Fair Blows the Wind (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  No sooner had my body touched the bed than I was off into a sound sleep, and did not awaken until the sun was high. For a few minutes I lay still, then sat up, ordered some water brought, and bathed.

  The maid lingered at the door, glancing at me with large eyes and what seemed an inviting expression, although I was but a poor judge of such things.

  “Has the lady next door eaten?” I asked.

  “She is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  She smiled openly at my astonishment. “She left hours ago, before it was light.”

  I did not believe it, but a quick glance into her room proved the maid was right. Marie d’Harcourt was indeed gone.

  When I reached the common room of the inn food was placed upon the table for me. He who served me was not the same who had served me the night before. He explained that the lady did not wish me disturbed. She had left at daylight on the road to Rouen.

  “It is not safe for her to be on the highroad alone,” I objected. “You should have awakened me.”

  “Do not worry,” the innkeeper said dryly, “she will fare well. She has beauty but she also has wit.”

  “You know her then? You know Marie d’Harcourt?”

  “I do not know her,” he replied, “nor is she a d’Harcourt, for of them I know much, and a fine family they are. What her name might be I know not, but it is not d’Harcourt.”

  So…I had been fooled! But who was she then? And who did the brigands believe she was?

  “You had trouble along the road?”

  I explained my adventures of the night before and when I described my opponent he shook his head. “My friend, you are fortunate, indeed—or one of the finest swordsmen in Europe. The man whom you met is Andre de Tankarville, and it is said no man has stood against him.”

  He related the story then. It followed the one Tankarville had told. “The family had two branches, or so I have heard, the one intelligent, religious, devout. The other not religious, though nonetheless they were loyal to a fault, and of great courage also.”

  My meal was complete. I paid what was required and stood up. Then the door opened and Tankarville stood there, his face flushed with hard riding in the wind, and with anger as well. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “Gone,” I said.

  “She took it all! Every last coin, every ring, every candlestick!”

  So that was what was in the bundle! How she had managed it, I did not know. And yet…when we were fighting, Tankarville and I, where was she then? Was she gathering up the more valuable jewels and hiding them on her person?

  “We are fools, my friend, for she has duped us both and is away, gone three hours or more.”

  He slammed his fist upon the table, then dropped into a chair. “Give him a mug of cider,” I said. “And I shall have another. She’s gone, my friend, so forget about it.”

  “Forget about it? There was a fortune there! A king’s ransom, if you will! Not the gold so much as the gems! A full dozen of them!”

  He gripped the handle of the mug and swore, then looked up at me and suddenly grinned. “Ah, what a handy wench! She will fare well, that one!”

  “Where did you come upon her?”

  “You may well ask. She is anything but a lady, though who she is I do not know. I will not say how or where we came upon the treasure, but we came upon it. She was also in the process of helping herself so we had no choice but to carry her off—at least far enough so she could not inform upon us.”

  We talked no more, but finished our cider. I went to my horse and Tankarville followed, muttering in his anger.

  When I swung to the saddle, I held down a hand to him. Enemies we had been but he was a fine hand with a blade, and a daring rogue, withal.

  “If you will,” I said, “go to Henry of Navarre. He needs good fighting men and I think he will be generous. Tell him Tatton Chantry sent you, though it may or may not help.”

  With that I was off to Rouen, with England just down the river and across the channel. It was in my thoughts that after nearly four years I would be close to my homeland again, home from captivity in Spain, from meeting with Henry and all that had transpired between.

  And what of my ventures? What might have become of them after four years?

  And what of Rafe Leckenbie?

  CHAPTER 27

  THE ROUEN INTO which I rode, coming down a winding trail from the plateau above, was a bustling port, crowded with shipping from the sea and with boats and barges down the Seine from Paris. There were numerous inns and drinking places, and sailors everywhere, mingling with soldiers and civilians.

  I found an excellent hostelry close enough to the waterfront to observe the ships. There I stabled my horse and entered the inn.

  The room I had was small and neat and absolutely clean, which was a pleasure. Water was brought to me and I bathed, taking my time about it while considering my next move.

  To find a ship to England or Scotland, and one leaving at the earliest possible moment, was my most immediate goal. There were many here friendly to England. And once again I must forget my Irish ancestry and consider myself a native of the Hebrides.

  The keeper of the inn directed me to a nearby tailor and I ordered four suits, head to heels, one of them for travel.

  While they were being made, I went to my horse. He was standing in a fine stall, munching very good hay, and seemed content to be there, but he took his nose from the manger and nudged me with it. I patted him on the shoulder, talked to him a bit, then walked out into the street, going first to the Quai du Havre where I strolled along, examining the shipping.

  Several of the vessels were Flemish, and at least one was from the Mediterranean—a dark, low vessel that lay quietly alongside the quay with no visible activity amid the bustle and confusion of the other ships.

  Some seamen loitered near a bollard and I paused. “Hear you aught of a ship loading for England?” I asked.

  They looked at me and made at first no reply. Then the smaller of the lot, a slim, wiry fellow, answered. “Little enough for there this fortnight,” he said. “Mostly they are loading for the Baltic or the Mediterranean. Is it passage you seek?”

  “Aye, and if you hear of aught I am Captain Chantry at the Hotel des Bons Enfants, in the street of the same name. And there’s a bit of silver for him who brings me a true word.”

  “It will not be one of us who decides you may go,” the man said.

  “Of course. Just word of a ship. I shall do the rest if it can be done.”

  My street was a bit of a walk from the quays but the masts of the ships could be seen from my window, and it gave me a feeling of nearness, at least. Back at the inn I seated myself in the common room and ordered an omelette and a bottle of wine.

  It was the custom to eat but two meals, one at ten and one at four, but travelers such as I ate when hungry, and that I was. The omelette was excellent, and followed by a potpourri composed of veal, mutton, bacon, and vegetables.

  Suddenly a man loomed over me. Glancing up, I saw a big, swarthy young man with rings in his ears. “You seek a ship for England?”

  “I do.”

  “For yourself alone?”

  “Myself and my horse, and the horse is a fine one. Do you know of such a ship?”

  “It may be. I shall speak to the master. It is to London we sail.”

  “Bespeak a passage then for myself and a horse. The name is Chantry.”

  He stared at me. “Be you Tatton Chantry? The swordsman?”

  “I am Tatton Chantry, and I have a sword.”

  “Ah, the master will be pleased!”

  *

  THE PASSAGE BACK was rough but short. When I led my horse down the gangplank to the London dock he could have been no more pleased to reach land than I. Mounted, I rode at once to the house of Emma Delahay.

  For a moment I could only sit my horse and stare. The house was partly burned, the windows boarded over. Emma Delahay was gone! I asked a passerby f
or news. He merely shrugged and walked on. I walked my horse up the street and stopped at a familiar sign. There a man named Holmes had a small shop where he sold clothes to sailors and the like.

  “Emma Delahay, you say? Been gone for four years, Cap’n. Seen nothing of her, all that time.”

  At my next question, he nodded. “The Good Catherine? Aye, she came back, and many a time since. Good ship! Due in again soon.”

  My further inquiries concerning Emma Delahay went for nothing. She had simply disappeared…vanished. And my money with her!

  At the old inn Tom showed me to my old room. “I’ll care for your horse, lad.” At my question, he shook his head. “Jacob? Been three…almost four years. But he’s a wandering man. No telling where he’s come to by now. Sooner or later he’ll come back.”

  He brought me ale and sat down across from me. “Quiet it is,” he said. “All is quiet now.” He looked at me sharply. “You did him in, you know.”

  “Who? Jacob?”

  “Not Jacob! Oh, no! Never him! I mean Leckenbie. That last piece of yours, it destroyed him. It angered the Queen and she had hard words for some of her people. They hanged a dozen of them at Tyburn and put a few others behind bars. But not Leckenbie! Oh, never him! He got off, skipped out—and is a wealthy man, they say.”

  “And Tosti,” I said, “what of him?”

  “I have not seen him. For a while, he was much about, a lonely man, I think. Yet all has changed here. Robin Greene is sunk far into drink and all the talk now is of Kit Marlowe, Thomas Kyd, and Will Shakespeare.”

  London had changed. Or perhaps it was I who had changed, for does a man ever remain the same? My voyage to sea, my captivity, mild though it had been, my experience of other lands and other peoples, had had their effect upon me.

  When Tom had gone about his business I sat long over my glass. I was older…four years older, and nigh onto five. The months had passed quick in Spain, and in the wars as well. Now, looking back, they were a blur of confused images with only a few moments standing out, stark and clear. Often they were the inconsequential moments, or what seemed so.

  In my pocket were a few gold coins from the purse given me by Henry; beyond that I had nothing. I was a man alone, without home, without estate, without family, and at this point, without friends.

  What was I to do? Find Emma Delahay? Then how? She may have died, for the plague visited London often. My small fortune was gone and my gold would not last long. Should I return to writing? But I was no writer, merely a man with some facility with words. Still, I had a story of the wars, perhaps several, and so, until fortune smiled again, perhaps…

  To sit idle was never my way. Somehow I must be doing.

  The England of Good Queen Bess was a country on the march. Merchants and tradesmen, once despised, now often held positions of honor. Some of them were acquiring coats of arms and being ushered into the gentry. Yeomen had become nobles, and all was changing. Of the old families who had come with William from Normandy, few remained in any kind of power. A new order of men was rising, yet there was no lasting place for me in England, for sooner or later questions would be asked and my identity discovered.

  Richard Field…I would seek him out. With that in mind I went to my room. At my small table I began to compose a firsthand account of the battle of Arques. To flesh it out I included a brief account of Henry of Navarre. It was no obsequious, flattering picture, but a straightforward account of the man, his character, and his capabilities.

  Most of the night I worked, driving swiftly ahead, caught up by the excitement of my own narrative. It was not the picture from the long view as so many were, but from the standpoint of the soldier in the field, of hand-to-hand combat, the clash of blades, the blood, the dying, the waiting, and the occasional flashes of humor.

  Next day Richard Field greeted me as an old friend, for he at least had not changed except that he was now risen in the world. His print shop was twice its former size, and he employed a dozen workmen and apprentices now where there had been but two before.

  Alone in his private chamber where he conducted his business, he stood back and looked at me. “Ah, but you have changed! The boy has become the man! And that scar on your cheekbone?”

  “It was single combat, at Ivry, between the armies. With a lieutenant of the Duke of Mayenne. I fought two such fights.”

  “And what have you here? Another manuscript?”

  “A firsthand account of Arques.”

  “Good! I think we can use it. Do another on Ivry.” He glanced over the sheets of manuscript. “Hah! A picture of Henry of Navarre! That will hold much interest here!”

  Seated over a glass of wine I explained that I sought Emma Delahay.

  Richard Field shrugged. “Who can say where she is? London is a vast place and people come and go. She was a woman alone, and there are many murders—most of which go unpunished and the murderers unfound.

  “It might be that. Or she might just have chosen to disappear. You spoke of the Good Catherine. Her master may know something that would help you.”

  For hours I wandered the streets of London but saw no other familiar face. Tosti Padget, had he been here, would probably have known all, but he had disappeared. Then, at night in my chamber, I worked at telling the story of the battle of Ivry, and noting down several others, one a tale of Spanish treasure I heard while there.

  When I saw him again, Field commented, “You who are forever trying foreign ventures should go to the Levant Company, lately chartered to carry on trade with Turkey, Venice, and all the eastern Mediterranean. It has the smell of a good thing, indeed.

  “Besides,” he added, “it were well to be free of London now, for the plague is such that soon all feasting must cease, and the theaters may soon be closed.”

  We talked on various subjects, drinking our wine the while, and he told me much that had obtained whilst I was away to the wars. Despite what I had heard heretofore he said he thought Robert Greene was dead, and that Edward Alleyn, the tragedian, had married Joan Woodward, stepdaughter to Philip Henslowe, a theater man himself.

  “There was great scandal, too, about the taking of the great Spanish ship,” he continued. “A rich prize she was, and all who came aboard her made off with some thing, and none of them trifles. The Queen, they say, is furious. My lord of Cumberland is he who finally laid her aboard and deserves the most, but some others, Raleigh among them, are much discontented.”

  Late it was when at last we parted, and I started back through the streets alone. Yet I had two pistols, well charged, and my blade with the silver hilt.

  Emerging from the door, I saw a carriage drawn up down the street, all silent and standing, and I liked not the look of her, with two powerfully built men on her box. As I started past, the coach came forward, following me.

  “You’re daft, Chantry!” I told myself.

  Yet it was coming up, moving more swiftly now, and I drew warily to one side and stepped into a doorway to have my back against something. The coach drew abreast and stopped, and a woman’s gloved hand emerged from the curtained window.

  “Young man!”

  Holding myself ready, I replied, “Is there something you wish?”

  “Are you not the gallant Captain Chantry?”

  “I am Captain Chantry.” I glanced to left and right. “These are black streets, milady, and were I you I should make the best of my way home. Thieves do hunt the streets about here, and no man is safe, let alone a woman.”

  “Will you not share my carriage? Come, do not be afraid. See?” She opened the door. “I am alone.”

  Curious and intrigued, I moved a step from the building. Indeed, she was alone, and as for the two men on the box, I counted myself quite their equal.

  “What is it you wish?”

  “Come, get in, and we will drive you to your inn. Oh, yes! I know where it is. A strange place, too, by all accounts. One wonders if the handsome young captain is as guileless as he seems.”

/>   Curious indeed, I stepped into the carriage and seated myself opposite her.

  She laughed. “What! Is the noble captain afraid then? Will you not sit beside me, Captain?”

  “If I did so I could not see your beauty half so well, milady.”

  She laughed again and leaned toward me. She was masked. Her perfume was delicate and suited her. She was clad as for a ball, her white shoulders but barely covered, her hat riding upon a blond coiffure.

  “Come, Captain! Do you so soon forget old friends? I have cause to remember you, who were so gallant, and such a magnificent swordsman! My! I who have seen the best was amazed! And quick to act, too! Never a second’s hesitation!”

  She leaned back so that her face was half in the shadow. Suddenly her bantering tone changed. “Captain, I have long ears, for I have discovered that information is ever the price of victory, and I understand a venture upon which you depended much has failed you.”

  “It is the fortune of trade, milady.”

  “Indeed it is, and my informers tell me that while you ventured but little, your ventures were marked with success.”

  “Small success! And the woman I trusted disappeared, taking with her what little I had.”

  “But you trusted her? Some men would think you a fool to trust any woman, particularly in a business way. Was she your mistress, too?”

  “She was not,” I replied stiffly.

  The coach had come to a halt. Looking out, I could see that she had indeed returned me to my inn. I moved as if to depart but she put a hand on mine. “Stay, I would talk a minute.

  “Look you,” she said. “Who I am or where I come from does not at this time matter. You trusted a woman and she failed you, or seems to have. I needs must trust a man and I know no other who seems so likely a risk.”

  “I thank you. If there is anything—”

  “There is, indeed.” From a bag beside her on the seat she took a smaller sack. “Take this. Count it well, and when you have done so, think how it might be invested.