The Rage of Fortune

by J. D. Davies

  The Earl of Ravensden:

  ‘Ho, Fast Castle!’ I cried. ‘I am Ravensden. You know of me. I am the lord of Alnburgh, a friend to your master Logan of Restalrig, and kin to My Lord of Gowrie.’

  I prayed that word of the calamity which had taken place in Perth had yet to reach this remote place. I also prayed that the said Logan of Restalrig had not got here before me, because if he had –

  ‘Ravensden? The Earl? The one who fought the Armada, and at Cadiz?’

  It was a woman, her head just visible above the rampart of the gatehouse. She spoke in a strong Scottish accent, but it was of the lowland variety, not too different to the speech of my tenants around Alnburgh.

  ‘The same, goodwife. We are here upon a matter that relates to the Earl of Gowrie.’

  ‘Is it so, now? Well, then, My Lord, you’ll know the watchword.’

  Watchword. There was a watchword. And John of Gowrie, utterly convinced that God was with him, that his scheme would succeed, and that the course of action I was now about would never be necessary, had omitted to tell me what it was.

  ‘Watchword? Damnation, woman, I need no watchword! I am Ravensden, kin to Lord Gowrie, I tell you! The Laird of Restalrig will be most displeased with you if you do not admit me!’

  ‘You can tell him that yourself, My Lord,’ said the impudent wench. ‘He’s expected here, that he is.’

  I was silent, digesting this intelligence. If Logan was expected at any time, I had to take action immediately. But the strumpet in the castle seemed most unlikely to be shifted. I could have offered her gold, of course, but to obtain it, she would have had to lower the drawbridge – and even I had to confess to myself that not even the most stupid sentinel ever to stand guard was likely to be so foolish.

  On the other hand, the hussy at the rampart appeared to be the one and only sentinel of Fast Castle. There was no sign of another living soul; a dog yapped in the courtyard, but that was all. One woman and one dog. Even if there chanced to be a stray groom or scullion, about their business in the kitchens, it was hardly a garrison to strike fear into the heart of a besieging army. If I elevated a saker or two and peppered the castle walls, I could doubtless frighten her into submission –

  But that would take time, and time was a luxury I did not possess.

  ‘Very well, goodwife,’ I said, ‘I shall return to my ship and await your master’s return. But he will be most displeased with you. Most displeased indeed.’

  Nicholas Iles:

  We returned to the Constant Esperance, and I digested what I had just seen. Matthew Quinton, the mighty Earl of Ravensden, repulsed from a castle gate by a mere goodwife? It seemed beyond all belief. Would Caesar have turned back from the Rubicon if just one old hag bade him defiance from the other side of the stream? Would Joshua have commanded his trumpets not to sound at Jericho if one harlot on the ramparts was mildly insolent?

  No. For they were true heroes, not men of straw.

  Horvath sidled up to me. ‘What are we doing here, friend Iles?’ he whispered. ‘What in the name of God is he doing here?’

  I stepped away from him, but my thoughts were in turmoil. I went below, to my tiny canvas-shrouded space, and wept.

  I took out the sheet on which I had written the title The Glorious History and Famous Deeds of Matthew Quinton, Earl of Ravensden, and the prologue spoken by the Chorus:

  I sing thy arms (Bellona), and the Man’s

  Whose mighty deeds outdid Great Tamberlane’s.

  Thy Trump (dire goddess) send, that I may thunder,

  Some wondrous strain, to speak this man of wonder –

  This man of wonder.

  I tore the paper into tiny pieces.

  Laszlo Horvath:

  Night falls, the sun setting behind the cliffs to the west. We can see one light burning in the windows of Fast Castle, a thin wisp of smoke coming from its chimney. This confirms him in his impression that the place is very nearly empty.

  Once again, we descend the ship’s side and get into the longboat. But we are no longer bound for the shore. One man with a lantern sits in the bows, the Earl, Iles and myself in the stern with the helmsman. The poet seems more sullen than usual. Perhaps this is simply a passing mood, one of those fits of melancholy to which his kind appear to be addicted. Or perhaps it is the effect of my words.

  The remaining men row. They, too, are sullen, as well they may be. The Earl has deprived them of not one prize but two, and now he has them out on the water at night, with little moonlight, pulling directly for the base of the cliffs on which Fast Castle stands. They can hear, as we at the stern can see, the waves breaking on the rocks. If he gets our course wrong, every man in the boat is liable to drown, and they know this. But the Earl’s name and reputation still have a power to them, and more than enough men in the ship’s crew are convinced of their potency to volunteer for the longboat.

  For there is a new rumour sweeping through the lower deck. The cynics say that this rumour has been planted there by the Earl himself, to delude gullible men, to distract them from seeking reparation for the riches denied to them thus far in our voyage. But others say that they should trust the Earl, that he has done right by them in the past, that he will give them their just deserts now.

  He has been here before, these men say. He has been to this castle. He knows exactly what he is looking for.

  And what he is looking for is the most valuable treasure in the island of Britain.

  Nicholas Iles:

  I sat in the stern of the boat, cursing at myself for allowing him to persuade me to come.

  ‘It’s a sight you’ll not want to miss, poet. A wonder of nature. And within it, a treasure beyond – Well, a treasure, at any rate. You’ll want to write this scene.’

  I had not been able to pluck up the courage to tell him I was leaving him. I would take my chances in London again, attempt to remove the charges standing against me, make a new life. Find a woman, perhaps. Act again, if my name were cleared. Write for the stage, even, if necessary only in the lowest capacity of all: scribbling the additional lines and minor speeches that the likes of Shakespeare did not have the time to write before they moved on to their next commissions.

  No, I had not told him. For one thing, I feared his reaction, especially aboard his own ship, so very far away from the safety of London. He might throw me over the side – old men in the crew told me of when he did exactly that, to a man who crossed him while sailing in the waters off Hispaniola. Or, nearly as bad, he might put me ashore, in these wild northern parts with their strange, violent people, who spent centuries on end feuding with each other and raiding across the border. Poetry had no place in the north, that much was clear.

  So I went along. But as we got ever closer to the rocks, I cursed myself for staying silent. In the darkness, the towering black cliffs seemed even taller than they did in the day. The waves broke over the rocks, the water forming fantastical shapes as it spat up into the air. It was possible to see the screaming faces of dead men, there in the foam. Closer and closer –

  The Earl of Ravensden:

  ‘Steady the helm,’ I ordered. ‘Keep the bow aiming just to the left of that window, up in the west tower -’

  ‘I see no window, My Lord!’ cried Bentley, up in the bow with the lantern.

  Neither could I, but I was not going to tell the men that. I had come this way only once, in daylight, some six years earlier. Logan had given the orders, and Napier, the mathematician, sitting at the stern as I was now, had shat himself in fright. I cursed the fact that only the argumentative goodwife was in residence; for if the castle had anything like a full garrison, there would have been a light in the window I sought.

  The boat was rearing up now, riding the swell as we came ever nearer to the rocks. Iles and even Horvath clung onto the wales with grim determination. For my part, I silently mouthed the words of the Forty-Sixth Psalm.

  God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not
we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.

  For the thousandth time, I wondered where or what the fuck ‘Selah’ was.

  ‘Rock – dead ahead—’

  Bentley turned, the lantern lighting up his terrified face and giving him the look of a phantom.

  ‘Port the helm! Hard a’larboard!’ I cried.

  I grabbed the tiller myself. There was a loud crack, then another. I thought the bow must have struck, and that our end had come. But the two bow oarsmen on the starboard side raised their hands, and I knew in that instant that it was only their oars shearing off. A surge of the tide pushed us past the rock, into the channel that I knew. We were in.

  Nicholas Iles:

  Despite the heaviness of my heart, I marvelled at the sight before me. We were in a large sea cave, illuminated both by our boat’s lantern and, strangely, blazing torches, set in holders fastened to the rock face. At the far end, what appeared to be a tunnel, again lined by torches, seemed to lead upwards, presumably to the cellars of the castle above. On either side of the cave were relatively level rock ledges, high above the point reached by the breaking waves; although in any case, these had very little force within the confines of the cave. And the ledges were stacked high with barrels, boxes, chests of all sorts.

  ‘Behold, Logan’s treasure,’ said My Lord. ‘Or to be exact, the treasures of half the men of rank on both sides of the border, who would rather that the Queen’s exchequer or the King of Scots’ treasury were unaware of their existence. This place has another purpose, too. After all, if an English lord and a Scottish lord both know exactly where their principal riches are kept, what is the point in raiding each other? Nothing has kept the peace on the border more effectively these last twenty years than Fast Castle’s cave.’

  ‘But if every great man of the border knows this is here,’ I demanded, ‘why have none of them attempted to seize it all? And why has Logan himself not absconded with it?’

  ‘Logan is a good man of business, my friend, which means he knows he’ll live rather longer by charging extortionate commission for storing men’s property here than by robbing the lords of the Border Reivers, men who head families that have been fighting constantly for five hundred years. Lords who know more ways to kill a man as painfully as possible than the Spanish Inquisition. There wouldn’t be a hermit’s cell in the mountains of China remote enough to hide Robert Logan if he betrayed any of us – of them, that is – and he knows it. As for why no-one has ever attempted to seize it all – how would any man get it all out, when the only ways in and out are one narrow passageway to and from the castle and a perilous sea channel, so narrow that only one small boat can go through it?’

  The man in the bows secured us to a mooring ring, and we stepped up onto the more southerly of the rock ledges.

  ‘What is it we seek, My Lord?’ asked Horvath.

  ‘A casket,’ said the Earl. ‘One small, bejewelled casket. It should be one of the smallest things in here, and it should be on its own. A gold sovereign to the man who finds it.’

  The boat’s crew set about the task with vigour, possession of a gold sovereign being well beyond the wildest dreams of most of them. Even I, who had held sovereigns in my hand before (and lost them, soon after), set to with a will.

  Laszlo Horvath:

  It takes perhaps a half hour of searching behind barrels, moving crates, and shining flaming torches into dark corners. At last, a shout comes from one of the men, a hard drinking Londoner named Starkey.

  ‘My Lord!’ he cries. ‘Is this it, My Lord?’

  We go over, he inspects it, and casually hands the gold coin to Starkey, whose eyes widen at the prospect of the amount of ale this will buy him.

  ‘Well done, Starkey,’ he says. ‘Well done indeed.’

  I stand by it as he opens it. I expect to see jewels, at the very least; perhaps a lost treasure of the Caesars, or the Grail itself.

  Instead, the casket contains an old cup, some papers, and a dead snake.

  The men look at each other. Their eyes betray their disappointment, but there is more, with some of them: there is anger.

  But the Earl is beside himself. He smiles, and nods vigorously. He takes hold of the cup and the snake, looks at them for a moment, then throws them into the sea. He snatches the papers, checks them, and thrusts them inside his buff jacket. Clearly, they are the treasure. These few scraps of paper are what we came to Fast Castle for.

  The Earl of Ravensden:

  The papers were not many, and they were light, but it seemed to me as though the bundle weighed a hundredweight. As my father used to say, ‘Words can be the heaviest burden of all’, and he was never more right. For words can change the destiny of kingdoms, too, and that was certainly the case with the ones I now carried.

  There was a commotion at the far end of the cave – a shout – a clash of steel on steel.

  I swung round, and my men thrust torches and our lantern toward the noise. Men were coming into the cave by way of the passage from the castle. Armed men, who were already crossing swords with Jackson, whom I had ordered to stand guard. And at their head was Robert Logan, sword drawn, clad in a breastplate, looking every inch the Reiver warlord that he was.

  ‘Ye’re a fucking duplicitous shit, Ravensden!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Simply retrieving my kin’s own property, Logan. John of Gowrie asked me to fetch it, in the event—’

  ‘A duplicitous shit and a bad liar! Gowrie’s dead at Perth, but you knew that full well before you came here! I’ll have back whatever ye’ve ta’en, and I’ll see your head on a spike!’

  With that, Robert Logan lifted his sword and charged.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nicholas Iles:

  The ledge allowed precious little space for standing, let alone fighting. But Logan and his men were between us and our boat, so we would have to fight our way through them. My Lord led the way, crossing swords with Logan himself and forcing the Scot back. I edged around to his side, keeping my back against the boxes and barrels, hoping to avoid an encounter with one of the ferociously armed men at Logan’s back. But one of them came for me, screaming some obscenity in the Scots tongue. I weaved away from his blade, executed a perfect …, and pierced the varlet to the heart, between his ribs –

  No.

  I slipped. The surface of the rock ledge was wet, and my feet went from under me. The Scotsman’s blade flashed above my head; if I had still been upright, it would have sliced through my neck. But my feet flew forward, striking the Scot in the knees and knocking him backwards. The man waved his arms frantically, then fell into the water below. I was about to join him –

  A hand gripped my arm, and pulled me back to safety.

  ‘One day, we shall discuss repayment,’ said the Hungarian, in the moment before he turned and traded blows with the next of Logan’s men.

  The Earl of Ravensden:

  I fought Logan nearly back to the boat. He was a hard fighter, but like most of the Reivers I had ever fought, his swordplay was of the cruder variety – ugly great cuts and slashes intended to intimidate farmers and slice open English horse-thieves. This was a stage below even the brutal blade-work we seamen employed upon each other, and a very long way below the elegant Italianate duelling skills practised by the Queen’s courtiers. The sort that, say, two Earls of England might conceivably have employed against each other on Hampstead Heath.

  ‘I’m toying with you, Logan,’ I cried as I forced him back against the rock face, aiming a thrust at his side which deliberately missed by inches. ‘You know I’m the better swordsman. Better by far. Withdraw now, man, with your honour intact.’

  He cut at my shoulders, but I brought up my sword and deftly parried the attack.

  ‘Not until I get back what you’ve taken, Quinton!’

  He sliced downward, aiming for my waist,
but it was a clumsy move. I had ample time to parry, and could have pierced him to the heart there and then, had I wished.

  ‘In fuck’s name, Logan, look at me! Look at my men! What have we taken? What can we have possibly concealed about us?’

  He held his blade out in front of him, but did not attack.

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, My Lord. I know what you’ve got. The only thing that would make you dare to come here, with Gowrie dead and half of Scotland believing he tried to kill the king. You’ve taken the letters, Quinton.’

  I kept my sword level with his. I fixed my eyes on Logan’s, looking for the first sign of a movement of the eyeballs, the slightest forewarning of his next attack.

  ‘And what do you know of the letters, Logan?’

  ‘What Gowrie told me. What every man of rank in these islands knows. He never showed me the contents.’

  ‘And you never thought to look?’

  ‘He made me swear so many oaths, I dared not. And he protected the casket with some of his magical charms. An undead snake, the conduit for Satan into this mortal realm, for one. My soul would have gone straight to hell if I had even touched those papers,’ said Logan. ‘Strange that yours has not, My Lord.’

  ‘Perhaps my soul is already there. El diablo blanco, remember.’

  Silently, I gave thanks to God that Robert Logan, the cynical, devious man of business, was, at bottom, as superstitious and as frightened of witchcraft and eternal damnation as any simpering virgin. But then, it seemed to be a peculiar trait of the Scots, this abiding obsession with witchcraft.

  I could afford a glance to either side, and saw that the battle was going the way of my men. This was due in no small part to Horvath, whose fighting skills, honed in the great war in the east, were of the most formidable sort. So, too, was his tactical sense. Taking his cue from me, he was being careful only to wound, and then not seriously. The rest of my men, in turn, were following Horvath’s lead. We were beating back Logan’s men, but taking care not to kill.