Fair Blows the Wind Read online

  No matter. I had chosen the moment.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE AIR WAS cool. The inn yard smelled of fresh hay and manure. There was a cart at one side loaded with several casks. A few of the people in the common room trooped out, drinks in hand, to stand as spectators.

  Tankard slashed the air, whipping his blade this way and that, perhaps to overawe me. He was an inch or two taller than I, hence longer in the arm. There was no measuring of blades; we fought with what we had. At least three of those who came from the common room to watch were henchmen of Leckenbie’s, a thought I knew I must keep in mind so as not to present my back to them.

  Yet Tosti, too, was there, and suddenly possessed of a stout staff. “I will stand at your back,” he suggested, “but have a care!”

  Surprisingly, I was not nervous. Several times I had fought in actual combat, but never in such a duel as this was to be. Yet it was for skill at such moments that I had trained. Tankard knew naught of me, or little enough. My one strategy should be to lead him to believe me less than I was, hence to make him grow careless.

  We crossed blades and he looked at me, sneering slightly. “What a pity! To die so young!”

  “Young? I did not consider you so young, Tankard, but it is certainly a pity. Still, better the sword than the gibbet!”

  He moved in, feinting a thrust. I made as if to parry, deliberately clumsy, then retreated a step as if puzzled by him. He moved in with confidence, and in an instant I knew I was facing a strong fencer with exceptional skill. His point circled and he stepped in with a quick thrust low down and for the groin. That I parried—and almost too late. He came on swiftly and I was hard put to keep his point away.

  He drew back after one swift exchange, his point high. “I shall kill you,” he said coolly. “It is almost too easy!”

  There was little sound from those who watched. They stood about in a loose circle, stepping back occasionally to remove themselves from our way.

  Then Tankard lunged suddenly. But his boot slipped on a bit of mud or some such and for a moment he was exposed. My point could easily have had his throat but I stepped back swiftly, permitting him to recover.

  “You are gallant,” he said, surprised.

  “I am a gentleman, Captain. I will kill you, but I do not indulge in murder.”

  “Hah! You make me almost regret what I must do!”

  “If you wish to withdraw, Captain, the choice is yours!”

  He laughed. “And leave London? I’ll not do it. I respect you, Chantry, but I also respect the dead!”

  He came at me swiftly again, thinking to end it so, but I parried his best attacks. I was learning the true man now, studying him as Fergus MacAskill had taught me to do. His style of fence was English, with some touches picked up on the Continent, but I felt he had grown careless from easy victories. He was sure of himself, a little arrogant.

  He intended to kill me, and quickly. He moved in skillfully and attempted a classic cut at the chest, sometimes called a banderole, a flowing, slicing movement. It was a pretty move, spectacular to see. But it held a risk, for it exposed the forearm.

  In a duel with anyone taught by Kory or MacAskill, it was a wrong move. My reply was instantaneous, needing no thought—a reply rehearsed so often as to be automatic. My point pierced his arm, slicing through the tendons and driving into his chest.

  He staggered back and I quickly withdrew to an on-guard position. Blood streamed from his arm and there was a darkening stain on his chest. My point had not penetrated deeply, but enough for a serious wound.

  He caught himself by grasping the cart wheel with his left hand. He clung there, his sword down—although still gripped tightly. Blood ran down his arm and over the blade.

  I lowered my point, a part of my attention on his followers. Tosti stood hard by, and ready.

  “Damn it!” Tankard said. “I was a fool to try that with you!”

  “A lovely move, Captain, but a foolish one. Shall we call it quits?”

  “I meant to kill you.”

  “Of course.” I wiped my blade. “Another time, perhaps?”

  Turning, I started toward the inn door. A movement took my eye. It was John, the servant of the white-haired man. His eyes met mine and he smiled a little, not a friendly smile, but an acknowledging one. “I was well warned,” he said quietly. “You are very good.”

  “Have you a message for me?” I asked, wondering at his presence.

  He did not smile this time. “I came to carry the report of your death,” he said.

  “I will stand you a drink,” I said, “for you’ll have a dry welcome on your return.”

  “I’m obliged,” he said, “but another time.”

  He turned away, then paused. “You fought well,” he said, “but be warned. This was thought to end it. Now it will be murder. You must flee, or die.”

  He walked away and I went inside with Padget. It had been hot work, and the ale tasted good to a thirsty man, yet I liked none of it. My skill had been proven to me, but I had not wished it so.

  My thoughts went to the Good Catherine. Had she come in? How had my venture fared?

  I thought back to my victory. My blade had gone through the forearm, the force of the lunge driving it back against Tankard’s body. The point had gone in, but not far. He should recover.

  Alone in my room I wiped my blade yet again and dropped into a chair. In a severe test of skill, I had won, yet I liked it not. My room seemed suddenly to be an empty place—only a place to sleep and keep those few small belongings I had.

  What had I accomplished since coming to London? I had lived. I had earned a few pounds, I had acquired a little knowledge. But aside from Tosti, I had no friends. Emma Delahay and Mr. Digby were merely business associates, and neither cared for me nor had any personal interest in me. I was alone as I had ever been since my father died.

  My life was empty. The warmth of a home, the love of a girl, these I had not—nor any chance of them, it seemed. Fergus had been a strong, easy-going friend, but where was he? I could go back, but to what? There was nothing for me in Ireland, nor was there here in London.

  I wanted my own Irish home. I wanted that coast again, and I wanted a love. I was lonely. Now I must go out with a ship, accompany my venture, do my own trading. If I could return with some small wealth I would go back to my own country and find an Irish girl.

  So I thought, and so I planned.

  London had given me time in which to grow. It had enabled me to learn. Now there was nothing for me here any longer. Fear did not drive me, for my victory over Tankard gave me added confidence, yet why remain where there would be endless attempts to kill me? And I knew they feared me for I had written of them once, and might do so again. I was not their creature, and what next I might do they could not know. But suddenly I knew one last thing I could accomplish.

  I would write a piece that would destroy Rafe Leckenbie, and then I would go.

  Yet, I asked myself, why did I wish him destroyed? Was it because he had bested me in our long-ago duel? Was it because the man was my announced enemy, and had warned me that he intended to kill me?

  Reason enough, I told myself, but mine was not that. The man was evil, wholly committed to evil, and although I doubted that he would achieve what he had set out to do…he might.

  So far as I knew, I alone knew his plans. So far as I was aware, I alone could stop him—or could at least make an attempt. I had the necessary information, I possessed the weapon. Oddly enough, I did not believe that it was he who had set Charles Tankard upon me. Rather I believed it was that white-haired man, the master of John. Rafe Leckenbie would wish to have the pleasure of killing me himself.

  Yet I recalled the girl I had helped just a few hours past. How many such girls were brutalized, beaten and held in virtual bondage by him or those he protected?

/>   If men of goodwill would not step forward to war against evil, then who would? The spotlight I had put upon Leckenbie had aided him, he said. Indeed, it had. Yet it must have left disquiet in many minds, some of them official. From such a man, who was safe? Where was security when thieves and outlaws could run at large, doing their will of the populace?

  For a long time I lay on my back upon the bed, my hands clasped behind my head, thinking of what I might do, and how the last piece must be written.

  To indict Leckenbie was not enough. I must support my claims with arguments, with facts, with names, dates, and places. I knew this sort of thing was little done, but it must be done in this case. I doubted I would have more than one chance, so all must be done at once.

  Also, I must be about my business. Already I had been over long in London, my progress only adequate. Many men of my age were already captains of ships, commanders of regiments, and active in political life. Charles Danvers, at eighteen, had been elected to Parliament, and many another had done as well. I had no preferment, so must make my own way. But this was a time of change, when many yeomen and less were coming to high place through their energies alone.

  Mentally, I began to calculate. My little ventures had all but one returned me a small profit. The major investment was aboard the Good Catherine, now due into port. Item by item I calculated what I possessed, and it came to a tidy sum. I had succeeded in saving something in excess of twenty-five pounds, and this at a time when a hard-working playwright might earn thirty pounds in a year. And this counted nothing of my current venture on the Good Catherine.

  Carefully, I studied my situation and decided what I must buy. Now I knew the sources of the stuff of trade. I knew where to buy the brightly colored cloths, the copper bells and the edged tools, and where to obtain them at the least cost.

  At last I slept, restless with thoughts of all that must be done, but eager for the morrow. Awakening suddenly, with the first light, it was in my thoughts that I must no longer live so solitary, but must make friends. For if trouble came I had none to speak for me, while Rafe Leckenbie could call his friends by the dozen.

  No sooner did I come on the street than Padget was there. “You are famous,” he said, “the talk of London.”

  “I?”

  “Your victory over Captain Tankard. He was a man much feared, and one with many enemies. There is much talk of your gallant conduct against him.”

  “I fought to save my life.”

  “That may be, but you are much spoken of, and there is a man about, waiting for you.”

  He was a servant in livery, at a glass of ale in the common room. He came to his feet when I entered.

  “I am from Sir George Clifford, the Earl of Cumberland,” he announced. “I am asked to accompany you to him. He would speak with you.”

  Yet it was to no great castle that I was taken, but to a place upon the riverbank where Clifford was seeing to the outfitting of his ship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure. He gave me a quick glance. “You are the man who defeated Tankard?”

  “I am.”

  “Know you aught of the sea?”

  “Of small craft only. I am from the Hebrides.”

  “Ah? Fine sailormen those. Well, wish you to serve with me? There is word of a great armada the Spanish are sending against us.”

  “I know of it.”

  He threw me a quick glance. “What do you know?”

  “That Spain is preparing more than a hundred ships. Some have gathered in Cádiz, even now. Thousands of men are recruited, and more than two thousand brass cannon with much else.”

  “How does it come that you know all this? There has been talk, of course, but—”

  “I have ventured some small sums in trade. Thus I try to be aware of what is happening at sea. I have myself been contemplating a voyage to America, and to that end have spent much time talking with sailors and fishermen along the shore. There are no secrets there.”

  “Would you serve with me then? England will need every man.” He paused. “And I want bold ones, for when the Armada is defeated—and we shall defeat them—I wish to sail for the Indies, for the Spanish waters.”

  “I would be honored to serve with you in any capacity that befits a gentleman,” I replied.

  “Could you command a prize vessel if need be?”

  “I could.”

  “Good! Provide yourself with what you need and report to me here. And,” he added sharply, “no more dueling. Her Majesty does not look with favor upon such things.” He smiled then, friendly enough. “Although I should like to have seen that duel!” He changed the subject. “You have written some booklets?”

  “I have.”

  “Then keep your eyes and ears open. I should like this story well told when it is over. I want a report to the Queen, but I shall want more, a pamphlet to go out over the city, recounting the story of the Elizabeth.”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  As, indeed, it would. I had never written of a battle, and this would be one, perhaps the first of many, that I should not only witness but partake of. Yet I knew little enough of what my duties would be, nor of command afloat. It behooved me to learn as much as I could.

  I hurried back to my room at the inn to make my plans. I should need pistols, some clothes fit for the sea, books for reading, and most of all the help of an old salt, if such there was about, who could talk to me of battles at sea and their conduct.

  When I came down from my room, Tosti arose to meet me. “Do you have a patron?” he asked.

  “A patron?” I laughed. “No, not I. Patrons are for poets or playwrights, not for mere scribblers. No, I am recruited to war against the Spanish dons.” I explained to Tosti what lay before me and he went with me while I purchased two excellent pistols and the equipment and materials for charging them.

  For several days I was busy, yet I took the time needed to write the final piece on Rafe Leckenbie.

  Being no literary craftsman, I did my best with what came to mind. I wrote it as a story from some ancient land, yet kept the subject so close that none could miss what I intended. I entitled it: A True Relation of How a Master Thief Became a Great Lord. Writing in words that implied a long-ago story in a distant land, I yet painted so close a picture that none could fail to recognize Rafe Leckenbie. I told of his plotting to become the thief-master and controller of bawds. Then, almost using Rafe’s own words, I told how he would become a knight and then a lord of the realm. At last I pictured him fat and gloating, so strong that not even the ruler could displace him.

  During those last days I threw myself into the task of preparing for sea with all my energies. The problems were new for me, but I quickly perceived what must be done. And by discreet questions and observation, I learned much. I directed the loading of supplies, food, extra canvas, and I watched the storage of powder and shot. In every way I attempted to make myself useful. Clifford might wish for bold men, but useful men were just as necessary.

  We put to sea in company with a number of other vessels, many of whose names I never knew or heard but in passing. My life aboard ship was brief and hectic. The Spanish were coming, this much we knew. My informants along the Thames had known much from the gossip of fishermen and sailors of coastwise or across-channel boats, many of whom operated regardless of war or threat of war. Lying low in the water, their fast-sailing craft swept back and forth across the channel, many of them engaged in smuggling or other clandestine activities, but the servants of Elizabeth would have done well to have listening posts among them. Drake, I believed, did just that.

  The Bonaventure was a good sailer, as for weeks she proved as we beat back and forth across the channel and sometimes off the coast of Brittany. But never a Spanish sail did we see.

  We put back into port to renew our stores. There were stories that Sir John Hawkins was now to command the vessel
.

  As soon as we dropped anchor I made it ashore to see Emma Delahay.

  “Ah!” She looked up from her table as I entered. “It is you! Have you not heard then?”

  “Heard? What?”

  “There is an order for your arrest. It seems you have offended someone.”

  An order for my arrest? For a moment I seemed to turn cold. It was what I had feared. Once they had me in prison they would somehow, some way, discover who I was, and I would be killed.

  If not by the Queen’s men then by those of Leckenbie or his protector.

  How much could I trust Emma Delahay? No matter, I had no choice. Only a moment passed, but I knew what I must do.

  “What of the Good Catherine?”

  “She lies yonder. She has discharged her cargo and is reloading.”

  “My venture?”

  “You may see the accounts. You have fifty-five pounds due you.”

  “Your captain did well. When does he sail again?”

  “Within the week.” She shuffled some papers upon her table. “There is a place aboard her if you wish.” She paused then. “It would be safer, Tatton.”

  It was the first time she had called me by my given name.

  “If you wish to make a venture,” she said, “you could go with it and learn the trade for yourself.”

  He is a wise man who does not overstay his time. “I shall go,” I said.

  “Be aboard by the Sunday coming, and be careful.”

  I would, indeed.

  CHAPTER 23

  WHAT, THEN, TO do? The Queen’s men wished to arrest me, something contrived no doubt by Leckenbie’s protector. Or had they discovered my true identity? There was always that danger, a danger I would never be without.

  With honor I could not simply leave Sir George Clifford, yet to remain about when the order for my arrest was made out was to ask for trouble. I went straightaway to him.