The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  “Thou didst not have any ill effects from thy encounter with the chapman, didst thou?” called back Dame Skilton, above the bang of the comb and the clank of the treadle.

  “Nay, not I,” answered Dame Pinchbeck. “Thou knowest the saying:’

  Adam and Eve and Pinchbeck

  Went down to the river to bathe,

  Adam and Eve got drownded,

  And who dost think got saved?

  He addressed me fair enough, and a fine-looking fellow was he, but tall. He was a young giant, for he must have had six feet.”

  “Dost say that he had six feet? Alackaday! I have never heard of such a likelihood! And what did he do with them all? If he were not a thief, I should like to have him to run my loom, for six feet would certainly be useful.”

  “Ha! Ha!” laughed Dame Pinchbeck. “Thou art always poking fun at me. But as I was saying, he spoke me fair, and now, I ask thee, had not the key been of value, wouldst thou not say I had struck a good bargain? Thou didst see the embroidery that I did take. He had but a few trinkets in his pack, for he said his day had been fine, and the goodwives of Boston did know what they were about, for they bought wisely and well.”

  Dame Pinchbeck had crossed the cobbled lane by this time, and was leaning against the doorway, and watching Dame Skilton as she deftly tossed the shuttle back and forth.

  “My goodman says,” Dame Skilton continued, “that there be whispers about that Sir Frederick Tilney knows more about this robbing of the coffer than they like to think of his knowing. ’Twas he that was the first to break the news, and now does he suggest that the two hundred marks be made up by the five officers in fault. ’Twill mean forty marks apiece, and that be a great sum.”

  Dame Pinchbeck gasped, and then sat down heavily on the bench within the door.

  “I had not heard that,” she declared, leaning forward in astonishment and the words coming out with breathless pauses between. “And prithee, how is my goodman to meet that, I ask thee? ’Tis well enough for Sir Frederick, but how about us poor folk?”

  “Ay, that is what they say, and though everybody knows the reputation of the Tilney family, still the whisper goes about that mayhap forty marks from two hundred marks leaves the balance a good one, and worth the loss of the forty marks.”

  “Dost mean by that that Sir Frederick would have the one hundred and sixty marks?” gasped Dame Pinchbeck.

  “I did not say so,” answered Dame Skilton cautiously. “I did but repeat what I have heard rumored. There is other talk about Sir Frederick being suddenly taken with the idea of shipbuilding, and forsaking the wool trade, and what not. I know not what it means or where it all may lead, but I be one of those who care not who forsakes the wool trade. It is as much as we can do to get wool for our own weaving, so set are the wool merchants to send our English wool abroad. This place be full of wool as thou knowest, and yet does my goodman have to work hard to get enough to keep our two looms going.”

  Dame Pinchbeck’s thoughts were on other things than this common complaint of the English weaver of this time, for there were the forty marks Pinchbeck might have to hand over, and although he did indeed have a full leathern bag carefully hidden away, still it would be lightened almost entirely by the loss of such a sum.

  Meanwhile in the “Golden Fleece” there was a scene in progress that we must indeed look in on, rather than delay longer at this gossiping.

  “How now, thou madcap Hal, here do we come upon thee playing the minstrel and warbling thy songs to the dull-witted townsfolk of Boston? Hast never heard that Boston ears be stuffed with wool?”

  The speaker was an elegantly dressed nobleman with a clear-cut face and arched brow. He wore an ermine-trimmed scarlet houppelande, and his carefully dressed locks reached to his shoulders and curled at the nape of his neck. The toes of his shoes were fastened by long gold chains to his knees, and across his shoulder was a baldrick, which was hung with small bells.

  “Come now, tell us what thou hast been up to this fortnight past.” And he waved his hand to include the group of four other noblemen who were seated by the window and who were dividing their attention between some small talk of their own and what the others were saying.

  The person thus addressed, who was in reality none other than Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales, stood before the speaker in an attitude of defiance. “How now, my lord of Arundel, since when hast thou taken upon thyself to be my guardian? Can I not disport myself as I would without giving thee an accounting? Rather do thou tell me what thou and thy fine retainers are doing here.”

  “We have been dispatched from Castle Bolingbroke to search thee out. We thought to find thee here, perchance, knowing thy fondness for the haunts of men, but we did not think to spend one day splashing through the fens and ruining our clothes, and another ere in this dull town, and then to have nothing for our trouble but dark looks from thee! And here have I loaned thee my second best attire that thou mightest discard that minstrel garb of thine, and for that even do I get no thanks.”

  “Ay, thou shouldst indeed thank him for that,” called a young man from across the room, “for he did take great pains in bringing it hither, for such is his conceit that he loathes to wear the same attire two days in succession.”

  “And yet for thee I am wearing this three days,” said Lord Arundel, flicking a speck from his baldrick and setting the silver bells to tinkling.

  “Thou needst not have gone against thy custom, for I should have been willing to take that one thou didst wear upon thy arrival, and thou couldst have had this,” said Prince Henry, whereupon there was loud laughter from the others.

  “Didst not hear him say that was his second best? It is his best that he does wear.”

  “I thought so,” answered Prince Henry grimly, “but I do thank thee for it just the same, and more, that thou didst have the good sense to keep silent when thou didst discover me the other night. But now what is the message that thou dost bring? Out with it, and then leave me in peace.”

  “We cannot leave thee, for to bring thee back with us was the substance of our message.”

  The Prince was silent for a short time, and then his face lightened, and he broke into laughter.

  “That being the case,” he said, “then thou must stay behind to finish up my business.”

  “And what might that be?” asked Lord Arundel dubiously. “There is certainly something mysterious about it, for thou didst naught but hush us up when we came upon thee and bid us wait until now before we spoke with thee. What hast thou been about?”

  “Know then, if it be any satisfaction to thee, that I did not do as I wished, for thy coming did upset my plans. However, be that as it may, thanks to these fine clothes thou gavest me, I can now lean further on thy goodness and return to Bolingbroke on thy horse.”

  “And I?” questioned Lord Arundel, raising his eyebrows.

  “I will explain to thee outside the hearing of these other gentlemen.” The Prince and Lord Arundel withdrew to the end of the room where the small diamond-paned lattice window looked out on to the market place, where townsfolk were lingering in groups, gesticulating, calling back and forth, and breaking away from one group to join another.

  “There is something astir here in this town. See how excited they be below,” said Lord Arundel, poking his aristocratic head out. “I was awakened early this morning by the clanging of the bell, and it seems a pity that they could not do it at a more seasonable hour than just as the sun appears and when their betters would be sleeping.”

  “’Tis nothing that concerns thee,” answered Prince Henry lightly, “for it is some affair of the town council apparently. But I must be off, so listen to what I have to say. I made a light wager with a fenman whom I would have thee seek out for me. Tell him I sent thee to take the payment which he would give me. Wilt do this for me?”

  “And what will the payment be?” asked Lord Arundel.

  “’Twill be the price of the fine clothes thou dost wear,” and a twinkl
e came into Prince Henry’s eye. “That much I promise thee for undertaking this.”

  “Thou meanest that?” asked Lord Arundel eagerly. “I will indeed do as thou sayest if thereby I do acquire another fine attire. Dost know the styles are changing fast, and I would drop this high-collared houppelande with its long skirt and cut the skirt to the knees with neat dags,” and in his burst of enthusiasm, Lord Arundel fell to gesticulating and twirling about. “The sleeves I’d drop to here,” he continued, designating a length at least a foot greater than the ones he was then wearing, “and with buttons to the waist, and belted in, how thinkest thou it would look?”

  Prince Henry was overcome with quiet mirth. “I know naught about fashions,” he managed to vouchsafe, “nor did I think to start thy tongue going at such a rate, but listen to what thou must do, if thou wouldst bring about this new creation,” and Prince Henry explained how he must take a certain skiff then beached without the town and seek out the inland lake and the haunt of Tod of the Fens. “If thou start out this noon at high tide, thou canst not get astray, and when thou dost find the hut, wait there until Tod or Tom True Tongue appear. ’Tis with the latter that the business is. Then they will guide thee to Horncastle where thy horse will be sent for thee.”

  “Art sure thou art not sending me to a den of thieves?”

  “As sure as I am that I am here before thee. I am sending thee to as honest and upright a band of men as there be anywhere in England. On this I pledge my honor.”

  “’Tis not to my liking,” said Lord Arundel, “but then if I am to have another attire, it will not matter so much if this gets a bit of hard wear. What am I to say to this Tod of the Fens or this Tom Tongue Tie?”

  “Say just these words that I now tell thee. ‘Dismas was delayed, and could not keep the tryst. I am come at his bidding to take the payment Tom True Tongue would give, for which thou must notch Dismas’s tally once more.’ Remember I am known only as Dismas.”

  “Thou art known only as Dismas, and he is known only as Tom Tongue Tie, and between the two of ye I may be known only as food for kites! Egad! I may be robbed and tied up to a tree!”

  “Nay, nay,” expostulated Prince Henry, “’tis not so! I swear it! Repeat then the message and get thee gone!”

  Lord Arundel repeated the words after the prince, although he still showed signs of doubt and mistrust of the whole undertaking. Shortly after, Prince Henry left Boston, and be it said for him that the froth which he stirred up did not settle for a long time after his going. Riding away to Bolingbroke to turn his fickle attention to the king’s business, this prince who was such a strange mixture of mischief and gravity left behind him a complicated situation which took curious twists and turns before he again appeared to take a part in it. In his various disguises he had secured the keys to the town coffer just as the town officers had related. Then was he interrupted by the appearance of the party from Bolingbroke and prevented from returning to the fens in time to win his wager with Tom True Tongue. Great as his disappointment was not to relate his story of having fooled the whole town of Boston into believing the coffer was robbed, and to see the droll Tom True Tongue squirming and howling on the ducking stool, still there was some satisfaction in the way things were working out. He had decided that St. Botolph alone could be trusted with the keys to the town coffer and he left them concealed in a cornice at the foot of the steeple. The whole situation was thus in the good saint’s hands, and it would be for him to assist his townspeople as he saw fit. Then there was the fine Lord Arundel even then on his way to the fens to take Dismas’s place at the ducking stool.

  Prince Henry burst out into a sudden laugh as he pictured Lord Arundel in the fens. So sudden and so loud was his outburst that the other horsemen turned to look at him in astonishment, and his own horse shied under him. If Tod of the Fens could have heard him, he would have thought that his pupil had learned the art of laughter well in his fortnight and a day.

  “Forsooth!” he was thinking, “that ducking will indeed be the price of the fine clothes he is wearing! Ha! Ha! Ha!” And this time more than one horse started up at the roar, and the whole cavalcade broke into a lively gallop.

  CHAPTER VII

  More About the Merchant Adventurers

  Sir Frederick Tilney was greatly disturbed, and Lady Mathilda’s forebodings were in a measure fulfilled. Things seemed to be crowding in on Sir Frederick. Here was he pledged to Sir Richard Branche to have two ships to join the fleet which should set out before midsummer to attend the great fair at Novgorod. One of these he must build and man, and the other he was buying equipped from Sir Richard for the large sum of three hundred marks. The former would cost him somewhat more. On top of this had come the robbing of the town coffer and his responsibility in connection with it. Then, too, there was a disturbing event with a certain Easterling named Ranolf, whose glowering looks he had to encounter each day as he came and went about his business. Lady Mathilda was not able to give him much advice, and an unaccountable coolness seemed to have sprung up in the attitude of many of his fellow townsmen, so that it was to Johanna that Sir Frederick turned, for young as she was, there was a depth of understanding and a courage in her which often helped him.

  They sat this afternoon in the little arbor overlooking the pond. The swans were swimming around, with heads and long necks appearing and disappearing under the water. Close beside the arbor were little beds of daffodils and violets, and the fragrance of the latter filled the air.

  “Dost know what I have decided to call my ship, father?” Johanna was asking. “I think I shall call her the ‘White Swan of Boston’!”

  “So?” queried her father absently.

  “Ay,” pursued Johanna, “dost not like the name? It will be after that large swan of ours, for it is such a fine bird, and lucky it is, too. I feel sure a ship named after it would bring us good fortune.”

  Still her father seemed so preoccupied that Johanna was silent for a while. Sir Frederick was the next to speak.

  “Mayhap I have been unwise,” he mused half to himself and half to Johanna. “The Merchant Adventurers are but young and have only just received their charter from the king. They have taken up residence in Holland, Brabant, Zeeland, and Flanders. Since we have moved the staple town from Bruges to Calais, they have taken that for their mart town. They claim an ancient origin in the Brotherhood of St. Thomas à Becket of Canterbury, the special privileges of which were obtained from the Duke of Brabant two hundred years ago. They are concerned with the importing of English-made cloth into the cities and lands wherein they are planted. Any one paying the fee of an old noble may consort and trade with them. It well may be that I am moving in advance of my times, but it seems as if my eyes had been opened to a vision. It may not come in my lifetime, but it will come. These Merchant Adventurers will bring honor and renown to England.”

  Johanna listened, her eyes gleaming and her face flushed, and although it did not come in Sir Frederick’s time or Johanna’s either, the English Merchant Adventurers were indeed the forerunners of the great chartered companies. They were private citizens working under the sanction of the king, whereby they combined with one another to serve at once their own interests and those of their country. It was these companies that made the building of the empire possible. Their charters enabled them as Englishmen sojourning in foreign parts to govern themselves. Exactly two hundred years later the charter given to the Virginia Company can almost be said to have been modeled on the one of which Sir Frederick spoke as having just been granted to the Merchant Adventurers. In this way these early Merchant Adventurers were the forerunners of the founders of the English colonies in America.

  “The wool trade is doomed, and is it not better to leave a sinking ship when the way is clear?”

  “Thou canst still be Merchant of the Staple, canst thou not?” asked Johanna.

  “Ay, but it will bring confusion which it will be hard for people to understand, and the time will come when there will be an open
break.”

  “Then thou canst break away from the staple and all will be well,” said Johanna calmly.

  “We shall see! We shall see!” said Sir Frederick, “and soon thou canst come with me and see the building of thy ship. The keel is laid, and it will not be long before she will have her mast set and be ready for thy pennon.”

  “And what dost thou really think of the name I have chosen, the ‘White Swan of Boston’?”

  “It will do well enough if thou thinkest the three griffins of our coat of arms will not take offense!”

  Johanna laughed. “With their lion bodies and eagle wings they will but give the ‘White Swan’ courage and swiftness.”

  “So be it then!” said Sir Frederick, pleased at her quick reply.

  With these words he left Johanna, and she, still lingering beside the pond, thought further of what her father had been saying.

  “Merchant Adventurers,” she murmured beneath her breath. “Truly, it is a fine-sounding title. Brother Stephen, who has taught me so carefully to read and write, has taught me also of other lands where he has traveled as a pilgrim. I’ll go to him now, and hear what more he has to tell.”

  Johanna passed out into the alley, and following a footpath which led beside a quiet stream and a sheep-fold, she skirted the center of the town and entered the enclosure of the Blackfriars convent from the rear. It was the time when she was sure to find Brother Stephen in the little garden, where she knew it was permissible for her to seek him out.

  Over the close-clipped hedge she could see his bent back even now, his ruddy face, and his bald head with its fringe of hair.

  “Brother Stephen,” began Johanna as she sank down on the turf-covered seat not far from him, “wilt tell me again about St. Hugh of Lincoln?”

  Brother Stephen looked up and smiled.

  “Art thou here, Johanna? I was but thinking of thee, for these straight young shoots that are about to break out into bright gay daffodils do remind me of thee. They love the wind and sun even as thou dost.”