The Ravens’ Banquet

by Clifford Beal

  I was eager for more intelligence of the situation and pressed him for more.

  “Aye, well we thought it was over before it had begun,” he laughed.

  The Catholic armies, under the Emperor’s anointed general Count Tilly, relentless as wolves, snapped at the flanks of the Dane's until the entire host had fallen back on the town of Nienburg, some thirty leagues south of where we stood. And now, King Christian’s forces were readying themselves to face the full might of the Catholic League as soon as Tilly had brought up the rest of his regiments. So, at least I was not yet cheated and time enough remained for me to get some armour and make for the south before battle was joined.

  Hoffmann did as my father had instructed and from one of his many iron strongboxes handed me a leather pouch of Reichsthalers and Gulden – a generous sum that would easily see me well-equipped. He told me that he would send correspondence to his contacts in Nienburg, Göttingen, and Hanover that would allow me to approach them should I require more money. He rapidly scribbled out their names on a scrap of paper and bid me to keep it safe. There remained little more business to do with the sour old goat except to ask him where I could obtain horses, harness, and arms. And then I was gone, anxious to get moving before I had missed my chance.

  That night, I came to an arrangement of sorts with Samuel Stone.

  “Mark me,” I told him as we took our supper in the taproom, “I need your honest service in this endeavour. You know better than I how to barter for a horse that is sound, and upon this rests more than just our backsides – maybe our lives.”

  He nodded, his tankard sliding back and forth upon the trestle in some agitation. “I do reckon that is so,” he mumbled.

  “And once on the road,” I continued, “I shall need you to forage and to see to our requirements in camp. In all these things and more I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears – my intelligencer. God willing, I’ll get you and me back home to England.”

  Samuel could sniff my uneasiness at this situation. For we both knew that he was neither manservant nor comrade but something between the two and this, he reckoned, could be compounded in his favour.

  He looked at me squarely as he chose his words, and I could see through his eyes that his mind was calculating his position with great cleverness. He pulled back slowly, his hand rubbing at the black whiskers of his long face, glistening with sweat.

  “Have no fear. I’ll stand by you as I honour my father and mother. But you shall pay me with good coin and you’ll keep paying until this adventure be done.”

  “Will you obey me?” I asked, staring him down as best I could.

  He looked away for a moment then turned his gaze back to me again.

  “Aye,” he replied slowly, nodding, his fingers playing with the collar of his stained linen. “I’ll answer to you, but abuse it not, sir.”

  Maybe I should have been relieved, but his reply carried more burr than salve.

  “Then let us drink to the bargain, Goodman Stone. Tomorrow you can do your work and get us horses, for I mean to be on the road south the day after. Come on, finish that jug and let us another.”

  And the ends of his mouth curled up in a smile, indeed a good-natured one. But his eyes, his eyes spoke a different missive. Sharp, deep grey, and full of mistrust. And I cursed my fool of a father for forcing this countryman upon me.

  That night, my first in the German lands, I had a dream.

  I am in a cave on hands and knees, dimly lit and suffocating with the stench of mouldy earth. In front of me squats an enormous toad as big as a dog, staring at me with its huge unblinking eyes. Its brown black skin throbs and pulses, a sea of warts and lumps. I am transfixed, unable to cry out and then the thing opens its gaping mouth. A vomit of liquid silver shoots out, scalding my face and arms. And I wake.

  III

  Tellings

  June 1625

  WITH HIND-SIGHT, my plan was a collection of misconceptions, fancies, and wishes all bound up tightly in gossamer. It may be true that some men have found their Fortune armed with nothing more than their wits and cold steel, but I warrant that there have not been many outside the tales of storytellers.

  Back then, I was conceited enough to think I would easily obtain an officer’s billet and pay, and before long, advancement would see me to the top of the hill of riches, honour, and fame. The war was just a means to an end and joining the Danish army as it kicked the hell out of the Holy Roman Emperor and his papist hirelings was the quickest means to that end. Leastways, that is how it seemed on the road leading south out from Hamburg that summer.

  With luck, we could reach the Danish encampment around Verden in three days. But as it transpired, my choice of road brought me more than a quicker route to the army. It brought me a little something else along the way.

  Two days out of Hamburg, the sun was beginning its downward slide again and we had not seen a sign of a settlement or roadside inn. I was loath to return to the last village we had ridden through, for we had come far, but so too was I reluctant to ride on in the darkness in unfamiliar country. I decided to continue on a while longer in the hope that a situation would present itself for us to take shelter.

  It was soon evening. The disk of the sun, now bloated and dark red, lay on the horizon. Our progress was accompanied by a chorus of frogs and other night creatures and I began to watch out for a patch of high ground near the road that we could camp rough.

  Samuel had, of late, grown less sullen towards me. This is not to say that we had become friends for indeed we had not, and mutual trust was still as thin as a worn tuppence. But we did speak of home as we rode, and on that subject Goodman Stone was of a mind to let his tongue loosen.

  And as he spoke, saying how he knew of this or that place, and of some such person, he would occasionally cast a glance behind us to make sure that the ass in tow fared well with its burden. I confided to him that my older brother William had grown very puffed-up with pride of late having been bestowed with new responsibilities by my father, and that this was no small reason for my departure. If my brother William thought little of me (and this was no secret) I thought even less of him, even though he held the key to my share of the Devon lands. Indeed, just the mention brought flooding back the bile-laced memory of a few weeks earlier.

  I had just stepped out of the house, my father having told me to collect some rents from two of our landsmen, and I drank in the air laced strongly with the scent of honeysuckle that clung to the entranceway. I had no more taken a few steps when, from around the side of the house came my older sibling. Our meeting, as always, was a wary one.

  “Richard. Father has been looking for you this morning.”

  “And he has found me,” I replied.

  “Mark me,” said William, “for all he is attempting on your behalf to get you this officer’s commission, you would do well to season your manner with some humility.”

  William knew much of humility. I thought him truly an arse-licker. But there was no doubt he was taller, more handsome, and a better man of business than I would ever be. He cut a fine figure in the town what with his cascading curls, well-trimmed beard and moustache, beaver hat and plume. He had been on his own now for over a year, with a pretty wife for his bed and a good-sized house not far down the road toward Plymouth.

  Why we never ceased quarrelling, I do not rightly know. But we had never got on together and as far back as I could remember he disdained my company, saving his frugal favours for my sisters and sometimes our younger brother Roger. And as he grew older I liked him less, for his jibes became more constant and more hurtful. It was an escape to be sent off to school away from his withering barbs.

  These days, the barbs were fewer, but remained still. They irked me more now, for they were no longer of a rowdy nature but more wounding: he simply considered me of no consequence. The only trick I could better him in was swordplay, and that he knew full well. He was careful not to bait me too much – word of my brawling at Cambridge had travelled ba
ck home. Yet, still I felt that I had lost the contest. I wished that he would give me cause that I might send him back to his fine house and his fine wife with a few slashes on his fair face.

  “I’m just as respectful as you,” I retorted, anger dulling my wit.

  William paused in front of me, slowly pulling off his black riding gloves and affording me the smile of a tolerant elder.

  “This plan of yours to run off to find a war is a drastic course to divine one’s profession, is it not? Of course, you’re your own master. I suppose the soldier’s life will offer you some opportunity.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture and for a moment I thought he would place one upon my shoulder.

  “You don’t have to leave England, Richard. Now that father has purchased an interest in the silver mine up Barnstaple way, why, I was only the other day telling my Barbara that I had a mind to ask you to help me manage the enterprise. My plate is fast becoming too full.”

  “But now that I intend to leave for the wars, the offer becomes unnecessary, doesn’t it?” I replied. I had been unaware of father’s new acquisition but was not surprised that he had not deigned to tell me. “I would rather find and set my own table than make sup of the crumbs from yours.”

  William shook his head and smiled.

  “I would not be so insulting as to ask you to change your mind when it’s clear that you’ve made your choice.” His tone was so falsely grave that the words were nothing more than mocking.

  I could have gone for his throat, right then and there, like Cain goaded by Abel. And I would have killed him, I am sure. It was no fear of a beating from him that stayed my hand. Perhaps it was the natural bond of blood, the knowledge that we had suckled of the same breast. I know not. I fixed him straight with my eyes.

  “I have made my decision, and it is the right one, brother. The lawyer’s life is one better suited to your nature and frail constitution. I, for one, would rather trail a pike.” William laughed again and brushed off my jape.

  “You’ll be sharing table with child-eating Croats before long, my brother,” he said, turning away and walking up to the house.

  Samuel’s braying voice brought me back to the present.

  “Well, I’ve have had one or two meetings with your brother,” he said pushing back the brim of his felt hat, soaked limp and forlornly misshapen by the rain. “I gave him a good basting when we were lads once. Afterwards, my father thrashed me bloody for fear that your father would throw us off the land.”

  “I’m in no doubt William was deserving of a good cudgelling,” I said. “A pity I never managed to best him. My father always took sides, but never mine.” There was a long pause before he answered this.

  “Maybe the older son serves the father the better. Sires do as they please, don’t they?”

  I laughed. “What do you know of my father? I may be glad to be out from under his roof but he’s a fair man and that I can swear.”

  “I know your father, sir, having made his acquaintance many times afore I took this here task.” Samuel’s voice had become tight in his throat. “And I think I know him well, sir.”

  “Aye, perhaps you do,” I conceded. “He’s your landlord even as he is mine. And your family prospers still on Treadwell land. Aye, he’s a stern master, I give you that, but fair as he is hard.”

  Samuel’s laugh was like the bark of a dog that had been trodden upon – short and harsh.

  “So you think you know your father well, do you?” he said, his head nodding at me over his saddlebow.

  “Why as well as any man, I confess. No…I know him the better. I see him in his private affections or when he worries –”

  “Gads! I cannot listen no more to this!” he spat and jerked the reins of his mount, making it side-step in confusion.

  “Christ, man,” I said. “What vexes you so? Speak if you have mind to!” But he waved me off with another curse.

  “Your gaffer…” he began through clenched teeth, “By God, your gaffer...” but his voice, raised high in agitation, faltered. “I talk too much,” he said after a moment, the words issuing from deep in his throat.

  A thing most strange, I thought, for he talked seldom much at all. It was clear he wanted to say more, but he was on his guard once again. I was near ready to have it out with him but a noise floated to my ears and made me stop up short. Samuel too, had heard it.

  “Pipes and fiddle! Out here?” I said as I recognised the sound.

  “Someone else makes camp nearby,” said Samuel softly, his anger forgotten with the new situation before us.

  I had made it a point to buy a pistol, ball and powder before we had departed Hamburg. This I now pulled from out of its holster and wound it up with the spanner. Samuel watched me, his eyes settling upon it. “You reckon it will come to that?” “Better to be safe as not, lest they be highwaymen,” I replied, replacing the readied pistol into its holster.

  “Aye,” said Samuel, loosening his single-edged hangar, a rusty pig-sticker of a blade, from its crusty scabbard.

  And we two rode forward, guided by the sounds of merriment. The music led us to a grove of trees not more than a stone’s throw from the roadside. As we entered the stand, we were met by the sight of a sylvan bacchanal the likes I had never seen.

  Three large covered wagons lay concealed off to one side, their owners capering about a large fire that burned at the centre of the copse. Men, womenfolk, and a gaggle of children were gathered there, numbering at least twenty, and dressed in all manner of costume. The musicians we had heard scraped away at fiddle and tooted at a flageolet as several folk danced and passed around a large brown jug. At the fire, two women turned a goodly sized and blackened pig on a spit, their red skirts tied up under their belts and so showing their bare legs. On the opposite side, a game of cards was under way and the subject of much vigorous discussion among the players, all wearing large sagging brimmers in Samuel’s fashion.

  At our approach, the music stopped, the dancers faltered, and out the corner of my eye I spied four of the gamesters dash off at a crouch behind the trees in an attempt to flank us. One man came forward, a short, dark-skinned fellow, and asked us our business. “We are travellers seeking shelter for the night,” I said to him, doffing my hat in a courtesy.

  A few more of the band came closer now to inspect us, and the dark-skinned fellow looked hard upon our horses and baggage. Samuel, I could tell, was itching, knuckles white upon his reins.

  “You are welcome to join our feast—I think five Gulden apiece is not too much for roast pig and wine and the companionship of fellow travellers, eh?”

  I smiled at the little man. “Agreed.”

  Samuel scowled. “I don’t like it. They’ll just as well slit our throats and take what they wish. That’s what gipsies do.”

  “Just keep your wits sharp and all will be well,” I told him. Then I spoke to the gipsy again who was patting my horse’s neck. “Those men behind us. They need not skulk. We come with good intentions, unless, that is, we get an unfriendly welcome.” And I pointedly placed my hand on the hilt of my sword.

  The gipsy laughed.

  “They’re only deserters who thought you a provost marshall to drag them back to the army!” He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle. “Come on back!” he cried out to the soldiers in the trees, “These be friends!”

  And he beckoned us to dismount and tie up our horses with his.

  I whispered to Samuel to keep one eye on the baggage as long as we remained in their camp, and then paid the gipsy out his silver Gulden. We took our places near the fire and as the sun disappeared, we ate of the tastiest roast pig that I had ever had, and washed down with what our hosts said was Rhenish wine though Rhenish was scarce in England ever since the German war had begun.

  I was asked as to my destination, which I revealed to them sparingly saying only that I was bound for the wars around Nienburg. My poor German resulted in more queries from several folk. Did England have an army
here? Were all Englishmen as prosperous as me? I also learned a little bit about them. They had come near on a year ago from beyond Silesia, in the land of Hungary, travelling up the Oder River into the German lands. They traded with soldiers along the way – selling their wares, their magic, and their women, ever searching for more lucrative lands. From time to time, soldiers would join their band, staying on until Fate or Fortune led them elsewhere. The four that were with them now, the little man told, had deserted from the Magdeburg garrison some weeks gone by. Shortly after Samuel and I began drinking, these four deserters sheepishly made their way back to the fire, two of them muttering a greeting before helping themselves to the fare. They were a ragged lot – unshaven, covered in soot and grime, their linen filthy and their breeches hole-shot.

  Of the women, in the main dark-haired and thin, there was one wench that caught my eye in full. She too, like the others, had hair of jet and was as brown as a berry. But it was her eyes that drew me in. They were blue as lapis and unblinking, the whole of her face a mixture of darkness and light that to me was unnatural yet also enticing. More so, she could stare a man directly in the eye without lowering her regard (as would any lady of worth). As I sat there drinking my wine while the fiddle played, without a word spoken between us, she set my blood up most strong.

  A tangle of fry ran around the fire, bumping the elders and screeching away until a tall fellow with a drooping beard gave them a cuffing and sent them off in another direction. I was sure he had seen how I stared at the blue-eyed wench and after I got up to go piss he followed me.

  “Does my lord wish for a woman? A most fine woman to do your every bidding?” I turned to him. “Are you the whoremaster, then?”

  “These women have no master,” he replied, his face cracking a gap-toothed smile.

  “Yet I can have a word to the one you desire. And one for your companion, as well.” “He has other things to do than look for strumpets. As for me, I’ll think upon it.” The gipsy shrugged his shoulders and returned to the fire.