"He isn't my Frenchman." Ginny muttered. "But I think he'll bite."
"Sacre Bleu." Mazalet almost fell out of the little boat. "Look at that man."
"Where?" The old woman swivelled her head around vaguely.
"There!" Mazalet pointed. "Up on that bow sprit. It looks like he's going to jump."
"Crossed love!" The old woman cackled. "It happens, it happens. Ah, there he goes."
"Turn that way!" Mazalet shouted as the body plunged headfirst into the water. "We must pick him up."
"I don't want a madman in my boat," the woman said stolidly. She had turned toward the scene anyway.
"We need to help him, by God." Mazalet grasped his rapier. "Don't worry, madam. I can handle a half-drowned fool."
She snorted and bent to her oars.
"Is he coming up?" she asked a little later.
"No." Mazalet scanned the surface. "Yes. There he is. A little bit to port, if you please. No! Pardonnez-moi. Make that starboard and hurry now!"
The old crone muttered darkly, but steered the boat as if by magic, without a backwards glance. Within seconds, however, Mazalet could see that the man in the water had no trouble staying afloat. His arms moved in lazy circles and he smiled and shouted something in accented Swedish. Several young men on the quay shouted encouragement while a bunch of sailors on the ship looked sulkily on.
"Can I be of assistance?" Mazalet asked with a faint smile, as they drew close. This fellow might be exactly what he was looking for. A madman. And one who could swim.
"No," the man turned in the water revealing a young face under a mop of wet brown hair. "Begging my lord's pardon," he said with a strange slow accent, "but we're so close to land that I could walk on the bottom and still get there." The swimmer leaned backwards and began to paddle with his feet as he used his arms to keep the face above water. To Mazalet it looked as the lad was merely resting in the water.
"Crazy boy." The rowing madam spat in the water. "You gave us quite a fright."
"I'm sorry, Grandmother," the boy said. "But winning that bet means I won't starve tonight."
"Do you know this fellow?" Mazalet asked her politely.
"Never seen him before." The old woman spat again. "I know his type. Crazy northerner, nothing but trouble. They trounce our boys and make free with the maidens."
Mazalet ignored her. "You swim well, boy."
"Not as well as my brothers, my lord." The lad rose from the water, standing on the submerged stairs. "It was nice talking to you," he said as casually as if they had met walking along a street, "But I have to go collect my wagers."
"Wait," Mazalet shouted. The Frenchman pulled out a large coin and flipped it towards the crone. "Thanks for the service, madam. I'll be sure to recommend you to my friends." Then he jumped onto the sea-stairs looking wildly for the departing northerner.
"Hey you! You there!" called the Frenchman from behind him.
Lars Lennartson grinned like a fox. It seemed as if their target had swallowed the bait. He ignored the call and stalked towards the group of scowling sailors. "All right, friends," he said. "I braved your bow sprit and I made it ashore. You better cough up the money."
"Why?" A rough-looking sailor said, bunching his shoulders.
"Because I have you outnumbered." Lars pointed with his chin, signalling to Karl, Per and Olof to move in, crowding the sailors from all directions. "There four of us to your six. We're a peaceful bunch," Lars continued, "but you put your money on the line just as we did." His grin would have sent a wolf scurrying for shelter. "Now, will you hand over our winnings or should we pry it from your mangled fingers?"
Slowly, sullenly, with studied nonchalance the sailor handed over a small purse. Lars stuck it inside his belt without bothering to count.
"We trust you." He grinned. "And we know where to find you. Now scoot." Then he turned and bowed clumsily before the speechless Mazalet.
"Did you want to speak to me, milord?"
"Yes." Mazalet smiled winningly. "If you can spare the time."
"Yes, milord," Lars answered. "We have nothing to do anyway. I've some dry clothes to put on, but then we'd be free."
"Let me treat you to a mug of ale then," Mazalet said. "Wine if you prefer. Invite your friends, too. They look like good people to me."
"The best." Lars nodded happily. "Delsbo boys all of them, just like me. My brothers, in fact." He paused. "Can I really have wine? I don't think I ever had that outside of communion."
"Wine it is, then," Mazalet said with another smile. "Please collect your brothers while I go inside and order for all of us." Without waiting for an answer, the Frenchman walked across the quay and disappeared inside a tavern. Lars looked at the retreating back and grinned again.
"She was right. There are more ways than one to skin a bear," he mumbled as he motioned his brothers to join him.
"I must confess to be curious," Mazalet said. "My travels have taken me all around Europe and I thought swimming was a dead art. Where did you learn it?"
"Back home of course," Lars answered. "In Delsbo the smallest child knows how to swim. Of course, the water is not as warm as this place."
His brothers nodded assent.
"So all of you," Mazalet asked shrewdly, "know how to swim?"
"Yes," Per answered. "Olof is the best, but since he's a tad afraid of heights, Lars volunteered to jump from the bow sprit."
"Am not," Olof grunted. "I'm not afraid of anything."
Mazalet smiled. "I quite believe you, young master. But I'm still curious. How come the people of Delsbo are such proficient swimmers?"
"Well," Olof said in an awkward manner. "Lars will tell you it's because Delsbo people are the best, but really it's on account of Good King Gustav and the church bells." He paused, looking around helplessly.
"Go on," Per said. "It will do you good to use your voice for anything but muttered curses."
"I don't curse," Olof muttered. Then he took a deep breath.
"As Grandpa told the story," he said, "Good King Gustav wasn't so good after all. No, he was greedy and wanted our church bells. As Lars would tell you, our church bells were the largest and their tolls carried on even to Norway."
"They had to be," Lars interjected hotly, "since our church steeple reaches the sky."
"As I said," Olof continued. "The old men of Delsbo decided to hide the bells in the lake. Lars will tell you, Lake Dellen is the deepest lake in the world, and they thought the bells would be secure there."
"I see," Mazalet said. "What happened?"
"Well, the old men tied the bells together and put them in the largest church boat. Even that boat was hard pressed to hold the bells, but they were all good sailors so they reached the middle of Lake Dellen. There they cut a notch in the side of the boat and heaved the bells over the side."
"A notch?" Mazalet asked. "Why?"
"To mark the place of course," Olof said. "That's what Grandpa told me anyway," he ended truculently.
"But then you couldn't find the bells again?" Mazalet said.
"That's right," Olof nodded. "'Cause the boat with the notch in the side got burned in a cattle raid. Anyway, since then all the boys in our village go into the lake during summer. To look for the bells, I mean."
"Amazing," Mazalet took a gulp of wine. "Can you actually look under water?"
"Sure," Karl said. "It stings the eyes a little at first and you can't see that far, but fish have eyes too, don't they?"
"Most certainly," Mazalet averred. "And a man should have better eyes than a fish. Anything else would be against God's design."
"Wouldn't know about that," Olof said. "The priest threw me out for snoring. Bloody Lutheran."
"Olof!" Per did not raise his voice, "Why don't the three of you go outside for a while?"
Olof nodded, drained his ale and stood up in one fluid movement. Quickly, his brothers followed suit. Mazalet looked at their retreating backs and smiled.