The Fugitive's Sword, page 13
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
When the ship began to pitch and roll as it moved from the shelter of the river into the open sea the Englishman spoke again.
“How long will the boat be at sea?”
“Could be more than a day,” Jorrit told him, knowing he must sound as miserable as he felt.
There was no response and it occurred to Jorrit that whatever had hit him, the Englishman must have a really bad headache.
Despite the cold, fear and discomfort Jorrit found himself falling asleep from exhaustion having had less than a handful of hours of sleep in the last day. He was woken, who knew how much later, by the sound of shouting and feet on the deck. The Englishman who was crouched by the hatch when Jorrit moved beside him, spoke quietly.
“I think our fishermen have a problem.”
It was hard to hear words, but Jorrit could hear voices—voices from more than just the fishermen.
“Who is it?” he asked softly. “What is going on?”
Then to his horror the Englishman started battering on the hatch and shouting in Spanish.
“¡Aquí! ¡Ayúdame!”
For a moment Jorrit hoped the men on deck wouldn’t hear him, but then the hatch was lifted and a cold blast of fresh air swept in. Someone held a lantern up which, after the utter darkness before, Jorrit found too dazzling to bear and had to throw up a hand to shield his eyes.
“Well, well what have we here?” The voice spoke Dutch and held a cold curiosity. “¿Quién?”
“Mi nombre es Schiavono y soy un teniente, un soldado del Marquéss.” Then the Englishman switched to Dutch. “And I owe you and your men my thanks, sir, for your rescue and for securing my sword from these men who stole it from me. They took my purse also.”
“You are a soldier? A lieutenant and the Marquess’ man, you say?” the voice sounded less than believing. “That sounds an interesting tale and I do enjoy a good story.”
“It is no story. It is the truth. Why else do you think the fishermen shut me in here?”
The lantern moved a little and allowed Jorrit to glimpse a weather-beaten face below a knitted cap.
“You had better come out of there then. Make room for these heretic rebels. They are in for a good foot wetting.”
A very short time later Jorrit was standing on the deck as the crew of the fishing boat were thrown into the space he and the Englishman had just escaped from. The crew were calling for mercy as the hatch was closed again.
The men who had rescued them were mostly shadows to Jorrit, but those faces he could see in the lantern light were not looking kindly. The man who had been speaking swung the lantern up revealing more of his face. He had a beaked nose and an astute, direct gaze which was looking at Jorrit.
“This is?”
“My servant,” the Englishman said before Jorrit could open his mouth. “He is a little simple, but loyal to me.”
That made the man’s eyebrows rise and there was a sudden cold glitter in his eyes. “You are very young, Lieutenant Schiavono, but this servant of yours is a child.”
“He is a good servant.”
That made the man grin.
“Alright, I will admit you have my curiosity,” he said. “I will hear your tale and then decide what to do with you, but not here.” He turned to one of his men. “Take them back to the Star.”
The Englishman took a step forward.
“My sword—”
The man was holding it and swept it up, so the blade caught in the lantern light.
“This sword?” He glanced between the blade and the Englishman. “It is with me and quite safe. Now go with Dirkx. We will talk when my work here is done.”
In the dark, with rain making the wood slick so he had to watch his footing, Jorrit didn’t even realise that he had been climbing from one ship to another until, just after he had done so, the swell pulled the space between them apart. Then he saw the ropes holding them together stretch as the ships rolled in the swell and for a dizzying moment the waves were close enough to touch. This ship was much bigger than the fishing boat, but where that sat high in the water, unburdened, this ship was low.
“You two stink,” their escort said.
The Englishman turned to him sharply.
“What ship is this and who is its master?”
“Captain Ludo Vroomen. You just met him, and this is Star of the Sea. Now if your highness would be kind enough to step this way.” His tone made Jorrit wince.
The room they were locked in this time was still dark, but it was not horrible. It was mostly filled with crates and bags.
“What will they do with us?” Jorrit asked.
There was no reply for a while until he was wondering if he would even get one.
“I hope,” the Englishman said, “they will take us home with them. Once we are safe on dry land in Ostend or Dunkirk, I will be able to arrange things.” Jorrit heard him laugh. “You said you wished to be a soldier, little mouse. I will see your wish come true.”
Jorrit’s heart made a mighty beat, and he drew a sharp breath. In his games with Seppe and in his dreams that had seemed a wonderful idea, but now it left him slightly sick.
“But I am too young.”
What he did not say but wanted to was that in his dreams he was a hero of the Dutch Republic. He was one of those hiding in the peat barge and taking the city with just a handful of comrades. The Englishman had spoken of wanting to go to Dunkirk and had said he served the Marquess. The true horror of that swept over and through Jorrit. The Englishman was not a tobacco smuggler, he was a Spanish soldier. He had been like the men in the peat barge but working for the enemy. The gunpowder had been intended to somehow bring the city down. And Jorrit had been helping him.
“You are not too young to be a mochilero,” the Englishman assured him. “They are the boys who fetch and carry for the soldiers and learn the soldiering trade as they do so. It is a sort of apprenticeship. You will be in my company so I will see you are well treated.” He sounded completely confident that would happen. “Until then though, you need to be very careful. You must remember I told them you were simple. If they ask you anything then you must look as if you do not understand and tell them to talk to me. Can you do that?”
Jorrit nodded, trying to ignore the fingers of fear creeping up his spine. Then he realised that as it was dark the Englishman would not know he had nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“I am Lieutenant Schiavono—to you Meneer Schiavono—and you have been my servant for the last six months. You came with me into Breda to carry my pack. Since you have no Spanish, it is best if you speak no language except Dutch. If they ask you anything about what happened today, you tell them I said you are not to speak of it and if—” He stopped talking and Jorrit heard the sounds of activity from beyond the door. Then shouts and some laughter. The Englishman’s voice was taut. “They are sinking the fishing boat.”
“But the fishermen—”
“They left them locked in the catch hole.”
Jorrit’s skin was suddenly clammy. In his imagination he was back in that black place with water rushing in all around and no way out. He must have gasped because the Englishman made a contemptuous sound.
“You should have no sympathy for them. They would have seen us both dead.”
And for all that was true, Jorrit could not help himself. The darkness in the room they were in seemed to suddenly press in about him and for a time he sat on the floor shivering and trying very hard not to vomit.
Not too much later the door was opened by the same man who had shut them in—Dirkx the captain had called him.
“Come on, your majesty, and bring your courtier with you.”
Jorrit needed no second bidding and was out of the door breathing the fresh night air before the Englishman—no, he had a name ‘Schiavono’. That would take a while to get used to. Lieutenant Schiavono? Meneer Schiavono? To Jorrit it seemed simple, he was the Schiavono just as he had been the Englishman.
They were escorted across the deck and to another door. Jorrit was so disoriented he had no idea if it was at the front or the back of the ship. The only thing he noticed, although he knew next to nothing about ships except what he had seen of them in the Breda docks, was that this one seemed to be too long for how wide it was compared to others he had seen.
The captain’s room was not much bigger than the one they had just been shut in, but it was well lit with a lantern hanging from the ceiling. It did not contain much by way of furniture although there was a picture on the wall of a woman in a long robe that looked as if it had been taken from a printed book and put in a frame. It showed her standing on the sea with her head surrounded by stars. There were also two coffers that looked as if they must contain the captain’s possessions, and a bed which seemed more like a shelf attached to the side of the ship.
Captain Vroomen had removed his knitted hat to reveal a balding head of mid-brown hair with flecks of grey. He sat at a table on which lay the Schiavono’s sword, his purse and the pistol he had taken from the merchant in Breda. Jorrit and the Schiavono were pushed forward by Dirkx, who closed the door and then remained standing behind them. The captain’s beak-like nose twitched, and he pulled a face. Jorrit was not surprised by that: the two of them surely looked as if they had been rolled in muck and they stank of fish.
“Right. So, let’s hear your story. It had better be a good one.” Captain Vroomen put a hand on the sword hilt as he spoke. “How does someone like you come by a sword like this? Who did you steal it from?”
The Schiavono’s spine stiffened.
“I did not steal it from anyone. It is mine. It was forged for me, and I thank you for taking care of it.” As he spoke, he reached for the hilt, but the captain slapped him away.
“I hope the rest of your story is more believable than that,” he said, his tone mild. “Try to take the sword again and I will use it to sever your hand.”
Jorrit did not doubt for a moment that he would do so too. There was something in his eyes which made Jorrit think of a bank of clouds before a storm. At any provocation—or none—wild lightning could strike in a thunderclap. For a dreadful moment Jorrit feared that the Schiavono would do or say something, and they would both suffer the consequences. But although he drew in a sharp breath and his chin lifted, the Schiavono said nothing.
“I think you understand me now,” Captain Vroomen said. He sat back, his forearms still resting on the table. “So. Let us hear the truth, Lieutenant Schiavono, if that is indeed your real rank. You seem damnably young to me, unless the Marquess is so desperate he must make up his mochileros to be officers.” He gestured to Jorrit. “Perhaps this one is your colonel?”
There was a grunt of laughter from Dirkx behind them.
“I am indeed a lieutenant,” the Schiavono said stiffly, “and I serve with Captain Rider’s cavalry company which is presently under the command of Colonel Count van den Berg. But I am here following orders from the Marquess himself.”
“So, you say. But what would a Spanish cavalry officer be doing on a rebel heretics’ fishing boat?”
“I was leaving Breda on it. The fishermen were not willing to take me, but I held that pistol and my sword, so I gave them little choice. I had not intended to stay on the boat for long. Just until we were free of the city, and I could find a place to land.”
“So, what prevented that?” It was very hard to tell if Captain Vroomen thought he was hearing the truth or not.
“I was hit by a musket ball and the heretics captured me and my servant here.”
“A musket ball?” There was no doubt what the captain thought of that, he tilted his chin and looked at them from under raised brows.
The Schiavono lifted one hand and touched the side of his head where his hair was matted with blood.
“The ball must have brushed past,” he said. “Had it been an inch to the left I would not be here.”
“Dirkx?”
The man behind them stepped forward and grasped the Schiavono’s shoulder, pushing his head sideways and lifting his hair. Then he poked into the red mess with a finger. Jorrit saw the Schiavono’s face blanch, and his lips tightened. He swayed a little on his feet, but he made no sound.
Dirkx released him and shrugged.
“Could be.”
The captain said nothing for a few moments and just looked at them as if caught up in thought.
“I think we are hearing this tale from its end not the start of it,” he said at last. “Let us have it from the beginning. So, tell me, Lieutenant Schiavono as you style yourself. But make this a tale worth the hearing. If I think you are wasting my time, we will end this.”
There was something chilling in the way he spoke that made Jorrit realise the captain truly had only kept them both alive, had only let them out of the fish hold, because he was curious—but that curiosity had a very definite limit. And with that realisation came the knowledge that even if the tale was well told, even if it was believed, there was still no reason to be sure that the captain might not still decide to kill them and keep the sword and the purse for himself. Jorrit glanced at the Schiavono and wondered if he had recognised that too, but there was no way to know. At least the Schiavono’s colour had returned a little now and he looked less close to passing out.
“I am not free to say,” the Schiavono insisted. “It was a matter entrusted to me by the Marquess. I was told not to reveal it to anyone.”
Jorrit’s heart sank as the captain’s lips twisted into an unpleasantly tight smile.
“Then this interview is over. Dirkx take these two outside and see how they swim.”
“Be a pleasure, captain,” Dirkx said and gripped an arm of each. Jorrit was frozen with fear and looked desperately at the Schiavono. Surely there was something he could—
“Wait!” The word was close to an imperious command and the Schiavono went on quickly. “I will tell you. I will tell you but only because now it can do no harm to our cause.”
The captain’s smile widened into a grin. He lifted a hand and Dirkx released them and stepped back.
The Schiavono drew a shuddering breath and when he started talking, his voice was halting as if it took him a lot of effort to speak.
“I went into Breda in disguise as a tobacco seller several times and each time I brought out information or spread false reports to confuse the enemy.”
Enemy? Jorrit’s stomach descended into a deep pit.
“A tobacco seller? Ha!” For the first time the captain seemed to like what he was being told. “That would make them welcome you with open arms.”
“It did indeed. That and the fact that I am English made it even easier to create the deception. Everyone in Breda thinks of the English as being like the English troops they have there—Protestant heretics such as they are themselves.”
“And this was done on orders from the Marquess?”
“No, sir. Not at first. At first, it was on orders from one of my company commanders, but Captain Rider saw that there might be more use for what I was doing than it was being put to and he brought the matter to the attention of the Marquess. The Marquess interviewed me and then sent me into Breda to meet with those there he had good reason to believe were loyal to Spain. I was taking them a quantity of gunpowder which was to be used to assist in some plan they had that, I believe, was to blow up one of the ammunition stores in the city. But I was not privy to the details as it was not to be my task to undertake that, only to deliver the gunpowder.”
Jorrit’s blood ran cold in his veins. The Schiavono was not only a Spanish spy, he was… Then Jorrit’s throat tightened. Yes, the Schiavono was like the men who had been on the peat barge. He had come into the city to make it fall. He had come in alone. He had all the courage and daring of those heroes. But he was not a hero. How could he be when he was working for the Spanish?
The captain leaned forward. “You see, that is the part in your story that I find hard to believe. That a man such as I know the Marquess must surely be, would entrust something so important as that to someone so young as you are.”
The Schiavono let out a breath.
“I have no answer for you, sir. Only that by the time it came to the attention of the Marquess I was already accepted in Breda as being someone people there knew and could trust. After all, I was smuggling in the tobacco they all wanted. Had the Marquess wished to give the task to another man he would have had to spend time to get to that same point. Besides, I had proved myself by bringing out intelligence that others had not been able to acquire. Some of the soldiers there were very much given to conversation in their cups, especially around someone they thought was a friend.”
I had proved myself by bringing out intelligence that others had not been able to acquire. Jorrit suddenly felt sick as he recalled the information he had found out himself, information he had thought was to help a tobacco seller get in and out of the city more easily. Instead, he had been betraying Breda.
The captain was giving the Schiavono’s last words some consideration and now he nodded.
“Very well. I can see that is plausible, if it was all as you say. But then what happened? I am assuming something went wrong with your plan.”
“We were betrayed.” The anger and bitterness in the Schiavono’s voice was stark. Even the captain’s eyes widened slightly at his vehemence. “The men who were supposedly loyal instead had set a trap for me.”
“A trap you escaped by fleeing in the fishing boat?”
The Schiavono opened his mouth and drew in a short breath as if to challenge that or perhaps, Jorrit thought, to explain it had been anything but that simple. But then he closed his mouth again.
“Yes, sir. That is what happened. One of the men who betrayed the Marquess is dead but the other still lives and he might make mischief for our cause if I do not get back to report what happened.”
The captain nodded and his brows drew together.
“Of course, I can see that.” Then he reached into his doublet and pulled out a folded document. “So, you can explain this then?”
