The Forebear's Candle: A time travel mystery and love story set against the intrigue of Henry Tudor's England

by Clive S. Johnson

  Before long the vessel nudged up tight against the harbour wall, practiced hands catching hawsers thrown to them by those on deck. Others jumped aboard, amongst them the fortunately resilient Rodrigo, although he crossed somewhat stiffly. With difficulty, he climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, then grinned as he approached Jusuf.

  “Good morning, meu gorgulho,” and the man winced, clearly still in some pain, his tunic tied tightly about him. “How are you?”

  “I’m well enough, Rodrigo. I trust the Ingleses have been tending your injuries whilst you’ve been aboard their ship?”

  “Little they could do; little anyone can. At least I was allowed some deck-room on which to lie flat,” and Jusuf couldn’t help but respect the man’s fortitude.

  “Where are we, Rodrigo?” Jusuf then quietly asked. “We’re clearly not in Santander. Even I could tell we’d kept northerly.”

  “So, I take it none of the Ingleses speaks Berber, then? Or has your size and dark skin kept them at arm’s length?”

  “I’m a passenger, Rodrigo, so they’ve kept me apart from your men, and no, my gaoler couldn’t understand a word I said, nor me him. So, come on, what is this place?”

  Rodrigo stared at the harbour, his expression souring. “Foy, Jusuf. This, apparently, is Foy, in the far west of Inglaterra, a place that’s long put the fear of God into all those who ply the Western Sea and its approaches. Somewhere I never thought I’d see.”

  “Foy?”

  “Where we’re about to go ashore.” He leant in but angled his face up, lifting his mouth nearer Jusuf’s ear. “During this kingdom’s long war with França, it was the lair of the fearsome ‘Foy Gallants’.”

  “Gallants?”

  “Privateers, Jusuf: pirates bearing a king’s wartime warrant. But even if this had been Santander, I’m afraid it would no longer have served your purpose.” He stepped away, wincing before warily clutching his chest. He sighed and looked up at Jusuf.

  “All ship’s lockers have been seized, my poor weevil, mine included—and, of course, what it contains of yours. Just a little extra we didn’t expect them to add to their plundering of our hold. But at least the crew,” and he attempted a grin, “in addition to our one passenger, of course, are being put ashore unharmed, which is why I’m here.”

  An unintelligible voice called from the quayside. Rodrigo turned to nod its way.

  “Come on, Jusuf, we’re being ordered off. Get your things together and I’ll show you our lodgings.”

  Jusuf slipped back into the captain’s cabin and quickly packed his shoulder bag. When they got down onto the main deck, men were already carrying things ashore. Jusuf spotted the first mate’s locker, Rodrigo giving way to the two men carrying it. The chest went ahead, heaved over the rail and dropped to the quayside.

  Rodrigo cringed. “Only our dear Lord knows where your special gift for Castilla y León will end up. So let’s pray they discard it as a worthless trinket, eh? And carefully so, for all our sakes—even those of these damned Ingleses.”

  The pervasive smell of fish grew stronger as Jusuf stepped onto the hot quayside, the firm ground beneath his feet a welcome relief. Rodrigo led him through the harbour’s mounting activity, between growing piles of the Nao Providência’s goods, and on towards a cobbled alley. From out of it, between a stout stone property and a three storeyed, whitewashed building, came a donkey-drawn cart and its driver. Jusuf and Rodrigo stood aside as it clip-clopped and rumbled past, on its way into the bustle they were leaving behind.

  The alley led to a narrow road, a gate in the wall on the far side giving entry into a yard around a large buttressed building, above which rose the tower Jusuf had seen from the quarterdeck. He stopped and stared up. From each surmounting corner rose a tall, thin and pointed spire, as though there to prick the very sky above. A Christian church, Jusuf guessed, although cruder and less finished than those in Ceuta, and with only the one tower. Then Rodrigo called his name.

  Jusuf turned to find him standing in the doorway of a building that angled away from a corner of the church’s yard. Slipping past him from within came the sound of voices, the occasional call and the sporadic bouts of raucous laughter.

  But only now did Jusuf notice the stares he got from those who slowed as they passed, or who lingered together in supposed discourse nearby. Many were gaily attired in bright colours, others in drab workaday clothes, but the cut and sharpness of each suggested a place of some no mean wealth. When Jusuf nodded at two aged women, on his way to join Rodrigo, they dipped their heads in acknowledgement as they drew near, but each held her gaze upon his face. Then, as they passed him by, one reached out and briefly touched his arm before they both hurried on without a backward glance, heads held close in keen discourse.

  The gloom inside the building made it hard for Jusuf to see much at first: a low beamed ceiling, a solid dark-wood counter along one long wall, a stout and surly-looking man behind it, tables and stools crammed in across the room’s narrow width, and alcoves revealed in the meagre light of their small open-shuttered windows. A dozen or so silent men either stood at the counter or lounged on stools, their arms propped on the counter or tables. Flagons and earthenware drinking vessels stood at their elbows, a large dog at one man’s feet, sprawled out before a hearth’s damped-down fire.

  Jusuf manoeuvred his bulk through the eerily silent room, the glint of eyes following his progress. Carefully, in Rodrigo’s wake, he stepped over the dog and finally arrived at the furthest alcove, at whose table sat the Nao Providência’s captain.

  The man indicated the empty benches around him and Jusuf sat on the one opposite, Rodrigo settling beside him. Then the captain regarded Jusuf closely for a moment before raising his hand in the direction of the man behind the counter, calling across in a language Jusuf couldn’t understand. Two large pots of a scum-topped liquid were brought to their table, joining the already half empty one set before the captain.

  Rodrigo raised his to his lips, plunging them beneath the scum before drinking, long and seemingly with pleasure. He put the pot down and wiped his mouth before nodding at Jusuf to follow suit.

  Although not sure, Jusuf dipped his own lips all the same, drawing in a strangely flat and almost metallic tasting clear liquid from beneath the scum. It had a tang to it, a gentle fizz against his tongue, and a not unpleasant freshening of his throat as he swallowed it down.

  He looked across at the captain, about to speak when the man imperceptibly shook his head. Only when a hubbub had returned to the room did the captain then momentarily roll his eyes to one side before staring back at Jusuf.

  “Has my first mate told you the bad tidings about your…your burden, Jusuf al-Haddad?”

  “He has,” Jusuf quietly said as he nodded.

  “And that it’s now likely lost to you for all time?” and again Jusuf nodded. “I must say: you don’t look down-spirited.”

  “If it be the will of Allah, then so be it; Allah the wise, Allah the merciful, before your might I bow down.”

  “Well, be that as it may, but I suppose you and your master can always try again another day, if and when you eventually get back to Ceuta. But I’m afraid it’ll not be for some time if you rely on me and my ship. Capitão Treffry has only preserved our lives because our two nations are not at war. He knows his act has been one of piracy, not that of a privateer. But not content with making a pretty reis or two from the Nao Providência’s lading, he will also hold my ship to his own profit for as long as he can.”

  “Hold your ship?” Jusuf said.

  “I will have to travel to Londres, there to search out King Manuel’s representative to the English king’s court. If I can afford the gift-in-gratitude payment, he may be inclined to represent me in my petition to have the Nao Providência returned.”

  “But how long will that take?”

  “A fair bit of time just to get to Londres. No one here will afford me passage, at whatever fee, and I’m sure word will quickly get well ahead of me
along the south coast ports. So, I’ll be forced to go by land. That’s two hundred and seventy leagues, or so I’ve been told. A week perhaps, maybe more. But that’ll be nothing compared with how slowly my petition’s likely to grind. Then, of course, there’ll be the long wait to take possession once I’m back.”

  For a while the captain only stared at Jusuf, but then he drew breath and warned him, “I’d be surprised if I was back here before the end of the summer. So, my advice to you would be to seek out your own passage back to Ceuta.”

  Jusuf swallowed hard, then looked between the two men. “In which case,” he slowly said, “I think I should make you aware of something: my burden hasn’t been lost.”

  “What?” the two men said a little too loudly, the room once more briefly falling silent.

  “I’m sorry, Rodrigo,” Jusuf said, turning to him, “but whilst I was tending your injury, I noticed the key about your neck.” Rodrigo’s hand shot there, clearly reassured. “Whilst you slept, I borrowed it and slipped down to your locker when all eyes were on the nearing navio inglês.” He pointedly lifted the bag at his side a few inches off the bench before settling it carefully back down again.

  The captain slowly began laughing, a glint in his eyes as they narrowed at Jusuf, but then, clearly aware he was drawing attention, he abruptly stopped.

  “So, as the likelihood you’ll find passage to Santander on a ship you can trust to wait for you whilst you do the deed, one prepared to set sail as soon as the tide allows once you’re back on board, with no delays for unloading and taking on new goods… Well,” and he barked a single laugh, “as such a prospect strikes me as somewhat remote, then I have to say, it seems you’ll be biding your time here with us in Cornwall, Jusuf al-Haddad. And probably until next spring at the earliest.

  “So, meu gorgulho, I’d strongly suggest you pray to your good god Allah that I do indeed finally recover my ship. But in the meantime, you need to keep the contents of that bag of yours safe…very safe indeed.”

  9 Room at the Inn

  They remained drinking in silence for a while, until the captain called for more. The man behind the counter brought over a large jug and topped up their pots.

  When he’d gone, Jusuf told the captain, “I have something of a problem, though: the allowance I was given isn’t big enough for such a long wait. What I have will maybe last a couple of months, depending on how costly things are here, but certainly not the best part of a year.”

  The captain gave Jusuf a wry grin. “Capitão Treffry has made arrangements at his own expense for the two of you, at least for the time it takes Rodrigo to regain his strength. That’s if you don’t mind being on hand as his nursemaid, Jusuf.”

  Jusuf nodded, oddly at ease with the thought.

  “The man clearly has much sway in Foy,” the captain then told them. “He made a point of telling me his father had been one of the Gallants. One of those who’d survived the English king’s suppression of their continued pirating after the long war with França had ended. Something he kept telling me about every chance he got,” and the captain rolled his eyes.

  “He’d clearly hoped we were a French ship when he first spied us, seeing Inglaterra’s now part of this League of Venice alliance that’s against them. But men of Cornwall are ever pirates, Jusuf, clearly unable to resist easy prey. So, I suspect his largesse is in some part a paltry recompense. But once you’re fit enough, Rodrigo, you’ll both then have to find some work to pay your own ways.”

  Rodrigo nodded, saying he’d have to dust off the old shipwright’s skills he’d learnt as a youngster, the not overly impressive ones he’d finally put aside in favour of going to sea. Jusuf, though, only sought to confirm that the captain still intended leaving for Londres the following day.

  “Indeed. I’ll take six of the crew for protection; the most my own funds will allow. The rest will have to scratch their own keep, from what money they have and work they can find. Mind you, I think many will be looking for something well before the week’s out, judging by how many I’ve seen already sniffing around the whorehouse.”

  “Well,” Rodrigo smiled, “it is the first chance they’ve had in weeks. In truth, were my ribs in much better fettle…”

  The captain grinned, but then his face dropped and he turned a concerned eye towards Jusuf’s bag. “I’d suggest you don’t leave it too long before finding somewhere safe to hide your burden, Jusuf. Somewhere undisturbed, where nobody will come upon it by chance until you need it again, eh?”

  “Unlike one of your ship’s lockers?” Jusuf couldn’t resist saying, to which the captain’s expression darkened, although he kept his own counsel.

  Jusuf had begun to acquire quite a taste for his unusual drink, but then learned from the others that it was an English small ale, much to his consternation. It took them quite a while to reassure him it wasn’t real beer, that even English children supped it in preference to the unsafe water.

  “Look upon it as a kind of watered-down potage,” Rodrigo said, slamming his empty pot down on the table. “A way of avoiding being plagued by a constant bellyache, eh? Then maybe you’ll drink it down and I can finally show you where we’ll be sleeping.”

  Lifting it to his lips, Jusuf surreptitiously sniffed at his drink, at least content it didn’t smell like beer. He finally put his trust in Rodrigo and swiftly drank it down to the dregs.

  “Good. Now, come on,” and they both nodded at the captain as they got up, the man returning a dismissive wave of his hand.

  They stepped back over the still sleeping dog and on between the tables to the inn’s entrance, from which climbed a narrow flight of stairs. Rodrigo went ahead, the treads creaking under Jusuf’s weight as he followed him up. At the top they turned onto a dimly lit corridor that appeared to run the length of the building. Along both sides stood barely discernible doors, the only light seeping in through a small window opening at the far end. Rodrigo took them to the very last room at the rear and stepped inside.

  When Jusuf went in behind him, he found a room not much bigger than the short but wide pallet it held, his head brushing the low ceiling.

  “Wall or this side?” Rodrigo said. “Your choice, seeing you were the Nao Providência’s paying passenger.”

  Placing a large hand on the shabby coverlet, Jusuf pressed down hard. His hand pushed straight through the meagre straw to the boards. “Best take the wall. Don’t want to end up crushing you against it if I turn over in my sleep.”

  He squeezed past Rodrigo and inspected the already open window shutters, then the mullion gaps, deciding they were too small for all but a child to get through. Poking his head out, he peered down into a small yard below, seeing stacked barrels and a woodpile over in one corner.

  “I wouldn’t leave anything in here,” Rodrigo noted. “The door only locks from the inside,” and he rattled its latch back and forth to demonstrate.

  Jusuf again stared out of the window, beyond the yard and its high rear wall, over what looked like a labyrinth of further small yards. They laced the gap between their own building and the rear of a row of unalike properties, all steeply climbing away from the waterfront. Some abutted their neighbours, but others offered narrow alleys between, although Jusuf could see no easy way through from them.

  “It will have to do,” he finally said, wiping off the muck from the windowsill his hands had picked up. “I’ll just have to keep everything close by me,” and he swung his bag from his shoulder and onto the pallet’s coverlet.

  “In which case,” Rodrigo said, “I’ll get back down to the captain. Do you want another pot of ale?” Jusuf gave him a smile and nodded, then the man was gone.

  Rummaging in his bag, Jusuf drew out a cotton-wrapped block of kief about the size of his hand, all tied tight with twine. He carefully undid the knot and peeled back a flap of the fine cloth. It revealed a dense, dark-brown resin that soon filled the room with its sweet but flat aroma.

  “I’d better make it last,” he told himself
as he folded back the edge of the pallet and placed the block on one of the boards below. He slipped his knife out, laying its blade at a carefully judged angle across an already cut corner, then pressed down hard to remove enough for the rest of the day.

  He was still chewing a piece when he threaded his way through the now emptier ground floor room and joined the two men at their table. A fresh pot of small ale stood before his place, but he left it untouched after sitting down, his mouth still working the bitter-tasting kief.

  The captain leaned over his drink, peering absently at its scummy surface before looking across at Jusuf through his straggly eyebrows. “You’d do well to acquaint yourself with the local tongue, you know, Jusuf al-Haddad. You’d fare far better by it.” He then lifted his gaze fully to Rodrigo. “Ensiná-lo a língua inglesa, eh?”

  “Sim, Capitão,” Rodrigo responded and swung a smile at Jusuf. “I’ll make you fluent enough to order ale and woo abed the fairest of maidens…which is about as much as I know,” and he grinned as he raised his pot in salute before taking a swig.

  Jusuf finally swallowed what was left of the kief still in his mouth and did the same, his first grin in a long time finally cracking his features.

  “And, Rodrigo,” the captain went on to say, “when you’re recovered enough to be able to enjoy ploughing those fair maidens, you’d best take yourselves off inland to find work. Jusuf is hardly a seaman, what’ll be most needed hereabouts. I should imagine a fine blacksmith, though—as I’m assured our haddad, here, most certainly is—would find his skills eagerly snapped up in some nearby hamlet or town.”

  As the captain gulped down another mouthful of ale, Jusuf asked him, “But how will we know when you’ve returned?”

  “Simple,” and the captain wiped the scum from his lips with the back of his hand. “Come the end of July, get word of your whereabouts back here to this inn, so I’ll know where to find you when I do return. I can’t imagine I’ll be back before then. And if you move on, do the same again from wherever you cast up. Impress upon the crew to do likewise, Rodrigo, if they too come to stray too far from Foy.”