The fugitives sword, p.34
The Fugitive's Sword, page 34
part #1 of Lord's Learning Series
“Why you insolent—” For a moment Kate thought Vroomen was going to draw his sword. But then his hand fell away from it and his face twisted into an ugly grin. “So that is the lie of the land, is it? You want to keep the lovely Mevrouw Harris close to you?” he gave a laugh. “Well, my young fighting cock,” he put an emphasis on the word that made his meaning clear, “you can keep her so long as I get my money and I wish you the joy of her. You’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
He strode towards the door and Kate knew she was colouring at his implication. Lord stepped aside to let Vroomen pass, not taking his gaze from the man as if expecting a sudden attack. But there was none and no farewell. He swept from the room and was gone. Lord turned and followed him, closing the door behind him.
Drawing a breath of relief, Kate took the opportunity to give her attention to Clara who stood with her hands screwing the fabric of her apron.
“You were very brave. Thank you for trying to defend me.” The girl was shaking from head to foot and Kate put an arm about her. “You need a restorative, but I have none here. Will there be someone in the kitchen who could prepare one for you?”
Clara nodded. Tears standing unshed in her eyes. “But I must stay with you.”
Kate wondered if that imperative was to guard or serve her. “I will be alright. I will not leave the room and you can come back as soon as you have had something to stop you shaking so badly.” She smiled reassuringly and lifted one of the girl’s hands. “See? You tremble so much you will not be able to help me finish unpacking. Now go and say I have insisted upon it.”
Whether she was too shaken to object or just glad to leave the room, Kate was unsure, but Clara left, and Kate sought to calm her own nerves by continuing the unpacking. She held up one of the skirts Severina di Zorzi had given her and shook it out before brushing it down. The simple task was soothing.
“Mevrouw Harris.”
Kate spun around her heart pounding all over again. Philip Lord stood by the closed door, his sword back by his thigh.
He made a slight bow. “I should not have allowed that to happen. Are you truly unharmed?”
Kate gathered herself and managed a smile. “My arm will be a little bruised, but apart from that I am not injured.”
Philip Lord frowned his young face darkened by a very unchildlike anger. “He hurt you?”
Fearful that it might cause more issues, Kate quickly shook her head. “No. Not to speak of. He just seized my arm a little roughly. There is no injury.”
“Was Captain Vroomen at all…” He broke off as if uncertain how to ask what he needed to ask and Kate noticed a flush of colour in his face as he went on, but whether anger or embarrassment she was unsure. “Was he at all rough with you on the voyage here after I left?”
Kate wondered what she should say, then realised that the boy who had been serving her would probably tell his master what had happened if she did not.
“The captain made a proposal that I share his bed, but I refused him. He left me alone after that and Jorrit cared well for my needs.” Then a horrible thought occurred to her. “It wasn’t Jorrit who Captain Vroomen wounded, was it?”
Lord shook his head. “No. It was one of the house servants here.”
Kate was relieved. She had grown fond of Jorrit. Then she knew a moment of guilt for being glad it was another. “I hope he was not badly wounded.”
“He will recover,” Lord assured her, his gaze briefly meeting hers but then dropping away and fixing on something else. It was as if he felt embarrassed at what had occurred and sought something—anything—to distract from it. His eye no doubt caught by the knife he had given her which now sat on the table on top of a book. He crossed to it and reached for it, then stopped.
“This is your book?” he asked, setting the knife aside and picking up the book. The surprise in his voice was marked. It was the copy of John Dee’s book she had purchased in London. She had placed it on the table as she and Clara had been unpacking.
Kate cursed herself for leaving it out of the coffer. “Yes. I bought it as a gift for a friend,” she lied.
“You have well educated friends.” He put the book down again, but his gaze stayed on it as he spoke. “I am sorry you have been put to this inconvenience. There is no question of your being asked to pay for your freedom. I shall see you are able to return home, of course. I shall speak to those who can arrange such things today.” Then his gaze swept up to meet hers, the brilliance of it startling her anew. “I need to ask how you came by the letter and the ring.”
It was a strange way to phrase it. As if something of more moment than she could see rested on her answer. As if he feared she might say something he didn’t want to hear. And that was where things became difficult. Much as she was sure he meant what he said about seeing she was safely returned to the Dutch Republic, she did not want to strain his goodwill by letting it be known that she was a far more valuable playing piece in political games than she appeared. All in all it seemed safest to keep with what she had already said. To continue to insist she was the person she had claimed to be.
“I serve one of the ladies who is in service to the king’s daughter. Since I had reason to travel to England, I was sent with personal messages for the king. He was gracious enough to hear those from me and then gave me the letter and the ring and showed me a portrait of you. He also charged me to ask the queen to do all in her power to find you and to ensure you were protected and provided with money.” It sounded plausible to Kate’s own ears and was close enough to the truth.
“No,” Lord said, his tone curtly dismissive and for a terrible moment Kate thought he didn’t believe her. “I have no need of any financial aid. I am my own man now.” There was something of pride in his words, as if it mattered to him that she should know it, so Kate did not press the matter. When he asked that she did not even mention the matter to the queen she agreed. It was the least she could do after all he had done to keep her from Vroomen and in handing over the ring and the letter she had done all the king had asked of her anyway.
She had thought he would leave then, but instead he crossed to the bookcase and ran his fingers along the top shelf, looking for something he expected to be there. That was when she realised he knew this room well. She wondered if this was his room, turned over to her for her captivity. He had told Vroomen this was his house and the captain had been surprised. There was a mystery in that. But then Philip Lord himself was a mystery.
Kate caught herself watching him. The intent expression on his finely crafted face. And though still that more of boy than man, it was a face of strength and character. Whoever he might be he was surely of no common or coarse pedigree. His hair the colour of pearl and his eyes like gemstones, the way he carried himself with supreme confidence and an educated mind that held Horace and Shakespeare.
He turned back to her with a volume taken from the shelf in his hand.
“I must go. But you might find this better reading than John Dee’s alchemy.” He held the book out with a shy look as if in doubt that it would be well received. The uncertainty made his youth more evident than ever. Kate took the book and opened it.
“Cervantes,” she said, delight lifting her voice to her own hearing. “I loved his Quixote.” She read the title translating it as she did so from Spanish into the English they were speaking. “The Travails of Persiles and Sigismunda. Thank you. I’m sure I will enjoy this.”
Her delight must have been infectious because he smiled at her, a shy smile that transformed his face and she returned the smile with warmth. For a moment he met her gaze, and she was looking full into those incredible gemstone eyes. But, in the next moment, the smile was gone, and he turned away, lowering his head so his expression was invisible, as if he had been caught out in something shameful.
The door opened and closed, and Kate found herself alone, still holding the book, the room feeling oddly empty.
*** *** ***
Someone had died.
Two days before the Star returned to Dunkirk and the very day De Zeekat had limped in, Master Carrasco had breathed his last. Whilst seeming to have healed externally, the bullet wound had somehow festered deep inside. Now the house where he had been living was occupied by the Schiavono and the Master’s bedchamber was turned over to Mevrouw Harris. Jorrit was no longer needed to serve her, as the Schiavono had hired a woman in anticipation of her arrival to see to her needs.
Jorrit was there when Captain Vroomen forced his way into the house. However, he had been busy unpacking the Schiavono’s things that had been on the Star and was only aware of the ruckus Vroomen caused after the Schiavono had already thrown him out. It was only that evening after supper, which the Schiavono had not attended having gone out on some business, the door to the bedchamber opened and he strode in, hair starkly white against the black he wore.
“Mevrouw Harris tells me you were most careful of her on the voyage,” he said. “For that you have my thanks.” It was the first time they had spoken since Jorrit arrived back in Dunkirk.
Jorrit wanted to say he didn’t need the Schiavono’s thanks. He would have done all he did for Mevrouw Harris herself. But the words did not come.
Instead, he said: “She is having a baby.”
He had a moment of warning in which to regret having spoken. The shock that stamped itself on the Schiavono’s face was the first and only time Jorrit ever saw through to the very depths of his soul.
The Schiavono gasped as if Jorrit had just punched him hard in the stomach. Where his skin had been colourless before, now it looked grey, and he seemed to be finding it an effort to breathe. He turned away and staggered a step, bracing himself on the mantle of the hearth, head bowed. For a full minute, he stood thus, unmoving, as Jorrit wished he could somehow take back the words. When eventually the Schiavono straightened and turned around, he was still pale but now his expression was composed. He reached for the hippocras Jorrit had set to keep warm by the fire and swallowed it down as if it were water. Then he pushed the cup at Jorrit.
“Then we will have to ensure Mevrouw Harris is accommodated and accompanied appropriately for her journey north,” he said, his voice steady. “Meanwhile I have other matters to attend to tomorrow and I will need you with me. Fetch me more wine, it need not be hippocras, whatever you can find will do.”
Jorrit hesitated, and seeing the Schiavono frown at that, he spoke quickly.
“I’m sorry about Master Carrasco, sir. He was a good man and kind.”
As soon as he had spoken, he knew he had said the wrong thing again. The Schiavono’s expression darkened.
“No.” The Schiavono snapped the word, glaring at Jorrit, his eyes blazing. “You are wrong. He was a great man, and great men are not good or kind.
Onde è necessario ad un principe, volendosi mantenere, imparare a potere essere non buono, ed usarlo e non usarlo secondo la necessità…”
He must have realised Jorrit was lost because he broke off and spoke in English. “A great man may seem to be good, but that is all. He cannot truly be good because it is necessary at times to do things that are not at all good.”
“I—I’m sorry, sir. I only meant…” Jorrit trailed off, feeling as though he could no longer be sure of the solid ground beneath his feet.
The Schiavono shook his head and laughed briefly, a hollow mirthless sound.
“Just get me the wine. Then you can go to bed.”
Jorrit obeyed and returned with the wine to find the Schiavono sitting by the fire staring into its flames as if he could see some vision there. He didn’t acknowledge Jorrit’s return, so, having set the wine beside him, Jorrit pulled out the truckle and got into bed. He promised himself he would stay awake in case the Schiavono needed him but was asleep before that thought could even coalesce.
He was shaken awake.
“Get up, get dressed—no, not those rags, you have mourning to wear.”
The mourning clothes were of fine black wool and a bit too big, but Jorrit pulled them on quickly. He had never worn anything so expensive before and he hoped he wouldn’t get a mark on these before they needed to be returned to whoever they belonged to.
The Schiavono was already dressed—if indeed he had ever undressed and slept, which Jorrit thought unlikely because his face had a brittle pallor against which his eyes stood out more brightly than usual.
For once they went out without eating and walked a short way to what was surely the house of a very wealthy man.
The captain was absent, but his cousin was there as was a man Jorrit assumed to be the owner of the house. He was a quietly spoken old man, immaculately dressed and with a very astute gaze. He kept looking at the Schiavono as if uncertain why he was there.
Jorrit spent the morning standing in the corner of the room with another servant, occasionally helping fetch refreshments and serve them. He didn’t follow the conversation at all as it was all to do with things he didn’t understand—accounts, taxes, duties, licences and something called the prize tribunal.
It went on for a long time and Jorrit noticed that after a while the old man was looking at the Schiavono with a different expression, one of interested speculation. Much of what the Schiavono said got nods and smiles from both of the other two men and at the end they all shook hands as if a deal had been struck.
On the way back to the house the Schiavono seemed to be in a better mood and Jorrit plucked up the courage to ask him about the meeting. The Schiavono laughed.
“What was that meeting about? Sharpening the blade with which I shall cut. Master Carrasco, I think, would be proud of me.”
Which made no sense at all to Jorrit.
The next two days leading up to the funeral they stayed at the house. The Schiavono spent his time in Master Carrasco’s chart room and Jorrit brought him his meals there. Sometimes he was working feverishly, filling page after page with notes. Other times Jorrit would find him staring at a chart as if not really seeing it, his gaze unfocused. He seemed to be avoiding Mevrouw Harris. The one time he nearly ran into her when Jorrit was present, he stopped before she might see him and waited until she was back in her room with the door closed before going on.
Messages arrived several times a day and Jorrit would take them through to the Schiavono who would read them and either set them aside or sometimes pen a reply to be given to the man who had brought it. The day before the funeral one such message had the Schiavono looking tight faced.
“Go and tell Mevrouw Harris she will be leaving tomorrow. A coach will be arriving first thing, and she will have an escort that will see her safely home. You can tell her that if it is inconvenient then she has my apologies, but it is something that must happen now or I may not be able to guarantee her another opportunity to travel.” Jorrit turned to go to the door, but the Schiavono’s voice stopped him. “No. Wait. This is something I must do myself.”
The hardness in his tone made it sound as if he was having to undertake a repellent task that would require all his willpower to see through. Jorrit wondered then if he’d been mistaken about what he had thought before. Perhaps the Schiavono really disliked Mevrouw Harris. But then, why would he be letting her stay in this house and paying for her to go home?
He had no chance to find out as the Schiavono pushed past him and a moment later stood by the door to Mevrouw Harris’ room, hand lifted to knock. Then he paused and bowed his head as if summoning the courage to go on. After a few moments he straightened up and drew a breath before rapping firmly on the door and going inside. But for the rest of the day after that, the Schiavono was in a foul mood and Jorrit did his best to stay well out of the way unless he was summoned.
To his disappointment Jorrit didn’t get to say goodbye to Mevrouw Harris, or even see her leave the next morning. He was too busy, caught up in the final preparations to go out to the funeral. And that was a grand affair in a beautifully decorated church with statues of saints wearing sad faces or benign smiles and stained-glass windows shedding speckled rainbows through the thick mist of incense. Nothing like church worship that he was used to from childhood, but he had learned some of the prayers and how to mouth along as if he knew the words of others.
But for Jorrit the best thing was that the Schiavono who left the funeral was a different man to the one who had attended it. At the funeral he had been as he was since Jorrit had returned to Dunkirk—graven faced, head bowed and tight lipped, talking in murmurs with the others who were there, solemn and sombre. Walking back to the house, though, his stride had been restored to its usual broad buoyancy with Jorrit having to take the odd running step to keep up.
Once back at the house, the Schiavono insisted that they ate well, then he and Jorrit spent the rest of the day in Master Carrasco’s room working to pack all the books and charts. When that was done, the Schiavono stood back and looked around the almost empty room.
“The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long… or then again, maybe we shall. Maybe we shall live even longer and see much more.” Then his tone took on a familiar edge that made Jorrit shiver. “Tomorrow, though, we shall most certainly speak what we feel, and someone is going to hear what we ought to say, but I have a feeling he will not like it very much.”
The following morning a small metal bound chest was delivered by men Jorrit recalled seeing at the house they had been to with the captain’s cousin. The Schiavono took it into the chart room where all had now been packed away and unlocked it. He took something from inside and held it out to Jorrit. A money pouch.
“Here. This is yours.”
Jorrit took it and wondered at the weight in his hand. Opening it he saw the golden coins inside and stared at them. More money than he had ever seen in one place before.
“I sold your ring and put the money with my investment in our voyage. That is your share. You have earned it.”
