Slowly he became aware that Karp beside him was beginning to shake. At first it was a slight quivering, but then it became a pronounced movement, an uncontrollable tremor that shook the man’s body. For a moment Hector wondered if Karp was about to have a fit. When he glanced sideways he saw that the Bulgar’s eyes were wide open. He was staring in horror at the ground in front of him, as if witnessing something terrible. Hector tried to make out what was frightening his companion. In the half-light all he could see were the feet of the man kneeling directly in front of Karp. Looking closely he saw that on the sole of each foot was a brand. Someone had burned the sign of the cross deep into the flesh, leaving a hard scar.
Fearful that Karp would draw attention to their presence, Hector reached out and grasped the Bulgar’s arm reassuringly. Karp turned his anguished face towards him, and Hector gestured that they should leave. Quietly rising to his feet and still keeping his hold on Karp, Hector eased open the chapel door and the two men stepped outside into the daylight. Looking into Karp’s face, Hector saw that the Bulgar had tears in his eyes. He was still shaking.
‘What is it, Karp? What’s the matter?’ Hector asked gently. The Bulgar was making incoherent strangled sounds, though whether they were from terror or rage it was difficult to say. Something warned Hector that it would be wiser if he and the Bulgar were not seen near the chapel.
‘We had better move away,’ Hector went on. ‘It’s safer.’
Bourdon joined them and the Bulgar began to calm down, but his chest was still heaving and he was making unhappy guttural sounds. Suddenly he leaned down and pulled off the sandal he was wearing. Holding up his foot, he sketched the sign of the cross on the sole, then pointed into his ruined mouth and made a fierce gurgling sound. ‘The man with the branded foot is something to do with your tongue being torn out, is that it?’ Hector asked. Karp nodded vehemently. Squatting down he drew in the dust the outline of a ship, a galley. Next he marked a flag with a cross and, pointing down towards the ground, uttered a deep anguished roar. ‘He’s from the galley? From our galley?’ Karp nodded. ‘Karp, we’ll sit down quietly when we get back to the foundry. There Dan can help us with pen and paper and you can tell us precisely what it is that you want us to know.’
At this point there was a shout. It was Dan leaning over the edge of the causeway and beckoning to them. ‘Come on up,’ he called, ‘the fantasia is about to start. Hurry!’ Hector, Bourdon and Karp made their way up to the crest of the causeway to find that a crowd of spectators had assembled. Most were courtiers from Moulay’s entourage, but there were also a number of foreigners, including the three Spanish cavalrymen they had last seen at Diaz’s billet. Everyone was jostling together and looking towards the royal stables. Hector placed himself near the edge of the crowd where he could look down and also watch the entrance to the secret chapel. Soon he saw figures appear. The Mass must have finished, and the celebrants were leaving. They emerged in twos and threes, and hurried away quietly. Hector guessed that the priest must have instructed them to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He saw the rowing master, his squat figure unmistakable even though he was in the deep shadow cast by the setting sun. Close behind the rowing master came Piecourt. Once again he was accompanied by the same tall figure of the man he had been with when Hector had visited the cell. Then, finally, he saw the figure of the priest holding to his chest a box which must be the folding altar.
Behind him there was an excited murmur and Hector turned to see that the crowd was now gazing intently down the broad road which led towards the royal stables. In the distance was movement, a low cloud of dust. He strained his eyes and the dust cloud resolved itself into a line of horsemen advancing across a broad front towards the causeway at a slow walk. As the riders drew closer, he began to distinguish that they were all dressed in white robes which flowed and billowed around them. Soon he heard the low rumble of many hooves, hundreds of them, and he realised that there were many more horsemen behind the first squadron. Rank after rank of riders were coming forward. Suddenly, as if on a single command, the front troop of horses passed straight from a walk into a full gallop. They were heading directly towards the spectators as if determined to ride them down. Their riders began to whoop and yell, standing in their stirrups and waving muskets. Some were throwing their weapons up in the air and catching them as they continued their headlong rush. Hector felt his heart pounding as the ground trembled under the hooves of their charge. The horsemen were much closer now. He could see the magnificent accoutrements of their mounts – deep saddles covered with brocade, bridles and reins of tooled leather stamped with gold, velvet saddle blankets edged with silver and gold fringes and tassels, broad breast bands worked with filigree. He heard the cries of the riders urging their animals to gallop even faster. Involuntarily he flinched back expecting the onrushing horsemen to crash into the crowd. Suddenly one of the riders, an older man riding to one side, gave a signal. As one, the front rank of the horsemen swung their muskets forward, holding them two-handed across their bodies so the muzzles pointed over their horses’ ears and fired their guns. There was a single, ear-splitting salvo, and the air was filled with puffs of smoke torn through by the arcing sparks of the burning wads. In the same instant, the front rank of riders had reined their horses to a halt, so that the horses heaved back on their haunches only yards from the onlookers. A touch on the reins, and the animals spun on the same spot and went tearing away, with the robes of the riders flapping out behind them and their exultant cries ringing in the ears of the crowd.
Again and again, troop after troop, the riders charged down in the fantasia, fired their guns, wheeled around, and raced away only to regroup and charge down again. As Hector got over his surprise, he began to recognise the pattern in their movements. There were ten squadrons of riders, each performing their manoeuvres at the full gallop, perhaps a thousand horses in total. Each squadron was distinguished by its own particular feature – the colour of the bridles, the size and colour of their horses. One squadron in particular was more magnificent than all the rest. It was composed mostly of horses that were the palest cream in colour. Their tails and manes had been allowed to grow almost to the ground so that they streamed out spectacularly as they galloped, and their discipline was perfect. In that pale squadron three horses stood out. Two were jet black and the third was a handsome pale grey covered with black spots. Each time this squadron charged forward, these three horses were always a few paces ahead of the rest, and they were controlled by a single horseman. The animals were superbly schooled for they stayed close together at a full gallop and allowed their rider to leap from saddle to saddle, occasionally throwing up his musket and catching it again. And it was always this same rider who, as he came careering up to the crowd in advance of his squadron, was the one who gave the command to fire the guns. On the third occasion that this squadron, now like ghostly riders in the near-darkness, completed the fantasia, their leader came to a halt so close to Hector that flecks of foam from his horse’s mouth – it was the speckled grey – flew out and landed on his face. At that moment Hector recognised the rider was Moulay Ismail.
EIGHTEEN
