By a desperate scramble a dozen men, the Prince at their head, gained a footing on the edge of the Spaniard’s deck. Some slashed furiously to clear a space, others hung over, clutching the rail with one hand and pulling up their comrades from below. Every instant that they could hold their own their strength increased, till twenty had become thirty and thirty forty, when of a sudden the newcomers, still reaching forth to their comrades below, saw the deck beneath them reel and vanish in a swirling sheet of foam. The Prince’s ship had foundered.
A yell went up from the Spaniards as they turned furiously upon the small band who had reached their deck. Already the Prince and his men had carried the poop, and from that high station they beat back their swarming enemies. But crossbow darts pelted and thudded among their ranks till a third of their number were stretched upon the planks. Lined across the deck they could hardly keep an unbroken front to the leaping, surging crowd who pressed upon them. Another rush, or another after that, must assuredly break them, for these dark men of Spain, hardened by an endless struggle with the Moors, were fierce and stubborn fighters. But hark to this sudden roar upon the farther side of them —
“Saint George! Saint George! A Knolles to the rescue!” A small craft had run alongside and sixty men had swarmed on the deck of the St. Iago. Caught between two fires, the Spaniards wavered and broke. The fight became a massacre. Down from the poop sprang the Prince’s men. Up from the waist rushed the new-corners. There were five dreadful minutes of blows and screams and prayers with struggling figures clinging to the bulwarks and sullen splashes into the water below. Then it was over, and a crowd of weary, overstrained men leaned panting upon their weapons, or lay breathless and exhausted upon the deck of the captured carack.
The Prince had pulled up his visor and lowered his beaver. He smiled proudly as he gazed around him and wiped his streaming face. “Where is the shipman?” he asked. “Let him lead us against another ship.”
“Nay, sire, the shipman and all his men have sunk in the Lion,” said Thomas de Mohun, a young knight of the West Country, who carried the standard. “We have lost our ship and the half of our following. I fear that we can fight no more.”
“It matters the less since the day is already ours,” said the Prince, looking over the sea. “My noble father’s royal banner flies upon yonder Spaniard. Mowbray, Audley, Suffolk, Beauchamp, Namur, Tracey, Stafford, Arundel, each has his flag over a scarlet carack, even as mine floats over this. See, yonder squadron is already far beyond our reach. But surely we owe thanks to you who came at so perilous a moment to our aid. Your face I have seen, and your coat-armor also, young sir, though I cannot lay my tongue to your name. Let me know that I may thank you.”
He had turned to Nigel, who stood flushed and joyous at the head of the boarders from the Basilisk.
“I am but a Squire, sire, and can claim no thanks, for there is nothing that I have done. Here is our leader.”
The Prince’s eyes fell upon the shield charged with the Black Raven and the stern young face of him who bore it. “Sir Robert Knolles,” said he, “I had thought you were on your way to Brittany.”
“I was so, sire, when I had the fortune to see this battle as I passed.”
The Prince laughed. “It would indeed be to ask too much, Robert, that you should keep on your course when much honor was to be gathered so close to you. But now I pray you that you will come back with us to Winchelsea, for well I know that my father would fain thank you for what you have done this day.”
But Robert Knolles shook his head. “I have your father’s command, sire, and without his order I may not go against it. Our people are hard-pressed in Brittany, and it is not for me to linger on the way. I pray you, sire, if you must needs mention me to the King, to crave his pardon that I should have broken my journey thus.”
“You are right, Robert. God-speed you on your way! And I would that I were sailing under your banner, for I see clearly that you will take your people where they may worshipfully win worship. Perchance I also maybe in Brittany before the year is past.”
The Prince turned to the task of gathering his weary people together, and the Basilisks passed over the side once more and dropped down on to their own little ship. They poled her off from the captured Spaniard and set their sail with their prow for the south. Far ahead of them were their two consorts, beating towards them in the hope of giving help, while down Channel were a score of Spanish ships with a few of the English vessels hanging upon their skirts. The sun lay low on the water, and its level beams glowed upon the scarlet and gold of fourteen great caracks, each flying the cross of Saint George, and towering high above the cluster of English ships which, with brave waving of flags and blaring of music, were moving slowly towards the Kentish coast.
XVIII. HOW BLACK SIMON CLAIMED FORFEIT FROM THE KING OF SARK
For a day and a half the small fleet made good progress, but on the second morning, after sighting Cape de la Hague, there came a brisk land wind which blew them out to sea. It grew into a squall with rain and fog so that they were two more days beating back. Next morning they found themselves in a dangerous rock studded sea with a small island upon their starboard quarter. It was girdled with high granite cliffs of a reddish hue, and slopes of bright green grassland lay above them. A second smaller island lay beside it. Dennis the shipman shook his head as he looked.
“That is Brechou,” said he, “and the larger one is the Island of Sark. If ever I be cast away, I pray the saints that I may not be upon yonder coast!”
Knolles gazed across at it. “You say well, master-shipman,” said he. “It does appear to be a rocky and perilous spot.”
“Nay, it is the rocky hearts of those who dwell upon it that I had in my mind,” the old sailor answered. “We are well safe in three goodly vessels, but had we been here in a small craft I make no doubt that they would have already had their boats out against us.”
“Who then are these people, and how do they live upon so small and windswept an island?” asked the soldier.
“They do not live from the island, fair sir, but from what they can gather upon the sea around it. They are broken folk from all countries, justice-fliers, prison-breakers, reavers, escaped bondsmen, murderers and staff-strikers who have made their way to this outland place and hold it against all comers. There is one here who could tell you of them and of their ways, for he was long time prisoner amongst them.” The seaman pointed to Black Simon, the dark man from Norwich, who was leaning against the side lost in moody thought and staring with a brooding eye at the distant shore.
“How now, fellow?” asked Knolles. “What is this I hear? Is it indeed sooth that you have been a captive upon this island?”
“It is true, fair sir. For eight months I have been servant to the man whom they call their King. His name is La Muette, and he comes from Jersey nor is there under God’s sky a man whom I have more desire to see.”
“Has he then mishandled you?”
Black Simon gave a wry smile and pulled off his jerkin. His lean sinewy back was waled and puckered with white scars. “He has left his sign of hand upon me,” said he. “He swore that he would break me to his will, and thus he tried to do it. But most I desire to see him because he hath lost a wager to me and I would fain be paid.”
“This is a strange saying,” said Knolles. “What is this wager, and why should he pay you?”
“It is but a small matter,” Simon answered; “but I am a poor man and the payment would be welcome. Should it have chanced that we stopped at this island I should have craved your leave that I go ashore and ask for that which I have fairly won.”
Sir Robert Knolles laughed. “This business tickleth my fancy,” said he. “As to stopping at the island, this shipman tells me that we must needs wait a day and a night, for that we have strained our planks. But if you should go ashore, how will you be sure that you will be free to depart, or that you will see this King of whom you speak?”
Black Simon’s dark face was shining
with a fierce joy. “Fair sir, I will ever be your debtor if you will let me go. Concerning what you ask, I know this island even as I know the streets of Norwich, as you may well believe seeing that it is but a small place and I upon it for near a year. Should I land after dark, I could win my way to the King’s house, and if he be not dead or distraught with drink I could have speech with him alone, for I know his ways and his hours and how he may be found. I would ask only that Aylward the archer may go with me, that I may have one friend at my side if things should chance to go awry.”
Knolles thought awhile. “It is much that you ask,” said he, “for by God’s truth I reckon that you and this friend of yours are two of my men whom I would be least ready to lose. I have seen you both at grips with the Spaniards and I know you. But I trust you, and if we must indeed stop at this accursed place, then you may do as you will. If you have deceived me, or if this is a trick by which you design to leave me, then God be your friend when next we meet, for man will be of small avail!”
It proved that not only the seams had to be calked but that the cog Thomas was out of fresh water. The ships moored therefore near the Isle of Brechou, where springs were to be found. There were no people upon this little patch, but over on the farther island many figures could be seen watching them, and the twinkle of steel from among them showed that they were armed men. One boat had ventured forth and taken a good look at them, but had hurried back with the warning that they were too strong to be touched.
Black Simon found Aylward seated under the poop with his back, against Bartholomew the bowyer. He was whistling merrily as he carved a girl’s face upon the horn of his bow.
“My friend,” said Simon, “will you come ashore to-night — for I have need of your help?”
Aylward crowed lustily. “Will I come, Simon? By my hilt, I shall be right glad to put my foot on the good brown earth once more. All my life I have trod it, and yet I would never have learned its worth had I not journeyed in these cursed ships. We will go on shore together, Simon, and we will seek out the women, if there be any there, for it seems a long year since I heard their gentle voices, and my eyes are weary of such faces as Bartholomew’s or thine.”
Simon’s grim features relaxed into a smile. “The only face that you will see ashore, Samkin, will bring you small comfort,” said he, “and I warn you that this is no easy errand, but one which may be neither sweet nor fair, for if these people take us our end will be a cruel one.”
“By my hilt,” said Aylward, “I am with you, gossip, wherever you may go! Say no more, therefore, for I am weary of living like a cony in a hole, and I shall be right glad to stand by you in your venture.”
That night, two hours after dark, a small boat put forth from the Basilisk. It contained Simon, Aylward and two seamen. The soldiers carried their swords, and Black Simon bore a brown biscuit-bag over his shoulder. Under his direction the rowers skirted the dangerous surf which beat against the cliffs until they came to a spot where an outlying reef formed a breakwater. Within was a belt of calm water and a shallow cover with a sloping beach. Here the boat was dragged up and the seamen were ordered to wait, while Simon and Aylward started on their errand.
With the assured air of a man who knows exactly where he is and whither he is going, the man-at-arms began to clamber up a narrow fern-lined cleft among the rocks. It was no easy ascent in the darkness, but Simon climbed on like an old dog hot upon a scent, and the panting Aylward struggled after as best he might. At last they were at the summit and the archer threw himself down upon the grass.
“Nay, Simon, I have not enough breath to blow out a candle,” said he. “Stint your haste for a minute, since we have a long night before us. Surely this man is a friend indeed, if you hasten so to see him.”
“Such a friend,” Simon answered, “that I have often dreamed of our next meeting. Now before that moon has set it will have come.”
“Had it been a wench I could have understood it,” said Aylward. “By these ten finger-bones, if Mary of the mill or little Kate of Compton had waited me on the brow of this cliff, I should have come up it and never known it was there. But surely I see houses and hear voices over yonder in the shadow?”
“It is their town,” whispered Simon. “There are a hundred as bloody-minded cutthroats as are to be found in Christendom beneath those roofs. Hark to that!”
A fierce burst of laughter came out of the darkness, followed by a long cry of pain.
“All-hallows be with us!” cried Aylward. “What is that?”
“As like as not some poor devil has fallen into their clutches, even as I did. Come this way, Samkin, for there is a peat-cutting where we may hide. Aye, here it is, but deeper and broader than of old. Now follow me close, for if we keep within it we shall find ourselves a stone cast off the King’s house.”
Together they crept along the dark cutting. Suddenly Simon seized Aylward by the shoulder and pushed him into the shadow of the bank. Crouching in the darkness, they heard footsteps and voices upon the farther side of the trench. Two men sauntered along it and stopped almost at the very spot where the comrades were lying. Aylward could see their dark figures outlined against the starry sky.
“Why should you scold, Jacques,” said one of them, speaking a strange half-French, half-English lingo. “Le diable t’emporte for a grumbling rascal. You won a woman and I got nothing. What more would you have?”
“You will have your chance off the next ship, mon garcon, but mine is passed. A woman, it is true — an old peasant out of the fields, with a face as yellow as a kite’s claw. But Gaston, who threw a nine against my eight, got as fair a little Normandy lass as ever your eyes have seen. Curse the dice, I say! And as to my woman, I will sell her to you for a firkin of Gascony.”
“I have no wine to spare, but I will give you a keg of apples,” said the other. “I had it out of the Peter and Paul, the Falmouth boat that struck in Creux Bay.”
“Well, well your apples may be the worse for keeping, but so is old Marie, and we can cry quits on that. Come round and drink a cup over the bargain.”
They shuffled onward in the darkness.
“Heard you ever such villainy?” cried Aylward, breathing fierce and hard. “Did you hear them, Simon? A woman for a keg of apples! And my heart’s root is sad for the other one, the girl of Normandy. Surely we can land to-morrow and burn all these water-rats out of their nest.”
“Nay, Sir Robert will not waste time or strength ere he reach Brittany.”
“Sure I am that if my little master Squire Loring had the handling of it, every woman on this island would be free ere another day had passed.”
“I doubt it not,” said Simon. “He is one who makes an idol of woman, after the manner of those crazy knight errants. But Sir Robert is a true soldier and hath only his purpose in view.”
“Simon,” said Aylward, “the light is not overgood and the place is cramped for sword-play, but if you will step out into the open I will teach you whether my master is a true soldier or not.”
“Tut, man! you are as foolish yourself,” said Simon. “Here we are with our work in hand, and yet you must needs fall out with me on our way to it. I say nothing against your master save that he hath the way of his fellows who follow dreams and fancies. But Knolles looks neither to right nor left and walks forward to his mark. Now, let us on, for the time passes.”
“Simon, your words are neither good nor fair. When we are back on shipboard we will speak further of this matter. Now lead on, I pray you, and let us see some more of this ten-devil island.”
For half a mile Simon led the way until they came to a large house which stood by itself. Peering at it from the edge of the cutting, Aylward could see that it was made from the wreckage of many vessels, for at each corner a prow was thrust out. Lights blazed within, and there came the sound of a strong voice singing a gay song which was taken up by a dozen others in the chorus.
“All is well, lad!” whispered Simon in great delight. “That is the voic
e of the King. It is the very song he used to sing. ‘Les deux filles de Pierre.’ ‘Fore God, my back tingles at the very sound of it. Here we will wait until his company take their leave.”
Hour after hour they crouched in the peat-cutting, listening to the noisy songs of the revelers within, some French, some English, and all growing fouler and less articulate as the night wore on. Once a quarrel broke out and the clamor was like a cageful of wild beasts at feeding-time. Then a health was drunk and there was much stamping and cheering.
Only once was the long vigil broken. A woman came forth from the house and walked up and down, with her face sunk upon her breast. She was tall and slender, but her features could not be seen for a wimple over her head. Weary sadness could be read in her bowed back and dragging steps. Once only they saw her throw her two hands up to Heaven as one who is beyond human aid. Then she passed slowly into the house again. A moment later the door of the hall was flung open, and a shouting stumbling throng came crowding forth, with whoop and yell, into the silent night. Linking arms and striking up a chorus, they marched past the peat-cutting, their voices dwindling slowly away as they made for their homes.
“Now, Samkin, now!” cried Simon, and jumping out from the hiding-place he made for the door. It had not yet been fastened. The two comrades sprang inside. Then Simon drew the bolts so that none might interrupt them.
A long table littered with flagons and beakers lay before them. It was lit up by a line of torches, which flickered and smoked in their iron sconces. At the farther end a solitary man was seated. His head rested upon his two hands, as if he were befuddled with wine, but at the harsh sound of the snapping bolts he raised his face and looked angrily around him. It was a strange powerful head, tawny and shaggy like a lion’s, with a tangled beard and a large harsh face, bloated and blotched with vice. He laughed as the newcomers entered, thinking that two of his boon companions had returned to finish a flagon. Then he stared hard and he passed his hand over his eyes like one who thinks he may be dreaming.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 466
