Corsair

NINETEEN

‘A HORSE!’ Diaz wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he set down his drink. Hector had waited for the Spanish cavalryman’s next visit to Sean Allen’s office to ask his help in solving the mystery of the entry for Tison in Maimaran’s account books. ‘I wonder what the old Jew was referring to. I can’t think what he meant.’

‘You’ve never heard of Tison or Tisonne yourself?’ Hector enquired.

‘Yes, of course. Every Spaniard has,’ Diaz replied cheerfully and, reaching down, picked up his sword and slapped it on the table. ‘This is a tison, though in Castile we pronounce it tizon. It’s a word for a sword, and celebrates one of the most famous weapons in our history. Our greatest hero, El Cid, possessed two swords; one was called Tizon, the other Colada. Every schoolboy is made to learn the poem of El Cid by heart. Even now I can still remember the line,’ and he flung out an arm dramatically as he recited. ‘Well worth a thousand golden marks was the great sword Tizon.’

‘What did El Cid do with his sword?’

Diaz looked at Hector in astonishment. ‘You don’t know the story of El Cid?’

‘No.’

‘Six hundred years ago he helped drive back the Moors and used Tizon and Colada to do the job. According to legend, each sword was half as long again as the span of a man’s arms, and its blade so broad and heavy that only El Cid could wield it in battle.’

‘Then it seems strange to find a “tizon” in the stables of a devout Muslim prince. You would have thought it more likely that the great sword was kept here in the armoury or on display somewhere in Moulay’s palace. Only yesterday Maimaran showed me various trophies that Moulay has put on show to celebrate his victories over the Christians.’

Diaz grimaced. ‘Probably looted them from Spanish towns he captured in the north. Still, the only way to solve the puzzle is by going to the stables themselves. If Sean can spare you, we can set out right now. Just as soon as I finish this drink.’

DOZENS OF GROOMS and ostlers were busy bedding down the horses for the night when Diaz and Hector arrived at the stables. The air was heavy with pungent stable smells, squads of slaves were spreading fresh straw and carrying buckets of water to replenish drinking troughs, and Hector could hear the stamping of hooves and the snuffling of the animals as they waited hopefully for an evening feed. Diaz led him straight to meet the stable master, a small wizened Moor who must have been at least seventy years old and walked with a heavy limp which was the result, according to Diaz, of a riding accident. ‘Haddu is from one of the desert tribes who are great horse handlers and breeders. He has been here since the first day Moulay began building his stables. Recently Moulay wanted to make him a kaid, a nobleman, as a reward for his services. But Haddu refused. He told the Emperor that he didn’t want to be a kaid. Moulay was about to get very angry at being snubbed – you could see his eyes going red – but then Haddu added that he preferred horses to men and, as you know, Moulay likes his cats better than his servants, so he merely laughed and turned away.’

Unfortunately for Hector and Diaz, the stable master found it difficult to understand exactly what his visitors wanted. Hector and Diaz took it in turns to try to explain, but they had no success. Haddu looked from one to the other, increasingly puzzled. ‘Tison? Tizon? Tisonne?’ Hector repeated, trying every pronunciation he could think of. ‘The Emperor’s treasurer told me that he found the word Tison written in his ledgers, and it was something to do with a horse.’

‘I know nothing about any Tison,’ said the stable master, ‘but everything to do with the royal horses will be found in the section of the stables reserved for the Emperor’s animals. If we look there, perhaps you will discover your answer.’

The three men walked across to the imperial stable block that Hector remembered from his previous visit. There Haddu led them between the long lines of open stalls. The animals peered at them curiously, their ears pricked forward, heads turning to follow the progress of their visitors. Haddu stopped often to stroke a nose or scratch between a horse’s ears. He knew the name and breeding of every animal, and all the while he delivered a running commentary about the creature’s history and character. This horse came from the amazigh, the next was a present from the Caliph in Egypt, another was very elderly and stiff in the joints now but had been to Mecca and was sacred. Eventually they came to the last section of the stalls which, Haddu explained, was where the Emperor’s own riding animals were stabled. These horses were kept exercised and fit, ready for Moulay to ride in procession and state occasions. Hector and Diaz looked at each one and complimented the stable master on the good condition of the animals. It was when they had reached the very last animal in the line that Diaz stopped dead, and then slapped his forehead and gave a cry of triumph. ‘What an idiot I am,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is what Maimaran must have meant.’ Turning to the stable master, he asked, ‘How long have you had this horse here?’

‘Some two years. It is a most unusual animal, one of the Emperor’s particular favourites. He would have had to pay a great deal of money for it because such horses occur very infrequently. This one has proved not only beautiful but easy to train. It is truly a gem.’

Diaz looked across at Hector. ‘All that talk of El Cid’s great sword distracted me. The clerk who wrote up that ledger Maimaran showed you didn’t know very much about horses. He put down “tison” when, more correctly, he should have written “tiznado”. The two words are both to do with the ashes or embers in a fire. Do you remember that evening when we watched the fantasia? Moulay himself was riding the three lead horses in the main squadron. He put on a great display, and I remember one of my colleagues, another cavalryman, spoke admiringly of the tiznado. I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he explained that it was a word used in the Spanish colonies to describe a horse of a particular colour. This is just such a horse, a rarity, come and see for yourself.’

Hector went up to the stall. He found himself face to face with a handsome stallion who looked back at him, head held high, an intelligent gleam in its eye. The creature was strongly built with a powerful chest and a short back, clean legs and neat small hooves. Every line of its body told of speed and stamina. But what was truly eye-catching was the creature’s coat. It had been brushed until it shone. The background colour was a pale grey, and scattered over it were dozens and dozens of small black spots. It was the horse that Moulay Ismail had been riding at the fantasia.

‘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.’

‘But Karp could never have been a threat to someone as powerful and well connected as yourself.’

Chabrillan regarded Hector scornfully. ‘What do you know about these things?’ Belatedly Hector realised that he had come with the intention of questioning Chabrillan, but was already deferring to the aristocrat’s arrogance. He resolved to stand his ground.

‘Karp told me that you had his tongue torn out when you were both in Kandia.’

‘Told? How could he have told you anything? He lacks the means to do so.’ This time there was a note of cruelty in Chabrillan’s tone.

‘He did so by dumb show. He also drew a map and tried to make me understand that you have the sign of the cross marked on the soles of your feet. At the time it made no sense.’

‘And did he also tell you that he is a traitor to Christendom, a festering contagion eating away at the True Faith?’

Abruptly Chabrillan turned away. For several moments there was silence as if he was considering whether to put an end to the interview. Then he swung round to face his visitor, and in a flinty voice said, ‘Kandia was where we took our stand against the Turk. There were thousands of us who believed that it was our sacred duty to hold the bastion. The rest of the island had already fallen, but the city itself held out month after month, year after year. Venice sent us supplies and reinforcements, and her fleet kept the sea-lanes open. I and other knights came with our galleys to try to stiffen the resistance shortly before the end. Doubtless that was when Karp wormed his way in. He was among the volunteers who arrived from all over Europe to assist us.’

‘Karp is from the Bulgar lands ruled by the Turks. He would have risked his life to get to Kandia,’ agreed Hector. He had intended to encourage the flow of the Chevalier’s narrative but his remark only brought an angry retort.

‘And that should have made me beware! He is no more a Christian than that blackamoor who guards my cell door. His homeland is a wellspring of heresy. From there the pestilence oozes and threatens to infect all.’

‘I don’t follow your meaning,’ Hector muttered.

Chabrillan’s lip curled. ‘How would you understand? Am I right in guessing that you have taken the turban and your manhood has been trimmed?’

‘I did convert when I was in the bagnio of Algiers,’ Hector acknowledged, ‘but only in the hope that it would ease my captivity. My faith has lapsed since then, both in the teachings of Muhammad and in the religion I was taught as a child by monks. They were good men who knew their gospel.’

‘What would those monks say if they knew you had lifted a forefinger and pronounced that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his prophet,’ Chabrillan sneered. ‘In that benighted corner perhaps your monks have not yet heard the serpent’s hiss, those who preach that Satan is the creator and ruler of the visible world. They deny the Holy Cross and refuse to worship the Virgin Mary and the Saints. That is what Karp and his foul companions do. They claim that the Romish Church is not the Church of Jesus Christ but a Harlot, while only they themselves hold to the truth.’

‘But if men like Karp came to fight at Kandia alongside you, what mattered was their hatred of the Turk.’

‘Karp did not come to Kandia to fight. He came to convert. He persuaded others in our garrison that atonement and redemption were meaningless, that the sacrament of unction was to be spurned because it is reserved for the rich, that every good layman is himself a priest. His blasphemy was endless.’

Hector felt he was getting nowhere. The Chevalier was clearly a fanatic, but that did not seem sufficient reason for him to have mutilated Karp, a fellow Christian, in the midst of a gruelling and prolonged siege. ‘What reason did you give when you ordered Karp’s tongue to be removed?’ he asked.

‘I needed no authority. Karp had attached himself to my troops in the guise of a cook, and he was under my command. It was enough that he was preaching disobedience, not only to Mother Church but to military authority and to natural order. He would have my men lay down their arms and renounce all violence. They were to call themselves “dear to God”, and trust to prayer. That was sedition. So I stopped his mouth. I made an example of him so that others should take warning.’

‘And how did he come to lose his nose and ears as well?’

Chabrillan gave a shrug as if Hector’s question was superfluous. ‘When Kandia fell, the Turks allowed us to leave unmolested. I took Karp with me as a slave, intending to keep him as an oarsman on my galley. I felt that his punishment was not yet served out. Later he tried to run away. He lost his ears and nose for that. My comite carried out the sentence.’

‘Piecourt is dead,’ said Hector flatly.

‘Then he will have his just reward,’ replied Chabrillan. ‘He always followed the true doctrine of the Christ, of the Gospel, and the Apostles.’

‘And the scars on your feet? How did you suffer them?’

‘In Christ’s service,’ answered the Chevalier grimly. Deliberately and rudely, he looked at the wall over Hector’s head. ‘The Venetians had agreed secretly that I alone of all the defenders of Kandia was to be handed over to the Turks. The infidels wished to take revenge for an earlier incident in my struggle against them. They mistook Karp for my personal slave and arranged that he dress my wounds after they had finished with me.’

‘Is that when you first met Hakim Reis?’

Hector’s question had a remarkable effect. Chabrillan dropped his gaze and stared hard at Hector. The Chevalier’s supercilious manner had been replaced by a long, calculating appraisal of his visitor. After a lengthy pause he said softly, ‘I thought that it was the Cohens in Algiers who had betrayed me.’

‘The Cohens had nothing to do with it. They probably do not even know that you were taken prisoner from the St Gerassimus or where you are now.’

‘Then who wrote that letter promising our escape?’

‘It was prepared here in Meknes.’

Chabrillan’s eyes searched Hector’s face. Hector could tell that the Chevalier was struggling to work out the events of the past few days. ‘Then Karp was the mischief-maker. But I don’t remember that he ever laid eyes on Hakim Reis. And it is strange that he knew Hakim is expected soon in Sallee. From Kandia onwards Karp has been nothing more than a mute beast, pulling an oar.’

‘It was not Karp who prepared the letter,’ Hector assured him. ‘He recognised you by the scars on your feet, and identified you as the Lion of La Religion, but nothing more. As for Hakim Reis, no one knows when he will next visit Sallee.’

‘Yet the message said that Hakim Reis would be waiting to pick me up.’

Hector decided that this was his moment to press forward. The Chevalier was off guard and might be shocked into a confession. He watched for his reaction as he said, ‘I needed to confirm that you had dealt with Hakim Reis in the past and that you would expect him to connive at your escape. I had to be sure of my evidence.’

Chabrillan did not move a muscle. His eyes never left Hector’s face as he asked, ‘And what evidence was that?’

‘First, the gunpowder in the magazine. It is a special pistol powder, impossible to manufacture in Barbary. It was not damaged or damp as if it had been captured at sea. The powder was in a keg, in perfect condition, fresh from the makers. I had seen similar kegs aboard the St Gerassimus. The gun founder Sean Allen said that the gunpowder had come from Hakim Reis, who in turn may have got it from a smuggler called Tisonne. That was when I first heard the name. Later a friend of mine, working in Moulay’s armoury, came across some shoddy muskets made for the export market. Again the gun founder said that he had obtained the weapons from Hakim Reis.’ Hector waited for several seconds before adding, ‘I presume you got those marks on your cheek when a faulty musket barrel exploded in your face. Were you giving a demonstration of the weapon, and did Hakim accept the shipment?’

For a moment Hector thought he had broken through Chabrillan’s calm detachment. The Chevalier moved a hand as if to touch the scatter of blue specks on his cheek, but then changed his mind.

‘I shared an oar bench with a man with exactly that colour of mark on his cheek,’ Hector added. ‘He is marked with the letters GAL for galerien. He had told me that when the brand was first scorched into his flesh, it was made permanent by rubbing gunpowder in the fresh burn.’

‘You seem to have an abundance of low-life friends,’ Chabrillan remarked witheringly.

‘Someone else said that to me recently,’ Hector acknowledged, but then moved on. ‘It was not until I learned that tisonne is a word for a horse with a spotted skin that I made the connection. My guess is that Hakim Reis gave you that cover name, and that you enjoyed the coincidence that tizon is also the name for a weapon which the heroic El Cid wielded against Muslims.’

‘You have a very vivid imagination,’ said Chabrillan. It was evident that he had regained his composure fully. ‘Why should it matter to you that I am this Tisonne. I am held in this cell because I am a knight of the Order of St Stephen of Tuscany, not because weapons and gunpowder reached Meknes.’

‘I will come to that in a moment,’ Hector answered him. ‘But there is something else which must come first, something more important than arms smuggling.’

‘Please continue.’ Chabrillan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘Hakim Reis has the reputation of a lucky man. He always seems to be at the right place and at the right time. His galley intercepts merchant shipping with uncanny accuracy, and he is first on the scene when a peace treaty breaks down and a Barbary state reverts to piracy. It is as if someone highly placed in the councils of his victims is supplying him with vital information. I believe that informant was you.’

‘And why should I do that?’

‘That is what I did not understand until you told me why you had Karp’s tongue removed: you nurse a violent hatred for those who you see as enemies of your Church, whoever they are, whether Muslims or dissenters. You would damage them in whatever way you can.’

Hector could feel Chabrillan’s arrogance returning. It was like a physical force radiating from the aristocrat, his absolute certainty that his cause was correct, and that his breeding and privilege placed him above others.

‘As a turncoat you would not understand,’ Chabrillan said, his voice contemptuous. ‘Christendom will prevail. But first it must cure itself of the heresies within. That is where the real and present danger lies. Schismatics and agnostics gnaw at the heart of Mother Church. Men like Karp must be rooted out. Nations who would question the authority of Rome must be put to flight. Only then should we turn our full attention to the Eternal War.’

‘And is that why you allied yourself with Hakim Reis?’ Hector spoke quietly. He knew now that Chabrillan’s self-belief was his weakness.

‘Consider where Hakim Reis operates – in the Atlantic, where he encounters ships from the trading nations of the north, from protestant nations. His activities and the attacks of corsairs like him weaken these nations and distract them from rivalry with the Holy Mother Church. The arms and gunpowder he brings to Moulay are used to drive the English from Tangier. A share of the money he receives, from the slaves and cargoes he captures and the arms he provides, goes to good purpose. Through me it has built galleys for La Religion, strengthened fortifications, and holds back the Turk.’

‘Then why did you join the Galley Corps of France?’

Chabrillan gave a cynical smile. ‘Did you not notice how many of the Reformed, as they like to call themselves, sat alongside you on the benches of St Gerassimus? Increasingly France condemns them to the oar. One day, I predict, King Louis will recognise the Reformed openly for the pestilence they are, and then the galleys of France will join in our crusade, rowed by unbelievers.’

‘What about the innocent victims of your alliance with Hakim?’ Hector asked. This was the moment he had waited for. ‘Eighteen months ago Hakim Reis with two ships raided a small and undefended village on the coast of Ireland. He carried off slaves, both men and women. The villagers were taken by surprise because the authorities believed there was a peace treaty between Barbary and the English king. They did not know that the treaty had been torn up. Yet Hakim knew, and he profited from his knowledge. If Tisonne was his source – and you are Tisonne – then you are responsible for both Catholics and Protestants having been sold into slavery.’

‘I care not for the Catholics of Ireland,’ snapped Chabrillan. ‘They failed us. When Ireland fell to the protestant English, she no longer sent her noblemen to Malta despite the requests of the Grand Master. Yet at home they continued to enjoy the Order’s lands and estates. Your countrymen were too craven.’ He looked at Hector with a sudden flash of understanding. ‘Hakim Reis matters to you because you were taken in that raid?’

‘Yes, I was a victim, along with my sister. She was carried away aboard another ship. I have not seen her since.’

A vindictive smile appeared on Chabrillan’s face. ‘Your sister?’ he said slowly.

‘Yes.’

The Chevalier considered for a short while before he declared, ‘I had not intended to admit that I am Tisonne, but now I shall do so for the satisfaction it gives me when I address a weak renegade. Yes, I did work together with Hakim Reis. I supplied him intelligence and I provided him with weapons and gunpowder sold corruptly by the administrators of the Galley Arsenal and by other venal merchants. In return, whenever Hakim Reis sold prize goods, he paid me a share through the Cohens in Algiers, and in turn they placed credit for me with the Crespinos in Livorno. No one could trace the money, not even the Jews. Sometimes I met with Hakim at an arranged rendezvous at sea when I handed over guns and powder, and he provided me with his captives for me to sell in Valletta or Livorno.’

Chabrillan’s manner was utterly self-assured. It occurred to Hector that the Chevalier was pleased to have an audience to whom he could explain himself.

‘For all his faults, Hakim Reis had scruples. Unlike you he believed sincerely that he should help his fellow Muslims. He would exchange his Christian captives for Muslims which I had taken. Hakim would then set his people free, and many of them went on to serve as crew aboard his ship. The men and women I received, if they were protestant, I sold in Valletta or Livorno, or kept them at the oar. I remember his raid on Ireland and you are right: I had sent him word that the treaty with England was soon to be repudiated. He took advantage, as I had expected. We had agreed to meet at sea afterward – to conduct our usual exchange of prisoners. But our rendezvous was disturbed. A foreign warship appeared and Hakim Reis wisely fled. He made for safe harbour. There he sold his captives – yourself included.’

‘What of the other vessel? When Hakim raided Ireland, he came with two ships. What happened to the second vessel? Where did it go?’ Hector was finding it impossible to keep the tension out of his voice.

‘Some time later Hakim Reis sent me my share of the sale of the prisoners from that vessel. They were women. His colleague had got an excellent price for them. I was delighted by the sum. Your sister was no doubt among the wares.’ He paused, coughed to clear his throat. A spiteful gleam had appeared in his eyes. ‘Do you wish to know more?’

Hector’s mouth was dry, and though he already knew the answer, he murmured, ‘Of course.’

‘Your sister and the other women from the Irish raid were landed in Sallee. If she was young and desirable, she would have been sold into Moulay’s harem.’ Chabrillan dropped his voice and spoke slowly and distinctly, relishing every word as he added, ‘The thought that your sister is likely confined not so far from this cell is my consolation for the harm that you have done me. You would do well to reflect that once Moulay breeds on a woman, he casts her off like a used brood mare.’