by Harold Lamb
"I did not!" the girl whispered indignantly. "Ah, I thought in truth you knew that. Seigneur Donal', please-I had only seven piccoli all day, and I waited, praying to Our Lady, and you came-the flowers would have wilted by morning."
"And now you have a blind mother or a grandsire who starves; but I have no more money."
"I have no one at all, and I am not hungry because I bought bread with three of the piccoli, and ate it while I waited for you."
She came so close to him that her shawl touched his shield. "Ah, my lord, you must listen just a little. You went with Bragora, and he never does good work. He is a spy."
"Faith, meseems he lacks not company."
Peering up at him, she tried to read his face-no easy matter at any time. "Are you going forth upon this business of Bragora's?"
When Donald said nothing she whispered anxiously.
"My lord, I feared you would. I heard the one with the scar say to him, 'By the blood'-it was a terrible word he spoke-'here is the man for your hand, my Paulo, and he hath no more wit than a blind ass!...
The Scot grinned, and then rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Well, he had no such wit as these Venetians, but at least he would not be trapped by a girl's tongue. Why should she take thought for him unless she wished to learn his business?
"They send you to strike a dirty blow," she nodded gravely, "so that their own hands may be hidden. Do not go."
When he tried to thrust her aside she clung to his arm, and he could feel the rapid throbbing of her heart.
"My lord, you are not the sort of these braves. Listen to Marie-the one with the scar takes tribute from the beggars of San Marco, and Bragora dogs ladies at night. Once they stole a child from a contessa and demanded gold for it. May good Saint Michael let his anger fall on them! Please, Seigneur Donal'-"
Dark eyes fluttered under the shadow of the hood, and a wisp of hair brushed his cheek. She would not let go his arm, and under her touch the blood warmed in his veins as if with wine. He pressed his lips to the tangle of hair, and then swiftly kissed the warm mouth so near his own. And now the girl Marie had naught to say. She looked up at him, dimly seen as some vagrant elf of darkness.
"So, it is much better," she observed calmly. "You come with me, and forget Bragora's business."
"Nay, little Marie," the Scot objected. "Bide a bit, and I will find thee tomorrow."
No doubt, he thought, she was a girl of the streets, but she had a way with her.
"Not tomorrow. Now-you must come away now."
Donald shook his head. Strange that she should have waited for him at the square.
"Then give me a little silver," she demanded.
So that was it. Donald felt cautiously in his belt to make sure that the letter and the two shillings were safe. He did not mean to be robbed twice, not he.
"Get thee gone, Marie," he grumbled.
"Please!"
At that moment a skiff came drifting along the edge of the canal, and Donald hailed the boatman, who stopped abreast him.
"I will show you the way," Marie ventured eagerly. "And I will be quiet, not troubling you at all."
"Ye'll bide here," said Donald grimly. He stepped into the skiff, thrust ing it from the shore. When he had seated himself in the stern he saw her standing on the stone embankment, her basket in her arms, her head turned toward him anxiously. Then she laughed like an excited child.
His boatman was gabbling, waving his arms, to ask where to go. Donald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Someone had been lying to him-either the two Bragoras or the flower girl. Still, he had promised to carry the letter, and there could be no harm in that. A bargain was a bargain, and Donald needed those two silver pounds.
"Ca' Cornaro," he told the boatman, who nodded, gestured at the canal ahead of them, and stood up to the long oar. They lurched forward under the light of a bridge. Donald felt again to make certain his letter was secure, at first carelessly, then anxiously. The letter with its seals was there under his belt, but one of the two shillings had vanished.
"Now why did she do that?" he wondered. Marie must have taken it in that last moment-the Scot had never lost coins so heedlessly before coming to Venice-yet why did she take only one coin?
The boatman weighed his oar and turned to listen, saying something that Donald could not grasp. After pointing behind them and shrugging his shoulders, the man leaned against the oar again, and they entered the darkness of a lagoon.
In the mist of the lagoon nothing could be seen. Once Donald thought that he heard the clug-cluck of an oar laboring over the water, but no other boat approached. Guided apparently by a sixth sense of direction, his own skiff pierced the fog until the blur of lights appeared, and it drifted in, by mooring stakes, to a stone landing.
The Ca' Cornaro was a square marble palazzo rising sheer from the water except for the small landing before the door. The embrasures of the lower floor were barred by heavy gratings and were curtained, but lighted windows showed above. Donald climbed from his skiff unchallenged, and rapped with his sword hilt on the heavy door. A face appeared at the lookout opening and a voice questioned him in harsh Italian. The Scot held up his letter.
Slowly the door swung open and he walked into a lofty, tapestried hall. An armed porter scrutinized him with surprise and held out his hand for the letter.
"It is for the Seigneur of the Cornaro," Donald explained, unwilling to give up the missive to a servant.
The porter shook his head at the Norman-French words, but a gentle man appeared and stared at the Scot. "There is no Seigneur," the newcomer observed, "but there is a Contessa of the Cornaro, and no doubt the letter will be for her. Will you tell me your name?"
"Aye-Donald Ban, it is, of the Clan Arran."
"Mordie! Well, you will wait."
He left with the letter, and Donald heard a woman's light laugh as he opened the door into an adjoining chamber. A moment of silence, and then voices exclaimed angrily. The porter dropped the candle he was holding and caught out his dagger as several men ran into the hall, tugging at their sword hilts.
"A mort!" one shouted. "Strike him down!"
"Nay," panted another. "Take the dog-bind him-let him feel the hot irons!"
It seemed to Donald that the letter had worked him mischief with these gentlemen. But it was not the first time he had faced an angry crowd. When the porter, who was nearest, struck at him, the Scot stepped back, drawing the round shield over his arm in time to parry the first wild slash of a sword. He drew his own straight blade and stepped back again into a niche of the wall, where two columns under a pointed arch shut him in on either side.
One of the gentlemen lunged at him viciously, and he cut down at the blade, knocking it aside and driving his assailant back with a wide cut at the head. The man stumbled, letting fall his sword, and the others drew away, seeing him helpless under Donald's blade, which swept back and forth over his head without harming him.
"Bide ye so!" the Scot cried. "I seek no quarrel here."
The men of the palace muttered, but a woman's voice shrilled at them and Donald from the corner of his eye saw the Contessa of the Cor- naro-white shoulders gleaming in the candlelight above a long blue gown. Henna-red hair she had, and eyes that blazed with wrath.
"Dog!" She lifted the letter and tore it in two. "Hound of the Lord of the Night! To come here to my house demanding gold or the death of my boy. Name of a Name-'tis no quarrel thou wilt find here, but a death that is fit for such a dog! "
Out of the flood of words Donald grasped the fact that the letter had threatened this woman of the flaming hair. "Faith," he thought, "there will be no quieting her now if she hath a child in peril-"
"Take him and bind him," the contessa urged her gentlemen. "So we can learn from him who sent him."
There were four Venetians besides the porter still on their feet; but they hesitated to rush in upon the Scot, who could slay the one stretched on the floor. Three Donald might have fought off, but he could not stop five. And he
glanced sidewise at the door, which was a little open, thinking to risk a leap for it while he was still unhurt.
As he looked the heavy door swung wide. The men of the Cornaro drew back, startled, expecting, perhaps, the appearance of other creatures of the night. Into the hall walked Marie, the flower basket still on her hip, the shawl thrown back from her dark head. Slight and ragged she looked beside the very brightly clad Venetians.
An instant she caught her breath, then laughed so cheerily that a moment of astonished silence followed.
"My lady, Giulia," she cried. "You have bought my flowers at San Marco's arch, and you too, Messer Carlo." Resting the basket on the floor, she surveyed them, her brown eyes amused. "May the good saints aid us-how foolish it is to fight. At the door I heard talk of the Lord of the Night. That is stupid. Would he send a witless soldier such as this with a letter? Nay, he would burn this palazzo, but he would not threaten for a mere little gold."
"Back, child," muttered one of the gentlemen. "'Tis the son of the contessa they mean to take."
"Messer Vital," she retorted, "often have I seen you in the garden of the Arsenal with a young lady who was not your wife. But what do you know of the braves of the streets? Now you are all frightened, and this soldier-he does not understand why."
"Girl," exclaimed the Contessa Giulia, "he brought this letter demanding five pounds of gold to be given him wrapped in a cloth, or my boy would not live to go twice to mass. And the name-it is signed by the Signor del Notte." Impatiently she turned to her gentlemen.
"Vital-Carlo-how long will you let this rogue stand with drawn sword in my hall?"
"Get thee hence, little Marie," Donald grumbled. "'Tis no matter of yours, this."
"Witless!" she scoffed, and cried out at the woman in blue. "My lady, it is a great sin you would do. How easy it is to write the words 'Lord of the Night'! And to make good people into fools! The one who wrote that let ter is a briber and betrayer, who fears the Cornaro more than I. He found this Signor Donal', who is an Inglisman, a stray in the streets, and offered him payment to bear a letter to honest people. Look! He is only a thickskulled man of the wars."
The voice of the flower girl carried conviction-at least to the four gentlemen who were facing the Scot's long sword. But the woman was not pacified. "Let him yield himself, then, and we will hear what he says before the Council."
Donald had no mind to do that. Instead he motioned for the prostrate Venetian to rise, and himself stepped swiftly to Marie's side by the door. Before the other men could prevent, he had drawn the girl back into the entrance. "Bide where ye are, and be content that no blood is shed," he said.
Motioning to Marie to get into one of the waiting skiffs, he backed down the steps. Although they followed watchfully, no one ventured within reach of his sword, and he leaped into the skiff, thrusting it off from the landing. The other boat, at a word from Marie, followed hastily. Donald drew a long breath.
"Faith," he muttered, 'Ais content I am to be beyond reach of that lady."
Marie, perched beside him, nodded scornfully. "Is it so you thank me for bringing you away with a whole skin? Ah, Saint Michael, guide us-you walked in there like a calf to the butcher's stall."
"And why did you follow?"
For an instant she hesitated, then tossed her head. "To bring you out again on your feet, Signor Fool. Now, listen well. Those Bragoras are spoilers of little spirit. I think they sent a letter before now, threatening to steal the contessa's child; then looked for a wight without wisdom to go to the Cornaro for the gold.
"They used the name of the Lord of the Night to frighten that beautiful lady. If she paid the tribute, you would bring it back to them like a mule that bears any burden put on its back. If they hacked you into pieces the Bragoras would have no harm. And if they tortured you until you revealed their names, it would be no proof against them, for you are no man of theirs, and anyone could write that letter. Now do you understand?"
"Aye," Donald nodded. "Something of all this was i' my mind the while."
"And what will you do now?"
"Bid this lad row back to the steps by the church."
When they arrived at the stone embankment Donald gave the boatman his remaining shilling and bade him wait. Marie, who had watched him with misgivings, refused to stay in the skiff. But he shook his head gravely.
"I'll not say you pilfered a shilling from me-"
"It was to pay for my boat to the Ca' Cornaro," she objected.
"Aye, that is well enough. But now I will go to parley wi' the Bragora men, and this time you will not come."
"They will throw your body into the canal," she cried.
"That is to be seen," said Donald grimly. And when he strode away she did not follow. Instead she knelt by the shrine and prayed.
Late as the hour was, Paulo Bragora was awake and clothed when Donald Ban knocked at the postern door. He did not seem surprised at the Scot's delay, but asked sharply, "Did they give you aught?"
"They did that," Donald nodded.
Paulo's eyes flashed, and he closed the door behind them, leading the way into the cabinet where Zorzi waited by the brazier.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"Here," said Donald, and drew his sword. "Good sword strokes they gave me for that I carried a hangdog threat from two spoilers of honest people."
"Par Dex," Paulo whispered, "I see well you have kept what they gave and brought back lies to us-"
From the corner of his eye he was watching Zorzi, who suddenly sprang, straight from his chair, a long dagger gleaming in his upflung hand.
Donald caught the flicker of steel and bent to the side. He had not time to swing his long sword, but as the dagger swept past his shoulder, he smashed the heavy pommel of the sword into Zorzi's snarling face. As the Venetian staggered back, Donald thrust him down upon the glowing brazier and leaped away.
Only a second behind Zorzi, Paulo struck with a broad knife up from the hip. But Donald's quick leap brought him clear of the blade that would have slashed his bowels. Then his left fist clenched and drove into Paulo's eyes, and his long sword was thrust through Paulo's chest. Paulo fell heavily to the floor.
Old Zorzi was out of the brazier like a singed panther, screaming his hate. But when the point of the Scot's sword pricked his throat the fire went out of him and he let his dagger fall. Wounded or well, the Bragoras were no men to stand foot to foot in a fight.
"Stay thy hand! Look here!" Zorzi cried.
Stumbling in his haste, he drew a cloth cover from a great chest and snatched a key from his belt. Frantic with fear, he fumbled with the lock and raised the chest lid. Donald saw treasure within-leather bags and massive silver, gold crosses and women's trinkets set with jewels.
With the point of his sword he indicated a pair of scales within the chest. "Now set this up," he said.
Silently Zorzi took out the scales and placed them on the table.
"Ye'll weigh me two pounds of good silver," Donald prompted him.
Ten minutes later, with a heavy purse in his hand, he made his way alone out of the postern door into the mist. It was turning gray with the first light, and by the church door he saw Marie still kneeling.
"Ah, Seigneur Donal'," she exclaimed. "How fared ye with the Bragoras?"
"They weighed me out the two pounds of silver," he vouchsafed. "But I fear me it was none of the best."
Marie laughed under her breath. A little silver when he might, perchance, have had rare jewels from the spoilers! Hugging the basket with the wilted flowers, she lowered her eyes.
"I think," she said softly, "you are too honest to fare well in Venice. You need someone to keep you from harm."
"Aye," Donald assented, 'Ais fair ungodly, this burgh. So I'll be leaving it, and seeking a ship this day for the coast of France." He held out his hand.
Marie noticed then that he had his bundle again, and something clutched at her heart. "You-you would say adieu, Seigneur Donal'?" she whispered.
&nb
sp; He shifted the kit upon his shoulder. "Aye," he muttered, "I did think of asking you to take ship wi' me out of this ungodly place. Yet now that the day has come I see I am a fool-"
"A blind fool!" she cried eagerly. Dropping her basket, she caught his hard fist. "Now find that ship that goeth out to sea."
He is out there now, in his black ship. They say he will not die, but he will sail that ship of his against wind and tide until doomsday comes.
You have heard his name? Nick van Straaten. You have heard that he is out there, swearing his strange oaths and striving to round that far-off cape of land-striving forever? And you do not believe?
Well, by now the Germans also have made a legend of him. They say that Nick Straaten must sail the seas for seven years, at which time he may come again to land, to find, if he can, a woman who will love him. Aye, they have begun to call him der fliegende Hollander, the Flying Dutchman ...
All this happens to be true, as I well know. Since I was with him in the time of trouble, I can tell you the truth of the happening and you can believe it or not as you choose. It is all one to me, my masters.
A day of white clouds and dark shadows it was, when I watched van Straaten come ashore. No wind stirred the swell along the sea dike. I was then twelve years of age, playing with my pocket sundial, on top of the stones and beams of the dike, with one eye on old Ludowyk's dogcart, while Ludowyk sold the fishing nets he had made.
That was late in the year 1569 of grace-aye, four years before the trouble.
I could hear Ludowyk and the meesters jawing about how many groats to be paid for each net; and I longed to be off on a ship that would venture forth into the unknown seas of the world, to the far gold coasts and spiceries.
I sniffed the salt of the sea depths. The wind arms of the mills turned only slowly, sighing, in that light air. I saw only one ship come in that day, from the north to anchor off the dike. It was a bark, gray with weather and salt. And it had no sails. That is, they were tattered and ripped, lashed to the yards. One man from the bark got into a skiff and rowed himself up to the dike where I lay.