Ba$s, when finally the news caught up to him, was nonplused by Sir All’s accomplishment and acquisition in his— Bass’s—name. He had assumed when he sailed off with Bigod and the main fleet that the crippled and clearly hors de combat Papal galleon would be towed to Bigod’s fleet anchorage if her master chose to strike or cheerfully pounded to pieces if he did not so choose.
“Sir Ali, why in God’s name did you see fit to tow a king’s prize into one of my ports? Bigod will be most wroth, and I’ll not blame him one bit. You surely had to pass by his Essex base to get to your present anchorage.”
Baron Melchoro looked up from the chair in which he had sprawled his rotund body. “Sebastian, old friend, cool you down. In this instance your fine knight, Sir Ali, is of a much lightness. Think you, now, ’twas your condotta first fought and crippled, then prized that ship, not the Royal English Fleet nor eke the Royal English Horse. D’you follow? You are a cavalry commander and yon was a purely naval action, which you and yours fought as free swords without your king’s orders or, likely, knowledge; therefore, any proceeds of such action are and should rightly be yours to disperse to your officers, gentlemen, and other ranks as you and you alone see fit.”
“But his majesty—” Bass began, only to be politely interrupted by his Portugese friend.
“—has the rest of the Papal fleet and cargoes, my ducal companion, which is rich enough of a prize, or so one hears about the camps and court. It would appear that his supposed holiness, old Abdul, packed all that he could beg, borrow, impress, or outright steal into this single effort . . . and now King Arthur has it all. Not one crust of bread, one grain of powder got through to London. That city cannot last long, after this.”
“And just what am I supposed to do with a huge, oceangoing warship, manned by a crew of Turks, Egyptians, Moors, and God alone knows what others? I’m no seaman, God knows.”
Melchoro smiled languidly and shrugged. “And no need for you to be, meu amigo. Seamen and sailing masters can be hired on, just like soldiers, and most I have encountered hold gold in much higher esteem than the land of their birth. Certain this one is that the music of a few golden onzas would speedily convert the most of that ship’s crew to the loyalty you might expect from most condottas.”
“But to what possible purpose, Melchoro?” demanded Bass, a bit exasperatedly now. “There’ll be damn-all trade until this business of interdictions and excommunications and Crusadings is over and done for good and all. And that ship is just too big, draws too much water, to use her as a coaster. How big is she, Sir Ali?”
“Some one thousand tons burthen … or so states her present master, Walid Pasha, your grace,” the slim Arab replied.
“How many guns is her broadside, Sir Ali?” questioned Baron Melchoro. “What other armaments has she?”
The knight began to tick off his calloused fingers. “Eight demicannon, four cannon-perriers, twenty fine bronze culverins, these being arranged on the lower gundecks. Above, twelve brass demiculverins, ten sakers, one minion, four portpieces, five fowlers, eight basies on the forecastle, six falcons, and nine falconets. Not all of these smaller ordnance are presently mounted, you understand, my lords; some were damaged in the action and some others were dismounted that other damages might be easier repaired.”
The bardn turned toward his host, smiling. “So, meu amigo, you have here a sailing ship of some thousand tons burthen, mounting a broadside of at least sixteen heavy guns. You have an experienced crew whom you could probably hire for shares alone, not to mention an unemployed condotta who would probably make the finest sea-soldiers this side of the Gates of Hell.
“Now, true, you might have trouble in some ports, some places, under an English ensign, but as Markgraf von Velegrad, you can legally sail under the ensign of the Empire, and that’s respected, honored everywhere, these days.
“Man, your fortune is made! Can’t you see it? Within five
years, with any kind of luck, you’ll be plating your solid-gold pisspots with tin and brass to discourage burglars!”
“I’m certain that you think you know just what you’re talking about, Melchoro,” said Bass gently, “but I assuredly do not.”
The bardn vented another jolly laugh. “Amigo, amigo, I am but suggesting that you and your condotta take out this fine, strong, well-armed ship and somewhat disrupt the merchant trade of your sovereign’s multitudinous enemies, while at one and the same time lining your own purse a bit. Large as is your ship and the complement she is capable of carrying, you might even raid a few coastal towns for variety. I, personally, can think of at least two ill-defended places on the northern coast of Spain that would be well worth the intaking. …”
Suddenly, it all came clear to Bass. “Piracy1? You’re suggesting that I take this ship and turn pirate, Melchoro?”
“It’s an old and most honorable profession,” the bardn said, adding, “I might even ship along with you for a while . . . just until you get the hang of things, amigo. I have had some small experience in the field.”
Feeling himself in poor position to offend these men who were by now become his closest friends and trustiest advisers in this new, strange, savage world into which he had been thrown, Bass nonetheless refused to answer directly yes or no, saying only that he would consider and muse upon the possible uses of the warship. But secretly, within himself, he was shocked that his boon companions—Baron Melchoro, Sir Ali, Sir Calum, Captain Sir Lucais, Sir Richard Cromwell, Reichsherzog Wolfgang, even his bodyguard-servant, Nugai the Kalmyk, and Pete Fairley—all seemed so pleased and downright enthusiastic about shoving him into, of joining him in, a life of high-seas piracy and coastal raiding.
He waited until affairs again called him to the vicinity of Sir Paul Bigod’s headquarters, then arranged a dinner invitation. When at long last he was able to get a few words alone with the Lord Admiral, he touched first upon the matter of the ship seized by Sir Ali and the rest.
Bigod beamed over the rim of his gilded-silver wine goblet. “A rare stroke of luck for you, that one, your grace. According to Papal fleet records, she’s an impressed Turkish vessel. Sultan Omar might well be willing to pay a most handsome sum to the English nobleman who . . . shall we say, freed her from her odious bondage to Rome.
“But negotiations with Anqahra will surely take a good bit of time, what with the distances involved and the still-unsettled conditions hereabouts. Your grace should have plenty of time for some profitable voyages out against the merchant shipping of the damned Frenchies, Spanishers, and suchlike.”
He lowered his tone and leaned forward conspiratorily. “I can loan you a few small support bottoms and crews, your grace, can we two come to a reasonable agreement on shares. And should land operations be contemplated, I might even take a few ships out in company with yours . . . under my private ensign, of course.”
But, Sir Paul … the king, won’t he object to his ships being used for acts of piracy and personal gain?”
“Why no, your grace. With the exceptions of those three Spanishers your brigade of horse prized, none of the ships belong to his majesty. All are either commandeered or on long-term lease to the Crown.”
“And what of the ships of this fleet and the earlier Papal fleets you and your force captured—are none of them the king’s either?” demanded Bass puzzledly.
“Why no, your grace,” Bigod replied. “I had thought that your grace understood these matters. They all belong to whatever knight or nobleman first raised his ensign over them after their capitulation, just as you came into ownership of your Turkic galleon, your grace.
“Speaking of which, that galleon probably should be careened, cleaned off, recaulked, and, after the action, repaired in sundry ways before she sets out against targets of opportunity. The basin here is adequate to any and all of those uses, your grace, and we will be more than pleased and honored to accommodate that fine prize whenever your grace finds the time fitting.”
* * *
Master Walid Dahub Pasha, it developed, possessed a fair, if very heavily accented, amount of English, but Captain Fahrooq’s few utterances required translation by Sir Ali or Baron Melchoro.
The two had been surprised when allowed to walk, face forward, into the presence of their captor. Before him, however, they both fell to their knees and thumped their foreheads on the carpet and stayed thus until Sir Ali commanded them to arise.
From his canopied armchair, Bass studied his captives. Walid Pasha looked more Greek than Arab or Moor; his skin tones were dark enough, almost as dark as Sir Ali’s, but his eyes were a dark green, and a bit of chestnut hue tinged his beard; he walked with the rolling gait of a seaman, and what Bass could see of his body and limbs denoted big bones, rolling muscles, and hirsute skin.