The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack

by Emily Cheney Neville

  “’Twill be ready soon, will it not, Father?” Johanna asked.

  “Ay, for by July we must be ready to set sail.”

  “And where will she go?” asked Johanna.

  “To the great fair at Novgorod,” her father answered, “and she will carry good English wares, and return with a cargo of eastern wares, for at these great fairs East meets West.”

  “I would that I could go with her,” sighed Johanna. “Is not Gilbert Branche to go with his father’s ships?”

  “Ay, that is the plan.”

  Passing back through the warehouses Johanna saw pack upon pack of wool and iron-bound chests. Sitting at tables were young apprentices working over large leather-bound books and reckoning accounts by means of counters. All of it was interesting, but here again were the traders, eyeing her and whispering as she passed. They were the Easterlings.

  When Johanna reached home, she betook herself to the garden wall. As she climbed, she was aware of a rustling in the lower part of her sleeve, and after she had seated herself, she drew forth a piece of paper. Smoothing it out, she was astonished at the words she found written upon it. It was strangely written, but this was the substance of its message: ‘If thou wouldst be of great help to thy father, do thou come to the foot of St. Botolph’s steeple tomorrow night after the compline bell rings. Tell no one of thy coming or nothing will be gained.’

  “Midnight at St. Botolph’s steeple!” gasped Johanna, and her heart seemed to pound within her breast at the very thought. “I dare not!” she breathed. “What might become of me?” She turned and looked up at the steeple which stood out in light and shadow, and its lantern caught and gave back in a golden ray the reflection of the afternoon sun. The sight of its great strength and friendliness seemed to reassure her. “I would I knew what might be gained.” Again she examined the scrap of paper. It had been folded into an irregular lump and was but a small piece torn from a larger one. The writing was large and clear. “But what am I to do?” Johanna questioned herself fearfully. “Creep out all alone at midnight? Alas! I dare not. And not tell anyone? But that I shall. I shall tell Caroline, and she shall go with me.” Thus Johanna arrived at a quick decision. The idea of companionship gave her courage.

  Meanwhile Sir Frederick attended a meeting of the town council in the Guild Hall. Sir Frederick was indeed changed. Today as he sat in his place at the council table, he leaned his head back against the high-backed chair, and it was not until Hugh Witham called the meeting to order that he was able to bring his thoughts within the four paneled walls of the Guild Hall decorated with fine carving and richly embroidered banners. “I am indeed loath”—Hugh Witham cleared his throat and raised his eyes to the vaulted roof—“to question the integrity of any of our townsmen, much less one who has in the past given great service and comes of a distinguished family, but it is my unpleasant duty to put several plain questions to him. Sir Frederick, it is of thee I speak.”

  All eyes were now turned on Sir Frederick, who was leaning forward in his chair, suddenly aroused, as by a blow across the cheek, into consciousness of his surroundings. His face was pale, but there was no fear in it, only a great unbelief.

  “How now,” he spoke quietly. “I do not understand the cause for this, but I would far rather have things stated to my face than talked of behind my back.”

  “So I thought myself,” agreed the bailiff. “So let us be outspoken. First of all, why hast thou taken up with a merchant of Lynn? Are there no keen enough men in Boston, that thou must go so far to find one to suit thee in business ability?”

  “Nay,” answered Sir Frederick, “Sir Richard Branche came to me, knowing that I was a merchant of some means. I thought well of his proposition and so joined with him. I did not seek him out.”

  “Thou didst not even seek advice from any of us here,” resumed “Witham. “Why couldst thou not have been open with thy plans?”

  “I may not have been open,” agreed Sir Frederick, “but neither have I been secretive. It was merely a private venture which involved none but myself.”

  “Ah! That brings us to the second point. Does it not involve more than thyself when thou, a leading burgess of Boston and a king-appointed officer of the staple, leaguest thyself with a Merchant Adventurer who preys upon the great merchant league that the Crown recognizes and grants rights to?”

  “Thou speakest of the Hanseatic League of course,” answered Sir Frederick, “but canst thou not see that it is because the league can give the king ready money that it obtains these rights? It is not for the good of England.”

  “Dost thou know better of this thing than the king and his advisors?” It was Alan Marflete who now spoke and there was a sneer in his voice. “Hast thou ever seen the great steelyard in London, and dost thou think with a paltry ship or two to oppose this league that has so strong a hold right in our greatest center of commerce?”

  Sir Frederick groaned and despair settled over his face. “I know, I know, it will take more than one or two men’s efforts, and it will take years and years before the pressure is great enough to be felt, alas!”

  “In the meantime thou dost endanger the welfare of thy town. Here have we asked and received permission to hold a great fair in order that we may fill our town coffer again, and if aught of thy sentiments reaches the king, he will likely recall the permission, and then what shall we do?”

  “Nonsense,” and Sir Frederick roared with scorn. “Whose idea was that, forsooth?”

  “I do believe it was Alan Marflete who suggested that possibility,” answered Hugh Witham.

  Sir Frederick turned to Marflete. “Thou knowest there is no reason or likelihood in that.”

  “’Tis well to be cautious when we are in such need as we are now,” and Marflete shifted uneasily in his chair.

  “Next we do believe that thou hast come almost to an end of thy resources in this shipbuilding venture. Is this so?”

  “That is mine own concern.”

  “’Tis thine own concern—hem—until the public funds are—hem—involved and then—” Alan Marflete stopped to clear his voice again, for his courage was beginning to fail him. Sir Frederick did not wait for more, but turned upon him in justified anger.

  “If thou thinkest I would use one farthing of the public funds for my private enterprise, thou art maligning me beyond my endurance.” Marflete did not look him in the eye, but shifted uneasily in his chair. Sir Frederick’s tones were scathing. “Thou hast not the courage to say in plain words what thou wouldst insinuate with thy hemming and thy hawing, but I’ll tell thee what I think of thee plainly enough. Thou are a trouble-maker and a liar.”

  All the members of the council sat in awe as Sir Frederick towered over the shrinking Marflete, but the bailiff rapped loudly on the table. “I did not call the council together to listen to loud words and quarreling,” he said. “We have been outspoken indeed, and now that Sir Frederick understands the position he is in, I think it best to let things stand for a time, and I ask ye all to keep to yourselves what has been said here.”

  Sir Frederick sat back in his chair, still breathing hurriedly. “Time only will show how things do truly stand,” he said.

  Later, as he and Roger Pinchbeck walked together through the market place, Pinchbeck said, “Thou knowest that I have every faith in thee and thine undertakings, dost thou not?”

  “Ay, Roger, for the minute that thou didst hear of what I was about, didst thou not come to me with thy savings and entrust every penny to me to do with as I thought best? Thou art a true friend, and when adversity comes to a man, it is such friendship as thine that does give him heart.”

  “Do not take all this talk hard,” cautioned Roger Pinchbeck. “It will all blow over, and by midsummer thou wilt wonder what it was that ever gave thee a moment’s worry, and when thy good ship comes back, then will all the townspeople shower thee with blessings, for it will bring honor and profit to all of them, little as they will deserve it.”

  “But, Roger,
what canst thou make of it all? As I have said but now, I have little faith in Alan Marflete. It was for that reason that I did oppose the using of his coffer for the town funds last year, for I did believe there might be some secret device for opening it, known only to him. Dost think I do him wrong?”

  “I know not,” answered Roger Pinchbeck, “but I think with thee that he will bear a bit of watching.”

  “And now I do bethink me who could best do it without awaking suspicion. He is coming tomorrow and I can keep him here on pretext of business, and that is young Gilbert Branche. He is a keen lad, and has sound judgment for one of his years. I do think that he and thy smart apprentice lad, Stephen, could perhaps fathom things where we ourselves might miscalculate altogether.”

  “It is a good plan, and something may come of it, indeed.”

  Sir Frederick grasped Pinchbeck’s hand and wrung it, and with that they parted. In spite of the vexatious council meeting Sir Frederick felt less troubled than he had been, but Johanna watched his careworn face and wished more than ever that she might be of help to him.

  That night as Caroline assisted her at bedtime, Johanna broke the news to her.

  “Caroline, art thou brave?”

  “Nay, I do not think so,” answered Caroline.

  This was not a good beginning. “Then thou must be,” announced Johanna with decision, “for tomorrow night thou must accompany me on a dangerous errand.”

  Caroline gasped. “A dangerous errand?” she stammered. “What meanest thou?”

  “I must go after the compline bell to the foot of St. Botolph’s steeple and thou art to go with me.”

  Caroline’s face grew white and startled. “St. Botolph’s steeple! Hast thou forgot that the Devil haunts that spot? Surely thou art making fun of me? Thou canst not mean it!”

  “Ay, I mean it. The Devil will do us no harm. We shall creep out well wrapped in our dark cloaks, and thou must not get faint-hearted and weak-kneed, for all that thou needst do is to follow me. I cannot tell thee more. Thou hast a day to think about it, and to get thy courage up, but do not dare to tell a soul what we shall do, or all will be lost, and great harm may come of it. Remember now!”

  With these instructions Johanna dismissed the frightened Caroline, and crept into her canopied bed to sleep uneasily, and dream strange dreams, in which the events of the afternoon repeated themselves, and the live white swan in the garden became confused with its namesake, the “White Swan of Boston.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Kidnapping

  Between Boston and Lincoln to the south, before the great tract of Sherwood Forest was reached, there was a rolling stretch of sheep land and here on one of the hillsides above the Lindis and well off from the highroad was a round hut of stone with a thatched roof, such as shepherds built for themselves. Before it stood the shepherd, a square-built man with a weather-hardened face and grizzled hair. Near him was a thickset, longhaired sheep dog with a fine head and intelligent eyes. He was watching his master intently as he leaned against his rude doorway and looked far off. The glance of the shepherd returned and fell upon the dog with a look of proud admiration. “Thou art too fine a dog for the life I have made thee lead, my Angus,” he said aloud. The dog at the sound of his voice leaped to his side and laid his head against him, wagging his tail. “Thou art the keenest sheep dog in all of England, and here I have made thee a dishonest one.”

  Angus sank down on all fours and lifted his flat ears slightly.

  “Thou hast driven out the sheep just as I have pointed them out to thee, the longest-wooled ones in a radius of twenty-five miles, and thou hast not missed one. These we have rounded up for the smugglers and now have they sheared them and are about to take off the wool to their ship. Tonight must we meet them and receive our payment and then are we through for this year.”

  The heavy tail beat the ground. “Come, we may as well start, for it will soon be dark.”

  The shepherd picked up his staff and the dog sprang eagerly away, and then came circling back, clearing rock and brush in his delighted bounds. Down over the hillside they went, making their way toward the Lindis below Kirkstead, which lay about halfway between Boston and Lincoln.

  Here the Lindis flowed between heavily wooded banks, and deep within the woods on the left shore was a smugglers’ cave. The ground around the cave and the shrubbery gave evidence at once as to the object of their smuggling, for here and there were tufts of wool which had escaped from the packs and caught on sharp twigs. The sheep had been collected here and washed and sheared, and then scattered again over the sheep land by the clever Angus. It was work that had to be done largely at night, and it was due to Angus’s skill that the smuggling had not been detected, for at this time when all the sheep were being rounded up for shearing and then set loose again, it was hard to trace lost sheep or discover the sheared ones that were returned again.

  As the shepherd and Angus broke through into the clearing around the cave, Ranolf with three other Easterlings came in from the river. Their voices had reached the shepherd even before the men themselves came into sight, for they were raised in angry disagreement. Angus growled and sniffed the air.

  “It would serve thee right if we were all caught and hung, since thou wouldst risk everything by this silly plot of thine to kidnap the girl. And all because thou wouldst wreak thy vengeance on the father. ’Tis not worth the risk thou takest.”

  “Tush!” It was Ranolf who spoke. “Dost think I cannot carry it out?”

  “It will but delay our sailing, and as likely as not she will not come.”

  “Why wouldst thou not be content to hide her in the fens?” another one suggested. “Hand her over to this man Redfern and let him take care of her. Make it worth his while.”

  Ranolf grunted.

  “Ay,” said another. “I would rather delay the sailing long enough to put off upstream a way rather than carry her off with us, and be followed and caught in our misdeeds.”

  Still Ranolf only grunted. By this time they had joined Redfern and Angus.

  “Well met, Redfern,” Ranolf growled in his broken English. “Tomorrow night will see us cleared of this spot, and glad will we be, too. Thou hast done well by us, thou and that fine dog of thine.” Ranolf tried to pat Angus on the head, but Angus growled and backed away. He showed a great dislike for all the Easterlings.

  “Wouldst like to earn a few marks more?” asked Ranolf.

  “Ay,” answered Redfern, a little sullenly.

  “Thou canst if thou wilt do as I say,” and Ranolf went close to him. “The rest of ye get about the business of loading the boats and waste no time, for we must get back long before daylight.” Then he turned again to Redfern.

  An hour later the boats were loaded, and Redfern and Angus stood on the bank as they were pushed off into midstream.

  “Tomorrow shortly after midnight a mile above the bridge. If we are not there within an hour, the game is up,” called Ranolf.

  Redfern did not answer, but turned and, with Angus at his heels, disappeared into the forest. The boats with their dark, bulky burdens fell into line, and silently crept along downstream.

  The next day Johanna’s mind was somewhat taken off her hazardous midnight project, for Gilbert Branche again appeared, and had much of interest to tell her, and much to hear. Several times during his visit it was on the tip of Johanna’s tongue to tell him of the mysterious note, but each time she caught herself with the thought that, as he was to be in Boston several days working under her father’s direction, it would be better to wait until she had found what was the outcome of her visit to the steeple, and then he might be able to help her. Moreover she would not have him think her fearful. The question of their betrothal did not come up at first, though often did Gilbert start to speak in boylike confusion. But Johanna, knowing what was likely to come, with sudden skill broke away from the silence into bits of gayety. She told of Dame Pinchbeck at market, and at great length of the various stories in connection wi
th the loss of the keys, for of course Gilbert wished to know what had occurred since his last visit in regard to that. He was astonished at what Johanna told him.

  “And was the coffer empty?”

  “I know not,” said Johanna, “but I suppose everything was taken. ’Twas locked again.”

  “And have they not had it burst open?”

  “Nay, they do use another coffer, so I think my father said, for, with the keys of that one lost, the bailiff did not wish to have it in use. So it still stands as the thieves left it.”

  “That seems to me strange. They have simply taken it for granted that the money is gone entirely.”

  “Of course,” said Johanna, “who would not suppose so? Mayhap thou thinkest the thieves did open it but to put more money in,” and Johanna burst into a merry laugh.

  Gilbert watched her with delight, for she did indeed look pretty when the dimples came and went in her full pink cheeks.

  “Knowest thou, Johanna, what plan thy father and mine have for us?”

  Johanna’s cheek grew pinker. Out it was at last. “Ay,” she answered, “my father did speak of it, but it is not for a long time yet, and not then if we do not wish it.”

  Gilbert’s face became serious. “But thou wilt wish it, wilt thou not, Johanna?”

  “Mayhap, but that I cannot say until the time comes,” and Johanna straightened the folds, of her dress with a prim little gesture, and settled herself farther back on the window seat. “I shall be but fifteen in August, and no one knows what may happen in a year’s time.”

  Lady Mathilda came down the broad staircase into the hall, and the conversation was interrupted. Soon, at Lady Mathilda’s suggestion, the two young people were busily engaged over the chessboard with its fine set of ivory chessmen.

  “Thou wilt surely beat me,” said Gilbert as he set up his last pawn. “I am not a good player, and thou, I know, art sharp-eyed and quick-witted.”

  Johanna laughed. “I can sometimes get my father into a tight place that he needs must use all his wits to get out of. But I have yet really to checkmate him.”