering back into my tavern after ten years-’

‘Five years,’ he said. ‘Six at most. How my heart has yearned for you.’

‘-and expect me to fall into your arms? What kind of arrogant swine are you?’

‘Women always insult those they are drawn to.’ He beamed at her.

‘Doh, you are impossible. Impossible . Touch me once more and you will see my stiletto.’

She went to serve another customer, her cheeks flushed red.

‘As lovely as a rose in the gardens of the Alhambra,’ murmured Nicholas, leaning after her and nearly tumbling off the end of the bench.

Hodge poured them both large tumblers of plain water. ‘King Solomon didn’t sweet-talk his one thousand concubines in the Bible any more sweet than you do. ’Tis a Song of Songs to hear you woo her. Here, drink this.’

‘Water?’

‘Water. We need it.’

They drank, and almost immediately Nicholas felt his head become a little cooler and clearer. He sighed. God save us all from beautiful but virtuous widows, he thought.

They drank three more tumblers of water each.

‘Well, Hodge,’ Nicholas said, with a small watery belch. ‘I am not proud to say it, but there’s another appetite must be quelled before I sleep. And this tavern is too virtuous a place for it. But the whorehouses of Cadiz are highly reputed.’

‘Aye, Master Nicholas,’ said Hodge, an address used only sarcastically now. ‘I am equally filled with disgust at myself for saying but. But — my britches cannot lie. Lead on. To the whorehouses of the Street of the Christmas Flowers.’