The Seven Magical Jewels of Ireland

by Robert Adams

  "I so wish that dear, jolly Baròn Melchoro would stay up here with us, but he is insistent on joining you down there in the south, so he and his retinue and some score and a half of now recuperated gallowglasses will ride out in the morning and bear this letter to you from your loving wife. (Sounds corny, huh? But it's true.)"

  The Duke of Norfolk's "River Cavalry"—the fleetlet of small galleys, each mounting one of Pete Fairley's new, powerful, fast-firing ten-pounder rifled cannon—had been the idea born of a weekend of drinking and scheming among Bass, Pete, Nugai, Sir Ali, Sir Calum MacLedid, Captain Sir Lucais MacantSaoir, and Dave Atkins, who had ridden down from York with Pete.

  Dave's first few months in this new, strange, primitive world had been unremittingly hard on him and his companion, Susan Sunshine, mostly because they had been suddenly and irreversibly cut off from the plethora of drugs that had sustained them in twentieth-century America. But they had survived the ordeal, and Dave now was one of Pete's assistants in the huge Royal Manufactory at York, which turned out new and innovative firearms and stronger blends of gunpowder for the Royal Army, delighting King Arthur and utterly confounding the machinations of his enemies.

  "The bottoms are available, y'r grace," Sir Calum had said. "There be more than a score of them, mostly of a size. Fitted for twelve oars, a steering sweep, and a small lugsail, they are. Small labor would it be to add thole pins along the gunwales, rework the footings for quick stepping or unstepping of the mast, then lighten them a bit to give more speed and ease of handling."

  "Y'r grace, it ain't but the one way the thrice-damned Papal forces can resupply the City of Lunnun, invested and all like she be, and that be by the river up from the sea. Yes, they've tried it before and failed, but sure as St. Peter's holy balls, they must try again, and with a stronger force."

  "Thick as the mist lies on that river of times, a score or so of low, mastless row vessels could right easy come up so close 'neath the hulks that precious few of their guns could avail them aught. And before they hardly knew, y'r grace's fine, fierce galloglaiches would be swarming over the ship like so many rats, would have prized her to y'r glory and renown."

  Bass had shaken his head. "A brave, daring plan. Sir Calum, but far and away too risky. Why, man, you'd all be sitting ducks out there on that river, hostage to the slightest breeze that might whisk the fog away and expose you to the sharp-eyed gunners. King Arthur and I prize you and the gallowglasses far too much to take such a chance for so little gain. Bigod and his fleet have done good work in halting the Papal fleets thus far; no doubt they'll do equally well when called upon again. I know that you and the men are bored. So am I, but there's naught that can be done for it. Aside from the few remaining brigands scattered hither and yon, there's just no one left in England for cavalry to fight. But . . . perhaps I could prevail upon his majesty to loan you gallowglasses to King James for a while, eh? His Scotch majesty is still having trouble with certain of his Lowlander lairds, they say. . . ."

  Sir Calum sighed. "Unless y'r Grace go tae Scotland, his Royal Gallowglasses go not tae Scotland."

  Bass sighed. They had been over this ground before, many times.

  But then Pete spoke up. "Bass, Sir Calum, he had him a good ideer, far as it went, but I think I can take it further. Lissen, I got me up to York some ten- and twelve-pounder rifles, breechloaders all of 'em and fitted with the friction-spring primers that Carey and Dan Smith dreamed up, too. They ain't heavy, Bass, not put up 'gainst reg'lar guns they ain't, and they got real range—more range than any gun any ship'll be likely to be mounting, and better accuracy than these folks has ever seen afore, I betcha."

  "Bass, boy, you mount one of these here rifles in the middle of ever one of your rowboats, run in close to them big sailboats, see. You've seed the kinda guns boats use—cain't hardly none of the big guns be traversed none, and if they tries to depress 'em too much, the friggin' charges come a-rollin' out the muzzles, most times."

  "So if yawl get too close for their big guns to bear on you, but too far for the sling pieces and such like, you can perlitely shoot them muthas to pieces with my ten- and twelve-pounder rifles, then close with 'em when they got more to worry 'bout than boarders."

  Admiral Bigod had not been receptive in the least to the idea or the diversion of the breech-loading rifles—originally intended as chasers for his small but pugnacious fleet—until Bass had managed to persuade the seaman to observe the flotilla of galleys on maneuvers on the river. Then the admiral's support became more than enthusiastic, and he had ridden roughshod over the objections of the more conservative-minded of his captains.

  Now of one mind in the matter, neither the Lord Admiral nor the Lord Commander of the Royal Horse could see any reason to broach the plan to the king, so they concentrated on preparations and practice and maneuvers up to the very day that a coaster spotted the Papal fleet beating for Thames-mouth.

  Bass, when finally the news caught up to him, was nonplused by Sir Ali's accomplishment and acquisition in his—Bass's—name. He had assumed when he sailed off with Bigod and the main fleet that the crippled and clearly hors de combat Papal galleon would be towed to Bigod's fleet anchorage if her master chose to strike or cheerfully pounded to pieces if he did not so choose.

  "Sir Ali, why in God's name did you see fit to tow a king's prize into one of my ports? Bigod will be most wroth, and I'll not blame him one bit. You surely had to pass by his Essex base to get to your present anchorage."

  Baron Melchoro looked up from the chair in which he had sprawled his rotund body. "Sebastian, old friend, cool you down. In this instance your fine knight, Sir Ali, is of a much lightness. Think you, now, 'twas your condotta first fought and crippled, then prized that ship, not the Royal English Fleet nor even the Royal English Horse. D'you follow? You are a cavalry commander and yon was a purely naval action, which you and yours fought as free swords without your king's orders or, likely, knowledge; therefore, any proceeds of such action are and should rightly be yours to disperse to your officers, gentlemen, and other ranks as you and you alone see fit."

  "But his majesty—" Bass began, only to be politely interrupted by his Portugese friend.

  "—has the rest of the Papal fleet and cargoes, my ducal companion, which is rich enough of a prize, or so one hears about the camps and court. It would appear that his supposed holiness, old Abdul, packed all that he could beg, borrow, impress, or outright steal into this single effort . . . and now King Arthur has it all. Not one crust of bread, one grain of powder got through to London. That city cannot last long, after this."

  "And just what am I supposed to do with a huge, oceangoing warship, manned by a crew of Turks, Egyptians, Moors, and God alone knows what others? I'm no seaman, God knows."

  Melchoro smiled languidly and shrugged. "And no need for you to be, meu amigo. Seamen and sailing masters can be hired on, just like soldiers, and most I have encountered hold gold in much higher esteem than the land of their birth. Certain this one is that the music of a few golden onzas would speedily convert the most of that ship's crew to the loyalty you might expect from most condottas."

  "But to what possible purpose, Melchoro?" demanded Bass, a bit exasperatedly now. "There'll be damn-all trade until this business of interdictions and excommunications and Crusadings is over and done for good and all. And that ship is just too big, draws too much water, to use her as a coaster. How big is she, Sir Ali?"

  "Some one thousand tons burthen . . . or so states her present master, Walid Pasha, your grace," the slim Arab replied.

  "How many guns is her broadside, Sir Ali?" questioned Baron Melchoro. "What other armaments has she?"

  The knight began to tick off his calloused fingers. "Eight demicannon, four cannon-perriers, twenty fine bronze culverins, these being arranged on the lower gun decks. Above, twelve brass demiculverins, ten sakers, one minion, four portpieces, five fowlers, eight basies on the forecastle, six falcons, and nine falconets. Not all of these smaller ordnance are presently m
ounted, you understand, my lords; some were damaged in the action and some others were dismounted that other damages might be easier repaired."

  The baron turned toward his host, smiling. "So, meu amigo, you have here a sailing ship of some thousand tons burthen, mounting a broadside of at least sixteen heavy guns. You have an experienced crew whom you could probably hire for shares alone, not to mention an unemployed condotta who would probably make the finest sea-soldiers this side of the Gates of Hell."

  "Now, true, you might have trouble in some ports, some places, under an English ensign, but as Markgraf von Velegrad, you can legally sail under the ensign of the Empire, and that's respected, honored everywhere, these days."

  "Man, your fortune is made! Can't you see it? Within five years, with any kind of luck, you'll be plating your solid-gold pisspots with tin and brass to discourage burglars!"

  "I'm certain that you think you know just what you're talking about, Melchoro," said Bass gently, "but I assuredly do not."

  The baròn vented another jolly laugh. "Amigo, amigo, I am but suggesting that you and your condotta take out this fine, strong, well-armed ship and somewhat disrupt the merchant trade of your sovereign's multitudinous enemies, while at one and the same time lining your own purse a bit. Large as is your ship and the complement she is capable of carrying, you might even raid a few coastal towns for variety. I, personally, can think of at least two ill-defended places on the northern coast of Spain that would be well worth the intaking. . . ."

  Suddenly, it all came clear to Bass. "Piracy!? You're suggesting that I take this ship and turn pirate, Melchoro?"

  "It's an old and most honorable profession," the baròn said, adding, "I might even ship along with you for a while . . . just until you get the hang of things, amigo. I have had some small experience in the field."

  Feeling himself in poor position to offend these men who were by now become his closest friends and trustiest advisers in this new, strange, savage world into which he had been thrown, Bass nonetheless refused to answer directly yes or no, saying only that he would consider and muse upon the possible uses of the warship. But secretly, within himself, he was shocked that his boon companions—Baron Melchoro, Sir Ali, Sir Calum, Captain Sir Lucais, Sir Richard Cromwell, Reichsherzog Wolfgang, even his bodyguard-servant, Nugai the Kalmyk, and Pete Fairley—all seemed so pleased and downright enthusiastic about shoving him into, of joining him in, a life of high-seas piracy and coastal raiding.

  He waited until affairs again called him to the vicinity of Sir Paul Bigod's headquarters, then arranged a dinner invitation. When at long last he was able to get a few words alone with the Lord Admiral, he touched first upon the matter of the ship seized by Sir Ali and the rest.

  Bigod beamed over the rim of his gilded-silver wine goblet. "A rare stroke of luck for you, that one, your grace. According to Papal fleet records, she's an impressed Turkish vessel. Sultan Omar might well be willing to pay a most handsome sum to the English nobleman who . . . shall we say, freed her from her odious bondage to Rome."

  "But negotiations with Anqahra will surely take a good bit of time, what with the distances involved and the still-unsettled conditions hereabouts. Your grace should have plenty of time for some profitable voyages out against the merchant shipping of the damned Frenchies, Spanishers, and suchlike."

  He lowered his tone and leaned forward conspiratorially. "I can loan you a few small support bottoms and crews, your grace, can we two come to a reasonable agreement on shares. And should land operations be contemplated, I might even take a few ships out in company with yours . . . under my private ensign, of course."

  "But, Sir Paul . . . the king, won't he object to his ships being used for acts of piracy and personal gain?"

  "Why no, your grace. With the exceptions of those three Spanishers your brigade of horse prized, none of the ships belong to his majesty. All are either commandeered or on long-term lease to the Crown."

  "And what of the ships of this fleet and the earlier Papal fleets you and your force captured—are none of them the king's either?" demanded Bass puzzledly.

  "Why no, your grace," Bigod replied. "I had thought that your grace understood these matters. They all belong to whatever knight or nobleman first raised his ensign over them after their capitulation, just as you came into ownership of your Turkic galleon, your grace."

  "Speaking of which, that galleon probably should be careened, cleaned off, recaulked, and, after the action, repaired in sundry ways before she sets out against targets of opportunity. The basin here is adequate to any and all of those uses, your grace, and we will be more than pleased and honored to accommodate that fine prize whenever your grace finds the time fitting."

  Master Walid Dahub Pasha, it developed, possessed a fair, if very heavily accented, amount of English, but Captain Fahrooq's few utterances required translation by Sir Ali or Baron Melchoro.

  The two had been surprised when allowed to walk, face forward, into the presence of their captor. Before him, however, they both fell to their knees and thumped their foreheads on the carpet and stayed thus until Sir Ali commanded them to arise.

  From his canopied armchair, Bass studied his captives. Walid Pasha looked more Greek than Arab or Moor; his skin tones were dark enough, almost as dark as Sir Ali's, but his eyes were a dark green, and a bit of chestnut hue tinged his beard; he walked with the rolling gait of a seaman, and what Bass could see of his body and limbs denoted big bones, rolling muscles, and hirsute skin.

  The other man was much younger, no more than twenty-five, Bass thought, and no Arab, either. Indeed, he was racially dissimilar from every other man in the room. His spike beard and pencil-thin, drooping mustachios were as black as sin, but where not weathered his skin was fair and the corners of his blue eyes had a slight epicanthic fold. He was as tall as Walid Pasha or Sir Ali—about five feet seven—and his movements were catlike, graceful. Like Sir Ali, he had a small head and flat ears, but he lacked the huge, beaklike nose of the Arab.

  Moreover, both men looked and smelled clean, and that raised their personal stocks appreciably in the reckoning of their captor.

  "Walid Pasha," began Bass, "I am informed that you and your ship were forced to sail against England by the minions of Pope Abdul, that you consider yourself to be a neutral and most ill used by Rome. However that may be, you and your ship were fought by and captured by my galleys whilst you sailed in company with the sworn enemies of his majesty, Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales."

  "I already have been approached by a Burgundian dealer in slaves who has made an offer for the lot of you—you and all your crew. Also, I am reliably informed that Sultan Omar will likely ransom the ship and guns most handsomely, given time."

  The older man gulped once and set his jaw. The expression of the younger, however, did not change.

  "But I do not believe in slavery. None of you will be sold into bondage," Bass reassured the two. "At the very most, those of your crew who are amenable may be signed on by various of the ships now comprising the Royal Fleet for the duration of this war. At its conclusion, they can likely work their passages back to the Eastern Mediterranean on board merchanters."

  "What of those, Sebastian Bey, who for reasons of health might decide a return to Turkish dominions unwise? Will they, too, be sent away?" Walid Pasha asked diffidently.

  Bass smiled. "Sir Ali has explained something of your deadly difficulty to me, Walid Pasha. No, you are more than welcome to remain in England, if you wish. Perhaps I can find a place for you in my household, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just now, I have an alternate plan to broach, one which may well be of immense benefit to all in this room and many another as well."

  The dusty messenger found the famous (some said infamous) Duca di Bolgia in a shady spot on a hillside just beyond the shattered town his condotta had just conquered and were now despoiling in the savage, time-honored fashion known as intaking. Shouts, the ring of steel, screams of every description and inte
nsity, thuds and crashes and the crackling of new-set fires served as dinner music for the big, beefy captain and certain of his officers as they broke bread on the stony sward beneath the trees.

  The messenger himself was not allowed to approach the great captain, of course. He and his escort perforce waited under heavy guard at the foot of the hill while the beribboned, wax-sealed vellum roll was carried up to its intended recipient by a squat, hideously scarred, and fully armed heavy horseman.

  Those soldiers set to guard the messenger and his escort eyed the fine, if dusty and travel-stained, clothing and effects of their charges with unconcealed avarice, all the while fingering the well-honed blades of their battle-axes or hefting the short-hafted weapons where they lay, ready to hand, across their saddle pommels, sniggering and exchanging glances and terse comments in Umbrian or some such uncultured dialect. The messenger reflected silently that sworn service to the household of a Papal legate could take an unsuspecting gentleman to some strange and exceedingly dangerous places. After another wary look around at the murderous pack surrounding him and his escort, he silently consigned his soul to heaven, although he kept his face totally blank lest the ill-born peasant dogs derive pleasure from the belief that they had frightened a Roman nobleman.

  "Hmmph!" the messenger thought to himself as he watched the condottiere on the hillside. "He can read. Maybe there's something to those tales of him being gentle-born after all. Although I for one have never considered it all that heinous that he might have hacked out his patents of nobility by the strength of his arm and the weight of his steel—hell, put to it, it's probable that every noble house in the known world began just that way, a strong, ruthless man with a sharp sword and enough followers to consolidate his victories. Perhaps his own house . . ."