Swords From the Sea

by Harold Lamb

  "Nay, Joan. There is no passage by sea; but the way by land hath been discovered already by the Muscovites. The silks and spices, aye, the ivory and carpets of Cathay and the Indies are borne each year through Tatary to the emperor of the Muscovites, Ivan, called the 'Terrible,' and entitled in these missives emperor of Astrakhan and lord of the forests and the Sibir Desert."

  "Now marry and amen!" cried Peter, who had come up and had been fingering Durforth's chain longingly. "Here is that same lord Ivan or John of the land of gold and silver. The dons were wiser than we. What more, lad?"

  "Why, simply this: The Spaniards desired Ivan to make a compact with them, so that the trade of the Indies could be borne overland, which is shorter by much than the sea route to the Indies, to them. They would have the great Emperor Ivan know that they are masters of all Christendom, save England, which will soon be under their hand."

  "Then," cried Joan angrily, "we must bear these missives to the lords of England, and rouse them to their peril."

  "Faith, Joan-" the armiger laughed outright-"are you Puss-in-Boots, to girdle the earth, east or west? We will do what we can, but if we are to live we must gain the borders of Muscovy."

  "What says the other missive?" pressed the boatswain, who had great faith in letters.

  "Cornelius Durforth, the Burgundian, was a trusted councilor of Spain." He glanced down thoughtfully at the body of his enemy: "Peter, 'tis my thought that the Fox is dead."

  "How?" quoth the shipman, scratching his head. "Meseems we left my lord Renard on his feet."

  "It is evident," said Thorne, "that Renard was Durforth's man. And Durforth was Philip's spy called by us the Fox. While we watched Renard, the Fox came and went. D'Alaber served him and came against me while Durforth waited. When there is a killing to be managed, 'tis the servant who handles the knife while the lord waits the result."

  "Your father!" cried loan and fell silent.

  "Aye, Durforth desired his end, and Renard saw that it was done. The spy's work in Burgundy was finished long since; his task in England done, and but for one thing he would have gained to the court of Ivan."

  "Your sword, it was," said Joan proudly.

  "Nay, greed. Durforth was petty in craving gold. He stopped to snatch it where he could. He went back to plunder the ships when Sir Hugh and his brave company died."

  Peter put his hands behind him and looked away from the Burgundi- an's sword hilt and gold chain.

  "The black rogue!"

  "Nay-" Thorne shook his head-"rogue he may have been, but brave he was. Now that he is sped it is not honorable in us to miscall him."

  Chapter XVII

  The Inland Sea

  It is written in the chronicles of that reign how the armiger and the Shipman, knowing not whither they should take their course, turned southeast as Durforth's route had been planned.

  So it was said of them that the hand of Durforth, which had been ever against them, living, now guided them out of the tayga, the dense forest of the Easterlings. They drove the dogsleds, loaded with trade goods, and Joan made shift to drive Kyrger's reindeer and the sledge on which the wounded Samoyed lay. They took their course from the stars.

  And so they left the fires in the sky behind them and came out on a snow plain without track or tree or village. Still Thorne pressed south and east. He would not change his course for any direction that seemed likelier, and because of this they passed through a girdle of hills and found themselves on the shore of a sea that stretched to the horizon.

  Its waters were a clear green, unlike the dull gray of the Ice Sea, and for this reason Thorne said they could not be the same.

  And following this coast they came to men spearing seals among the ice cakes. Some of these men were Muscovites, but in their number was Master Stanton, gunner of the Edward, who greeted them with a glad outcry.

  And from this same Master Stanton they learned what was afterward set down in the chronicle, that when Richard Chancellor parted from the Wardhouse, he held on his course toward the unknown region of the world, aided by the continual light.

  Coming to the mouth of what seemed a great bay, he entered and sailed many a league to the south without seeing land again. But they came upon a fishing boat manned by barbarians who were filled with amazement at the great size of his ship.

  He entreating them courteously, they made report in the villages of the Muscovites of the arrival of a strange nation of a singular gentleness. Master Chancellor was conducted to a town built on a fair harbor, within wooden walls,* and was told that this was the bay of St. Nicholas and the sea was the White Sea, which ran far into the dominions of the great prince Ivan.

  Master Chancellor departed to seek this prince at his court in Moscow, leaving the Edward at anchor in charge of Burroughs. And so began the trade of Muscovy with the outer world, for it was a land rich in gold and silver and furs. As for Thorne the armiger and Joan Andrews, they fared to the court of Ivan the Terrible and what there befell them is set down in the chronicles for all to see.

  But when Kyrger's wound healed he harnessed up his reindeer and journeyed back to the Ice Sea. It was more than he could endure to live within walls, and in the beginning of spring he reached the Wardhouse where Tuon and his Laps had taken up their quarters to watch the possessions of Joan Andrews and to wait whatever would take place.

  Kyrger the hunter spread under their eyes the skin of ermecin, the white bear, and squatted down on it, taking full heed of the astonishment of the Laps.

  "0 nym tungit," he murmured, "0 my tent companions, since I turned my face from the north star many new fires have taken their place in the gate in the sky. Many men have gone to greet Yulden to whom the three stairways lead."

  He pointed to the skin.

  "With an arrow my master slew this one. And with the bow that sent the arrow Shatong the shaman was struck down. The spirit that dwells in my master is very powerful. It is not the Reindeer-Being; it is not kin to the bear or the wolf or the eagle."

  The listeners held up their hands in bewilderment.

  "0, my brothers harken, for this is a very great magic and a thing beyond belief. My master hurries through the forest, looking neither to right nor to left; when he is in trouble he makes a magic with water that burned, and ice put upon a tree; he went against his enemies and the blood feud is atoned.

  "In the Town of Wooden Walls he claimed the sinym-the young maiden-for his bride, although there were many warriors of her race who cast their eyes upon her.

  "The spirit that dwells in him is that of the khylden. He has run with the snow driver. So in all things it is better, 0 my friends, to follow him than to stand against him."

  A black night it was. Mist hanging over the canals, hiding the stars. Damp breath from the lagoons, creeping along the stone walls of Venice-blind walls without eyes of light.

  Through the darkness Donald Ban made his way, listening to the warning cry of an unseen boatman, peering at the red blur of a lantern swaying over the black surface of the water. An ungodly night, he thought, shifting his kit to his other shoulder. And a strange city, with canals where the streets should be, and blind walls in the stead of honest doorways.

  In all Venice he knew no living soul, having come off a ship that evening with his great sword at his hip, his buckler on his back, and his garments and gear slung over his shoulder in a red velvet caftan that he had taken from a slain Egyptian mameluk. For Donald Ban was home from the wars in the East-finding his way home from the crusades after six years of service.

  A dark Scot he was, with candid gray eyes and few words. A brown beard curled on his long chin, and a baron's mantle hung from his wide shoulders. Women looked at him invitingly, but he went his own way as a rule, having found these outland girls even more troublesome than the lasses of the Clan Arran.

  In a leather wallet, slung securely from his belt under the mantle, he carried his gleanings of the last six years-a few gold dinars and byzants, mixed with silver coins and a jewel or two.
For the present he was in search of a decent lodging for the night where the people spoke good Norman-French and the wine had body to it.

  He was having trouble finding such a place. Other men pattered by unseen, their footfalls echoing between the walls-they knew their way about. When he accosted a Venetian the other laid hand to knife, scowl ing, and slipped away; if he spoke to a group in the Norman-French of the armies, they answered in a mocking gabble that sounded like Latin.

  "'Tis no priest's Latin, I'm thinking, nor the dog lingo of the Catalan lads. 'Tis fair uncouth."

  He had no desire to go back to the stinking deck of the galley, off the riva dei Schliaovni, and by now he doubted if he could retrace his steps to the waterfront. He was standing irresolute on a narrow bridge when two men brushed past him, following a servant with a torch. They were wrapped in cloaks and seemed to be in excellent spirits. Donald Ban fell in behind to take advantage of the light, reasoning that the two gentlemen might well lead him to a wine shop and food.

  Instead they passed under an arch and came out in a small square where the great door of a church rose against the darkness. Beside this door a candle flickered under a wall shrine, and beneath the shrine stood a flower girl, resting her basket against her hip. When the two gentlemen passed with their torch she turned her head aside, but she looked up at Donald Ban. Beneath the shawl he caught a glimpse of quick, dark eyes and young lips, and he noticed that she was shivering with the cold.

  "Seigneur," she cried, "for God's love buy a flower of me!"

  The good Norman-French words brought him to a stop, and he peered into the eyes under the hood. This was no hour for a fair young thing to be hawking in the street.

  "Aye," he muttered, "a flower."

  Beyond the sea Donald Ban had fallen in with the soft-skinned Syrian girls, and the women of Cairo, who smelled of musk and paint, but not for long years had a slender lass looked up at him with shy eyes and spoken Christian speech. He thought she might be French, adrift like himself in this misty city of gabblers and quarrelers. So instead of taking coppers from the pocket in his mantle, he loosed his wallet to find a silver coin.

  "But which one do you wish?" She smiled, thinking that he had such somber eyes, and that she had not beheld the like of him among the young lords of Venice.

  He had put down his bundle and was fumbling in the wallet. "Two will I have," he decided. "Aye, yonder red-"

  With the words, a thief struck at him. The Scot saw the flash of a knife passing under his hands. A jerk at his wrists, a cry from the girl, and the robber leaped back into the mist, escaping a sweep of Donald's long arm. With him he bore off the wallet. Donald sprang after him-saw his shape vanish into the maw of an alley.

  At the alley mouth the Scot turned back reluctantly, knowing that a chase into darkness would earn him no more than a knife between the ribs. The thief had his purse, and Donald had not so much as a silver shilling upon him now to pay for bed or bite.

  At the shrine light he found two men standing by his bundle, confronting the girl, and recognized the pair whose torch he had followed hither. One, a sallow youth clad in black velvet, spoke to him in Italian and then in French.

  "Eh, Seigneur, the alley birds have flown away with your wallet, but we caught this little dove for you before she could escape into the church."

  The girl shrank back against the wall, clutching her basket. "By Our Lady, I swear I know naught of it."

  "Par Dex, you swear prettily." The youth in black thrust the shawl from her head and surveyed her idly. "Vettore, here is a rare, sweet handful. I am minded to carry her off to judgment."

  The man called Vettore-an older fellow with a scar upon one cheek-laughed and said something under his breath, holding fast the while to the girl's wrist. She stared up at them like a wild thing at the feet of hunters. And Donald, looking from one to the other, made up his mind.

  "Nay, let be," he said. "I'm thinking she had no hand i' this stealing."

  "And I," the young Italian responded, "think otherwise. I pray thee, Messer Stranger, stand aside. I am Paulo Bragora of the Ca' Doria."

  "I said let be, and I shall hold to my word. Neither hurt nor harm hath come to me from this maid, Signor Paulo-so loose her."

  "Rather will I send thee to meddle with Satan."

  Bragora's hand caught at his sword hilt, and Donald drew his round shield over his head, upon his left arm.

  Before the swords could be drawn, Vettore clutched his companion's shoulder and whispered urgently, and as he listened the youth's expression changed.

  "You are new come to the city?" he asked. "An Englishman, 'tis like?"

  "A Scot," Donald corrected him, "of the Clan Arran that followed the Bruce."

  "Eh, well. You are a man to stand your ground, I see well. And what need that we should bare steel for a girl of the night?"

  "Then loose her."

  With a smile at the Scot's stubbornness, Bragora signed to Vettore to release the girl, and she vanished after one swift birdlike glance up at Donald Ban.

  "You are overtrusting, Signor Donal'," Bragora observed, affable again. "Behold, you are robbed by a cutpurse and deserted by this wench. If we cannot restore your purse, perhaps we may find you another. We were looking, Vettore and I, for a bold wight who will not step back at sight of a sword-a bold fellow, see you, who is yet a gentleman. Will you talk with us?"

  It seemed to Donald Ban that he had those qualifications. He must have food and a bed, and to get them he might as well serve one man as another.

  "Oh, aye," he said, picking up his bundle, "I'll parley wi' ye."

  Bragora escorted him around the church through an alley that gave upon a private court. Here he unlocked a narrow, iron-bound door that seemed to be part of a dark wall. Holding the smoldering butt of the torch high, he led the way down a corridor to a leather curtain, where he paused to speak in rapid Italian.

  "Good," he explained. "The Signor Zorzi, my honorable uncle, will greet you."

  The chamber behind the curtain was lighted only by a great charcoal brazier. An older man sat huddled close to it, his long fingers playing upon the lions' heads that formed the arms of his chair. He did not look up when Donald entered, but as the Scot surveyed the room-the barred embrasure that served for a window and the weapons hung upon the wall-he felt that the old Italian studied him covertly.

  "Ah, Signor," Zorzi remarked in broken French, "Iny nephew Paulo he relate to me that you serve me, perhaps, this night. Is it so?"

  Donald looked at the younger Bragora expectantly.

  "It is," Paulo vouchsafed, "that you should carry a letter. Now listen to the reason. We of the Bragora family are not men of warfare, yet in Venice we have enemies. They are powerful-even the names in the Golden Book of nobility are not above their reach. You do not understand? Eh-enough that we are afraid. I say it without shame. I know a dagger slits the hide of a Bragora as quickly as that of a boatman. I am not a fool.

  "Now my uncle has written a letter of warning to a friend. It must go this night to the Ca' Cornaro, that is to say the castle of the Cornaro family, which lies distant a half hour by water-an island in the lagoon beyond Canareggio."

  He picked up the hourglass with the tally stick that kept count of the hours. "See, the third hour is half ended, and the letter must go very soon. If I carried it, or a servant, we would be watched-followed. But no one in Venice except that flower wench knows your face. No one at all saw you enter this house. I do not hide the danger from you, but I believe you will reach the Ca' Cornaro with a whole hide. When you have handed in the letter at the door, wait for the package they will give you, and bring it to this house at once."

  "And what then?" Donald asked.

  "Eh, we will then weigh out and put into your hands two silver pounds. After that you are a free man. We trust you to keep your tongue between your teeth."

  Donald considered. It seemed clear enough. If he brought back the package they expected, the Bragoras would know that he had del
ivered the letter. If he did not he would have no pay.

  "Well," he responded, "I will do it. Much talk have I heard of brigands and the like. But I have yet to see one who will stand up to an honest sword."

  "Par Dex," Zorzi muttered, "you may see even that, Signor. Know you the bra vi of our city? Or the Signor del Notte, the Lord of the Night, who rules the boatmen and cutpurses and hath his spies even i' the great council-"

  At an exclamation from Paulo he fell silent. Then he drew out a letter, tied and sealed. "You will take this?"

  Donald nodded.

  "There is a condition. The letter explains itself to the Cornaro people, our friends. Do not speak my name or my nephew's, or tell any soul of this house. Do you swear, Signor?"

  The Scot grunted impatiently, disliking oaths, which were needless if men kept faith, and worthless otherwise. "Aye-aye."

  Thrusting the letter through his belt, he followed Bragora to the postern door, where the Venetian handed him two silver shillings to pay a boatman, explaining that any man on the canals would know the Ca' Cor naro, and advising Donald to retrace his way past the church to the canal beyond before hailing a skiff.

  Then the Scot heard the door close behind him and heavy bolts click home. It occurred to him as he turned away that he knew nothing of the face of this house, which might be one of the palaces on the outer canal. He could find his way back to the door, however, and that would suffice.

  As for his mission, he had no liking for either Paulo or Zorzi Bragora, and he wondered why they chose to pay two silver pounds to the bearer of a missive that any beggar could take for a shilling-although perhaps a beggar could not be trusted.

  "Signeur Donal'-wait!"

  The whisper came, soft as the lapping of water against stones, out of the darkness. He had passed the shrine, and was walking along the edge of the canal looking for a boat. Donald wondered who could know his name and face, and he turned, setting his back against a wall. Presently he made out a slender figure no higher than his shoulder, with a dark object held against its hip. The flower girl-she must have listened to the talk between him and Bragora when they left the church square. "Nay," he muttered, "is not one stealing enough for thee this night?"