by Robert Adams
Sir Giorgio Predone had his own ship, the galleass Spaventoso, rowed over closer to the obviously sinking galley that he had holed. With Sir Ugo d'Orsini and a contingent of the soldiery, he had the larger of his towed barges drawn up alongside, manned, and used to transport them to the doomed galley. The smaller barge was sent out to rescue any young, hale, unwounded survivors of this galley or the first that still might be in the water, for supplies of men to handle the long, incredibly heavy oars of the galleass were often hard to come by.
When finally the galleass sailed on toward the distant smudge on the horizon which was Sicily, she had garnered nearly three dozens of new galley slaves, two fine bronze chasers (one of twelve pounds and one of fifteen pounds), some seven swivel guns, an assortment of arquebuses, muskets, pistols, and edge or pole weapons, a few barrels of gunpowder, plus bits and pieces of armor, cordage, sailcloth, and ship's hardware. Sir Giorgio opined that it was not a bad profit for a few pounds of powder and shot expended and a little time lost.
After the formal meeting with Archbishop di Rezzi, whereat he had informed the old man that he shortly would be a cardinal and that, consequently, he would not be returning to Irland, Cardinal d'Este met privately with Sir Ugo d'Orsini in a solar that il Duce Timoteo di Bolgia would have recalled from his visit to d'Este's Palermo palace.
Immediately the servitor had poured wine, set out trays of sweetmeats, and departed on silent felt-soled slippers, d'Este said, "Well, my boy, how goes the so-called war in Munster?"
"You did not receive my letters, then, your Eminence?" replied Sir Ugo worriedly.
"Oh, yes, my boy, oh, yes, regularly, in fact. But I assumed that you did not put everything into written form. For instance, how did our condottiere and di Rezzi get along?"
Sir Ugo made a wry face. "Like a cat and a dog, both of them on the verge of starvation, Your Eminence. For some obscure reason, His Grace di Rezzi took an immediate dislike to Duke Timoteo and even made attempts, it was learned, to undermine his influence with the king and his council."
D'Este smiled flittingly. "Not at all surprising, young Ugo, not when we consider that which has been learned since the demise of old Abdul. No, it seems that my good, trustworthy old friend and one-time mentor Giosue di Rezzi did some years back sell out to Abdul and the Moorish Faction in Rome. He became a willing spy within our camp, as it were, and this is the reason that Abdul and his people so vigorously resisted his being sent to fill the vacant archbishopric of Munster, back then, not—as we all then assumed—simply because he was one of us and not a Moor or a Spaniard."
"Then . . . then Your Eminence brought him back in order to kill him for his found-out treachery?" asked Sir Ugo, knowing even as he asked that such a solution was far too simple for the intricate ways of Rome.
D'Este raised his hands in an expression of what was obviously mock horror. "Sir Ugo, how could you, a Papal knight, think so of Holy Mother the Church or of a humble priest and bishop like me? Fie, fie, young sir!"
Then he smiled. "No, son Ugo, we none of us need soil our hands or souls with di Rizzi blood. All that we need do is to send him on to Rome and I doubt not that the Moors and the Spaniards will do the task efficiently. You see, the Moors are aware that we uncovered di Rezzi's dirty little secret from amongst the secret correspondence of Abdul which we . . . acquired, just prior to his demise. If di Rezzi now returns to Rome and it is bruited about—as it certainly will be—that we are supporting him for one of the number of recently vacated appointments of cardinal then they will have no other thought than that he has again turned his coat. You see, my boy, no one ever has complete faith in a bought spy, regardless the coin in which he is or was paid, regardless how long and seemingly faithful has been his service to the purchaser. No, when once he arrives in Rome, di Rezzi is dead."
"And what then of Munster, Your Eminence?" inquired Sir Ugo.
D'Este sipped and savored the wine in his goblet before he spoke. "Ah, yes, Munster. Sir knight, we have great plans for Munster. It is just possible that those plans will result in the filling of two now-vacant sees—that of Munster and that of Rome."
"Look you, Ugo, can our faction be clearly responsible for bringing not only Irland, but England and Wales as well back under the sway of the Roman Papacy, why then no one—Moor or Spaniard or any of the rest of that ilk—would dare to stand against us, lest they lose those northerly islands all over again and possibly for good on the second occasion."
"But Your Eminence, how can . . ." began the young knight.
The cardinal waved a hand. "My boy, I am certain that you, like most laymen, are of the belief that higher ranks of clergy must always be named and confirmed in their positions by Rome, but this is not a hard and fast doctrine. In past times, in times of great crisis, kings and other secular rulers have been allowed, nay, encouraged, to make appointments to fill vacant sees. The grandfather of the present Harold, Archbishop of York, was an example; King Henry VII Tudor did name him during a terrible outbreak of that pest that is commonly called priests' plague."
Both men hurriedly signed themselves at mention of the deadly scourge.
"Well, if you cannot call the murderous insanity now raging in and about Rome a crisis, then I can hardly think just what could be so called. When you return to Munster, you will be bearing documents signed and sealed by the five most powerful prelates yet extant. These will take you first to the court of the High King of Irland, Brian VIII, then to the Kingdom of England and Wales, where you will seek and obtain audience with Harold of York. To him, to Harold, you will be presenting a proposition, two of them, actually, although if he should accept the first, you will immediately destroy the second and utterly forget that ever it existed. I know, I know, you do not understand now . . . but you will ere you set sail back to Munster, never fear."
CHAPTER 6
The march across the width of England at the head of his squadron of galloglaiches could have easily been much worse, Bass reflected as he stood with his squires, bannerman, bodyguards, and a few of his gentlemen observing the loading of troop horses onto the barges sent to Liverpool by agents of Sir Paul Bigod. Of course, his brainstorm decision to scatter the worst troublemakers around onto the ships of his private fleet, to serve under the rather strict discipline exacted by his no-nonsense Commander of Marines Fahrooq, had been of great help in maintaining relative order on the march. After the merciless young Turk had had six or seven of them severely flogged and two recidivists hanged on the main yardarm of Revenge, the others seemed to have gotten the message and behaved themselves for the remainder of the voyage.
In the hurried, harried days just before the squadron set out for the long march to Liverpool, Walid Pasha and Fahrooq had sought an audience with Bass, and he had finally been able to make the time to see them. When they appeared, both men were once more dressed in rich Middle Eastern garb, and Walid Pasha, at least, was less worried-looking than Bass ever before had seen him, save during sea battles.
"Sebastian Bey," Fahrooq had said, "I have received correspondence from certain highly placed parties in Anqara. A part of the message is to the effect that whenever you have no further need of the ship, it and all of us will be most handsomely ransomed; however, so long as you do need the ship and us who handle her, we are yours by order of Omar III, the Omnipotent, et cetera. What he has heard of you has greatly impressed him, and he sends to you effusive greetings and gifts. Walid?"
Walid Pasha had then stepped forward and proffered a small chest, all carven and gilded. Upon opening it, Bass found a splendid, deeply cursive dagger of highly polished damascene steel, the hilt, guard, and case of which weapon were gilded and virtually encrusted with seed pearls and small precious stones, the pommel being an inch-thick sphere of rosy-hued quartz. Also within the dagger's fitted chest was a small silver-stitched silken bag, and within the bag was a heavy red-gold ring composed of several thick wires of gold tortured into an intricate design.
Walid had visibly started when he s
aw the ring and then had exchanged a meaningful glance with Fahrooq.
Stepping forward, Fahrooq diffidently had asked, "Your Grace, we had been ordered not to breach the casket, so we knew not exactly what it contained. Please, may I examine that ring for one moment?"
Wordlessly, Bass had handed the bauble over to the young Turkish officer. After a brief examination Fahrooq had handed it back and said, "Your Grace den Norfolk, your grace must be made aware of the great, the rarely extended honor of the gift of the ring. No matter where your grace may find himself, all that he need do is to seek out the resident ambassador of the Christian Kingdom and Sultanate of Osmanli Turks, display the ring, and he and his will immediately fall under the full protection of the might of Omar III. Walid Pasha bears such a ring, as too do I, but only a bare handful of non-Turks ever have been so honored. The gift of the ring apparently is intended to bear earnest to the third portion of the message to your grace."
"Should ever your grace decide to quit England, for whatever reasons, he will find a most cordial welcome and well-paid employment in Anqara. All that he need do is to contact any ambassador of Omar III and a ship will be dispatched to bring him in speed and comfort."
Later, Sir Ali had slowly drawn and carefully examined the blade of the showy dagger, used its edge to slice a hair-thin shred off one of his fingernails, then said, "Your Grace, it is true, first-water damascus, though the style marks it as having most likely been forged in Isfahan. It is a sash-dagger, meant to be thrust beneath a belt and sash—that is why the tip of the case hooks as it does, that case and all will not be dislodged when the blade must be drawn. The small grooves near to the point are there to hold resinous venom, if such is desired."
"It is indeed a lovely item, a princely gift to a man never before met or even seen," agreed Baròn Melchoro, adding sadly, "It is too bad that Your Grace cannot keep it."
"Now, dammit, Melchoro, it was given freely to me, no strings attached, so why can't I keep it?" Bass had demanded testily, then immediately regretted the childish-sounding outburst, reflecting that this Portuguese nobleman had been of inestimable help to him in teaching him just how a man of his new rank should behave and bear himself in various situations.
But the baron answered readily, sounding neither intimidated nor peeved. "Your Grace, my friend Bass, you rendered an oath of fealty to Arthur III Tudor, you hold your various English lands in feoff from him. Therefore, any foreign ruler who gifts you a valuable gift is actually gifting your ruler, your overlord, you see? If this came to you through the Turkish ambassador, you may be certain that others now know of it, so to not at least offer it to Arthur might well cause him to believe you either miserly to a fault or not fully loyal to him, and, knowing you as well as I do, I know that you want neither thought of you by anyone, especially your own, dear liege lord, the King."
All of which had meant that Bass had had to send his herald, Sir Ali, with a suitably strong and impressive party to bear the gilded casket and its contents from the anchorage of his fleet off Great Yarmouth down to Thamesmouth and thence up the river to London, the newly rewon capital city.
Very, very near to the eve of departure for the west and Ireland, Sir Ali and his party returned, but by land, riding in company with Reichsherzog Wolfgang and all of the Kalmyk troopers still remaining of his Schwadron Totenkopf after so many years and campaigns, some six or so score of them. A few of them still rode their scrubby, weedy, big-headed little steppe horses, but more of them now bestrode moor ponies.
Alone with Bass, the Reichsherzog had said simply, "No fighting in Englandt iss, not anymore. The witch-bitch Angela escaped me und Arthur, did, but the great pleasure we had of watching portions of the week-long tortures of the actual murderers of my niece und her little children, before Arthur had the Schweinen burnt on slow fires mit gunpowder rammed into their bodies. That done, my oaths carried out, I soon must return to my own landts. But before I do, another campaign I vould see."
"But Wolfie," said Bass familiarly to this old, dear friend and his overlord for his Carpathian lands at Velegrad, "I thought that the electors and Emperor Egon had forbidden you to take any personal part in the fighting here anymore."
"Chust so." The bulky, powerful German nobleman, grinned. "Chust so, but forbidden war I to fight in Englandt or Wales, only, noddings about Ireland! was written. I grow fat und lazy, und my Jungen, too."
"The King has agreed to this, Wolfie?" asked Bass dubiously.
The German's grinned broadened. "Of course, mein alte Kamerad, else to be here I vould not." He then drew out a letter on a sheet of vellum, all properly signed, sealed, and beribboned. "Und Arthur ordered already has more barges for the transporting of the Pferden of me and mein Jungen. If to read the letter you vill, you vill findt vords of Arthur that say ve are free to go to serve Brian VIII, but only if to approof of our inclusion first you do. Do you not want me und my Kalmyks on your campaign?"
"Wolfie," said Bass truthfully, "your Kalmyks fight like demons out of the Pit, and any field commander would feel himself fortunate to have them under his banner. You are personally a very brave and ferocious fighting man, but more important to me is your broad and deep knowledge and experience at warfare. In fact, you should really be in charge of this operation, if you are set on coming along. I'd be more than happy to serve under you, commanding only my squadron of galloglaiches, my guards and my gentlemen. . . .?"
"Oh, no, Bass," the Reichsherzog declared vehemently, "the Hauptmann grosser you are, the Leutnant I vill be. If to help gif or advices to offer to mein Hauptmann, I vill und most gladly, but to command, you must."
"But . . . but, why Wolfie? Admit it, you are far more qualified than am I for the command," Bass remonstrated.
"For vun thing," the massive German ticked off on thick fingers, "such Cousin Arthur's vish iss. For the second, to observe you in a field command, your decisions und the reasons behind them, I vould to see for mein own self. Third, for mein own pleasure, partly, a point I am herein stretching und to flagrantly disobey the express orders of my own liege lord, I dare not, a very bad example that vould set for my peers in the Empire, nicht wahr?"
On the march, Wolfgang had quickly proved himself to be a true boon; having commanded larger and even more heterogeneous forces on marches through friendly territory so many times in the past, he frequently could act to head off potentially troublesome situations before they even began.
As for the Kalmyks, Bass was quick and surprised to note that usually fearless galloglaiches essayed to start no trouble with them, indeed seemed rather leery of them, which fact went far to relieve his mind on the march.
As he sat his horse there upon the Liverpool docks and watched the loading of the troop horses, he thought.
"There's little sense in warfare to begin with, but this particular exercise, at its very inception here, is completely nonsensical. Here am I, a twentieth-century American, in seventeenth-century—well, after a fashion—England. Weird? You're damned tootin' it's weird! Not only that, but I'm getting ready to embark on a Turkish ship to lead a squadron of Western Isles Scots and Russian Steppes Kalmyks, officered by Irish noblemen, English and Welsh gentlemen, a Portuguese baron, an Arabian knight, a Spanish knight, and the uncle of the Holy Roman Emperor to the aid of the High King of Ireland at the behest of King Arthur III of England and Wales. Back in my own world and time, if I or anyone else had written so farfetched a story, it would've—if any editor looked at it at all—been classed as purest fantasy or science fiction."
"And when you throw into the plot a two-hundred-year-old man originally from the twenty-first century . . ."
But Walid Pasha had sailed the private fleet of the Duke of Norfolk in with an even stranger, weirder story, plus two extra small ships. The Revenge had sailed into the crowded harbor with a low, sleek, fast-looking lugger under tow. As his tale of her taking went, she had come out of a fog bank almost under the bows of Revenge, her crew as surprised as were Walid and his by the occurrence
. But the lugger's sailing master had recovered quickly enough, crammed on more canvas, expertly trimmed what was already on, and sped away at a good clip, knowing better than to try to outfight a full-armed ship of the battle line. Of course, when the lugger fled, Walid opened fire upon her, but she was very close to making good her escape when a chance lucky shot of the Fairley-made breech-loading rifled chaser at extreme range took off her rudder and severely damaged her stern. Walid Pasha had developed a fondness for the fast, handy little lugger and suggested to Bass that she be repaired, there in Liverpool, to become a dispatch vessel for the fleet, and Bass acquiesced.
The mystery came with the other prize, a catte, out of Bordeaux, laden with French wines, cognac, brandies, liqueurs, and other assorted European goods of varied qualities and quantities. There also had been, upon the surrender of the vessel, a passenger, a passenger who had named himself a roving chapman of Provence, bound—as had been the little merchant ship—for the capital of the Kingdom of Munster, in Ireland.
"With the catte turned over to a prize crew, Your Grace," Walid Pasha had said, "the French crew and the passenger were all locked up in the hold, for all were good strong men and just the kind that slave dealers prefer. The prize had been keeping up well with the fleet when the crewmen below seemed to go mad, shrieking and screaming dementedly and essaying to force open the hatches with bare hands."
"The prize master signaled Revenge and Fahrooq was rowed over with a well-armed detachment. When the hatches finally were sprung and the crew emerged to find themselves surrounded by armored men with ready pistols and long arms, the prize master observed that one man of the number originally battened below and not come up."