The Seven Magical Jewels of Ireland

by Robert Adams

  Sir Paul Bigod was overjoyed, rubbing his palms rapidly together in an excess of visible glee. "Marvelous, your grace, simply marvelous! Again, no treasure ship, this, but still, a treasure of sorts, by the Rood. And taken without loss of a single man. Luck is assuredly sailing with your grace."

  "Let's see to her lading, here. Hmm. Tallow and beeswax, capital; I'll take all of those off your grace's hands, along with any ships' stores or powder your grace doesn't want for his own fleet, as before. Wool? Your grace's agents will get better prices for it if they cart or pack it inland. Saffron? This doesn't state what grade it is. His majesty would no doubt most appreciative of a few pounds; he's quite fond of fowl with saffron sauces. For the rest, I'd keep it, your grace—it stores well and, dear as it and all spices have become of late in our England, it should be as good a nest egg as minted gold onzas."

  "Once your grace has taken all he wants out of the carrack, have her sailed up here. I'll have my men go over her, see that she's sound, determine just how much weight of gun she can carry without adversely affecting her balance or maneuverability—surely something more and heavier than those six pitiful little falcons!—then pierce her and mount such ordnance as is then available. God willing, your grace will soon have another ship for his private fleet."

  Bundled tightly in his warm boat-cloak against the cold mist as the barge conveyed him back out to where the Revenge lay moored in the channel, his grace, the Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Rutland, Markgraf von Velegrad, Baron of Strathtyne, and now red-handed sea robber, Sir Bass Foster thought furiously, "How in hell do I manage to keep getting myself into these bloody messes, time after time after time? All I want, all I've wanted for years, is simply to settle down somewhere and live a quiet, uncomplicated, nonviolent life with Krystal and little Joe, my son, maybe find the time and opportunity to give him a sibling or three before I get too old to cut the mustard."

  "But no matter how hard I try, which way I turn, I find myself mired deeper and deeper in the savagery, the blood-lusting, the senseless violence on which people here and now seem to truly dote. Oh, yes, I did my full share of it for King Arthur, but with the last of the foreign Crusaders driven out or killed, with a friendly emperor on the throne of the Holy Roman Empire, with the Irish High King and the King of Scotland both suing not only for peace but for alliances against the Roman Papacy, with peace throughout most of England and Wales and London certain to fall to the king any day now, I'd been hoping that soon I could hang up this sword and the pistols and never have to so much as look at the damned deadly things again. Then I could get back to being the kind of a man I really am, not the killing machine I've had to become."

  "When the king failed to formally muster the horse this past spring, didn't even visit the Essex cavalry camp to inspect such units as did arrive on time and intact, no one was more overjoyed than the Lord Commander of the Royal Horse. I figured this gory business was finally winding down, and my biggest worry was how to get that pack known as the Royal Tara Gallowglasses back to Ireland before they got bored enough with the lack of bloodshed to slip their leashes and get themselves and me into deep shit. Those men are frightening enough, God knows, on our side. I'd hate like hell to be the one who had to hunt them down on a royal writ for crimes against the populace."

  "That galley thing, now, that seemed like the perfect plan to give the crazy Gaels exercise, if nothing else, since they can seldom be induced to take part in formal cavalry drill. How did Burns put it? 'The best-planned lays of mice and men . . .' or something similar. The galleys captured a ship and now the damned ship has captured me and I'm back on the same old treadmill I thought I'd escaped. How the hell do you get off? Or do you ever get off in this world and time?"

  He continued to muse as the barge came alongside the Revenge and was still so lost in thought that he forgot his usual vertigo and clambered up the ladder hung over the rail of the galleon's waist as nimbly as any seaman might have done.

  The rambling waterfront palazzo of the Archbishops of Palermo had been built by the Moors on a Roman foundation, heavily fortified by Normans, modernized—according to thirteenth-century standards—by Germans, refortified by Spaniards, remodernized by Neapolitans, and, most lately, made comfortable by current standards by its occupant of some years, his Eminence, Cardinal Bartolomeo d'Este, holder of the archdiocese.

  The d'Estes were a very well-known noble family of Northern Italy. For generations the various branches of their house had produced princes of both worlds, temporal and ecclesiastical—dukes and cardinals, counts and archbishops, barons and bishops and abbots, great captains and equally great scholars. Almost every d'Este who had ever entered the public eye had been in some manner remarkable, and Bartolomeo was no exception.

  Shrewd investment of the modest incomes from certain of his patrimonial properties, and then reinvestment of accruing proceeds, had in two decades made of Bartolomeo a rather wealthy man. The original incomes from northern vineyards and farms continued to trickle in, moreover, though now virtually submerged in the floods of returns from his investments, which now included his outright if often covert ownership of trading ventures, warehouses and inns and stables, oil presses and cooperages and foundries and mills. Through other agents, the cardinal owned ships, dealt in maritime insurance, and even practiced usury on occasion.

  And Bartolomeo was gifted in other ways as well. Without ceding any easily noticeable aspects of security, he had transformed a marginally habitable Neapolitan waterfront garrison building into a palazzo in every sense of that word.

  When the complex had been rendered as clean as the hand of man could make it, from deepest sub-cellars to highest, half-hidden garrets, the then-new Archbishop of Palermo had had the living areas furnished with carpets and drapes and wall hangings and tasteful, modern furniture before he moved in his household. With his staff, his servants, his guards, his women, and his children and their servants comfortably ensconced, he had set to work on the exteriors of the residence.

  The outer face of every stone was painstakingly cleansed of centuries' worth of grime, birdlime, rust stains, and oxidation. Then, while master stonemasons applied to some areas façades of costly marble, each and every other visible bit of stonework was thickly coated with a long-wearing exterior plaster composed of powdered marble. Roofings of slate and tile were repaired where needed, then given a generous coating of the same expensive cement.

  Dusty interior courts and well yards, filled with the trash, debris, and filth of half a millennium, were dug out, sodded, and transformed into tiny green oases, where flowers grew beneath the fruit trees and small, brilliantly colored birds hopped and twittered and sang, while fountains splashed their silvery water.

  "Very nice, Bartolomeo, all very nice," had been the comment of old Cardinal Prospero Sicola when he and the younger Cardinal Murad Yakubian first came down from Rome. "Nonetheless, comfortable life or no comfortable life, I cannot imagine how so vibrant and astute a man as yourself can stand to not be more in Rome. You could rise far higher than a mere backwater archbishop, you know, but the opportunities are fleeting and they always lie in Rome."

  "Oh, I'll never rise higher, not forceful enough, I suppose. But had I, at your age, been blessed with your undeniable talents and resources, I've no slightest doubt but what I'd be Pope Sicola, this day . . . if some Moor hadn't poisoned me already, of course."

  "Speaking of Moors . . . ?" Bartolomeo paused, eyebrows raised.

  Prospero sighed forcefully, his mouth twisting as if he had unexpectedly bitten into a piece of sour fruit. "His holiness grows more senile every day, more feeble physically, too. His physicians despair that he'll last another year. And when Abdul goes . . ." Prospero paused and stared hard into nothingness, loudly cracking all his knuckles at once.

  "It's really that bad, is it, then?" probed Bartolomeo.

  "Worse, my boy, ten times worse than anything you could have imagined. The African faction doesn't intend for its control of the Papacy to die wi
th Abdul; its supporters—hellfire, let's call it a private army and have done with subterfuge!—are armed to the very teeth, but so too is the Spanish faction. Of course, Rome has had those two competing factions locked in a virtual death struggle for fifty years and more, but now, with the election of this intemperate young hothead as Holy Roman Emperor, the long-quiescent German faction is rapidly consolidating and openly recruiting support. Most of the Slavs are solidly on the German hip, now likewise the Savoyards, and not a few Northern Italians. You can be certain that the Swedes will not be long in joining, so too the Danes, likely even the damned Burgundians before it's done with."

  "The French and the Portuguese are the wildcards, of course. They and the Scots and Irish, for you can bet that England will be kept powerless in Romish politics, no matter what may occur in worldly affairs, at least until Abdul's successor is installed."

  Bartolomeo shrugged. "No, the English will likely hate Moors for many a year to come. And who can blame them, all things considered? Certain of my correspondents, among whom are many recognized authorities on the subject, maintain to this day that the original interdictions of England and Wales, the excommunication of Arthur Tudor and the preaching of the Crusade against England were none of them strictly legal according to Canon Law."

  "All quite true, more's the pity." Prospero agreed sadly. "Nor, I fear, will a simple hatred of Moors alone be all of it or even the worst of it. So disillusioned are the English and the Welsh clergy and laity that they seem to be going very forcefully about the establishment of what may amount to a fourth Papacy! Their Archbishop Harold di York appears to be the prime mover in this, and he has attracted clerical interest from outside the Kingdom of England, too—parts of the Empire, Burgundy, Scotland, the Swiss Cantons, and Ireland."

  "Whew!" exclaimed Bartolomeo, feelingly. "What a motley pack! Burgunds and Switzers? Irish and Scots and English? It's akin to persuading lynx and fox or owl and rat to unite in a common purpose. The mere thought of such is frightening in its implications. Wasn't this di York tried for witchcraft in his youth, or was that his father or uncle? Only a proven warlock could effect such irrational alliances."

  Prospero snorted disdainfully. "Oh, come, come, Bartolomeo, act your age. Only the ignorant characterize things they don't or can't comprehend as witchcraft, and if there is one thing we all have abundant proof"—he waved at the sumptuous furnishings and works of art—"that you are not, it is ignorant!"

  "Yes, di York was long ago haled up before an ecclesiastical court on a charge of witchcraft, but that charge was proved groundless, laid in pure jealousy by some of his fellow medical practitioners when he cured the father of the present King of England of some wasting illness after their methods had all proved inefficacious. He was a physician to the royal family prior to becoming a priest, you see."

  D'Este wrinkled his brow. "But I had heard that he was a goldsmith, at least a journeyman at the trade."

  "And more recently," put in the normally silent Cardinal Murad Yakubian, "the English archbishop has been one of his monarch's leading captains and the prime negotiator of the incipient alliance with King James of Scotland. He is patron of the great new manufactory of arms and cannon and unhallowed gunpowder in York, and, when he chances to be in that city, it is said that he often takes active and constructive roles in the innovations there produced for the king's army and fleet. There are rumors about that he also is conducting experiments in the breeding of superior livestock on one of his estates. He has long been renowned as a most accomplished alchemist. He grinds better glass lenses than any Moor or Venetian, though in understandably small quantities for his own use or for a few gifts. He—"

  "Suffice it to say," interrupted Prospero, "that this Harold di York is a multitalented man and should long since have been brought to Rome and elevated, afforded the due that such rare men as he deserve."

  "Understand me, Bartolomeo, I have been laboring for nearly twenty years to get Harold di York brought to Rome and granted power and position with income and free time that his mind might be allowed to soar, as the Holy Church has done to her benefit with other geniuses in times past. But these foolish, hidebound, superstitious and vicious Moors and Spaniards have balked each time I broached the subject and effectively blocked my every move."

  "Oh, they have always given an excuse of one kind or another," Prospero added, seeing d'Este's look of disbelief. "One that they trot out from time to time is his supposed impossible age. If you'd care to believe they don't misread the few available records, he would indeed be impossibly ancient, over two hundred years old, give or take a few years."

  "But you know how record-keeping goes. Even the best copyists make small errors, especially so if they happen to be translating or transliterating—say, from a Northern European version of ecclesiastical Latin into Roman ecclesiastical Latin rendered in Arabic characters, as too many records of the Holy See have been of late years."

  "Anyhow, the records state that a"—he carefully emphasized the article—"Harold di York, Physicker, did save the life of Arthur, Prince of Wales—which is the title held by crown princes of England, for whatever reason. Now you know and I know the truth of this matter. This late-fifteenth-century Harold di York was possibly the father but more likely the grandfather of this present Archbishop Harold. What more normal and natural than that a son and/or grandson should follow the family trade or profession, especially if that position be practiced exclusively upon royalty and the higher echelons of nobility?"

  "I think that the thing that may truly have bewildered these overly pious Moorish ninnies is that there have been three Archbishops Harold di York, all long-lived and talented men, in the course of the last century and a half. But reflect you, is it unusual for monarchs to nurture men of promise, even to provide for their get if they too show promise?"

  "The sad excuse of the Moors and the Spaniards, that this current di York is a preternaturally old man, is based, I feel, on nothing more uncanny or unnatural than a family dynasty of brilliant, multitalented royal physicians and churchmen plus a few easily understandable errors on the parts of a few clerk-copyists."

  "So, thanks to a sad compilation of years of church politics, superstitious fear mislabeled 'piety,' and a seldom-voiced but very real dislike of northern clergy, di York ended excommunicated and now all his vast compendium of abilities are turned against us at a most ticklish juncture in time. He is probably the most dangerous enemy that Rome has anywhere, just now."

  "Well, surely," said d'Este, "there are clever assassins for the hire in England as in any other land? No, that might be a mistake; even if they did not take our hireling alive and wring the truth from him, everyone still would suspect Rome. He would become a martyr, a rallying point, overnight."

  "Precisely!" said Prospero. "Did I not earlier allude to your quick and astute mind, Bartolomeo? The very last thing we can afford to give this cabal of would-be secessionists is a nice, ready-made martyr. No, we dare not strike directly at di York. Nor, in the wake of last year's string of unmitigated military disasters, do I think that we'll be able to raise any meaningful numbers of Crusaders against England, not for years to come, not in the form of either true Crusaders or paid mercenaries."

  "But is not the Grand Duke of Leon launching another invasion of England sometime next spring?" queried Bartolomeo. "Word of it was bandied about here in Palermo last autumn."

  Prospero frowned and shook his bald head. "Yet another of the hotheaded Spanish sort who are too full of supercilious pride to see when they're beaten or admit to it if they could see. If the grand duke gets together enough ships and if the English fleet—which is becoming larger and more aggressive with every passing day, 'tis said—doesn't catch him at sea, and if he finds and secures a spot where at he can land and marshal his troops, then . . . ah, then, brothers in faith, I entertain not the slightest doubt but that King Arthur will march his redoubtable army out and drub the grand duke as thoroughly as he did no less than four other armies last
year. Much as I like the idea of Spaniards being killed or captured, which humiliates the arrogant swine almost as much as they deserve, it is to be remembered that the more Spanish gold that goes to England to pay off ransoms, the less there will be in Spain for Leon to send to Rome. So let us heartily pray that his grace of Leon is unable to find enough ships for his venture into stupidity. And the last word that I had on the subject was that he was hard pressed in that regard, scraping the sides and bottom of the barrel, as it were."

  The second Swedish ship taken by Bass's squadron bore cargo of nothing save naval stores—cordages, assortments of hardware and tackle, spars and other items of preworked timber, sheets of copper, tallow, resin, sacks of oats—and papers giving her destination as the Port of Gijan. The vessel was put under a prize crew and sailed back directly to Sir Paul Bigod's naval basin, while the squadron sailed on in search of more prey.

  It was a bad week for the Scandinavians. The very next ship prized by the Revenge and her escorts proved to be out of Copenhagen. The vessel was solidly packed with barrels of salt pork, stockfish, cheese, and pigs of lead, with a deck cargo of roughed-out spars. This cargo seriously hampered her crew's efforts to use the four demiculverins in her waist, and the ten culverins making up her main batteries were all thoroughly blocked off by barrels of salt pork.

  A single deck-sweeping salvo from guns loaded with langrage-shot hurled by the upper batteries of the Revenge was enough to bring the ensign dipping down from its halyard at the stern of the merchanter.

  The short, one-eyed, dirty-blond-haired man who surrendered his old, dull-bladed, ill-kept sword to Bass when haled before him was furious. In barely comprehensible English, he railed, "Well, murderous pig-dogs, you, when does Englaender schiffen to make wahr on Hanse? Or chust a dirty pirate is you den? Well, turd-mann, mein t'roat here iss." He ripped aside a grimy-gray neckcloth to expose an expanse of dirt-creased skin under a bristly chin. "Do you to cut it now or later? Velcome vill be even your coward's blade, for liefer I vould be dead than alife mitout mein schiffe."