The Falcons of Fire and Ice - By Karen Maitland Page 0,30

on her back without warning and pulling her hair. It particularly amused him to do so when her hands were full and she couldn’t defend herself. Once, when I was nearly choking with laughter watching her struggle, I made the mistake of telling her that he only did it because she squealed, and if she ignored him, he would tire of it. I think that was the time she threw my dinner at me, and the names she called that innocent little monkey couldn’t be repeated even in a dockside tavern.

So on balance it seemed diplomatic to keep Pio out of the way until after Silvia had agreed to return. But Pio wasn’t used to being left behind. He made another rush at me, squeaking with anxiety, but I quickly closed the door in his face before he could slip through and heard his screams of rage behind me as I clattered down the stairs.

Filipe was squatting against a wall, waiting for me. He rose swiftly as I approached, and with another agitated flapping of his hand strode off down the narrow street, weaving in and out of the crowd with such agility that, several times, I lost sight of him altogether. At the end of the street, I turned in the direction of the inn, assuming that was where Silvia would be waiting, but I felt a hand on my sleeve, tugging me in the opposite direction.

‘This way, she’s down by the harbour,’ Filipe said.

I obediently trotted after him. So she’d found a bed somewhere along the waterfront. But just whose bed had she found? She wouldn’t have spent this past week alone, I knew that. I felt the sharp spike of jealousy plunge into my bowels. Who was he? Some sweaty hulk from the docks, all muscle and no brain? One of those oily musicians who play in the inns and wink at girls, or a foreign sailor with gold in his pocket? Was that why she wanted to see me again, because her lover’s ship had sailed?

I realized I was clenching my fists and I was probably muttering furiously to myself, because a middle-aged woman with a pannier of fish on her back squashed herself hard against the wall to avoid me, her hands raised across her face as if she thought I was going to attack her. I smiled and bowed, but she scuttled away, throwing terrified glances over her shoulder.

I tried to calm myself. There was no point in asking Silvia where she had been or who she had been with, that would only start another fight. For both our sakes, it was safer to ignore it. I must kiss her, cajole her and woo her again. That’s what she wanted, to be the centre of attention, to be made to feel the most desirable woman on earth, and she was too. Sweet Jesu, my groin was throbbing just at the thought of her. It had been a week since I’d held her, and my body ached for her more than any drunkard craves his wine. I could picture her now, naked save for that amulet in the form of the eye of God which nestled unblinking between her sweat-beaded breasts. She was straddling me, her back arched, her eyes closed and her lips parted in a cry, my hands pushing up over her slim waist, towards those soft round breasts.

I was so consumed by the image that I would have walked straight past the shack, had Filipe not grabbed my arm again.

‘She’s in there.’

He indicated a rough wooden hut, thrown together from old ship’s timbers black with tar, and from driftwood bleached to ash-grey by the salt sea. The doorway was covered by a piece of frayed sacking and outside several nets lay drying over barrels. The stones around the hut were stained with rusty splashes of dried fish blood, and littered with empty mussel shells. It was a typical fisherman’s hut, the kind of shelter he would use to mend his nets and clean his catch. The place stank of fish guts, salt weed and cat pee. It wouldn’t be hard to persuade Silvia to abandon such a rat hole. However handsome her fisher-boy, her ardour would cool as rapidly as sea wind if she was forced to spend time in this hovel.

But Silvia would never admit that. She’d be in there now artfully posed, draped seductively over a bench, waiting for me. She’d try to look as if she hadn’t been waiting