A few minutes later we sat in a small bodegón, or tavern. “A glass of wine?” O’Crowley suggested. “Or would you prefer some chocolate?”
Chocolate was a drink newly arrived from the Indies and one very popular in Spain, where they drank it at all hours. The Spanish also drank wine, I had noted, but rarely to excess.
“Wine first,” I said, “and then, perhaps, some chocolate.” I felt the need of nothing, and was shaken. What I wished for most was simply to be still, to recover myself a bit. For swordsman though I was—and certainly no novice to fighting and bloodshed—I liked it not.
“How did you know what he was about?” Vicente asked me. “For know you did.”
“I was forewarned, and so ready.”
“You risked your life for me.”
“You are my friend. You have been gracious. I knew that you would fight, but I also knew that the man was certain to be very dangerous.”
“Yet you fought him.”
“My training,” I commented dryly, “has been good. We Irish are an embattled race, and I have almost as many enemies as you have.”
“Nevertheless—”
“My friend,” I said to Vicente, “you are of great courage. This I saw when first we met. You would have fought bravely, but Sarmiento was a professional assassin and it needs more than courage against such a one. Courage, without the fighting skills, can get a man killed—and quickly.”
“I thank you, and my family will thank you also. Whatever you shall need, call upon us.”
“I am obliged, but what I need I can find. Although I appreciate your consideration and want only the respect and affection of your family.”
“This is all very well,” O’Crowley said, “but to live a life well, discretion is needed as much as courage. And in this case I would suggest that discretion would be a fast horse to Málaga where a ship is being laden for the Lowlands, and it is there that I myself am bound.
“There will be an inquiry, and it might well be that you would lie in prison until the problem is resolved. And that might be this year, or next, or the year after.”
I finished my chocolate. “Vicente, my thanks for your hospitality….Take care to guard yourself. I am off.”
The most-traveled road to Málaga was a busy one, so we took another, to be out of sight. The death of one matón in Madrid was not apt to attract notice, but that he had been killed by a foreigner was. Those who hired Sarmiento could ask questions.
Our mounts were good ones, for none are better than the Spanish horses. We rode swiftly, taking lonely trails through the mountains, places where a man must ever ride with a loose blade and a charged pistol. Yet we came at last to Málaga and reported to our ship.
Aboard, I saw at once what could be done, for I was just lately from doing the same on the ship I had sailed from England. Thus I went quietly about, making myself useful at familiar tasks.
The following day General Hugo O’Connor came aboard and we put to sea. And it was well we were away, for the general told me that an order had been issued for my arrest.
“Do not worry about it,” he said. “I have spoken to the uncle of Vicente. Steps will be taken to clear your name. The charges against you will be dismissed within a fortnight. And should you ever return to Spain, all will be well.”
* * *
HOW CAN I relate the passage of years? Now that I look back, the memories are confused. The fierceness of one battle is lost in the glory of the next, the splendor of the days between like a tapestry of joy, of sorrow.
I remember with pain a fine horse shot from under me at Ivry…such a splendid animal! I regret him still, for we had served much together. But, strangely, he was wooed and won by battle, the sound of trumpets, of drums marching, the clash of arms; they were enough to fill him with excitement. He longed for the charge, the fray, the heat of battle.
How many times he carried me where I might else not have gone! How many times was I called a hero because of that steed and the melees into which he took me! Truly, we were one, but often it was his decision that took me into the hottest part of the battle.
Even a distant fight filled him with impatience. He would toss his noble head and tug at the bit, and his hooves would move restlessly, eager to be away.
A history of my life during those years might be written in the history of the horses I rode. At Arques I was wounded with a pike. At Ivry I sustained minor cuts, bruises, and a small wound in the muscle of my thigh from a musket ball that all but missed.
And was my side always the right side? I did not know, being but little versed in the politics of Europe. It was enough that it was the side I was on, the side that was paying me, for I had no country, no army, no government. Perhaps I was no better than Sarmiento, whom I had killed. I only know that war for many of us who had no country was a way of life.
We were roundly defeated at Arques. Henry of France, who commanded against us, was a shrewd as well as a brave man, and he tricked us into a defile on the Bethune River. It is futile now to say I saw it coming, for during our long talks Fergus MacAskill taught me much of the tactics and science of war. That defile smelled of blood, and I shied from it.
I spoke to O’Connor of it. “Aye!” he said grimly. “But our orders take us there.” More than three thousand died there. That was September ’89 and a bloody time it was.
At Dreux, besieged by Henry, he lifted the siege and slipped away because as at Arques his forces were less and he chose to fight on ground of his own selection. That proved to be Ivry and again Henry won.
My horse killed, I joined the Swiss contingent, and when all others fled the field the Swiss stood fast, and I with them. Obtaining honorable terms, the Swiss surrendered. Once again I was a prisoner.
It was to Henry IV himself that I was taken. Aside from the soldier who guarded me and two aides, we were alone. He looked up from the map he had been studying and eyed me coldly.
“You were with the Swiss, yet you are not Swiss. What are you then?”
“An Irishman, Your Majesty, taken at sea by the Spanish.”
“Yet fighting on the side of my enemies.”
“My only means to escape was the army, sire.”
“You were on an English ship?”
“I was, sire.”
“Yet you later fought valiantly against my men.”
“I had no choice. It was fight or be killed. Besides,” I admitted, “once the battle is joined I like to fight.”
He smiled ever so slightly. “I know,” he said dryly, “I fight with some Irishmen, too.” He sat back in his chair and studied me. “There is an air about you,” he said at last, “that puzzles me.” He looked down at the paper before him. “Tatton Chantry…I do not know the name.”
“I shall make it known, sire. A name is only what one makes it. In the years to come there will be other Henrys, as there have been in the past, but only one Henry of Navarre.”
“Like all the Irish,” he said, amused, “you talk easily, and always with the right words.” He scowled. “Chantry. I know not the name. Should there not be a Mac or an O before it?”
“I had another name once,” I said, “but put it aside long since. I discovered,” I spoke wryly, “that those of my name did not live long. When a land is taken and the people remain unconquered it is considered wise to eliminate all those about whom an uprising might gather.”
“Ah? And you are such a one?”
“I am descended,” I replied, “from Nuada of the Silver Hand, chieftain and king of the Tuatha De Danann when first they migrated from the east into Ireland.”
“A son of kings, then?”
“We have no kings in Ireland,” I said, “and the Hill of Tara is now grown over with grass. Where our halls and palaces once stood, the sheep now graze.”
“The son of kings? Can I do less than tre
at you so? Yet how do I know this is not merely a clever story concocted by your Irish wit?”
“I have said so much,” I replied, “only because you are a king, and I am young enough still to believe in the honor of kings. There is no one to attest to what I am, and few who care. The English wish me dead, as I might in their place.”
“You seem to hold little enmity toward them,” he mused. “I find this strange.”
“Each of us does what he must do. I may kill the wolf who kills my sheep, but I understand him, too. If the wolf must die that my sheep may live, so be it. But I need not hate the wolf for what it is his nature to be.”
“Hah! You are a philosopher, too? Well, what would you have me do?”
“As Your Majesty wishes. Had I my choice, I’d be freed to return to England to someday buy the land that was once my own.”
“What was it like, your home?”
“It is a green place, sire, green among a chaos of granite, bold hills and great boulders leaning, moss growing at their feet. The forests that once covered Ireland are gone, but the land holds a memory of them, as all the rocks there have a memory of the sea that once washed upon them and hollowed and polished.
“The walls of my home were gray granite, and the beams and panels of oak. There was little furniture but what there was was also of oak. And at the door a stream ran past, swiftly it ran, hurrying down the steep rocks to fall over a cliff and into the sea.
“There is a cove there, almost landlocked, where a man can have a boat. And there is the sea beyond, with fish awaiting. And the sound of the sea snarling and growling among the worn rocks. Sheep graze there, and there is a garden sometimes, and paths by which to walk the hills in the morning mist or evening shadow.
“There are far moors to gallop over on our fine Irish horses or the wild ponies of the moors. It is a place to live and love in, sire, and I would go back there and abide, nor ever come away again.”
He shook his head. “No man should be kept from such a dream. Does the house stand yet?”
“It was burned, sire. But what men built, men can build again. I shall go back.”
“Aye! Do you go then!” He tossed a purse upon the table. “Let a king share with a king. You have no sword?”
“It was taken from me when I surrendered.”
“So?” He turned to an officer standing behind him. “Gabriel? Bring me the silver sword.”
“The silver-handled one? But, sire—”
“Bring it. These are hard times, and this Irishman has brought me something of pleasure with his words and his ways. Perhaps he is a king, and certainly the sword should go to nothing less.”
The sword was a fine one, with a thin blade, at least forty inches long, edged on both sides with razor sharpness. The hilt was of silver, beautifully turned, an emerald set in the top and on either end of the guard. The scabbard, too, was finely wrought.
“Take it, and go your way. Gabriel, see he has a horse—a fine one—and this, too.”
Taking up a sheet of paper, he had written in a fine, flowing hand: Let this man, Tatton Chantry, ride where he wills. And then he signed it, Henri.
“Go now, and may luck ride with you!”
Just before I vanished from earshot, I heard Gabriel say: “Do you believe he is a son of kings?”
King Henry laughed. “It does not matter. He carries himself like one and has a certain style. He brightened my morning, and these days are dark, very dark.”
My horse was a dappled gray with a black mane and tail, a splendid horse. As I mounted, I remembered the words overheard.
“You, too, Henry,” I said aloud. “You also carry yourself like a king, and you, too, have a style!”
CHAPTER 26
ALONE I RODE along the byways of France. Alone I dined at wayside taverns, or pausing beside the road, ate of bread, cheese, and wine, while my good steed cropped the green grass of the roadside.
Dark and thick was the cloak I wore for strong blew the wind, and often cold the rain. Continual war had made the people sullen and remote, wanting no dealings with such as I, a wanderer returning from the wars, although some looked long at my horse and my sword of the silver handle.
Yet always I rode on, avoiding the main roads for fear of being stopped. And I was but once.
An imperious officer accompanied by six men waved me down. “Who are you, and from whence do you come?” he demanded.
“I ride to Rouen,” I said, “and I come from Henry of Navarre.”
Some of his truculence vanished at that, but he did not truly believe until I rode close and showed him my letter. He stared at it, astonished, and then at me. “I have never seen such a letter!” he said. “You must be a great man, indeed!”
“I am a wayfarer, wishing to go on. Now, if you have done?”
The sky was sullen and a light rain was falling. Bundled in my cloak I rode the dim sun down and into the clouded night where the eyes gained only blackness and the faint shine of rain pools in the muddy road. I drew my horse to a walk, for the footing was slippery. “Walk gently,” I said to him, “for you carry an Irish lad on his way home.”
He twitched an ear at me. That I could see, but little else. What I dearly longed for was an inn, or any place at all to shelter my head. Suddenly before me the road took a branch off to the side and I drew up, peering into the night.
High above the road I saw a dim reflection of light. The light tempted, but a faint smell of broiling meat scored victory, and for better or worse I turned my horse into the side road and mounted steeply to what I soon saw was an ancient castle, long in ruins. A sensible man would have turned back, but I was Irish and hungry to boot.
Under a noble arch and into a courtyard I rode. At one side was an empty stable. I swung down and led my horse within. There was fresh hay there, and I tied him at a manger, bundled hay to him, and then loosened my sword in its sheath. I’d a brace of pistols with me, and I tucked them behind my belt and under the cloak. Then I mounted some ancient stairs, my nose following the aroma of the meat. I emerged in a room where there were five men and a girl, and the girl was bound.
The surprise was complete, for myself as well as for them. The door I used was obviously not the one by which they had entered, for had I been a ghost they could have been no more astonished.
The men drew their weapons. “Hold!” I said. The eyes of the girl lighted with hope when she saw me. Yet I knew not what happened here, or was likely to happen—except that five more miserable cutthroats I had never seen.
“Attack,” I said calmly, “and there will be bloodshed.”
Truer word was never spoke. The trouble was that the blood might well be mine, a chance I viewed with some discomfort. If I bleed, I bleed better in the sunlight, not upon a dark and stormy night in such a ruin.
Yet it needed no seer to realize that I had stumbled upon some proper rogues—thieves or worse. Spread before them and beside the fire was a nice collection of rings, candlesticks, and chains, most made of gold.
“Who are you?” The speaker was a bold rascal with somewhat protruding eyes and a greasy, unwashed look about him. A pity to thrust a clean blade into such a dirty ruffian.
Who was I? A stupid question, for what did it matter? In a moment they would realize that I was one and they were five and that I had come upon them at an inopportune time from which I must not be allowed to escape.
The girl they held bound was of quality, a lady by appearance and dress, though somewhat bedraggled at the moment. With all of that, a decidedly pretty girl.
“I have come for her,” I said, reaching with my left hand for the spit on which broiled the meat. I had not been a soldier these past many months for nothing.
I took a generous bite of the meat. “And,” I continued, “if you be fleet of foot you may make it to the river and so ’scape hanging.”
“Hanging?” One of them frowned sharply, a cowardly rascal if ever I saw one. You I’ll spit last, I told myself, for you’ll hang back and let the others risk.
“Who talks of hanging?” the bold dirty one said. He must be first, clean blade or no. “Who in this forsaken land is there to hang anyone? And where do you come from? If you toss us your sword we may let you go.”
I smiled. Dirty though he was, I could almost like the man for his daring.
“A column of troops awaits me below,” I said. “I came up looking for a bit of shelter”—here I took another bite of the meat—“and found you. There are the battlements here, and we have the ropes.
“Do you cut the lady free.” I pointed the spit at the cowardly one. “The rest of you have one minute to decide whether to run or hang.”
“He’s lying!”
“Do you want to risk it?” I said cheerfully.
“If you have so many men, call them up,” the bold one said. Ah, he was a worthy scoundrel!
“In due course,” I said.
“He’s lying!” the bold one said. “Take him!”
I had never thought to fool them, so when the nearest man raised suddenly up, coming off the ground, turning and drawing his blade, I thrust the end of the spit into his gaping mouth, taking a couple of his last remaining teeth with it.
With my sword in my right hand, swiftly drawn, I plucked a pistol from my belt. It was point-blank, scarce ten feet, and I fired. The ball took a man in the chest and he went down.
Still clutching the now-empty pistol, I crossed blades with a third man as the others closed in. Stepping quickly around, I was beside the girl with the fire between myself and the others.
Two were down and I was faced by three, one of them a hulking brute missing one thumb.
“See? He has no men outside! That shot would have brought them!”
Fair Blows the Wind Page 22