by Smith, Skye
"My apologies, countess, but my message is not for delicate ears. Could I impose on you and your daughters to leave me alone with your men for a few moments?"
The count waved her away, but as she passed this tall handsome stranger she thought of her eldest daughter and her need of a good husband. "Will you be joining us for breakfast, sir?"
"Sadly, no," he replied, hoping that the few lordly words and mannerisms that he was mimicking from his time spent amongst Parliamentarian would not reveal him as an imposter. "However, my two servants are outside your front door waiting for me. Could I impose on your kindness to have them served with a bowl of something hot to eat. Porridge perhaps?"
The woman agreed with a wave of her hand and a coy look into his eyes, his deep blue eyes. Then with a swish of countless yards of costly silk, the women were gone and the heavy library door clicked shut behind them. The next sound he heard was the countess shrieking orders to her servants. Daniel loosened his cloak and stepped towards the growing warmth from the fire, until he was within six feet of the count, who was still standing.
"You are the Count of Aumale?"
"I am the Lord of Aumale."
"The villager who guided me here called you a count."
"They are confused. I have a claim on the title in Normandy, but I am still in the process of proving that claim. Until them I am a lord."
Daniel stared from one to the other. The family resemblance was strong. They all had large but thin noses, sallow skin, and dark hair. Their narrow dark eyes and thin lips made them look all the world like a family of weasels. And so they would be if they carried the noble blood of Normandy in their veins.
"Lord Aumale, I have an urgent message from King Charles, and he requires a reply."
"Speak it."
"You are to put a stop to the losses of shipping along the Easington coast." Daniel clicked his heels and bowed to show the message was completed.
He watched the faces in front of him. Some showed glimmers of guilt, some fear, but the count himself showed only anger. The count had aspirations of nobility and he was too proud by half, nay, by treble. The man began to rant about how this was an outrage. Was he being accused of something? He went on about how he was a Norman noble with a lineage to the Conqueror himself.
The man protested too much. A verbal attack as a defense to hide his guilt. Daniel ignored the rant because he had heard something far more important. The sound of the front door opening to pass out bowls of porridge. His men would be inside the priory within a few seconds.
With one graceful sweep of his right hand Daniel reached inside his cloak and smoothly drew his little wheel-lock pistol out of a pocket. The gun was designed so that there was nothing protruding to snag on cloth. He pulled hard on the trigger which spun a steel wheel against fool's gold to produce sparks, and then there was a fizzle and a flash and a bang. The ball slammed into the count's heart. Even with a small pistol it was difficult to miss at three feet.
The clap of the pistol froze the room in time. The sons simply stared, but then the eldest recovered enough to reach for a costly shiny box that was sitting on the desk. A pistol box. He was too late. The pistol shot had told the crew which door to open, and they did so with a heavy boot. Daniel did not bother to look around. He knew by how the eldest son was backing away from the pistol box that his crew would be pointing their pistols at him.
When the room was still again, Daniel announced, "Your father replied badly. How could I take such a reply to my king?" With a twist of a shoulder he picked up his dragon and cocked the killing barrel, and then once again faced the sons. "Which of you is now the Lord of Aumale?" The eldest held up a shaky hand.
"Lord Aumale, I have an urgent message from King Charles, and he requires a reply. You are to put a stop to the losses of shipping along the Easington coast." Again Daniel clicked his heels and bowed to show the message was completed. "How do you reply?"
The young man's mouth was so dry from fear that he could barely croak an answer. "I will see to it immediately, sir."
Again Daniel clicked his heels. "I will be pleased to carry your reply to my king." He reached for his hat and positioned it on his head, and then reached for his gloves. The sons had still to move. "You must ride to your sheriff and tell him the sad news of your father's suicide. He will advise you to make up a simple story of a hunting accident, perhaps while loading his gun, for otherwise your father's remains will be refused by the church. Offer the sheriff a small purse for his understanding, and that will be the end of this, unless of course there is another ship lost along your shores. Good morning."
As Daniel turned with a flourish and left the library he noticed that the only folk about were his own crew, both inside and outside the house. "We are finished here," he told them.
"What?" Anso replied from his post just inside the dining room. "Look at the silver in this room. A fortune in silver. Think of the gold and jewels that must be in the master's chamber. It paid for by preying on ships, like our ship. We should take some in exchange."
"Shhh. Not so loud, or they will hear you. Any gold and jewels will have been well hidden by the women at the sound of my first shot, and the daughters with them. The local men could be rallying as we speak. I tell you what though, you could grab some of that food." He pointed to the breakfast table. "I'm starving."
After a slight delay while some serving dishes of food were being lifted, they all tumbled out through the front door and into the sunshine. Sunshine. The storm was over, and a friendly sun was peeking out from between the still boiling clouds. The men who had been left outside to guard the yard told them that some farm hands were hiding in the outbuildings and could be armed.
Without a word Anso grabbed the bridle of an unsaddled horse and untied it. Without even straining, he then lifted one of his young cousins up onto the horse's back, but facing backwards. His cousin carried a pistol in each hand, and was a fine shot with them.
The backwards rider was their rear guard as they marched out of the yard and along the trail to the meadow and the beach. Where the meadow became tidal mud they left the horse and hurried along the beach to put some distance between them and the Priory. When they took their first break, it was for breakfast. Three of the men each carried a heavy silver platter with a heavy silver lid, and a fistful of silver spoons. One platter held buttered fresh bread, another boiled eggs, and the last, though the first to be finished, contained a huge mound of crisp bacon.
* * * * *
Not only was Peterson still on the Swift when the landing party returned from the Priory, but his mate was as well. They were sitting with Cleff around the small table in the command cabin reading and writing and scratching out. That immediately stopped so they could hear Daniel's story of the demise of a count.
"You were so sure he was guilty?" Peterson asked.
"Positive. He blustered while his sons hid their shame. Even if I was wrong, the new lord will certainly put a stop to any more wreckings. What have you two been writing?" He leaned over in an attempt to read the paper in front of Peterson. It was all in Peterson's hand because Cleff refused to write. The clan elder firmly believed that all written words hid lies and were the devil's curse on honest men.
"Well, it seems that Commander Peterson here," Cleff began, pointing with his thumb, "is the only pilot on the collier, and that none of his crew know the least bit about cleanliness, never mind keeping a wound clean. Look at the rusted metal I dug out of him." He pointed to a small pile of tiny shrapnel on a bloody scrap of cloth. "Any of the wounds could turn septic by tomorrow, and then what? He would get no help from his crew, and the crew would not have a pilot. A disaster in the making."
"Cleff has agreed to come aboard my ship and help me get her to London," Peterson broke in. "I will pay his lodging and coach fare back to Ely, and a week's wages as a mate."
"I see no problem with that," Daniel replied, "so long as Cleff is agreeable."
"Must be done' Danny. I'll not like w
allowing about on a coal-dust bomb, but it is for the best. We can't just save a ship and then send her off at her peril. And that takes us to what we have been writing. It came to us that a case could be made that the Swift is owed some salvage fees from saving such a valuable cargo. We would never make such a claim, but the ship's owners will demand some kind of written waiver."
"The trouble is,” Peterson stated with a smile, "that it is much harder to write a contract not to do something than one to do something. None of us are trained in law and any lawyer would probably shred any waiver we drew up. We have decided that instead we will draw up a simple invoice showing that the Swift's salvage charges were paid up in full. That should be the end of it. Now the trouble is that the coin must actually change hands. I don't carry much on the ship, so we agreed on a pound just to seal the transaction."
"But then,” Cleff interrupted. His whiskers were twitching like a fox spying on a chicken coop, so Daniel kept his silence, "we decided that any good lawyer would declare suspicious, corrupt, or void any such trivial amount when the cargo was so valuable. We have no idea what a lawyer would consider a realistic amount. Salvage fees can range from one in ten to one in two."
"A fortune in either case,” Peterson proclaimed, proud of the immense value of his ship's cargo. "We have decided to be more clever than the lawyers. We will sign and witness a contract that states that the Swift's salvage fee will be all of the profits from the sale of the coal above and beyond a price higher than the actual worth of the cargo. See, read the good copy. That estimate of the coal's worth is high so it will never be reached. It is ready to be signed and witnessed."
Daniel pretended to cough so that he could look away and not show his smirk at Cleff's conniving ways. This could be the last load of coal to reach London before winter. London would already know this even if Peterson didn't. The price of coal could have doubled, or even tripled. He kept coughing behind his kerchief while he looked again at the estimate. It was an unimaginable fortune.
"Commander,” he said while trying to keep a serious mouth, "you do not need this paper. We will never claim salvage. Our reward was in doing for the scoundrels that sank our other ship and drowned our kin. I advise you to tread carefully. What if the price of coal is higher than your estimate because another long cold winter is approaching?"
"Bah, it will not happen. There is time enough for a dozen more convoys before the storms force us to port." Peterson's smile expanded. The more he thought about this contract, the better he liked it. "And besides, who am I to complain if you make a little profit from my cargo? You saved my ship, my cargo and my life. It would just be coin that would otherwise line the owner's pockets. Coin they have not earned. They never risk a passage on a collier. They never risk working with coal dust. I speak not just of the immediate risk of fire and explosions, but the lifetime risk of killing your lungs. Pah, let us sign it and then haul anchors."
"If that is what you wish, Commander, then at least allow us to escort you as far as the Wash. I suppose that because of this contract, Cleff must sail all the way to London and stay to represent the Swift's interests at the sale of the coal." He turned to the elder and told him, "Take the lad with you, Cleff. He knows how to read and cipher."
"The lad is more than welcome," Peterson replied as he eagerly signed his name, and passed the pen to Daniel, and then to Cleff, and then to his mate. "There, signed, witnessed, and delivered. I will need two copies, one for my log book and one for the owners. Be a friend and pour us some more whisky while I write up the copies."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14
Chapter 9 - A worried wife in Ely in September 1640
Two days in bed with his two wives, the two second wives he had saved from widowhood, were just not enough to make up for his long absence and the rigors of sea travel and the dangers of battles. It was so pleasant to be so relaxed and rested and well ridden, never mind sleeping warm and safe without the need of keeping one ear keen at all times. Unfortunately, Daniel had promised Cleff that he would meet him in London in case there was trouble over the salvage fees for the collier, should the price of coal have soared on the news that the Scots now held Newcastle.
He poled his punt up to Quayside in Ely and tied it off at the end of the quay well out of the way of the many boats that were continually picking up and dropping off passengers here. A boy raced up to him with an offer to watch his punt for a ha'penny, but there was no need. Every boat, cart, horse, cow, sheep and anything else of value to Wellenhay village was branded.
Everyone in the fens knew the brand of the stroked D. Originally it had been a bow with an arrow nocked, but that had been simplified over the centuries. His clan even allowed good friends to use their brand to keep their own belongings safe from theft. No one in the Fens would dare steal from the Wellenhay clansmen. Anyone so foolish would soon be caught out, and then punished. Not through the sheriffs or the courts mind you, but punished just the same.
The walk to Oliver’s house, the Abbey titheman's house, was a pleasant one that led between the wooded meadows of the ruins of the motte and the constantly-under-repair Abbey. He took his time and occasionally rested by putting down his Dutch carpet bag and his Dutch horse leathers with their built-in holsters and his weapons. His easy good looks and quick smile caused the locals to stop and chat with him. They all knew him even if he was often embarrassed by not knowing their names.
He almost hoped that friend Oliver was not home, because what he really needed was to collect his horse quickly so he could make it to Cambridge in time to catch the last coach to London. Oliver, bless his curiosity for all things, would have a thousand questions about his latest voyage to Scotland, and about the battles and the politics of the Covenanters.
As he came within sight of the house a lad's voice called to him and Richard, one of Oliver's sons, raced up to him. "You're back, and safe. I'm so glad. A carpet bag. Are you going away again so soon?"
"Aye, and more's the pity. Could I ask you to deliver my punt back to Wellenhay?"
"May I use it first?"
"Of course."
The lad, he was a teen now, spun on his heel and raced towards the house yelling, "Captain Daniel is here, the Captain is here!" but instead of turning into the brick house, he turned the other way into a shed. By the time Daniel reached the house the lad had swapped his town shoes for some swampy-looking boots and shot passed him again carrying a football and an old garden spade.
Of course. It was Sunday, the day of rest for all good Christians. The day that women went to church to pray for piety in their men, most of whom were at the football pitch or at the alehouse. "Where's the match?"
"Earith,” Richard called over his shoulder. "Got to go. Got to tell my mates that we have a punt." Daniel closed his eyes and brought forward a map of the fens from his memory. Football matches in the Fens were not about fun or sport. The pitch chosen was always on a public common that was about to be privatized through enclosure. In the Fens that did not mean enclosed by walls but by drainage canals. The first half of every match was spent filling in the latest drainage ditch to level the playing pitch.
The king's men and the sheriffs were helpless against the football tactic. If a mob had gathered to fill in the ditches, they could be detained and charged with unlawful assembly and destruction of property. By tradition football matches were played on the common, so entire villages of men had a just purpose to gather without being charged with unlawful assembly. It was customary to remove animal shit and level the playing pitch for safety reasons before beginning any match, so pushing dikes into ditches was legal, sort of.
A few years ago, when the football tactic for fighting enclosures had first begun in the Fens, Daniel had feared that the drainer crews would use violence to stop the footballers. Such had never come to pass. The game itself could be forty or fifty men aside, big fit men. The crowd of kin that turned out to watch swell
ed that number with the old, the young, the mothers and wives and sweethearts. Any drainer who dared to put the women at risk by threatening violence to stop a match, would end up underwater in one of his own ditches.
Besides that, what did the drainers care if they had to dig the same ditch again and again. They were paid by the day, and these days there was precious little paying work. The footballers were doing them a favour. It was no surprise that the recent football craze in the Fens was spreading to other commons that were being threatened by enclosure, such as on the Isle of Axholme up near the Humber.
"Was that Richard?" a woman's voice called to him. She was Elizabeth, Oliver's wife, and she looked drawn and tired, but that was normal for any women who raised a large family of children. "Why was he running?" At the single word response of 'football', she sighed and withdrew back into her kitchen garden. He followed her.
She and her two youngest were picking runner beans. He put his things down at the gate and went to help her, just to give him an excuse to talk with her, for she usually shunned his company. "What's the matter, love? What's the problem?"
"You are the problem, or rather, your elder, the man Cleff. He has put such wild ideas into my Ollie's head. Not that he is a stranger to wild ideas, but he sees everything so... so... so black or white. He either doesn't care or he cares too much. It has already caused the ruin of him once, and now he seems bent on being ruined again. Ooo, he is such a purist, such a pain in the ass! Things were going so well for us here in Ely. A good position, a house big enough for all of us. We've been putting coins aside so that at least one of our sons can attend college in Cambridge. With a son at college, my daughters will be introduced to other students, good matches."
On and on she went, and he in a hurry. The angle of the sun told him that time was passing, and all he had come for was his mare. There was no sign of her in the vacant field beside the house. Elizabeth droned on. Nothing he hadn't heard before. How Ollie had studied law, not to be a lawyer but to create laws. How he had been elected to Parliament by Huntingdon because of the sponsorship of the powerful Montagu family.