Brian Jacques - Voyage of Slaves

Serafina tugged at his sleeve. “Have you gone to sleep, or are you going to answer me? What do you think of the sea, Ben?”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words as he avoided her luminous dark eyes. “I am bound to the sea, in one way or another. Sometimes I love it, yet other times I hate it.” He heaved a sigh. “Serafina, there is something I must tell you. Something that might hurt you.”

Alarm showed on the girl’s beautiful face. “You could never hurt me, Ben. What is it, what’s wrong?”

He lowered his head to the rail, letting his forehead rest there. “I cannot stay with you. Ned and I have to move on. It might happen today, or even tomorrow, but it is my fate—I will have to leave you!”

Tears sprang unbidden to the girl’s eyes. “But why?” Ben felt a leaden ache in his chest. “I cannot tell you that. Just believe what I say. Go on with your life, you have friends who love you. Go with the troupe, try to forget you ever met me.”

Serafina clutched his hand. “How can you say that? I will never forget you. If you go I will stay here forever!”

At that moment, something echoed through Ben’s mind. It was not his dog trying to communicate with him. It was a distant sound of laughter, chillingly evil, filled with malicioussatisfaction. He brought his head up sharply and saw the accursed ship out in the bay—every detail of its barnacle-crusted hull, tattered sails and ice-stiffened rigging. There was Vanderdecken, lashed to the wheel, beckoning him and laughing like a maniac. The spell was suddenly broken by Serafina’s scream. Unwittingly, the vision of the phantom ship had caused Ben to clench his hand so tightly that he had crushed the girl’s with his furious pressure.

As soon as he realised what had happened, Ben released his grip. Serafina hurried off sobbing, clutching her hand close to her. He shouted after her, “Serafina!” Ben was about to dash after the girl, when Ned appeared in the doorway, blocking his path.

“Let her go, mate, it’s better this way. I couldn’t help but hear your thoughts, that’s why I came up here. I felt the Dutchman somewhere out there, too. I know you feel terrible, Ben, but you did the right thing, even though it hurt you both so much.”

The boy knelt, sobbing into Ned’s fur, as the faithful dog attempted to reason with him.

“Serafina was right, Ben, she won’t ever forget you, nor will you ever forget her. But take my word, she won’t stay here to become a nun, she’ll go with the troupe. Eventually she’ll find some happiness in her life. I hate to say this, but time is a great healer.” He nuzzled the boy’s shoulder gently. “Let’s stay up here awhile, you and I. Don’t want everybody to see you like this, do we? Come on, we’ll sit by the wall where the sun is nice and warm, you just relax until you feel better.” Ned licked the tears from Ben’s face. “Huh, left my marrowbone to come up here. That Sansone will be making short work of it by now, great hungry beasty, a big beef marrowbone is only a snack to him!”

Ben took his dog’s face in both hands. “Ned, Ned, what human ever had a friend as true and faithful as you!”

The dog stared into his master’s eyes, then blinked. “Hmm, I’ll have to think about that one. Don’t know really, I wonder if Mother Carmella has books on the subject.

Maybe she has— Loving Labradors , Volume One, or Devoted Dogs , Volume Two. I’ll ask Sansone, trouble is he’s probably only read the illustrated edition of Magnificent Marrowbones !”

Despite himself, Ben smiled. “What about The Amazing Adventures of Amico ?”

Ned stretched out, closing his eyes appreciatively in the sunlit warmth. “Don’t talk such piffle. That little maggot hasn’t lived long enough to have amazing adventures. Can’t you think of a better one?”

Ben made a suggestion. “ Black Bundi the Bumptious Bounder ?”

Ned opened one eye. “What did I say about you mentioning that name ever again?”

Ben replied innocently, “What, you mean Bundi?”

Ned closed the eye again. “No, I meant Bumptious!”

Boy and dog lay there together until the sun worked its magic, leaving them both slumbering.

33

AT MIDDAY AL MISURATA SIGHTED the walled building that was the convent through a gap in the roadside trees. He signalled the coach to halt. Ghigno rode to his side.

“Lord, why have you stopped the coach?”

The pirate pointed. “That place up on the hill. Give me your glass.”

The Corsair passed his master a small folding telescope.

Al Misurata spoke as he scanned through the glass. “Take two guards you can trust, go and see what that place is. Make sure you are not seen.” He touched the bandage on his wound gingerly. “I’ll stay here and bathe this injury. My head’s throbbing so I can hardly think, and the bandage has become stuck to it. Take your time, go carefully and see how the building is secured.”

Ghigno dismounted from his horse. “I’ll find them, if that’s where they’re hiding.”

The pirate cautioned him, “Stay out of sight. If you see them, don’t do anything, just report back to me!”

When Ghigno had selected his men and departed, Al Misurata sat on the back step of the coach, ministering to his wound and reflecting on the odd and unlucky turns his life had taken since he had met the strange boy and his dog. He had lost valuable slaves, been wounded and outwitted. Moreover, he had been forced to kill the emissary and servants of Count Dreskar. This last fact meant that he could no longer trade along these shores. Dreskar was no fool, he would find out what had happened. Men as powerful and influential as the Count could not be seen to let such incidents go unpunished.

Nor could Al Misurata. He had lost slaves, but more significantly, he had lost face. Ghigno and his own men had seen him hoodwinked and beaten. Now there would be no more lusting after gold until his honour, such as it was, stood restored. As Lord of the Barbary Coast, he had to uphold his standards.

Noontide shadows were beginning to lengthen when Ghigno and his men returned. The Corsican’s scarred face showed that it had been a successful survey. He gave his master the good news. “Lord, it is a convent, a house of women. We could not go around the back of it, because there is a sheer drop down to the sea. Inside the wall which surrounds the main building there is a courtyard and gardens, the wall is high and well built.”

Al Misurata drummed his fingers on the coach step, his tone denoting that he was running out of patience. “Forget courtyards and gardens—get to the point!”

Ghigno bowed deferentially. “The main gate, Lord, it is old, and not too tightly secured. It would be no problem for me to open it. A flat metal bar is all that holds it shut. I tried it by putting my sword blade through the doorjamb—it could be opened with one swift flick. There was also a big, rusty old lock with a wide keyhole. I took a peep through, no key has been used on it for years.

“Looking through the keyhole, I could see the performers’ cart in the courtyard. They must be in there, though there was no sign of the two wagons, or the two teams that pulled them.”

Al Misurata had heard enough. “You did well, my friend. The wagons and horses do not concern me. It will make things easier without having to deal with the crew that ran them. So, our birds have flown to roost in a convent, eh? Well, they’ll soon find out that holy sanctuary means nought to me! You and the men rest until dark. No, wait, send one of them back to my ship, lend him your horse. Give him orders that the Sea Djinn must be brought up here. We will need to be away from this area by dawn.”