Tom Swan and the Head of St. George Part Six: Chios by Christian Cameron

Mytilini, Lesvos
     
    It was the English ship that had brought the warning and sounded the alarm.
    By the time the sun was high in the sky, Tom Swan had worked himself into a state of exhaustion. Working side by side with all the oarsmen, the mercenaries, the sailors and a hundred Greek fishermen, he’d helped to haul all five of the order’s galleys up the beach on rollers, and then, one by one, to haul the town’s fishing boats ashore.
    The only ship still lying in the harbour was the very ship that had warned them. The Katherine Sturmy , an English vessel whose owner and captain were working stripped to the waist, at his side, was a round ship – her stern castle was almost fifty feet above the water, and her cavernous holds made her too big to beach in a crisis.
    Out beyond the new-built breakwater in carefully dressed stone lay the reason for the near-panicked movement of the hulls – a two-hundred-ship Turkish fleet lying easily at anchor on a sea so calm that the west wind scarcely riffled it.
    Swan paused and put a hand to the middle of his back like a much older man.
    Richard Sturmy laughed. In English, he said, ‘I used to complain about the prices on Turkey goods – carpets and the like.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘If I live to light a candle in St Magnus Martyr by the Bridge at home, I’ll never speak ill of the Turkey merchants again. These are the most violent folk in the world.’
    Swan had to laugh. ‘The French say that of us!’ he managed.
    But Sturmy saw nothing funny in it. ‘What do you expect from your Frenchmen?’ he said. ‘Sweet Christ, I was a fool to allow the goodwife to convince me to bring her on this fool expedition. And my daughter – by Saint George, Sir Knight, I fear for them more than for myself. Hannah is but twelve.’ His voice wavered. Sturmy was a strong man – but not in the face of the level of calamity facing him.
    Down the beach, Swan could see Fra Tommaso giving orders to a dozen Burgundian archers, but the Turkish fleet, despite its vast size, was making no motion of immediate attack. Swan bowed to the English party. ‘I must see if my lord has further orders,’ he said. ‘It is very possible that the Turk will pass us by and your ship will be safer here than most places.’
    ‘Except that this place is ruled by the fucking – pardon me – Genoese, who are allies of the frog-eating French and hate us,’ said the mate of the Katherine Sturmy , who was called – with rare appropriateness – John Shipman.
    Swan grinned. ‘I can’t drive away the Turks, Master Shipman,’ he said. ‘But I think I can promise that Prince Dorino will honour your firman and your letter from the Council of Genoa. He is …’ Swan paused, trying to imagine how to describe the Prince of Lesvos, who was old and not old, clever, witty, dangerous, effeminate and masculine, aesthetic and vicious. And very hard to describe. ‘He is a fair man,’ Swan said.
    Master Shipman shrugged. ‘Gentle is as gentle does, eh? But I’d be most grateful, and so would my owner, if you was to put in a good word for us.’
    Swan bowed, and then ran, half naked, up the beach.
    Fra Tommaso and Fra Domenico stood side by side, watching the Turks. Fra Domenico managed a brief smile at Swan as he ran up.
    ‘Ah, the energy of youth,’ Domenico said. ‘Or perhaps you were snug in bed when the alarm rang?’
    ‘Someone’s bed,’ Fra Tommaso said. But his look was mild. ‘These English sailors are good men.’
    Swan bowed. ‘The English are afraid that their cargo will be seized,’ he said. ‘And afraid of the Turks, as well.’
    Fra Tommaso narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll see to that. They’ve earned their keep with their warnings to us and their hard work.’
    Fra Domenico waved at the Turks, the ring he wore flashing in the sun like a weapon. ‘Young man, can you swim?’
    Swan’s heart sank. ‘Yes,’ he admitted.
    ‘Well?’ Domenico asked.
    ‘Well enough,’ Swan said. Well enough