The Fugitive's Sword, page 16
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
Then the ship seemed to heave as if seized by a mighty hand and Jorrit slipped and fell to the deck, realising they had run against the merchantman. As he picked himself up, heart pounding, it was to the blood-curdling yells of the attacking men from the Star, and he found the Schiavono beside him.
“I am not permitted a weapon—not even a knife. So, I am not to go with the boarding party.” The Schiavono sounded disappointed.
“Will we win?” Jorrit asked. Then realised that he was speaking as if he belonged with the Star and her crew and not with his own countrymen who were on the merchantman.
“Of course,” the Schiavono said. “It is all over now.”
But it wasn’t. Quite.
As the sounds of determined resistance came from the decks of the Dutch ship—shots, shouts and swordplay—another sound came much closer to hand. Feet landing heavily on the deck, as if someone had jumped from a height and a distance. Or both. The sound came again.
Jorrit stepped forward to see what it was, but a hand pulled him back sharply and the Schiavono pressed him up against the cabin. A moment later two figures, crouching as if to keep less noticeable, moved past where Jorrit and the Schiavono were concealed by the deep shadows of the half deck.
Then there were more sounds of landing feet.
The hair on Jorrit’s arms lifted as he realised what was happening.
A muffled grunt came from where one of the men left on watch had been standing as two more crouching figures went by, more quickly than the ones before. There was a cry nearby half-hidden in the noise of the fighting on the ship beside them.
“With me,” the Schiavono whispered, “and see how much you can live up to your name. Be as quiet as a little mouse.”
Just as well, Jorrit realised later that he had not known the full reality of what was going on. If he had, he would probably have been too afraid to go with the Schiavono. Because Captain Vroomen had made a mistake in thinking he was following a simple Dutch merchantman. It was indeed a Dutch merchant vessel, but it was also carrying a group of English volunteers who were heading to the United Provinces to join the army being gathered there. The men who Jorrit had just heard and seen jumping onto the Star were not crewmen desperately escaping from a stricken ship, they were well trained soldiers, mounting a deliberate counterattack.
But at the time Jorrit thought it must be men trying to escape the onslaught of Captain Vroomen and his brutal crew, so he followed the Schiavono, who stopped suddenly and crouched down by the unmoving figure of the man who had been on watch. With a shock Jorrit realised the man was dead. When the Schiavono straightened he pressed an eating knife into Jorrit’s hand, and the slight glimmer of steel showed where he held the dead man’s sword in his hand.
Then they were moving quickly and quietly along the length of the ship. The Schiavono stopped again almost at once and Jorrit heard voices speaking softly in English nearby. The shadowy shapes of the four men were just visible.
“…then I’ll find the powder store. Now, Fowler, with me.”
Two of the men moved off together and the other two remained where they were, working on something on the deck. Jorrit had no idea what they might be doing. One man was standing, the other was on one knee. But whatever they were attempting they did not get to complete it. Before Jorrit even realised he had been left alone, the standing man slumped forward with a choking sound. His companion, rising fast from his awkward position had his sword half-drawn before the Schiavono’s blade took him through the throat.
“Alarm! Alarm!”
The Schiavono’s voice carried over the ship and then someone shouted, and the bell clanged as all those who had been left on Star of the Sea were alerted to their danger. But Jorrit was already running again as the Schiavono went after the two men who were heading for the powder store. That, Jorrit knew, was below the main deck and the Schiavono barely used the ladder, dropping down and landing, sword ready as Jorrit clambered down behind him. The powder store was near the hatch so the guns could be resupplied quickly at need.
“Hold them off!” The same voice that was issuing orders before.
A horn lantern had been lit and hung from a beam and by its swinging light Jorrit could see the man who blocked their way was broad shouldered and blond haired. As well as a sword, he had a pistol in one hand aimed at the Schiavono. Without thinking, Jorrit jumped in, gripping the small knife in both hands like a talon. He struck at the man’s pistol arm and the blade bit, but whether into flesh or just leather he could not tell.
The pistol discharged anyway, but whatever impact it might have had made no apparent difference to the Schiavono. He kicked out at the big man and drove in hard with the sword he held. Jorrit gathered himself. As he tried to strike again, the man’s elbow swept down and sent him flying backwards to land heavily against the side of the ship.
Before Jorrit could rise there were two more of the crew in the confined space and a moment later the big man had gone down.
“Stay back or I will blow the ship and all in it to perdition.” The same English voice as before.
Jorrit got to his feet and pressed forward to peer through between the human barricade. He was very sure that the two crewmen—both with swords out and one with a pistol in his hand—couldn’t understand the words as no one aboard the Star except himself and the Schiavono spoke English. But their meaning surely needed no translation. The man who spoke was standing by the stacked barrels of gunpowder, one of which was broken open, its contents spilling out, and he held a length of lit matchcord in one hand.
A cold hand gripped Jorrit’s heart and squeezed. In his mind was the thunderous roar that had followed when the Schiavono had blown up the black powder in Breda. Here there was a hundred times—five hundred times as much black powder. A lump blocked Jorrit’s throat and he struggled to swallow it down.
The crewman who was holding a pistol brought it up, clearly thinking to shoot.
“No.” The Schiavono’s voice carried the rap of command and the crewman hesitated. “If he dies, he’ll drop the match. Let me talk. I may save us all.” Then the Schiavono switched to English. “If you surrender you will live. If you keep this up, yes we will die but you will die with us.”
“Before God,” the man sounded shocked, “an Englishman in this nest of Flemish papists?” Then, “You killed Fowler. He was a good man.” His tone sounded pained.
“I killed the two men you left on deck as well,” the Schiavono said. “But then you killed our crewmen as you came aboard. I have no wish to kill you unless you compel me to do so.” Then in the same breath and without turning he added, “Jorrit, your coat.”
Having no idea why, Jorrit quickly pulled his arms from his coat, struggling as he always did with the damp fabric, and squirmed past the two crewmen to press it into the Schiavono’s free hand.
“I think, sir, it is I who will be killing you.” The man lifted the slow-burning match meaningfully.
Jorrit wanted to run then, but his legs were too shaky and could barely hold him up, simply standing still. And besides, there was nowhere to run to that was safe. If the explosion did not kill him, he would drown instead. So, he stayed unmoving. The Schiavono was beside him, sword in one hand and Jorrit’s coat incongruous in the other, eyes glittering with a cold turquoise flame, gaze riveted on the man holding the matchcord—and seeming completely unafraid.
And in that moment Jorrit’s own fear vanished like a mist before the sun. He knew then that he did not have faith that God might save them, but he had a sure and certain faith that the Schiavono could do so.
“If that was your intention you would not be standing there speaking of it. You would have acted by now,” the Schiavono said. “I think you would like to live, and I am giving you that chance. Jorrit, keeping to the side, walk over to the gentleman and he will give you the matchcord and you will bring it to me.”
Jorrit’s feet had been glued to the swaying deck, but the Schiavono’s voice freed them to move. He walked forward the few paces that separated him from the man with the slowmatch, hand outstretched. Trying not to think what might happen next, his eyes fixed on the matchcord in the man’s hand.
“Why would I do that?” the man demanded. “I know what you and your vile crew will do to me. Dunkirkers. Foul papist pirates. You steal, torture, kill…” His voice rose as he spoke in an octave of desperation.
“I do not think this was your original plan,” the Schiavono said, sounding as if he was soothing a startled horse. “I think you—”
Then everything happened at once.
Jorrit saw the man’s hand tighten and knew he had decided to act. Perhaps had he just dropped the match he might have succeeded, but he turned, clearly intending to thrust it into the powder barrel beside him. The coat was over the hand in smothering folds a moment before the Schiavono arrived behind it and cut down with his sword. The man’s body arched once then relaxed into a dreadful stillness, the coat wrapped arm dropping towards the spill of powder.
Heavily damp though it was from sea spray, the fabric of the coat was clearly not wet enough to extinguish the match, as a small curl of smoke showed where that was already beginning to burn through the cloth. With no conscious thought, Jorrit dropped to his knees, reaching out and gripping his hand over it to keep it from the powder. It felt as if someone had driven a knife blade through his palm as he did so, making him cry out, but he did not let go until the Schiavono called his name and pulled his wrist away. Jorrit collapsed back, clutching his hand, unable to stop the sharp tears that blurred his eyes from the pain. Then he realised what he had done and how close he had been to failing and his whole body began to shake.
It had been the next day, after the victorious crew of Star of the Sea had taken a bloody revenge upon the survivors of the merchantman’s crew, that Captain Vroomen summoned Jorrit and the Schiavono. This time there was no Dirkx to menace them, instead the man with the captain was the ship’s master, the man responsible for navigating the ship safely, Master Carrasco. Jorrit had seen the Schiavono talking with him sometimes before and now he noticed the warm look the master sent as they were admitted to the captain’s small cabin.
Jorrit, his hand still throbbing beneath the dressing that one of the crewmen had applied, made a hasty bow to both the officers, but neither seemed to pay him any attention. They stood together, both bareheaded, behind the table upon which was now an unfurled chart. The captain had his arms folded on his chest and the Schiavono’s sword by his thigh.
“I hear,” he said to the Schiavono, “that it was you who saved my ship.”
“I did what needed to be done,” the Schiavono said simply.
The captain’s lips parted in a grin.
“And so you did. Tell me what happened.”
“There is little to tell. I was on the deck and came upon one of the crewmen who had been killed. I took his sword to defend myself and was about to give the alarm when I heard two men talking in English of the powder store. I killed them and gave the alarm and then ran to the powder store and killed the man there.”
Not quite the truth but Jorrit said nothing. The captain nodded several times as the Schiavono spoke and kept nodding when he had finished.
“You picked up a sword and killed three men, three English soldiers one of whom was Sir Ninian Bray, a man renowned for his courage and fighting skill.”
“Four men,” the Schiavono said. “Sir Ninian had a man with him called Fowler.”
There was an odd silence.
“Four men. Of course. And you are what, seventeen—eighteen years old?”
“Fifteen,” the Schiavono said.
Jorrit blinked in surprise. That was younger even than Pieter, and Pieter was still often treated as a child by Moeder Machteld even though he was working for her.
The odd silence returned as the captain kept staring at the Schiavono. Then he drew a breath and unfolded his arms, pulling the chair back from the table and taking a seat.
“You hear that, Alonso?” he said, but his gaze was still on the Schiavono. “Fifteen years old. He is barely old enough to grow a beard and already he is defeating men like Bray.”
The master was smiling as if at an excellent joke.
“It is hard to credit,” he agreed.
“So, what do we do with this prodigy who has placed the whole ship in his debt and made sure we all know as much?”
His last words made the Schiavono stiffen and Jorrit thought he was going to protest, but he kept his mouth closed.
The strange silence came back and then the captain thumped both palms on the table and laughed.
“What? You have nothing to say? The hero of the hour is suddenly modest?” He leaned back in the chair. “So, tell me how you believe I should reward you for your endeavours.”
“I think you know what I would like, sir,” the Schiavono said.
“And I think you know that you will not be granted that.” The captain touched the woven metal hilt of the sword he wore. “It is a very fine sword and I have only your word it ever belonged to you.”
The Schiavono’s jaw tightened.
“Then I would learn from Master Carrasco,” he said. “I would learn how to sail a ship and how to navigate.”
This time the silence that followed his words was of a different quality. This time it held surprise and disbelief. Or at least it was clear that it did for the captain and Jorrit was not far from there himself. But Master Carrasco was smiling and gave a small nod that might have been of satisfaction or agreement, it was hard for Jorrit to be sure which.
“You do not know what you are asking,” the captain said. “Do you think anyone can learn these things? It takes years of study to master even the most basic principles of mathematics needed. A lad such as you would not be able to begin to understand them.” The captain shook his head and pulled a jewelled ring from his hand. “I took this from the finger of a rich heretic whore, though she styled herself a lady. That was not all I took from her, but this was worth more than the other.” He gave an unpleasant grin, winked at the Schiavono and held out the ring. “Here, have this. You can show it to the crew so they see you have been well rewarded for what you did and one day you could sell it and buy yourself a new sword—or get good use of the one you were born with.”
Jorrit stared at the ring. Solid gold, with a sapphire in it that was as big as the tip of his own index finger. It had to be worth many more guilders than Jorrit expected to see at one time in all his life.
“That is a fine ring,” the Schiavono said. “But I would rather learn from Master Carrasco.”
For some reason that Jorrit could not understand that angered the captain and he slammed his fist on the table, making Jorrit startle, and rose to his feet as he did so.
“You stupid—”
Master Carrasco stepped forward and laid a hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you leave this with me, Ludo?” he suggested, and the captain shot him a dark look, but sank back in his chair.
“Surely you cannot countenance—?”
“I will set this young man an examination and we shall see if he has the capacity to study what I can teach. If it turns out that he has, I have no objection to taking him on as a pupil and if he is being over ambitious—then it is his loss for refusing the ring when it was offered to him.” He looked steadily at the Schiavono for a few moments. “Unless you prefer now to take the ring instead? It is a very fair reward and there is no shame in accepting it.”
“I will take your examination, sir,” the Schiavono said without any hesitation. “Captain Vroomen may keep his ring.”
The captain still held the ring in his fist and now he opened his fingers, so it sat on his palm.
“Then the boy can have the ring instead,” he said. “It is his when he leaves the ship.” As he spoke, he held the ring up between thumb and finger and nodded towards Jorrit.
Jorrit hadn’t expected any reward for his own part in what had happened. He had not even considered that the captain would have heard of what he did or how his hand had been hurt. Unable to believe that he was to be given something as valuable as the ring, and suddenly the centre of attention, he stuttered out words of thanks and was relieved that they were then dismissed.
That night as he lay beside the Schiavono, now with an extra blanket over them, he could not contain his curiosity.
“Why did you not take the ring?”
The reply came soft from the darkness.
“Because I want my sword.”
“But how does taking a test help that?
“It does not,” the Schiavono said, “but the captain now knows I will not leave his ship without my sword. That is why he was so angry.”
Jorrit thought about that for a few moments but was still not sure it made any sense.
“But he gave me the ring,” he said at last.
“He did and you can leave the ship when we get to Nieuwpoort where we are taking the ship we captured. You can take the ring and go home. The siege of Breda will not last forever.”
For a moment Jorrit had a vision of himself walking proudly back into the tall gabled house that he called home and presenting the ring to Moeder Machteld, his heart bursting with pride as she praised him for it. So much what he wanted that it was hard to push the image away.
“No,” he said firmly. “I will stay with you.”
There was an eruption beside him as the Schiavono sat up suddenly.
“Oh God, Jorrit, no. You have no idea what you—”
A voice nearby hissed at them to shut up and after a few moments the Schiavono lay back down and said nothing more.
It took Jorrit a long time to get to sleep because of the pain in his hand, but even when he did it was in the knowledge that the Schiavono lay awake beside him, kept from sleep by some inner torment Jorrit could only guess at.
