The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  “Nay, ’tis not the life for me,” said Lord Arundel, “but thou canst entertain me this evening, and set me on my way tomorrow.”

  Wat and Bat were the only ones who were not entirely delighted with Sir Popinjay.

  “He did not need to step so on our toes,” they grumbled.

  Lord Arundel heard them.

  “Perhaps I did not need to,” he agreed, “but then I’ve no doubt it has made ye both better mannered, and there was need enough of that.”

  The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent eating and drinking and making merry. Lord Arundel told tales of castle and court life, and the fenmen told of their life in the open, of the water-fowl and their habits, of the tides of the Lindis, especially the “bird tide,” so called because it came at midsummer when the birds were hatching their eggs, and was so low that the marshes were free from tidal waters, and the birds were undisturbed.

  Throughout it all, Lord Arundel did not once reveal who he or Dismas was; nor did the fenmen ask, for the concealing of identity was a recognized privilege, and men could come among them without fear of being tracked beyond their going.

  Tom True Tongue showed the badge which Dismas had given him.

  “Dismas said that if I wished to find him out, this badge would help me, but that will I not do. Though he did not keep the tryst, he has given us a merrier time than we have had for many a month, and I no longer bear him any grudge.” So saying he skimmed the badge into the darkness, and as the clear “plop” which it made as it struck the water came back to their ears, Lord Arundel jokingly said, “Though thou art now Tom-who-does-not-lie, some day mayhap thou wilt be as I have said, Tom Tongue Tie!”

  CHAPTER IX

  The Easterlings in Another Role

  Lord Arundel was well escorted by the fen-men to Horncastle early the next morning, but Tod himself did not go with them. Instead he betook himself by skiff across the lake and out into the river.

  “I would I had thought to follow Dismas more closely,” he was thinking, as he poled his skiff among tall reeds, “but I doubt if it takes me long to discover what he has been about. I’ll interview Simon Gough, for there is not much that escapes him.”

  Simon Gough was in a good frame of mind this morning, and ready for a chat with Tod of the Fens. “How now,” he greeted him, “’tis some time since thou hast gladdened me with the sight of that rough head of thine. What hast thou been about, thou and that waggish band of thine? Marry, if thou hadst been in this town this fortnight past, thou wouldst have had enough to suit even thy highly flavored taste for oddity.”

  “How so?” Tod inquired eagerly, as he sat himself down on the stone step of the gatehouse.

  “Hast thou not heard the town coffer has been robbed?”

  “It cannot be!” expostulated Tod.

  “Ay,” answered Simon, “four of the town officers and the bailiff himself were robbed of their keys in full daylight in the streets of the town, and no violence done. They say it was the work of five men, a chapman, a peasant, a friar, an apprentice lad, and a minstrel but—” Here Simon Gough looked around to see that no one was within hearing. “Canst keep a secret?” he asked in a whisper. “I have told no man, but would tell thee, for thou hast a head for such things, and I would like to know what thou dost make of it.”

  “Thou knowest me well enough to know that I am not the man to spread news. Out with thy secret if thou wilt!”

  “By my troth, it was all done by one man in all those disguises who came in over this bridge of mine!” and Simon leaned over and whispered in Tod’s ear this bit of information.

  “Well, how now!”

  “’Tis the truth I speak, and to prove it the rascal did fear that I did know him, and so what does he do but seal my lips with two good nobles—”

  “Which I warrant did not seal them but opened them to many a tankard of good ale,” interposed Tod with a smile.

  Simon smacked his lips. “But what dost thou make of it?” he pursued. “He was a lean young man with blue eyes and high cheek-bones.”

  Simon, now that he had begun, was loath to stop, and Tod heard from beginning to end the whole story. Tod was thinking hard.

  “And so the town coffer lies empty?” Tod spoke slowly and watched Simon’s face as he spoke.

  “So they say,” answered Simon, “two hundred marks gone and they think it was the work of five men, but I tell thee, ’tis not so! ’Twas one only, and a clever fellow he is, too!”

  “Ay,” acquiesced Tod, “if what thou sayest is true he is a bold thief and will probably live to be a penitent one.”

  He rose to leave, for he had heard everything Simon had to tell him and he had much to think about. Surely the Prince of Wales would not rob the town coffer. He had known the madcap prince the moment he had seen him, and had not his riddle shown the prince that he knew him? What was it that walked before Dismas and would walk before even the prince himself? The answer was Dismas’s shadow, for his and the prince’s were one and the same, and the prince had understood.

  “But thou hast not said what thou dost make of it?” Simon queried.

  “I know not what to make of it,” Tod answered slowly. “If the town coffer lies empty where lies the blame?”

  Simon shook his head.

  “Sir Frederick Tilney is likely to be the one to bear the brunt of this,” Tod commented.

  “How so?”

  “Hast thou yet to learn that when blame is floating around loose, ’tis usually on the shoulders of the most prosperous that it finally lodges itself?”

  “Belike, belike,” Simon agreed. “But if he does become involved in this, and anything I can tell will be of help to him, then shall I speak.”

  Tod thought for a moment. “If thou wilt take my advice, thou wilt say nothing to any one no matter what happens,” he said slowly. “’Twill but put thyself in a bad light forsooth, for it will show that thou dost love thine ale more than the discharge of thy duty of guarding the town.”

  Simon became uneasy. “I had not thought of that. Thou wilt not tell what I have told thee?”

  “Nay,” answered Tod. “I promise thee I will keep thy secret. Have no fear.”

  So Tod left, assured that Simon would do nothing that might lead men to seek a tall, lean young man with eyes deep-set under shaggy eyebrows whom some indeed might recognize even as he had. Tod whistled softly to himself. “This indeed is royal foolery,” he thought, “and it would seem as if he were in truth the Prince of Madcaps!”

  He wandered into the market place and thought that he would stop at the “Golden Fleece” for a draught of ale. As he drew near, he saw a group of Easterlings, drinking at the large outside table, their pointed and beribboned sugar-loaf hats assuring him even from a distance that they were foreigners. Tod’s eye was caught and held by the one who sat at the farther end of the table. He was large and heavily built with a round face and thick jaw. Having seen him, Tod decided not to stop at the tavern, but continued on through the square and out toward St. John’s gate.

  “Mayhap I have seen him before!” he muttered to himself, “and the sight of him again makes the world seem less fair!”

  To the shipyard went Tod. A ship was being built there, none other indeed than Sir Frederick’s, and Tod immediately fell into conversation with the workmen, and many were the questions he asked.

  “One can see that thou dost know something of ships and the sea,” one of them said, as he turned on the ladder on which he stood, and looked Tod over from the top of his shining head to the end of his muddy leggings. “Sir Frederick is on the lookout for a good shipmaster.”

  Although the idea was a new one to Tod, it took root fast, and on the way back through the warehouses, he sought out Sir Frederick. What went on between them must have been to their mutual liking, for although Sir Frederick’s face was serious when Tod left him, his words showed confidence.

  “And I can trust thee to return as soon as thou hast word to bring.”

 
That evening Tod took his band by surprise.

  “Look ye here!” he exclaimed suddenly, “’tis an idle life we lead. Come now, we need not reveal what we would not, but how many of ye have had a taste of seafaring? Hands up!”

  Hands went up. Of the band, twelve strong, all but two responded.

  “’Twas a good life, after all,” said Tom True Tongue, “for indeed it does take men to play it, and none of thy castle-bred retainers.”

  “Still harboring thoughts against Dismas and Sir Popinjay!” laughed Heron.

  “I am aggrieved that they should have come upon us, and played our game, and then gone thence. Does make our game seem poor enough, methinks,” growled Tom True Tongue.

  Tod’s mind was on other things. “How many of ye have drunk from Stortebecker’s goblet?”

  “The ‘Victual Brothers!’” shouted Heron. “Come, now, if thou knowest aught of them, out with it!”

  “Hast played with them or against them?” asked another.

  The “Victual Brothers” was the name of a famous band of pirates which a few years before this time had invested the Baltic Sea. Their rise to power had come about in this way: King Waldemar, the young and daring King of Denmark, had defied the great Hanseatic League by sacking the town of Wisby on the island of Gothland, which was the richest town belonging to the League. King Waldemar had gathered a great army and told them he would lead them to a place where there was so much gold and silver that even the pigs ate out of silver troughs. The year before crafty King Waldemar had disguised himself as a merchant and visited Wisby. Having secured the love of a goldsmith’s daughter, he learned from her the secret of the defenses of the island and the town. Confident then of success, he took his army to Gothland. A bloody battle took place outside the walls of Wisby, and today a cross marks the place where eighteen thousand Gothlanders fell in defense of their town. Waldemar was victorious, and commanding a breach to be made in the wall for his triumphal entry, he encouraged his greedy army to plunder and sack unmercifully. Sailing away with his ships heavily laden with gold and silver, and with two mighty carbuncles taken from the windows of St. Nicholas’ Church, Waldemar was destined to regret his misdeeds. A mighty storm arose, and the Danish ships with their plunder were lost. It is said that the great carbuncles which formerly served to light seamen into the harbor of Wisby, now on still clear nights gleam from the bottom of the ocean.

  This act of Waldemar’s brought about a great war between Denmark and the Hanseatic League. To aid them in this war, the Hansa had openly countenanced piracy as long as it was directed against Danish ships, and a large number of adventurers had banded together. Commissioned by the League to supply provisions to a certain part of the Swedish coast, they had become known as the “Victual Brothers,” but their real business was piracy. They took Gothland for their stronghold and became masters of the Baltic Sea.

  The leader of this band was Godeke Michelson, and he was joined by a young German noble who had wasted away his wealth, and wished to take part in the wild, adventuresome life. This noble was so strong that he could break iron chains asunder, and he drank so deeply that the goblet from which he drank was known for its great size, and few other men could hope to empty it. Thus came the name he took, Stortebecker, which means “drink bumpers down,” and often the captives he took could save their lives only if they could empty Stortebecker’s goblet.

  When the war with Denmark came to a successful end, it was difficult for the League to wipe out the piracy which they had allowed to flourish. Godeke and Stortebecker had to be captured and executed.

  In reply to the fenman’s question, “Didst thou play with them or against them?” Tod held up his right hand, which bore the deep scar in the palm. “This may bear witness that my past is not without its stain, but at least ye may all be sure I was no pirate. I will tell ye this much: I was there when Stortebecker was brought in chains to the headsman, and one of his followers saw I this day in Boston, one whom I have cause to remember well. Now he goes by the name of Ranolf and is master of one of the ships of the Hansa.”

  “Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Tom True Tongue. “Do they think to make a pirate into an honest shipmaster?”

  “I know not what they think,” answered Tod, “but this do I think. Given a good English ship, I know of nothing I had rather do than take to the sea again. ’Tis a hard life and a dangerous one, but when the call comes, it is a strong one and cannot be resisted.”

  “Couldst thou take the office of master?”

  “Ay, that I could, and have in the past,” answered Tod. “Which of all of ye have ever been steersman?”

  “I,” spoke up Tom True Tongue and Heron together.

  “Good,” burst out Tod heartily. “’Tis better than I even dared hope. How many of ye would ship with me, given the opportunity?”

  Up went every hand, and the men fell into excited talking and questioning.

  “Dost think thou canst get a ship?” asked Wat.

  “Ay, and a Boston one it will be!”

  “The one that is now building?”

  Tod nodded in assent.

  “’Twas a lucky day that did jar our content,” sighed Tom True Tongue. “Here have we lived this long time like frogs sunning on a lily pad, and we might never have realized the sun had gone in and it was time to jump in again, had not—”

  “Had not Dismas and Sir Popinjay come our way,” added Heron.

  “Why wilt thou not tell us something of thy life at sea?” asked Bat of Tod.

  Tod tossed his head and wrinkled up his smooth forehead. His eyes wandered off across the fens to where St. Botolph’s lantern sent its steady light off across the Wash.

  “Many’s the time I have been glad enough to see that light,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I am not a man of many words, but if ye would hear, I’ll tell ye this.”

  The men drew around and, throwing more sticks on the fire, they sat down to listen to this adventure.

  A small English ship under the mastership of Nicholas Beckman set out from Cornwall for Bergen with a cargo of tin. It was early in the season, and the North Sea was full of floating ice. The crew consisted of eight men, among them one whose name was Todhunter, who was none other than our Tod of the Fens. English seamen knew well that the Victual Brothers were their foes, for one of their interests was to harry them and discourage any attempt they might make to vie with the Hanseatic League in its trade with Norway. When they were still several leagues from Bergen, a ship was seen bearing down on them. It was a queer, awkward craft, but amazingly well-handled in the rough sea. One sail it had, and rowers’ benches.

  “What chance have we in an encounter with yonder pirate ship?” Todhunter asked Beckman, whose eyes had first sighted the sail, and never for a moment left it.

  “’Twill be well to give over!” he answered shortly.

  “Thou wouldst not put up a fight?” asked Todhunter in amazement, and then he broke out wrathfully. “Wouldst give over without a fight to those villainous pirates, and we a stout body of Englishmen?”

  “Who is the master of this ship?” demanded Beckman. “Do as I say. Give over at the first demand. Show no fight.”

  The pirate ship crossed the bow, and for a moment was lost in a deep trough in the sea, only the top of its mast giving evidence of its whereabouts. The next instant the sea rolled away before it. The grappling iron shot out and fell athwart the English ship. Side by side the two ships tossed. Amid the flapping of the rigging and the roar of the sea, human voices bellowed.

  “What cargo?”

  “The best of English tin.”

  “We shall unload her.”

  “Ay.”

  “Dost mean ye will give over?”

  “Ay,” bellowed Beckman, “wouldst unload now in this sea?”

  “Nay, we will put in!”

  With these words the pirate ship set about towing the smaller craft. The sea was heavy, and the men strained at the great oars. Soon they worked in to the lee side
of a rugged promontory.

  “Surely we do outnumber them,” urged Todhunter. “Why can we not set upon them when they board us?” Beckman gave no sign of consent. “I do truly believe thou art in league with them,” Todhunter muttered under his breath, but Beckman did not hear. The other members of the crew were likewise sullen and disturbed.

  The pirate ship dropped anchor, and Beckman did likewise. Then swarming over the sides, the pirates fell upon the Englishmen. Their weapons were taken, and they were bound hand and foot.

  Then it was easy to see that there was treachery. There was consultation between Beckman and Ranolf, for he it was who was in command of the pirate ship.

  Todhunter lay on his side and watched the bars of metal being loaded on to the pirate ship. Near him young Desmond, who had been steersman, lay wrenching at the cords that bound him and cursing loudly.

  After the cargo had been removed, the pirates hoisted anchor, and off they sailed, taking Beckman with them. “Good luck to ye all!” he shouted, “and may ye return whence ye came, and bring as fine a cargo with ye again that we may relieve ye of it!”

  “A set of fools we be!” Todhunter groaned. “Here shall we lie and die before we can get ourselves free.”

  “Let’s be thankful we were not pitched overboard with no chance of our lives!” called another of the crew.

  “We might as well have been,” groaned another. “Then it would have been over soon.”

  It was then noon, for it had been early morning when the pirate ship had sighted them and towed them in to this sheltered bay. Sea birds had gathered and were screaming and circling overhead. The sky was a deep blue, and against it the black, ragged cliffs stood out in relentless rigidity. On the windward side of the promontory the surf boiled and churned with an angry roar and crash.

  “Can none of ye break loose?” shouted Todhunter.

  “Nay,” came the groaning reply from the men. “The chains do bite our wrists until the blood runs freely.”

  “Is there no man whose hands are bound with rope?”

  “Ay,” answered Desmond, lying nearest to Todhunter. “Mine are, but I cannot burst them.”