The Fifth Knight(4)

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The narrow slats of the ladder that led below decks were slick with rain and seawater. Palmer climbed down with care, as the ship’s bounce and roll could have him off at any minute. The wooden hull juddered in the deep thud of every wave, the planks groaning and squeaking like a creature lived in them.

“Oi! Watch your feet.”

Palmer looked down past his wet boots at the sudden call. A crewman of around his own age sat on the damp floor of the hold, propped up against a pile of full grain sacks. The man clutched a small covered lamp, which cast a dim glow.

The slacker. Palmer got to the bottom of the ladder, ready to send him up above. But now that he was closer, he saw the sailor had a deep cut down one cheek, deep enough to see the white of bone in the bloody gash.

“Excuse my rude tongue, sir knight.”

“It’s I who should seek excuses, fellow.” Palmer hauled his drenched surcoat up over his head and flung it over another pile of sacks to dry. He nodded at the man’s injury. “That’s a belter.”

“Deck plank came loose and caught me smack on.” Forehead pebbled with sweat, the man shifted his eyes to Palmer’s hand. “Yours isn’t bad either, sir.”

Palmer looked down. Scarlet drips swirled through the small puddles of seawater around his wet boots. He examined his jagged cut. “Can’t feel much at the minute; my hands are that cold.”

“That’ll pass,” said the man, “and it’ll hurt like the devil then.” He swallowed and tried to smile. “Like me face.”

Palmer looked around the swaying, cramped space. A large jug of wine with a cork stopper sat wedged between two sacks. He reached down, uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, and bent down to pass it to the man, hanging on to the sacks for balance. “Get some of that down you. My squire master swore by drink to help lay the pain. And even if it doesn’t, at least you won’t care so much.”

The man murmured his thanks and drank.

As he did so, Palmer ripped a strip from the top of one of the sacks with his knife. He tore the rough cloth in two with his teeth, then wound it around his injured hand. The man was right. In the warmer air, the open flesh throbbed with new life. He took the offered jug from the sailor and downed several large mouthfuls himself.

A clatter came from the ladder. The scrawny calves of Sir Hugh de Morville appeared, scrabbling for a hold on the wet rungs.

“Hold this thing steady, can’t you, Palmer?” The whined request was thin as the man himself.

Palmer moved over and propped it with his foot while he drank another draught of wine.

De Morville slid from the ladder and gave the injured man a disinterested glance. Like a hungry bird, he eyed the jug Palmer held. “Share it, can’t you? I’m piss-wet through and half-frozen besides.” He clicked his fingers as he held out his hand.

Palmer wiped his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand and passed the jug over. He no longer wanted any. The movement of the cabin in the storm stopped his thirst. Soon he’d have to spew the alcohol out to the fishes. At least he had its warmth and numbness — that would last a while. He took another section of torn sack and tried to wipe down his wet chain mail.

Two loud thumps came from the ladder. Sir William de Tracy jumped from the middle rungs and landed with a bang on the floor, narrowly missing the injured crewman. “Saints alive, man. Don’t get underfoot.”

The man murmured a low apology and tried to shift.

“Leave him be,” said Palmer. “He’s caught a bad blow.”

“Bugger him,” said de Tracy. “I smell Gascony, don’t I?”

De Tracy hadn’t much on de Morville in height, but with his barrel chest he made two of de Morville crossways. It was the same with his hair: de Morville’s sat like a thin, dead rat on his head, while de Tracy’s curled red and thick till it met under his chin in a heavy beard.

De Morville hung on to the jug. “Do you have to arrive everywhere like a battering ram, de Tracy?”

“That’s because I’ve nowt to hide.” He signaled for the wine. “You don’t have to look like a widow who’s going to be ravished. I’ll give you the bloody thing back.”

De Morville handed it over and watched de Tracy’s supping with greedy eyes.

De Tracy pulled the vessel’s rim from his lips with a loud smack and held it out to Palmer. “You did a right special job up there, boy. I’ll warrant Fitzurse chose well when he asked you to join us on our quest.”

Palmer wordlessly waved it back to de Morville. His head rocked in time with the tossing boat.

“You’re white as a corpse, Palmer. What’s the matter with you?” said de Morville. “Fainting because you lost a finger of blood?”