TWENTY

We ran aground one morning.

Sailors swore by Our Lady, and we all breathed prayers of our own, but the captain swung his knotted rope, cried out orders with the air of a man who was unconcerned. He caught my eye and called through the whistling rain something about land and sea and ships, how no one could predict a storm.

But as the day wore on, the vessel began to labor, stuck fast to the bottom.The captain, no longer putting on even a demonstration of calm, drove his men with a long ox whip. Men in the hold called out, straining and gasping, frantically working the pumps.

Rannulf made his way through the rushing foam. “The ship is breaking up,” he said.

“Do you believe so?” asked Sir Nigel. He cocked his head. “Yes, you may be right, Rannulf, by my faith.”

Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf talked about ships, taking turns speaking loudly into each other’s ears against the shriek of the wind.They agreed that even the strongest oak beam can take a downward force more successfully than a weight from the side. Speaking as though they had hours to analyze and compare, they admired the Genoans’ vigor, but agreed that the captain had more bluster than ability.

Years of war study, planning siege engines and catapults, and finding out through experience which lances shatter and which can endure, gave them a midwife’s calm eye for trouble. Edmund and I clung to ropes, and at last I cried out, “What can we do?”

“Do?” Sir Nigel gave one of his manly, exasperating laughs, perhaps joking at his own tough-mindedness. “If Heaven calls us, we’ll go.”

Rannulf was drenched, rain and brine streaming from his beard. “Go get our war-kits and our safe-chest, both of you. Hurry!”

 

 

The hold stank.

The sour odor of dank cheeses, smoked fish, and moldy biscuit rose around us from the black water. Sergeants and squires elbowed, scrambling in the near dark. Sailors cursed; two men came to blows. Other knights had given the same command, it seemed. Body was wedged against body, but with a willed patience, most squires manhandled their masters’ war gear up and out of the hold without bloodshed.

At midday sailors jumped down into the seething surf and began to unload the ship into tenders, ship-to-shore boats that bobbed and spun in the water.The surf was just shallow enough to allow a tall man to stand with his nose and mouth out of the water. When the keel snapped, with a single, heart-stopping crash, a few squires tumbled overboard in a panic. One head bobbed and vanished, and other squires strained to reach a tender and cling to its side.

 

 

We abandoned the Santa Croce.

Despite the shallow waters, we were far from shore, but we could struggle forward along the sandy bottom, holding our equipment over our heads. Other knights and squires joined us, with an air of resigned necessity rather than panic. Our equipment was lashed together, swords and mail attached to our chest of treasures. One squire sang out a chant of praise to Our Lady, but when we were well away from the protective bulk of the ship, and the surf began to cut our legs out from under us, voices began to sputter and call for help.

I swallowed bitter salt water, inhaled it, coughed it up. I could not see the shoreline, but I made out Edmund’s voice, calling for Sir Nigel.

I heard no answering cry.