Tim Severin - Corsair

‘I COULD HAVE saved you the trip,’ commented Bourdon when they got back to Sean Allen’s office in the Armoury and reported on their visit to the stables. ‘A spotted horse is called a tisonne in French. I know that because I once worked at an inn on the outskirts of Paris. I was only a youngster and the lowest of the low, so I was given the job of cleaning out the grates and fireplaces. Sometimes I had to climb halfway up the chimneys to get them swept. One of the local aristocrats, a vicomte, had a dog of that same speckled colour which had been trained to run along beside his carriage when he went driving out from the chateau. It was just showing off because the dog was a real eye-catcher with its black and white coat. Sometimes the vicomte stopped at the inn to take refreshment, and I remember one of the other inn servants took a great liking to the dog. He would pet the animal and feed it titbits. He had his own name for it. He called it Tisonne, and said his master really should have a tisonne horse to match. For a joke he sometimes even called me a tisonne saying that I had the white and pasty skin of a city dweller and was covered with specks of smut and soot from the fire.’

At that moment the door to the gun founder’s office swung open and Diaz’s friend Roberto burst into the room. There was a triumphant expression on his face. ‘They got him!’ he exulted. ‘They got that apelike bruiser who escaped us. I just heard.’

‘Yakup, the rowing master, may he rot in hell,’ said Bourdon after Hector translated the Spaniard’s announcement. ‘Let’s have a celebration. But speak slowly so that Hector can tell me the details as you go along.’

Roberto sat down on the bench and launched into his tale with relish. ‘Apparently he managed to hide himself away in the countryside until by chance he was glimpsed by some locals when he came into a village to steal food. He beat up one of the villagers very badly, almost killed him. But he got himself lost and started wandering in circles. As luck would have it, he blundered into the path of Moulay Ismail’s cavalcade as it was returning to the city. The Black Guards managed to overpower him and bring him before Moulay. It seems that the Emperor was in a foul mood. When the prisoner was brought before him, he flew into an even more vile temper. Moulay was so enraged by the sign of the cross on the rowing master’s forehead that he ordered the Black Guard to toss the rowing master into the bottom of a nearby ravine, and if he tried to scramble out, they were to push him back with their spears. Moulay then turned to his son, that brat Ahmad who is called “the golden one”, and told him that he needed to improve his shooting skills and that it was time he tried out his new muskets.’

‘I know all about those,’ interjected the gun founder. ‘I adapted a pair of guns specially for the lad. He’s only about ten years old though tall and lanky for his age. Dan here trimmed down the stocks to size, and fitted the latest locks.’

‘Dan did a good job because the guns never misfired. Young Ahmad stood on the edge of the ravine and took one pot shot after another at the rowing master as he scrambled among the rocks and bushes trying to dodge. You could hear the bullets skipping off the rocks. Moulay himself stood watching, shouting advice and encouragement. When one of the Black Guards whose job was to reload the muskets was too slow, Moulay whipped out his sword and chopped off the man’s fingers. Eventually young Ahmad succeeded in knocking over the rowing master with a lucky shot, but his target managed to get back on his feet. It took another three musket balls to bring him down for good. Moulay then gave orders that the corpse was to be flayed, and the skin nailed up on the city gates to discourage other runaways.’

‘A fitting end for the bastard,’ observed Bourdon. ‘Let’s drink to the eternal damnation of all rowing masters. When they arrive in Hell, may they be chained to red-hot oar handles, lashed with whips made from bulls’ pizzles pickled in brine, and suffer from swollen piles whenever they fall back on the rowing bench.’

Hector noticed that Karp had been listening, his eyes flicking from one speaker to the next. With Piecourt and the rowing master both dead, the Chevalier seemed to have got off lightly, and Hector recalled the Chabrillan’s sour remark that hanging would have been too gentle a death for the Bulgar. ‘Karp, there are some questions I have to ask the Chevalier,’ he said. ‘I’m going to try to get permission to visit him in his cell. Do you want to come along?’

Karp gave a gagging sound and shook his head vehemently. Hector thought it strange that he looked not angry, but ashamed.

CHEVALIER ADRIEN CHABRILLAN’S prison was close to the imperial menagerie. Hector could hear the coughing roars of the lions and a strange high-pitched whooping which he took to be the call of some exotic bird as he approached. The low featureless building looked from the outside like a servants’ dormitory, and the sprawling imperial compound was such a maze of pavilions, mosques, guardhouses, stores, walkways and courtyards that, without the help of a guide provided by Joseph Maimaran, Hector would never have arrived at the Chevalier’s cell on the ground floor. Only when he went inside and was brought to a heavy wooden door guarded by a suspicious goaler did Hector appreciate that Chevalier Chabrillan was, in effect, hidden away from the rest of the world.

The guard unlocked the door with a heavy iron key, and stood back to allow Hector to enter the cell alone. The room was simply furnished with a mattress on a low bed frame, a wooden table and two chairs, and a chamber pot. A blanket lay neatly folded on the mattress, and the only light entered through a small, barred window high up in the wall opposite the door. Hector noted that the wall itself was two feet thick. The room reminded him of a monk’s cell, an impression strengthened by the fact that its lone occupant was kneeling in prayer, facing a simple wooden cross nailed to the wall.

The turnkey closed the door behind Hector, but the kneeling figure did not stir. The man was dressed in a loose cotton gown, and once again Hector found himself staring in fascination at the cross-shaped scars on the soles of his naked feet. Finally, after several minutes, the prisoner rose and turned to face his visitor. For the first time Hector saw the Chevalier close up in daylight and he was taken aback by the contemptuous stare. ‘I gave orders that I would receive visitors only if they were here to discuss the conditions of my incarceration,’ said Chabrillan. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are an associate of that tongueless heretic. You will be disappointed if you came here to gloat. I have nothing to discuss with you.’

‘I want only a few moments of your time,’ said Hector civilly, marvelling at the unshakeable self-confidence of the Chevalier. He did not harbour any hatred for the man, now that he knew Chabrillan was very likely to be held prisoner for many years. ‘I did not come to take pleasure from seeing your captivity. I only hope to understand why this has come about.’

‘I would have thought that was obvious,’ Chabrillan snapped. ‘The schismatic wanted revenge. But it will make no difference in the eyes of God. I may remain here for many years, but he will spend all eternity in the fires of Hell.’

‘He seemed so harmless until—’ Hector began, but he was cut off in mid sentence by a snort of disdain.

‘Harmless! That viper! He is no more harmless than the Satan whose path he follows, and whose poison he was injecting into others until I had his tongue removed.’