Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 24 - There is no Want of Bastards in the World

“An impressive fellow, n'est-ce pas?” a new voice said.

We turned as one and were astounded to see a European smiling at our discomfort. He stood in the shade beneath the colonnade that surrounded the quadrangle that was the gaol's courtyard. Once he knew that we were aware of his presence, he moved into the light and strode towards us, the silver top of his long cane swinging out to the side in that affected manner that certain types of gentlemen adopt.

His was not a compassionate countenance. Sure he was smiling, but his eyes looked upon us with the interested detachment that an anatomist demonstrated before the first cut. I presumed that the oppressive heat of the day was reason enough for no periwig to adorn his head, merely a wide-brimmed straw hat. As much as we were still dressed in the remains of our filthy linen, his, in contrast, was snowy white beneath a plain waistcoat.

“I would talk with you, Messiuers.”  With greater acquaintance of this elegant fellow, the brace of pistols in his blue, silk sash became obvious, as well as the swept hilt and silvered cup of the rapier by his side. Such a heavily armed gentleman at his leisure would have caused heads to turn at St James's Park, to be sure. As it was, here in Morocco, it was not so unusual. I was getting quite used meeting killers.

“What's a damned Frenchman doing here?” Jack's eyes narrowed. He knew enough of my conversations with Hassan to know that Moulay Ismail had a particular dislike of France. The Sultan was not likely to tolerate a subject of that nation at the centre of his Empire. “What would we have to say to you, or you to us?” His fists clenched into hard flesh, knuckles like cobbles whitening against his tanned skin.

The Frenchman made a slight bow. I clambered to my feet, fear having previously reduced me to a craven position on my knees. Dusting myself off, I returned his courtesy. “Sir, you have us at a disadvantage.” I could have strangled Jack. Not every social interaction can be resolved with fists. Whatever this man wanted, he did not immediately desire our death.

“Bien sûr, that is, as you say, how I like it.” The Frenchman halted in front of us and nodded over our shoulders at the huge abid waiting with his axe. “If you wish, you could find out what he can do with that. I am told he is most creative.”

We all looked back at the axeman, who smiled at us with a mouth full of bright, white teeth. He stretched his arms up behind his head, flexing impressive musculature that was all too familiar with the heft of that terrible blade.

I decided to speak before Jack could condemn us. “Talk? Of course we may talk, sir. And a pleasant day it is for pleasant conversation. Shall we retire to the cloisters? Or, perhaps, you have a coffee house that you favour?”

“Très amusant! Maintenant, peut-être devrions-nous nous diriger vers la colonnade?” He swept his arm wide, his stick pointing the way, the knowing half smile never once flickering from his face. Monsieur was confident of our acceptance. “There is a table with meat and bread. You may find it of interest, if not the company.”

At this news, relief and greed made animals of us. We pushed at each other in our haste to be first at table. Before we even sat at the rough benches, our hands tore at the soft loaves of flatbread and the roasted chicken that lay waiting for us. We made complete swine of ourselves, cramming food into mouths so stuffed that there was no room for it.

“Careful, mes amis, you must not choke before we speak, no?”

Monsieur was careful to maintain his distance from us, pulling his cane chair far from the long table and sitting at least two sword lengths away. This may have been for the sake of prudence, to keep his weapons free of us, or it may have been because we stank of gaol fever. In fairness, Jack, Nathaniel and I had never shifted the stink of shit from our appalling escape from Tangier. Weeks of travel and incarceration had only ingrained the filth further. What ever the reason, our host sat back and crossed his legs, apparently at ease with the surroundings and present company. A most urbane and confident fellow. I noticed the knees of his bottle green breeches were fastened with pale pink bows. He would fit in rather well at Court, I thought, splintering one of the chicken legs, so forceful was my bite, and with Morgan.