cup to her.
‘Freedom. Sweet freedom.’
‘You are drunk already,’ she said.
‘Only drunk on the sweet wine of freedom, lady, and your unearthly beauty.’
She said, ‘You should know, if you vomit in my tavern I will beat you so hard you will crawl out of here on all fours.’
Nicholas laughed, and then stopped and regarded her. ‘Did you . . . did you used to serve wine in an open-sided shack on the quayside down that way?’
‘What of it? I work hard, I am thrifty, I save the money that is thrown my way by drunken fools like you.’
The tone of voice, the stance, hands on hips, the wonderful haughtiness, the arched brows – and her flashing dark eyes, along with her haughtiness, and her fine figure . . . ‘Hodge,’ murmured Nicholas, when he had drained another cup and the girl turned away. ‘Think back, six years ago – when we first came to Cadiz, whenever it was. You remember that quayside bodega that Smith and Stanley took us to?’
‘And started a fight, and then ran and left us to it. They said it was for our . . . martial education, or some such horse shite. And we got badly beaten about too. I remember.’
Nicholas nodded at the girl. ‘That’s her, isn’t it? Our ministering angel.’
Hodge remembered back to the fight, and the bruised aftermath, when a pretty bar-girl of sixteen or so, fierce of speech but gentle of hand, had tended their wounds. When Smith and Stanley had returned she gave them such a tongue-lashing for their conduct that the two knights had cowered visibly. Now Hodge stared at her where she stood in the shadows, filling another jug from a barrel. Her dress was modest, she was no whore. Yet still it showed the outline of her neat bosom, her hips. He swallowed. It had been a while. ‘I think you’re right. And better preserved than we are too, I’d say.’
‘Eh! Señorita!’ called Nicholas.
She came swiftly. ‘Señora.’
‘But you wear no wedding band?’
‘What business is that of yours?’ She was more cold than haughty now, verging on real anger.
‘I . . . I am sorry. It is none. Forgive me.’
Well, he had manners after all. And the carriage of a gentleman too, she had to admit, though he wore a patched old linen shirt and scuffed boots and had behaved like any other drunken churl in her tavern. And on his bare arms, she now saw, he had cuts, and scars, a great white cicatrice on his left elbow, and gunpowder burns as well. They may have been no more than tavern brawls, of course. Yet something told her – something in their eyes, these two with the strange accents, and blue eyes in sun-darkened faces – something told her that they were no ordinary tavern braggarts.
‘My husband was killed,’ she said. ‘Soldiering in the Alpujarras. The Moors killed him.’ She spat and twisted her foot in the dust. ‘And you? Where did you come by those burns? What is your accent?’
‘We.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘We—’
‘We may need more wine before we divulge all that,’ said Hodge, tapping the side of his nose.
She softened a little more. They were no ruffians. ‘And more food too,’ she said. ‘Both of you together have hardly enough meat on you for one man.’
‘That’s life on the corsair galleys for you,’ said Nicholas.
‘The galleys!’ She tossed her head scornfully. Her hair wasmidnight black and glossy. ‘Now you are a bag of wind.’ And she went for more bread and wine.
The wine worked quickly, and they ate ravenously in between swilling.
Hodge sat back and belched. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘Then get outside and hurry up about it,’ said Nicholas, tearing off more bread and dunking it in his wine. ‘Or there’ll be nothing left when you come back.’
He reached out and tried to take the girl’s arm. She slapped him.
‘Six years ago,’ he said, ‘we were in a fight in your quayside tavern. There was a blubbergut boastful Frenchman—’
‘What other – hic – kind is there?’ said Hodge.
‘And we
‘Freedom. Sweet freedom.’
‘You are drunk already,’ she said.
‘Only drunk on the sweet wine of freedom, lady, and your unearthly beauty.’
She said, ‘You should know, if you vomit in my tavern I will beat you so hard you will crawl out of here on all fours.’
Nicholas laughed, and then stopped and regarded her. ‘Did you . . . did you used to serve wine in an open-sided shack on the quayside down that way?’
‘What of it? I work hard, I am thrifty, I save the money that is thrown my way by drunken fools like you.’
The tone of voice, the stance, hands on hips, the wonderful haughtiness, the arched brows – and her flashing dark eyes, along with her haughtiness, and her fine figure . . . ‘Hodge,’ murmured Nicholas, when he had drained another cup and the girl turned away. ‘Think back, six years ago – when we first came to Cadiz, whenever it was. You remember that quayside bodega that Smith and Stanley took us to?’
‘And started a fight, and then ran and left us to it. They said it was for our . . . martial education, or some such horse shite. And we got badly beaten about too. I remember.’
Nicholas nodded at the girl. ‘That’s her, isn’t it? Our ministering angel.’
Hodge remembered back to the fight, and the bruised aftermath, when a pretty bar-girl of sixteen or so, fierce of speech but gentle of hand, had tended their wounds. When Smith and Stanley had returned she gave them such a tongue-lashing for their conduct that the two knights had cowered visibly. Now Hodge stared at her where she stood in the shadows, filling another jug from a barrel. Her dress was modest, she was no whore. Yet still it showed the outline of her neat bosom, her hips. He swallowed. It had been a while. ‘I think you’re right. And better preserved than we are too, I’d say.’
‘Eh! Señorita!’ called Nicholas.
She came swiftly. ‘Señora.’
‘But you wear no wedding band?’
‘What business is that of yours?’ She was more cold than haughty now, verging on real anger.
‘I . . . I am sorry. It is none. Forgive me.’
Well, he had manners after all. And the carriage of a gentleman too, she had to admit, though he wore a patched old linen shirt and scuffed boots and had behaved like any other drunken churl in her tavern. And on his bare arms, she now saw, he had cuts, and scars, a great white cicatrice on his left elbow, and gunpowder burns as well. They may have been no more than tavern brawls, of course. Yet something told her – something in their eyes, these two with the strange accents, and blue eyes in sun-darkened faces – something told her that they were no ordinary tavern braggarts.
‘My husband was killed,’ she said. ‘Soldiering in the Alpujarras. The Moors killed him.’ She spat and twisted her foot in the dust. ‘And you? Where did you come by those burns? What is your accent?’
‘We.’ Nicholas hesitated. ‘We—’
‘We may need more wine before we divulge all that,’ said Hodge, tapping the side of his nose.
She softened a little more. They were no ruffians. ‘And more food too,’ she said. ‘Both of you together have hardly enough meat on you for one man.’
‘That’s life on the corsair galleys for you,’ said Nicholas.
‘The galleys!’ She tossed her head scornfully. Her hair wasmidnight black and glossy. ‘Now you are a bag of wind.’ And she went for more bread and wine.
The wine worked quickly, and they ate ravenously in between swilling.
Hodge sat back and belched. ‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘Then get outside and hurry up about it,’ said Nicholas, tearing off more bread and dunking it in his wine. ‘Or there’ll be nothing left when you come back.’
He reached out and tried to take the girl’s arm. She slapped him.
‘Six years ago,’ he said, ‘we were in a fight in your quayside tavern. There was a blubbergut boastful Frenchman—’
‘What other – hic – kind is there?’ said Hodge.
‘And we
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