Free Honour Be Damned by David Donachie Page A

the cleric showed no sign of having noticed.
    Germain, finally aware that his pleasantries were falling on stony ground, instead began to interrogate the Monsignor. He had all the enthusiasm of his youth, and a hide thick enough to deflect Aramon’s evident annoyance at being subjected to constant questions. It was interesting to watch the youngster’s mind at work. He probed with what he considered to be deep artifice for some clue at to what it was the man was after. But he was up against a much more sophisticated opponent, who never let slip any detail that was not a deliberate leak designed to excite or tease.
    But it was during that duel of wits that the young Ghislane showed the first hint of vitality. As Germain probed and Aramon fielded, her eyes darted between them, her lips occasionally pursing, he assumed at either the temerity of a question or the sharp response it received. Altogether such animation showed her in a more flattering light. It was some time before she noticed how closely the man opposite was watching her. She responded with a sniff of disapproval, and a glare, to the slight smile of interest on Markham’s face.
    Aramon heard the sniff and followed the direction of the look. But George Markham was too experienced to be caught out. He was already gone, engaging de Puy in a discussion of how General Stuart had humbugged his fellow countrymen; of how d’Issillen must have felt at surrendering to so few, fever-ridden troops. Engaging him fully was hard work, since his attention kept wandering towards the young lady. But Markham stuck at it until the port had done the rounds and the dinner could reasonably end. His final task, before retiring for the night, was to check on the well being of his men, and to forewarn Rannoch of a busy day on the morrow.
    On deck he paused, to let the heat and fug of the small cabin clear from his head. The night was clear, the sky a mass of stars, with the ship sailing easy on a gentle but steady breeze. It was simple to imagine that this was not a posting but a cruise, a privilege to be enjoyed by a wealthy man who had hired a yacht for his own amusement. There was even the remembered smell of a woman to go with the tang of the sea. Perfect to imagine, as long as you removed Aramon, Germain and de Puy from the reverie.
    The Monsignor’s servants had also come up from below toescape the ’tween-deck heat. They sat on the forepeak in shirtsleeves, talking, shadow-boxing and occasionally laughing. Their shape, a uniform height and fitness, struck Markham as odd.
    Servants normally came in varying sizes, short, tall, fat and thin. It was rare that they had any physical grace whatsoever, once you took them away from the place in which they were most comfortable, the house of their master. These men were different. But then Markham reasoned that they must serve a dual function to a wealthy travelling cleric, acting perhaps as bodyguards.
    Reluctantly he went below, sensing immediately the warmth and odour of packed humanity, mixed with the smell of bilge. Ducking low at the bottom of the companionway, and entering on to the mess deck, Markham had the distinct impression that he was interrupting something. All serving men, of whatever kind, were adept at avoiding too much attention from officers. But normality in an encampment, or here in the cramped area that provided both living a sleeping accommodation to seamen and marines, entailed a certain amount of bustle.
    In the small quantity of light provided by the ship’s lanterns, everyone appeared to be standing so still that Markham felt as if he was witnessing a tableau, as though they’d stopped dead as soon as someone had seen his legs descending the ladder.
    ‘Sergeant Rannoch?’ Markham called, peering into the gloom.
    ‘Here.’
    Rannoch stepped forward, ducking below the crossbeams because of his height. He was, like nearly everyone else, stripped to the waist, his muscled torso gleaming with sweat, the pallid