The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

Tod leaned over and pulled up his leather leggings as if they alone had felt the strain of the contortion, and the stranger emerged.

  “Thou hast won,” he announced shortly. “Now let us be off and see some of these funny things that set thee laughing.”

  “How now! I was but smiling at thee, and no offense to thee!” said Tod. “It is that serious face of thine that looks as if it would sit better on a prince of the realm than on a keeper of my lord’s wardrobe, whose greatest enemy is no larger than a moth.”

  “Fear not! It is not responsibility that makes me glum but the lack of sport and adventure in this world. I have tried my hand at much, but have found nothing that does not pall ere the froth which it has caused be settled.”

  Tod rose and shook himself, which was a characteristic movement of his.

  “Keep the lid on that smile of thine ere it bubbles up again,” cautioned the stranger, “and all that I wish of thee is a twinkle for my eye an it cause not the earth to shake. Come, let’s be off!”

  “Ay,” answered Tod, “off to the fens and to a band of as merry rogues as thou hast ever seen.”

  “Egad! Will they all smile?” asked the stranger.

  “Belike they will if I do not succeed in changing thy countenance before the day is done. I shall name thee Dismas, the penitent thief.”

  “And pray what have I robbed?”

  “Thou hast robbed thy lord of his man and his livery.”

  “But of that I am not penitent.”

  “Well, then, thou hast robbed me of my own companionship.”

  “Ay, truly, and of that I may indeed repent.”

  So saying, Dismas, as we shall now call him, paid the score and followed Tod out on to the highway. “And how dost thou account for thyself and thy friends?” Dismas continued as they walked along.

  “I account for them even as our madcap prince accounts for himself and his gay companions,” answered Tod. “At times he is at serious business what with this unsettled state of England, but at other times I hear he gives himself up to mad escapades, now here, now there, matching his wits against those of his subjects. ’Twould do my heart good to match him against my Tom True Tongue, but though Castle Bolingbroke is near, the prince is fonder of London than these parts, and ’tis only occasionally we see even his gay retainers. I might think thou wert one of them indeed, but thou art not gay enough!” and Tod winked a blue eye.

  Dismas shook his head. “Indeed I am not one of his retainers nor ever wish to be. The prince, they say, is in truth an odd fellow with a head that would fit a jester’s cap better than a crown.”

  Tod slapped his thigh and laughed. “A man after my own heart then, for it takes a wise man to be a good jester.” He put his hand on Dismas’s arm, and stopped him on the rise of ground they had just gained. His other hand made a circle taking in the long stretch of fens. “I live in this green stretch of land with the wild birds circling over it. Other men have tired of the false world and have joined me even as thou hast today, and we lead a life of outdoor pleasure taking only what is no man’s and enjoying what is every man’s. Thou wouldst join us for a fortnight and a day, and in that time we shall give thee such entertainment as we have. We ask not who thou art or whence thou comest, for we do know that all men are but wanderers, and the king himself does not rightly know whence he comes or whither he goes. Some men call us idle, but what, forsooth, is idleness? Is it to laugh and be merry, and to be no man’s enemy; and is busy-ness to quarrel over gold and silver and be no man’s friend?” And Tod again held up his scarred hand. “I quarreled once over gold and silver, but dost think they are worth it?”

  “I know not,” answered Dismas, “but remember thou art teaching me to laugh and not to puzzle my brains with thy whithers and thy wherefores. Enough of this! Make me laugh ere I gain that oak tree yonder or I’ll leave thee straightway and put thee down for a dull companion.”

  “Marry, I’ll make thee laugh then. Answer me this riddle. What is it that walks before thee now, and would walk before even the prince himself?”

  “I know not,” answered Dismas, “and did I not tell thee I did not wish to puzzle my brains?”

  “Ay, that thou didst, but the answer is simple enough, for it is only thy shadow.”

  “Thou art no dull man, indeed,” and Dismas laughed even as they gained the oak tree, “but tell thy riddle to no one else or thou wilt regret it.”

  “So be it,” agreed Tod. “Between thee and me it will rest then.”

  CHAPTER III

  In the Tilney Garden

  Johanna Tilney was at a favorite occupation; namely, feeding the swans in her father’s garden. Johanna was fourteen years old, and if Lady Mathilda, her mother, could have had her own way with her, uninterfered with by Sir Frederick, whose daughter was his most cherished possession, Johanna would now have her hair confined in a jeweled caul with veil attached and her slim waist in a cote-hardie tightly laced, while her gown and hanging sleeves would be sweeping the ground in great elegance. As it was, she was dressed, according to her own wish and that of her father, in a simple, loose gown of Beverly blue which matched her eyes and the reflection of the blue sky in the garden pool, and her short dark hair was caught up under a kerchief.

  The swans were pressing eagerly around for the bread crumbs which she was scattering on the surface of the water, and the most forward of the three birds had left the water and was stretching its long neck under her arm from behind, and was stealing the bread from her hand.

  “Go to, thou silly bird,” chid Johanna, “thou always gettest more than thy share, but thou must work for it if thou wouldst have this bit, and thy greediness will be to thy disadvantage.” So saying, she threw the last crust far out into the pond, and with a fluttering of wings, the birds started off to secure it.

  As Johanna foresaw, the swan which had come ashore started off quite in the rear, but with a strategic movement it swam off to the right, and when the other birds in their credulity turned to follow, it circled around in front of them and ran off with the prize.

  Johanna laughed gleefully. “Thou art not to be outdone. I truly believe thou art descended from that wise swan that belonged to St. Hugh of Lincoln. I’ll ask Brother Stephen if this be not so.”

  It was warm for this time of year as spring had come early, and the fruit trees were about to break into blossom. The Tilney garden was mainly an expanse of soft greensward which stretched away to the side of the house, with carefully laid-out paths wandering among fine old trees; and to the back of the house behind a close-clipped hedge were the kitchen garden and orchard, the larder, the buttery, the brew-house, and the kitchen itself.

  The Tilney house was one of the finest in Boston at this time. It was a large one, built of stone and timber. The woodwork was artistically carved with deep scrolls and designs. Each of its two upper stones overhung the one below it, so that the topmost story, roofed in red tiles, leaned out beyond the garden wall and overshadowed the row of small thatched houses that lined the opposite side of the alley, for even as fine a house as this had no other approach than a narrow cobbled lane that was often running with dye emptied from the vats of the dyers who lived and worked opposite. Wide stone steps ran up the side of the house to a terrace and to the entrance to the living apartment which was in the second story.

  Having tired of watching the swans, Johanna betook herself to the farthest corner of the garden, where, if her mother was not looking, she could mount the garden wall by means of the strong vines that grew on it and look off across a sloping jumble of tiled roofs and dormer windows to the quay, where many ships rode at anchor, most of them belonging to the powerful Hanseatic League, in the hands of which lay the whole carrying trade of the Baltic Sea.

  They were vessels of the Hanse, a league of German cities, that sailed from Boston to Bergen in Norway with English wares and brought back cargoes of salt fish, or brought iron from Sweden, wine from the Rhine vineyards, oranges, spices, and foreign fruits from Bruges, and fro
m Russia, wood, skins, and furs. Sometimes there were Venetian galleys to be seen. These were the largest sailing ships of the time, and they had oarsmen, too, that they might move in a calm sea with great speed. To mediæval Europe it was the merchant of Venice or Genoa who hazarded his ships in the mysterious and little known East, and brought back gems, ivories, spices, and silks.

  Near the quay were the warehouses, and here Johanna’s father went each day, for it was his duty as Mayor of the Staple to oversee all exportation in these commodities, especially of wool, for that, first weighed at the point from which it was shipped, had to be weighed again at the port of departure, and sealed with the seal of the Mayor of the Staple.

  Johanna longed to be a boy that she might take part in the waterside activities, for they held a strong fascination for her, and she plied her father with questions regarding seafaring ways and the lands across the sea. Her father had been to Flanders many times, for the Flemish people were the best weavers in the world, and they were the greatest buyers of English wool.

  This morning as Johanna gained her point of vantage, she saw a ship come up the river and anchor in midstream. She knew from the outline of its high stern and prow and the cross of St. George which it flew that this was no foreign ship, but one of the few good English ships that were to be found on the sea, so monopolized by the odious Easterling. Not long afterward she heard her mother’s voice calling her, and hastily climbing down, lest she be discovered in her undignified position, she hurried to the house.

  Lady Mathilda met her at the door. “Haste thee, Johanna, and dress thyself as befits a young lady of thy age, for thy father has just sent word that he brings a merchant and his son to dine with us. An apprentice brought the message, and at the same time desired the key to the town coffer to bear to thy father. He must be pressed with great matters, and we must see to it that nothing at his home disturbs him.”

  Lady Mathilda, who was a knight’s daughter and had been brought up on a manor in Kent, took great pride in the management of her household and in rich and beautiful possessions. The walls of her home were hung in fine tapestries, and there was much silver plate and carved furniture.

  “Thou mayst wear thy best dress sent to thee from London, the rose silk, and also the fine pearl girdle. Now haste thee, for Caroline is even now waiting to help thee.”

  When Johanna appeared again, she looked like a fine lady indeed, for the gown became her well. Her soft color matched the smooth lustrous silk, and her slim neck carried gracefully the high, heart-shaped headdress of fine linen.

  Her father and the two guests were talking earnestly when she descended the wide stairway. They were sitting on a carved oaken settle at the farther end of the great hall, and she felt the eyes of the younger one were upon her as she approached. Her father presented her to Sir Richard Branche and his son, Gilbert Branche, both of whom bowed low over her outstretched hand.

  Sir Richard, like her father, was dressed in a long tunic which reached to the ankles and was buttoned down the entire length of the front. The outer sleeve of the gown was loose and flowing, but the under sleeve was tight and was fastened with buttons to the wrist. This array of buttons and the rich girdle, more ornate than that which her father wore, were what especially attracted Johanna’s eyes.

  Gilbert Branche was a fine upstanding lad of sixteen, and Johanna liked at once his fresh open countenance and clear blue eyes. They immediately withdrew to the window seat, overlooking the garden, and fell into easy conversation.

  “I saw thee when thou didst cast anchor this morning. Hast thou ever sailed up the Lindis before to our town, and whence hast thou come?”

  “This is the first time I have ever set foot in Boston, but my father has come often before. We live in Lynn, so it was but a short sail before a good southeast wind.”

  “And dost thou love the sea?” asked Johanna eagerly, for she knew if the answer were in the affirmative that she would have much to say to this young man.

  “Ay,” was the quick response, “and dost thou know I have but now gained my father’s consent to sail to the Baltic on one of his ships this coming summer?”

  “And mayhap thou wilt encounter pirates, for my father says the seas be full of them,” gasped Johanna.

  “My father is a Merchant Adventurer, and I would be one, too,” went on young Gilbert enthusiastically.

  At this point Lady Mathilda made her appearance, and the table was laid at the other end of the hall. During the meal that followed the conversation was of many things—the unsettled times, the dishonesty of merchants, and the endless precautions that had to be taken to detect fraud and smuggling, of King Henry and his difficulties with disloyal nobles, of Richard Whittington, Mayor of London, famous for his wisdom and foresight.

  After the meal was over, Sir Frederick and Sir Richard settled themselves down to earnest consultation, Lady Mathilda retired, and Johanna and Gilbert were left to wander through the garden. Gilbert began at once to explain to Johanna just what was meant by “Merchant Adventurer.”

  “Knowest thou not that England can boast of but a handful of ships to carry on the trade with other countries? We depend upon the Germans, the Venetians, and the Genoese to bring us things and take away our merchandise. Is not that shameful? Why should we not have our ships and sailormen?” Gilbert’s eyes flashed.

  Johanna watched him with admiration. “Thou art a lad after mine own heart,” she answered candidly, “and were I, too, a boy I should be a Merchant Adventurer, if that means sailing far away and bringing back the good things of the world to England.”

  “Thou must not wish to be a boy, when it is for such as thou that we would brave the dangers and return again. Wouldst thou not rather have thy colors carried across some unknown sea than into a knightly tournament?”

  “Ay, truly,” answered Johanna.

  “Then that will I do, for I have never seen a maid as fair as thou art. Wilt thou have me for thy Merchant Adventurer?” he continued laughingly.

  “Ay, truly, if thou wilt be fair and honest in all thy dealings,” replied Johanna, “but now come and I will show thee my favorite nook, from which I watch hour by hour the loading and unloading of the boats.”

  When they reached the garden wall, a look of disappointment came over Johanna’s face. “Alas!” she said, “I had forgot that I am in my best dress, and cannot mount. Doubtless, too, thou wouldst not think it becoming in a lady to climb so high. Well, never mind. Do thou put thy foot here, and so on up. I shall stand here and thou canst tell me what thou dost see.”

  Gilbert mounted the wall, and looked off. “It is a fine view,” he called down. “See, I can help thee up, and there is naught here can hurt thy gown.”

  Johanna needed no second invitation, and in another moment with the help of his hand, she was seated beside him.

  “How my mother would scold, should she see me,” laughed Johanna delightedly; “but Father would be even as thou art. He likes my daring ways. How pleased he would have been if I had been a son instead of a daughter! Mother thinks only of how she may teach me to conduct myself, so that some good knight will seek my hand in marriage. This summer I am to visit my mother’s family, far off in Kent, and there shall I hear of nothing but knights and arms and tournaments. Alas! It will not be to my taste. I like not wars and fighting.”

  “There will there be so many squires to pay thee court that thou wilt forget this afternoon,” and a shadow of disappointment came across Gilbert’s face.

  “Mayhap,” answered Johanna with a coquettish toss of her head and a mischievous smile. “But,” she added after a pause, “I do not think so. Tell me some more of the sea. How many ships has thy father, and what are their names, and whither do they go? And look, canst thou tell me whence those ships below come, for that can I tell thee if thou knowest not?”

  So the afternoon sped along, until suddenly Gilbert noticed a sudden activity on his father’s boat.

  “I am afraid that testing of the sail means pre
paration for departure. We must return to the house and see if my father has already gone to the quay.”

  So saying, Gilbert helped Johanna safely to the ground, and they returned, still talking busily. Lady Mathilda was the only one within the hall. She seemed to be disturbed.

  “I was about to send for thee, Gilbert, for Sir Richard left a short time ago, saying that thou must follow before long. Johanna, thy father is greatly upset. It seems he gave no message to the apprentice to bring the key of the town coffer to him, and he is now trying to seek him out to see what he is about. He does not feel that all is well. Alas! I hope that through my indiscretion no harm has come to the town funds.” Lady Mathilda reminded one of a deer at bay, as she walked up and down the hall, her brown silk dress ruffling about her, and her horned headdress towering above her anxious face.

  “Did my father know the apprentice?” asked Johanna.

  “Nay, he had never seen him before. He said that he turned to a fellow standing near and asked him to carry a message. He did not even notice what he looked like, but that did I. He had bright blue eyes under heavy eyebrows, a straight nose, and high cheekbones.”

  “Surely one key cannot be enough to unlock the town treasure,” said Gilbert. “In Lynn I am sure there be as many as six keys, and each kept by a different person.”

  “Ay, that is so. I had forgot. The loss of one key is no great concern. I wonder Sir Frederick did not think of that.” Lady Mathilda showed signs of great relief. Then after a moment she went on: “The man may have had a special grudge against Sir Frederick. I like not that thought, either. He may think to discredit him in some fashion. It seems to me a most strange occurrence.”

  “Do not worry, Mother,” said Johanna. “I feel sure it is of no great importance. Surely Father’s position cannot be shaken by the loss of a key.”

  Gilbert at this point took his leave, thanking Lady Mathilda for her hospitality and Johanna for the pleasant hour he had spent, and begging that he be allowed to return soon.

  “Thou mayst always be sure of a welcome,” said Lady Mathilda with great sincerity, for she found that the lad was very pleasing to her, even though she understood from his father that he had decided to go into the merchant trade rather than pursue his knightly training. At least he had served as page and squire in the household of Sir John de Lacy and that was all to his advantage. Lady Mathilda, as much as she honored her husband, still felt a little skeptical of this merchant class that was coming into existence as men of rank and wealth. Surely they would never acquire the honor which fell to the share of the landed nobility.