The Fugitive's Sword, page 10
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
“I’m Klaasen. You are Schiavono?” he demanded. “Dear God in heaven, they send a near beardless boy to do the work of a man.”
For a moment Jorrit thought the man must be talking about him, but the Englishman must have thought otherwise because his sword was suddenly in his hand and would have been at the throat of the other had he not stepped quickly back and held up both his hands in a gesture that was part surrender and part apology. He was not quite fast enough, and the sword point caught the fleshy part of one hand below the thumb. Blood welled instantly and the man snatched his hand away and jumped back, clutching it.
“Alright. Enough. You make your point.”
The Englishman kept his sword up for a few moments longer, his gaze locked with that of the other man, Klaasen, then the sword lowered, and the Englishman slid it back against his thigh.
Jorrit let out the breath he had not even known he was holding.
“You should be glad I was told to find you, Klaasen,” the Englishman said coldly, “or my sword would have done its work.”
Somehow his words lacked any of the bravado Jorrit was used to hearing amongst the men in this part of the city. It seemed Klaasen felt the same way because his skin had lost colour and he scowled.
“I meant no harm,” he said swiftly. “It was a jest. I know that someone sent to do your job would be more than man enough for it.”
The Englishman gave an odd smile that held nothing of humour and inclined his head.
“You would be wise to keep that in mind, but I know old men are given to be forgetful, so my sword will be happy to remind you again, should it be needed.”
Klaasen’s look was venomous, but he said nothing more, merely turning on the spot and going back through the door into De Haring. Jorrit wondered what he had meant by saying the Englishman had been sent. Perhaps it was not his own tobacco, and he was selling it for another? That would then explain why he had come here to De Haring. Perhaps there were buyers who needed to come to a place like this, as being seen making such a purchase in the better places of Breda might cause them some embarrassment? Perhaps—
A hand cuffed his ear and he staggered slightly, set off balance by the heavy pack.
“I am not going to pay you for daydreaming,” the Englishman said brusquely. “Besides, you can put that down for good once you get inside.”
Jorrit stumbled the last few steps over the threshold and into the common room of the inn, where perhaps a dozen men sat in groups and pairs curiously observing him. The burly figure of Klaasen was standing on the far side of the room, holding a door open. No more than seven paces, but Jorrit knew he could not make even three more. His legs had become shaky, and his back and shoulders ached worse than when he had been beaten for telling lies to Moeder Machteld. But he tried anyway and staggered like a drunk for two steps before he found himself on his knees.
The laughter from the men watching filled his ears. Humiliation pricked with tears at the back of his eyes and blinking ferociously, Jorrit tried to get up. But the weight of the pack pinned him to the ground as if he had anchor chains wrapped around his legs. His efforts made the laughter even louder and someone added calls of mock encouragement.
Then, miraculously, the weight was gone.
“I thought I told you that you could set this down once you got inside?” The Englishman sounded amused too. But when Jorrit looked up, there was something else in the cold eyes and the Englishman gave a small nod that might even have been approval. Before he could be certain though, the Englishman had turned away, shouldering the pack and was heading through the door where Klaasen had been standing. Jorit scrambled to his feet and made his wobbly legs trot quickly after so as not to be shut out.
The Englishman dropped the pack just inside the room and was turning to close the door when Jorrit scampered in. The room was not big, but it had a window that opened onto the river and held a table large enough to seat four people. There was a small hearth which had not been lit or cleaned out and the smell of old charcoal mingled with the stench of stale ale and the flat dank smell of anywhere set too close to the river.
Jorrit glanced up as he came to a halt beside the pack and the Englishman frowned as if in two minds whether to order him to leave again or not.
“Why did they send you?” Klaasen demanded and the moment was past. The Englishman closed the door and Jorrit remained on the right side of it.
“Because I have proven myself,” the Englishman said. “Just as you have. And I can pass for English, which helps.”
“Proven yourself?”
“When he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold. I’ve been tested and not found wanting. In the last three weeks I have passed into and out of Breda on four occasions and each time I have taken back something of value.” There was pride in the Englishman’s tone and something more, Jorrit thought. It made him think of how some of the soldiers spoke. As if they were above the rest of the people in the city—and those who had joined up when the siege began and had friends and neighbours here, they were the worst.
“Well, this is a bit different to that,” Klaasen said. He was resting his buttocks against the table and had his arms folded. Of the two men he was by far the bulkier and stronger looking. The Englishman, although he was as tall, looked as slender as a girl beside him. But where the Englishman clearly held the older man in some contempt, Klaasen watched him in return as if he were a dog that might turn and bite with no warning.
“I am very aware that this is different,” the Englishman said, his tone impatient. “As different as water is to wine—or sword to flesh. Perhaps you could tell me what I need to know, then I can be about my business.”
Klaasen gave a snort of laughter.
“In broad daylight?”
“This with you,” the Englishman said coldly, “is just one part of my affairs. I am charged with more than you know, and I do not appreciate the delay. I was told you would have something for me. Now, unless you wish me to explain to the man who sent me that you were the cause of my being unable to complete all I was asked to do, I would suggest you let me have what I came for right away.”
That made Klaasen look suddenly sober.
“Very well. Then you’d better wait here. I’ll go and get it.”
He made two paces towards the door before the Englishman blocked his path, hand on sword.
“You may consider me untrusting, but where are you going?”
Klaasen bared his teeth. “You don’t think I am going to keep something like that about my person, do you? That would be an accident just asking to happen. It is in a safe place. A private safe place. If you’ll stand aside, I will fetch it for you.”
The Englishman remained unmoving as if his feet were planted in place.
“I think I would like to see what else you might keep in this private safe place,” he said and the hairs on the back of Jorrit’s neck rose at the way he spoke.
Klaasen clenched his fists and let a breath hiss out between his teeth.
“Very well. If you insist.”
“I do.” He stepped aside with a flourish. “Go you before, and I will follow you.”
As Klaasen stepped past, the Englishman gripped Jorrit’s shoulder hard.
“You wait here and guard the pack,” he said softly. But there was nothing soft in his expression and the long-bladed knife he held out in his other hand for Jorrit to take was not one made for eating. “With your life if need be.” Then he turned away and followed Klaasen from the room. “Let us see your private place then.
I’ll follow you oure moss and muir,
I’ll follow you oure mountains many,
I’ll follow you through frost and snaw…”
The door closed behind the two men and Jorrit found himself alone, staring at the weapon in his hands and wondering if he would be able to use it, whilst hoping with a fervour close to prayer that he would not be put in a place of needing to find out. He was already regretting his decision to help the Englishman. He knew the tobacco men were smugglers, but because everyone in Breda was pleased to see them, he had forgotten that they were also dangerous.
The door was flung open, and he started up, heart racing, putting himself between the pack and whoever came in, clutching the knife as if it were a lucky charm rather than a weapon. But it was a woman who came in, her hair close under her cap and her skirts dark with damp at the bottom. She stopped short at seeing him then put her hands on her hips and laughed.
“You be careful not to hurt yourself with that, now. You must be the boy who came with the tobacco man. I was told he’d come in here with a boy carrying his bags. Where is he now?”
Jorrit wondered what he should say. He could hardly tell her why the Englishman had gone with Klaasen. He shook his head and said nothing, tightening his grip on the knife.
“Someone cut out your tongue?”
“No,” Jorrit said quickly. “I don’t know where he is. He told me to stay here and look after this pack.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and he caught a calculating gleam in them before she dropped her gaze and turned away.
“I will come back later then,” she said.
Jorit waited until she had closed the door then looked around the room for anything that might help. The table was big and heavy, but it would not hold the door for long even if he could push it, which he was not sure he could. He ran to the window and opened it. Outside was a fringe of land perhaps wide enough for him to stand on but no more and then the dark waters of the river. Under the weight of the pack, it would be hard not to stumble, and if he slipped or missed his footing he would pitch into the water. Jorit could swim so it was not his own safety he feared for, but for the safety of the tobacco which he had been charged with protecting.
Painfully aware that he had very little time he turned to the one possible hiding place for the precious bag. Hefting the heavy pack, he used all his strength to lift it and then braced his shoulders as well to push it up out of sight. He had barely done so before he heard the woman’s voice outside the door again. He had no choice but to run and trust that he had managed to wedge the pack firmly enough that it would not fall. He could not protect it now by staying with it. A moment later he was out of the window and running like a hare to the nearest building, keeping low and hoping that it being early still, no eyes would mark him.
The building was a net shed and stank of rotten fish. It had not been much used for its true job of drying nets. The boat it belonged to would have been unable to sail freely since the siege began so the nets were left hanging or folded ready to be taken out. There were boxes and bags that Jorrit had no wish to explore, but an old sail was spread over some of them. Despite the bad smell, he lifted the edge of it, and pushed some of the other boxes and bags under it too, hoping to delay any searchers.
The problem was he could not run—or at least not yet. He needed them to think he had left with the tobacco and then when they saw him running from here without it, they would assume he must have hidden it in the net shed. But if he ran too soon, they might not see him and if he ran too late… He shivered. He did not want to think what they might do to him to find out where he had hidden the tobacco. His fists tightened and he gripped the knife harder
The loud voices came sooner than he had thought they would and closer than he had expected. He wanted to hide under the canvas sheeting of the old sail, but that would not save him. The door of the net hut was facing the river and he opened it a crack to peer out. There was no one there yet, but he could hear them talking loudly—wondering where he had gone. The woman and two men whose voices were not familiar.
Mustering all his courage, Jorrit pushed open the door and started running. He had to let them see him, let them see he no longer had the pack. Let them think he had hidden it in the shed. He left around the back of the shed and instead of taking off along the river where he might not be spotted, he headed back towards the alleyway. He heard the shouts as he was spotted.
“Stop that boy!”
“Stop, thief!”
Jorrit put his head down and pumped his arms and his legs together. If he could make it to the end of the alley he could be away among the houses, with places he knew no grown up could follow, and then they would never catch him. A few moments later he was by the wall and another two steps and he would be safe. The gap was so narrow between the houses here that even he had to wriggle sideways to get through it.
But instead, he found himself tumbling forwards, a hand’s width from the promised sanctuary, the knife skittering away across the cobbles. All the breath in his lungs was crushed out and as the weight that brought him down lifted a little, he could do nothing except gasp desperately for air.
The Englishman pulled him up by his collar and shook him like a terrier with a rat, the hard eyes ugly with fury. Through vision made bleary with sudden tears, Jorrit could see the men he had fled from running up as he whooped for air, his tight throat making a desperate gasping sound.
“Where is my pack?” The Englishman’s words were chiselled by menace and a clammy chill shivered over Jorrit’s skin even whilst he strove to breathe. He was shaken again and that loosened something making him cough. But he could no more speak than take flight and the only answer he could give was a choking splutter.
“He stole it,” one of the men shouted, “he’s a thief. He should hang for it.”
Jorrit’s throat was closed now as much by fear as lack of breath, and he shook his head hard. The Englishman dropped him then and bent swiftly to pick up his knife, before he turned in the same movement to confront the men. The knife in his hand held as if by convenience but its wicked blade a threat and deterrent.
“If you saw him steal it,” he demanded of the two men, “why did you not stop him? And, more to the point, where is it now?”
The nearer of the two eyed the knife then looked from Jorrit to the Englishman and back again.
“I don’t know. He must have dropped it somewhere.”
Despite his own fear, Jorrit felt the danger then. The Englishman shifted his weight, and his free hand had moved to be close to his sword.
“I will have a guilder for the man who brings me the pack,” he said.
Neither man moved.
Then both did.
Jorrit saw the knife in the Englishman’s hand sweep back and stab at the gut of the man on his left, who stepped smartly aside, whilst in the same fluid motion the Englishman drew his sword and used it to parry the fish-gutting knife the other man was plunging towards his neck, catching the blade and turning it. But the man who had sidestepped now had his own blade close to the Englishman’s exposed side, the sharp point poised as he thrust. Without thinking, Jorrit kicked out, catching the man hard on his ankle so he lost his footing and stumbled. As he did, the man’s face became a sudden picture of horror. He could not avoid falling onto the sword blade awaiting him and the weight of his own body drove it deep into the flesh below his ribs, blood bubbling from his lips with his curses.
With a boot the Englishman kicked the dying man away to free his sword. The body fell back onto the other attacker as he tried to turn to flee, forcing him to step sideways instead. Before he could recover, the Englishman was on him with both weapons, sword slicing cloth and flesh and knife driving hard into his chest. For a moment the man remained standing, and his legs even carried him a step away, but then he stumbled and collapsed, thrashing briefly like a newly landed fish before he lay still.
Jorrit crumpled to his knees and stared at the dead men, barely aware of anything else until a rough hand pulled him to his feet. He saw the sword blade slick with blood and tried to pull away as his stomach revolted, but the hand would not let go and it was all he could do to turn his head, so the vomit splashed over the Englishman’s legs and boots rather than his chest.
“Oh God, you disgusting little—”
“It’s safe,” Jorrit croaked, “I k-kept it safe.” He was shivering uncontrollably now, and his teeth chattered. “I hid your pack. They were going to st-steal it.”
He risked a glance up at the Englishman and the sea-frost ice gaze bored into him as if it could read the secrets of his soul.
“Where is it?”
“The—the ch-chimney.” Jorrit had to close his mouth hard to stop stammering. A moment later he was being pulled along by the elbow back towards De Haring. They were half-way back, passing the collection of buildings and sheds that framed the harbour, when they met Klaasen coming the other way.
“I’ve searched the whole place and it’s not there.” His gaze fell on Jorrit. “Oh good, you caught him.”
“There are two dead men by the end of the alley,” the Englishman said, “or one dead and one who needs to be. I hope they were nothing to do with you.”
Klaasen frowned and then scratched at his nose and pulled a face.
“I’ll deal with them,” he said grimly. “You get the truth from the boy and find that damn pack. If it fell into the wrong hands…”
The Englishman did not wait for him to finish and drew Jorrit on in a stumbling run, almost throwing him through the door of the inn when they got there.
“Where?” he demanded.
Jorrit pointed to the room they had been in before, its door now standing open and rather than be grabbed again, walked quickly towards it. But before he had crossed even half the distance of the common room, the manacle grip was restored on his upper arm.
The Englishman kicked the door closed behind them.
“Find it,” he said, bloodied sword still in hand.
Jorrit needed no second bidding. He knew a moment of panic when he saw someone had swept out the hearth and laid a fresh fire in the grate, but by some stroke of good fortune it had not yet been lit. Still shivering he crawled into the fireplace and straightened up into the chimney, reaching for the pack.
