Summer, 1505
Perpignan, Aragón
Arnaud
Arnaud wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. The sun blazed at him from a stark blue sky. The docks stretched out before him, strewn with trunks, parcels, and ropes. He spied another rotting board on the gangway he’d been tasked to repair and pried out several rusty nails with a hammer. Quickly he selected an oak plank from the cart at his side and laid it into place.
He had been relieved when the harbormaster hired him. But he hated sweating in the squalid air, breathing the fetid odors of rot and piss and vomit that lurked on the quays. Mostly he hated being on guard. Ravaged-looking, hollow-eyed men materialized at his side from time to time, entreating him for money or food. When he refused, they sometimes resorted to violence. He was never without his dagger, and he kept his tools strapped to a leather belt around his waist.
A group of wharf rats—young boys who hung around the docks—trotted by and congregated at the river’s edge, pointing at something in the distance. He stood and shaded his eyes with his hand, staring at the wide, meandering river. Ah—there they were. More boats bound for these docks, carrying men and cargo from some great ship anchored at Port-Vendres on the nearby coast. Once the cargo was unloaded, the crew would disperse into the streets of Perpignan, swallowed up by its seedy quarters until it was time to board again. The ships were usually in dire need of repair, which was good for Arnaud. He sometimes traveled with a crew of carpenters downriver to the sea harbor, supplying wood and tools to the captains and making repairs as needed. It was backbreaking work, but he was grateful. It got him away from the river harbor.
Arnaud knelt and began hammering the board into place.
When he finished his task, the boats had docked at the far end of the harbor. His curiosity got the better of him. He followed another group of wharf rats to the easternmost dock and hung back in the shadows. The boats were in fair shape from what Arnaud could see. They flew the flag of Aragón and also another flag, made of blue and red fabric. He watched the passengers disembark. First came a ragtag group of soldiers, some of them limping, some supporting one another as they made their slow passage along the dock.
Then a group of knights emerged. They wore red leather armor. Longswords clanked at their sides. Their shields bore a herald that Arnaud had seen before. When he recognized it, he stepped into the shade of a tall stack of canvas sails.
The knights walked by, some of them staggering as their bodies adjusted to flat terrain after weeks of sailing. Two of them argued about the order in which the group should achieve its goals of wine, women, and food. The rest were silent. Arnaud scrutinized each face as they passed. Without thinking, he stepped out into the light and took a few steps in their direction.
“You!” a voice shouted. “Where d’you think you’re going?” The harbormaster waved his arms at Arnaud from down the quay. “The work’s not finished yet!”
Arnaud felt irritation rise in his chest. The knights disappeared up the gangway.
The harbormaster spread his legs wide, crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”
There was nothing to do but turn and walk back to the docks.