A Shred of Honour Read Online Free PDF

on the crown, and would have fallen if Markham hadn’t taken a firm hold. Supporting him, he inquired after his condition. The boy mumbled something which included the word fight, and started to move away. That was when Markham heard the unmistakable crunch of bone striking flesh.
    ‘Damnit, what’s going on?’ he demanded, rushing forward.
    The line of red coats, all with their backs to him, barred his view. But there was no mistaking the sounds of bare-knuckle fighting, the thud of soft flesh and brittle bone being mauled. He’d heard it too many times, and grabbed hold of a pair of shoulders to haul them apart.
    Schutte, the huge Dutch-born marine, was there, stripped to the waist. Completely bald, the only colour between his breeches and his pate the red of his face, he stood before Rannoch, the most fearsome of his soldiers, a Highlander with hair so fair it hinted at Viking blood. They were trading blow for blow, both faces already covered in blood, their bodies a mass of red weals that would soon turn to ugly black bruises. Toe to toe, not giving an inch, the pair were pounding each other, their breath coming in hastily snatched grunts.
    ‘Enough!’ he yelled, stepping between them. Both sets of eyes, filled with hate, determination and pain, turned on him. For a moment he thought that he was about to fall victim, that they would cease to pound each other and instead lay their punches on him. ‘What in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph do you pair think you’re doing?’
    His hands slipped on blood and sweat as he sought to push them apart. All around him he could hear the growls of dissatisfaction as the audience, deprived of their sport and their wagers, made their feelings known.Dornan, another of his soldiers, with a bovine face to match his character, was vainly trying to hide the money from the bets inside his coat. Several coins slipped and landed on the planking, which turned some of the glares away from Markham. It said everything about these men that they’d put a simpleton in charge of the one thing that, proving complicity, would bring on the heaviest punishment.
    ‘Stand back, damn you!’ The shouted order produced no movement, just the same look he’d seen earlier, a combination of hate and indifference. ‘Two paces to the rear, march!’
    Some had the discipline to respond immediately, but most hesitated. Markham, still between the two giants, arms outstretched to keep them separate, felt like Samson trying to bring down the temple. He knew that even if he pushed harder, he didn’t have the strength to move them. Concentrating, he didn’t see Ettrick, smaller and nimbler than the rest, in one swift movement scoop up the coins Dornan had dropped.
    ‘What’s going on?’
    The strange voice caused the men glaring at Markham to turn to face the officer of the watch, Fellows. He stood with his hands on his hips, a grin that was half a sneer on his face.
    ‘There’s nothing going on,’ Markham replied lamely.
    ‘Is that you in there, Markham?’
    ‘Mr Markham to you, Fellows. There was the risk of a fight, but I put a stop to it.’
    Fellows threw back his head and laughed. ‘A risk. Last time I looked they were at it hammer and tongs. I expected another canvas sack on the deck, with an addition to the burial service.’
    ‘You knew this was happening and did nothing to stop it?’
    ‘No I didn’t, Mr Markham!’ The emphasis on the Mister was even more insulting than its absence. ‘But Ireckoned Schutte to win. Why should I take a hand if he was going to spare the purser the need to feed a Bullock?’
    ‘That way we find out who in charge,’ Schutte growled, his hairless chest heaving. He stuck one finger in his own belly, then pointed it at Rannoch. ‘Sergeant me or Sergeant Bullock.’
    Markham pushed him hard, which was dispiriting since he only went back a fraction of an inch, thinking that was another thing Frobisher had ignored in his determination to keep the two groups