Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The ships closed, spray dancing between. “I shall keep back under cover unless I see I’m needed,” Ludovic said. He stepped away, keeping beneath the poop deck’s low shadows, Gerald quickly following. Knives loose at their sides, they stood quiet and alert.

  Someone was shouting from the pirate ship. “Have you ort to declare, my fine friend? We’ve four to your one, the powder boy’s on his toes and my crew ready to fire. If you’ve any wish to save your miserable lives, give your cargo over, and we’ll be off.”

  “Not Bretons then,” muttered Gerald. “Are English pirates any less savage, do you think?”

  “They sound Cornish,” Ludovic answered. “And no.”

  The carvel’s eager crew leaned over their gunwales, peering down at the smaller ship below them, close enough now to spit. Kenelm stood firm and shouted up to the man above. “Captain Kenelm at your service,” he cried. “And you’d be welcome to my cargo, but I carry naught.” His voice was blown back as the carvel’s sails slapped hard against the mast.

  The waves danced in icy spray between the ships. The Rouncie was caught in surging eddies, the wind springing her forwards while the larger boat blocked the open current. No one answered Kenelm and he sighed deep as thick ropes hurtled through the sudden glitter of sun on sea, iron clamps ripping over the gunwales and hooking ship to ship with a huge shuddering boom. The wind whistled in the rigging overhead and clasped unevenly together, each planked keel creaked and strained to find its balance, lurching to the pull of the waves and the confines of the embrace. The cog’s sails flapped hollow and sank. The decks rocked again as eleven men slid down the ropes, landing wide legged and grinning on the Rouncie’s narrow boards.

  The largest stood facing Kenelm. “No need to show us around.” He waved to his waiting men. “I reckon we’ll find our own way, thanking you kindly.”

  “I’ll molest no peaceable visitor,” Kenelm roared, keeping well back. “But you’ll see we’ve no cargo to steal.”

  The pirate captain appeared to find this amusing. “Ain’t never met a man admitting to what he had, lest he had some well hid,” the man said.

  “I’m hiding naught,” Kenelm insisted, showing empty hands. “And won’t hardly lie, not with a host of cannon staring me in the face.”

  “And no seafaring gent is stupid enough to reckon on cannon fire once hard up hull tight on hull.” The other man was still grinning, hands to his belt where his crossed blades were catching the sun. “Fire on you,” he said, “and we’d blow a bigger hole in our own sides, and well you know it. So ten men it is to search, and eighty others watching close, bows aimed with arrows to the nock, and ready to jump over and help if there’s one word from me.”

  Kenelm made no move to draw his own steel. “I’ll not try and stop you,” he muttered. “I told the truth and we’ve no cargo or I’d hand it over. We’re a small ship and I ain’t after trouble. We’ve played fair, and I reckon on getting the same from you.”

  Back in the chill shadows beneath the poop deck, Ludovic and Gerald stayed quiet, poised and waiting. Fingers impatient to their blades, they watched as the pirates scattered. Five of them rounded up Kenelm’s glum and glaring crew, searching them for weapons and pulling the few knives found from their belts. The other pirates ran down to the storage deck, the solitary cabin and the hold. Every thump of boots vibrated across the decks as the little cog swayed on her tethers, every footstep rebounding as their steps and shouts echoed back up from below. “’Tis right. There’s naught here but swill and wet hammocks. A rubbish haul, it is.”

  The sun slid over the wet wood above as the Rouncie’s crew stood sullen, staring up at the other ship’s huge rolling threat and its dark shadow swallowing their own light. Then one man came up amidships, Ludovic’s sable trimmed coat over his arm. “But reckon there’s sommit we’ve not bin told. A cabin wi’ fine clothes, and signs o’ someone sleeping there ‘part from this scruffy little shit arsed captin o’ theirs.”

  “That’s my cabin, and my coat,” objected Kenelm.

  “Fucking liar,” grinned the man carrying the furs. “This be a gennleman’s gear, an’ would only fit you wiv anovver bleeder sitting on your fucking shoulders. An’ more stuff down there, there is, though naught else so fine. So, maybe you got no cargo but I reckon you got some fancy fucking passenger well hid.”

  “Which,” interrupted the pirate captain, grinning down into Kenelm’s glare, “means a high fare already paid, so plenty of coin somewhere on board. So do I have my men ripping your planks apart to search for it, or do you tell me where it’s hid? Come now, my friend, I thought we were playing fair?”

  From the deeper shadows Ludovic stepped immediately forwards, knife back in his boot and sword in its scabbard. “I think,” he said softly, “it would be me you are looking for.”

  The pirate captain turned quickly. He looked Ludovic over carefully. Ludovic stared back, eyes narrowed against the wind. The captain said, “So, my beauty! A decent cargo after all, it seems. You’ve a name and title?”

  Ludovic remained expressionless. He spoke softly, his words almost drowned by the crack and groan of water against wood and the whine of the pull on the ropes. “And money,” he said, “though not much. The fare paid in full remains with the ship’s owner back in London, but I’ve a purse on me and you’re welcome to it in exchange for my life, and that of the captain here and his crew. My name’s Goran Spittiswood and sadly I’ve no title. I’m on my way to Flanders, with a business to set up in trade, Bruges dyes to buy in exchange for the coin I carry and other merchants to see for future backing.”

  Kenelm and his crew stood watching and listening, wary and silent, still under threat. The pirate captain faced Ludovic. Slowly he drew one blade from his belt, and stretched out his arm, sword point to Ludovic’s chest. They were of a similar height but the other man was considerably older, dark bearded and leather skinned, his hair straggling in dirty ringlets well past his shoulders. He frowned. “Spittiswood’s no gentleman’s name, sir, but a gentleman you clearly are. As for your purse, I’ll take it whether freely given or no, so your bargain hardly interests me. But pointless bloodshed won’t interest me neither, and this ship’s too small to be worth commandeering. Little more than a pigeon’s egg, and the crew a timid rabble.” His sword point moved up, now hovering at Ludovic’s throat. His men crowded around.

  Kenelm, suddenly released, did not move. “Master Spittiswood’s word is true enough,” he said loudly. “I’ve knowed him for some months and has always dealt honest and fair wi’ me.”

  The pirate ignored him. He took Ludovic’s coat and swung it around his own shoulders. The thick crimson taffeta, trimmed and lined in fur with a swirl of drifting sleeves, seemed incongruous on the other man, too rich over dun broadcloth and dirty serge. The pirate’s doublet was black leather, his shirt and sleeves were blood stained and brine caked, his hose ill-fitting grimed kersey. Not a man interested in ostentation, and over his own broadcloth surcoat, Ludovic’s finery seemed colourfully absurd. The pirate laughed, spread out the coat’s skirts one handed, kept his sword raised, and bowed. “Captain Naseby, Black Baldwin at your service.” He straightened, the smile glazed, his eyes cold. “I’ll keep your coat, I’ll take your purse, and I’ll take you too, sir. I’ve an idea I’ll get a tidy ransom if I can find out your real name. For I’d swear you’ve a rich father in London or maybe a rich wife in Kent. Something of the kind, at any rate. And I’ve interesting and well-practised ways of discovering the truth.”

  Ludovic untied his purse strings and dropped the small leather bundle onto the pirate’s palm. “Thinking of torture?” He smiled. “I’m not enamoured of physical suffering, and will no doubt be overpowered easily enough. But I warn you, I’ve no wealthy father, nor any wife at all. My coat came from my own earnings, I’ve a small holding with the Lombards in London, and a rented property in Cheapside. You may choose to ruin my ambitions, but I’ve nothing more to offer.”

  Naseby turned to Capta
in Kenelm. “I’ve naught against an honest sailor and will let you go. But I’ll be taking this gentleman with me, with any of your men as wish to volunteer for a more profitable life than you’ve been offering them, and a couple more if you please, as use for leverage on Master Spittiswood here. Choose two for sacrifice, captain, or I shall choose them myself.”

  Gerald walked out from the crowd of reluctant and muttering crew, coming to stand by Ludovic. “Take me,” he said. “I’m Master Spittiswood’s friend, and I’ll come with him willingly.”

  Ludovic sighed. “This is no friend of mine,” he said. “Send him away. He’s simply my servant. And I’ve no use for him.”

  Captain Naseby smiled and shook his head. “Maybe not, sir, but I have. He can carry the message back once I find out who your father damned well is.” The pirate stopped, looking his second hostage over more closely. Gerald was dressed in rough clothes and appeared more the servant than the lord, with only his hair bright red in the sunlight to stand him out from any crowd. Naseby was staring at Gerald’s hair. The breezes reasserted, whipping Gerald’s hair into his eyes. He squinted, pushing it back. Naseby peered, seeming momentarily uneasy. “And what’s your name, boy? And where did you say you came from?” His outstretched blade quivered from one neck to the other.

  “I didn’t say,” Gerald replied. “But it’s Yorkshire originally, same as my master. I’m his manservant Gerald Pownsey. I’ll accompany my master onboard your ship, but he’s telling the truth and there’s no one to pay a ransom.”

  Naseby turned again to Kenelm. “Chosen your other discard yet, my friend? You’ll not be seeing him again, so choose careful. I’ll take whatever one as will scream loudest, and persuade your cautious Master Spittiswood here to divulge his real name.” Then he looked over Kenelm’s head to the crew. “Any of you bastards care to join me in a better life, and come a pirating? We’ve better food, better wine, and better prospects.” No one stepped forwards and Naseby grinned. “Bunch of miserable cowards. But I’ll take the skinny urchin there as my leverage. Between him and that poppy top servant, I’ll peel back the sympathies easy enough on Master Spittiswood.”

  The thin boy who had twice delivered Gerald and Ludovic’s meals to their cabin, was dragged forward. His rough wooden heels scraped across the wet decks as he stared around in wide eyed terror. “I ain’t done nuffing,” he yelped. “I don’t know these gents, nor their rotten names. I’m Cap’in Kenelm’s new cabin boy, that’s all, mister.”

  “And now,” grinned Naseby, “you’ve the honour to be my new sacrifice.” He turned to his own crew. “Chuck the brat up to the Cock’s Crest, lads,” he said. “We’ll bring these others along with us.” Two of the pirates grabbed the boy and swung him, hurtling him up high to the carvel’s gunwales. The child’s body twisted midair and slammed hard against the planks, but several men leaning over the side grabbed his flailing arms and hauled him aboard. He disappeared with a squeal.

  Gerald’s hand twitched towards the hilt of his sword. The crew had already been disarmed, though few of them had carried more than a knife. Kenelm’s sword had been taken, though Ludovic still wore his. But leaning along the gunwales of the carvel the waiting pirate crew stared down, near on a hundred men and all heavily armed. Many had bows drawn and arrows nocked, their aim steady on Kenelm, Ludovic and the other men. Naseby carried steel enough for ten. His baldrics crossed over a wide barrel chest, a long sword at his left, a short sword at the right hip. Through the cords of his doublet, the straps of his baldrics and the thick leather of his belt, a half dozen knife hilts protruded, a bristling bombast of confident threat. Gerald carefully controlled the impulse to attack, clasped his hands before him and looked down at his boots.

  Ludovic was watching Naseby. He said, “The child you intend to use against me, is unknown to me. But naturally I dislike the idea of any other soul suffering torture on my account. I’ve told you my name. Release the boy. But as I’ve also told you, I’ve some money kept in trust with the Lombards in London. Send my servant back with Kenelm here, and he’ll fetch it for you. It should be sufficient to pay my ransom.”

  “You’ve admitted to that, which means you’ve got more, my friend. Too easy.” The pirate grinned. “We’ll see what we get out of you over the next few hours onboard my own ship.” He lunged suddenly forwards, his sword pricking Ludovic’s arm.

  Ludovic’s reflexes obeyed instinct. Unsheathing his sword in one fluid sweep, he slashed upwards, knocking Naseby’s steel from his grip. The pirate’s blade spun up, then clattered to the deck. Six of Naseby’s men grabbed Ludovic as Gerald was held forcibly back. One wrenched both Ludovic’s arms up behind him, another took the sword. A third searched his body, running huge callused palms inside his doublet and shirt, smoothing down his groin and hose, but found no other weapon. The fourth pirate, one foot shoved between Ludovic’s legs to unbalance him, swung the hilt of his own sword to the side of Ludovic’s head with considerable force. He slumped at once, both his arm and his head bleeding heavily. “Unwise, my young friend,” said Naseby with evident delight. “You’ve proved yourself no country trader. You’re a fighter and a knight exactly as I thought. And I shall have my fun with you, I promise, before selling you back to your kin.”

  Ludovic heard nothing. Brine and blood smeared together across his face, he was dragged unconscious to the side of the ship and a rope was looped beneath his armpits and around his body. Kenelm and Gerald watched as he was hoisted up towards the carvel’s gunwales. For a brief moment he swung limp, circling mid-air, head drooping down and face hidden by the windswept swirl of shaggy black hair.

  He was quickly hauled in.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When he returned to an uneasy and unsteady world, Ludovic thought at first he lay again in Kenelm’s cabin. But it was a larger cabin, dirtier, cluttered and smelling of piss. A pain ramming through the back of his head reminded him of what had happened, but some confusion remained. He was alone and uncomfortably prone on someone else’s bed.

  He sat up carefully. With slow patience, he examined himself for injuries and found little. His arm stung but the slight wound had closed beneath its own dried blood. No one had washed or bandaged the cut, leaving it to the possibility of infection. It meant, more than anything else, that Gerald had been kept away from him.

  The greater hurt was to his head, but Ludovic did not think it serious. The pain outweighed the injury. More serious was the removal of his boots. Someone had tugged them off before throwing him to the bed. Now the boots lay on the floor, one close, the other by the far wall so his knife, hidden down the cuff of his left boot, had clearly been found and taken. He had been searched thoroughly while unconscious. His doublet was unlaced, his hose loosened and the codpiece part unhooked, his shirt was pulled open and his sleeves were ripped wide. Ludovic sighed and swung his legs to the floor. He pulled his boots back on, redressed himself and, holding to the furniture, managed to reach the door. It was locked.

  Ludovic returned to the bed and lay down. It was stained with memories of varied abuse, smelled of tired sweat and years of salt caked filth. The bolster was thin from age and only part filled with lumps of damp wool. He clasped his hands behind his head, and wondered. The ship rolled, a gently rhythmic sway like the rocking of a cradle. They were therefore not, he decided, under sail. They were at anchor somewhere off the English coast. Nearer to home, but a fact that was unlikely to help him in the least.

  It seemed a long time later when the door opened. Ludovic’s eyes were closed but he heard the key in the lock. It was Alysson’s face, and her voice, which had kept him sane in the dreary hours. Now he was loath to think of anything more malicious. He did not look up. “Get ‘im up,” someone said. “Walk ‘im if ‘e’s able. If not, drag ‘im.”

  “I shall walk,” said Ludovic.

  “Nice ter see yer awake, yer honour,” sniggered someone else. “Pleasant dreams, was it?”

  “Shurrup,” said the first voice. “Capin�
�s waiting larboard. Get this bastard up there, smart.”

  One leading, one behind up the few steps, Ludovic was marched from cabin to daylight. The sun cut his eyes, the glitter on the water’s surface a sudden affront. He breathed deep, clearing the fug, drawing in the fresh briny tang. The crew lounged along the decks, weapon heavy and staring, curious as he passed. Crossing larboard, Ludovic saw Captain Naseby, and behind him the long haze of a distantly purpled coastline. Through the haze cliffs rose, almost white in the bright daylight. Ludovic blinked, regaining both his sight and the clarity of his thoughts.

  The captain turned, hearing his approach. “Ah, Master Spittiswood. Welcome aboard the Cock’s Crest. There’s few I allow onto my ship, and fewer still gets to see my cabin. A mighty rare pleasure you’ve had. But I’m afraid you’ll not be staying long.”

  “I’m desolated,” said Ludovic, “but will hopefully – survive - the disappointment. And what have you done with my servant? I need him.”

  “Trussed up in the hold with the brat,” Naseby said. “You’ll see them soon enough. In the meantime, my friend, I’ve a few matters to explain.” He leaned back, elbows to the gunwales, grinning into the sunshine. Through the long knotted curls of his hair, things crawled. He scratched absently. “First, I’m a man of my word. What I says, you’d better believe, which is more than I can say of you. And what I says is this. It’s a good few years I’ve been in this game, and am not easy fooled. You’ve a knight’s training. Whether with a title or no, a gentleman you surely are, my friend, with money behind you. I’ll sell you back to your family in one piece, or I’ll chop you up small enough to feed the fishes when I throws you overboard. Your man Pownsey’ll carry my demands to wherever you comes from. But if he’s not back with all the coin in a week, then first I has my fun, and then my men does. Last of all, the fishes gets the pleasure.”

  Ludovic smiled. “And if Pownsey grabs the chance of freedom, and runs?”