Chapter Four
THE ORANGE CLOAK
My ride across England was all through country unfamiliar to me. It took nine whole hard days, for I had no map and must take care always when asking my way. Yet it has left few memories.
One reason was the weather. Though this was high summer, there was little sunshine and much rain throughout that journey. Day followed sweaty day in the saddle, with the rain running off that accursed steel helmet, dripping down onto my arms and legs and trickling down my back. That equally accursed gambeson was much too hot to wear in such weather, yet so vital to my protection and disguise that I dared not shed it. Stream after stream, river after river had to be forded; rutted and puddled paths and lanes innumerable to be followed, woods and copses, green and dripping, to be skirted or traversed with care in case of ambush. And always there was mud--mud splashing up my horse's legs, mud on my boots, mud everywhere...
Indeed, my disguise did help. After the brief storm of civil war England seemed awash with soldiers, as a river is awash with branches after a rainstorm. In such circumstances I attracted no particular attention. I was especially watchful when passing through villages and preferred to skirt past towns, yet little enough notice was taken of me when I did reluctantly ride along streets. I was just another soldier from a defeated army, men thought, and there were all too many soldiers roving around the Midlands in those days, singly or in bands. Nor was any attempt made to rob me; I did not look rich and, however falsely, I did look forbiddingly formidable.
However, a few recollections do persist. I recall the relief of climbing from the slippery, shaley paths of the gritstone dales up into the limestone country of Peak Forest, where the green grass was drier and the gusty winds between the showers were refreshing. I spent my first night in a lead-miner's cottage near Hartington, where I was at first regarded dubiously as a foreigner. Yet once it was realized that I had visited Peak villages before and knew the miners' special jargon, I was made very welcome. Indeed, I was so overwhelmed by a spate of talk on winzes, rakes, adits and headings, the inadequacies of the local Barmaster and the iniquities of church tithing, that my comprehension was strained to its limit and I began almost to wish I had been a foreigner!
Most other nights were lonelier. Often, indeed, I slept huddled up in my gambeson in the best shelter I could find among wet bushes, wishing I were as wise and as warm as a fox in his earth. My meals were mostly of bread, cheese or pasty and draughts of ale, much of it flat and as flavourless as muddy stream-water, taken in such villages as I felt it safe to visit. And always there was the rain, the sweat and the mud, and a horse so brutish in his unhappiness at the long ride that neither of us developed any least affection for the other. One Midland village name remains in my memory --Draycott in the Clay. Somehow that name epitomized that whole wet, sticky journey.
I avoided busy Gloucester, threading my way instead along the western edges of the Cotswolds. Though its villages had names that seemed strange to my ears--Uley, Wickwar, Pucklechurch, even Chipping Sodbury--that was a green countryside in which I would have liked to linger, had my journey been less urgent and the weather less vile.
At long last, I found myself riding one morning over the bridge and under the arch of Frome Gate into Bristol. I followed Broad Street down to the great High Cross at the centre of the city. There, regardless of the stares of the passers-by, I dismounted and knelt awhile to say a prayer of thankfulness that my journey was over.
I sold my horse to a Wynch Street dealer and parted from him without regret. The dealer also bought the steel helmet and the gambeson I had come so much to hate. He gave me little enough for them but, since they had cost me nothing, I was not disposed to complain.
Having rid myself of that unloved mount and that irksome garb, I felt curiously lighthearted. Moreover the sun came out at last, as if to beam approval of my new freedom from sweat and from mud. Really I should have gone straight to the quays, to enquire about a passage to Rockall. Instead I wandered about, admiring the fine stone churches--St. Stephen, St. Warbors, St. Alphius, All Hallows, St. Maryport--and poking among the stalls clustered in the shadow of the old inner wall of the city.
On the proceeds of my horse-trading, I ate a good meal and acquired for myself some new clothes--a chestnut-brown jupon with lighter-coloured sleeves and a dark brown pelicon. The latter garment was rather old-fashioned in cut-Hector would have hated it, I reflected with amusement--but well-made and of good cloth. Also I bought two pairs of knee-length boots in a flexible brown leather and waited while the cobbler, surprised but compliant, made modifications to them on my request and for my particular purposes. Thus I looked smart enough and yet not conspicuous; not like a soldier (despite my sword), certainly not like a courtier or man of fashion, yet respectable and, despite the satchel slung over my shoulder, reasonably well-to-do.
It was pleasant to be among a crowd again, for I had not been in one since that market under Sheffield Castle walls. I had been too much alone and too unhappy in the intervening days; it was good to lose myself and my cares for a while in that press of people. There was the fun also of trying to make out what was being said, for the burring bumble-bee voices of these Somerset and Devon folk were utterly different from the abrupt phrases of Hallamshire and the gusty talk of the Pennine miners.
I dined early, seated at a trestle table in a Corn Street eatinghouse, and found lodgings nearby that seemed clean, cheap and secure. But I did not retire early. Instead I rambled around, watching the street life and listening to the music of goliards and minstrels, till even the long summer day was drawing to its end. It was good to be dry, warm and safe again; I slept excellently and long.
Morning was well advanced when I rose. I was annoyed with myself for sleeping so late, especially when I saw that the sun was bright and the sky blue and clear. I knew little enough of ships and the sea, but I was aware of the importance of tides; why, in such benign weather, a ship to Lyonesse might already have set sail that very day! Yet a cheery greeting from the bright-eyed little woman who kept the lodging-house made me feel better. The excellent breakfast she provided-of sliced cold beef, onions and cresses, with a small ale of better quality than I had tasted since leaving Holdworth--quite restored my spirits.
It was too warm a day for wearing the pelicon, so I rolled it and strapped it to the satchel before setting forth. The old woman knew nothing about what ships were in port, but she was able to tell me where I should enquire--at a little tavern close to St. Peter's Cross in Dolphin Street, where the sea captains gathered to do business with the merchants of Bristol. To it I made my way.
The tavern was crowded, mugs of ale and trays full of curious wrapped-over pasties called "oggies" being energetically consumed amid a roar of conversation. I was too young and looked insufficiently wealthy to warrant attention from the company. Thus it was some time before I persuaded a friendly, bearded sea-captain--from London, by his sharp accent--to listen to my enquiry. His response was disheartening.
"You're seeking a passage to where, young sir? Lyonesse? Never 'eard of it, in all me born days. Here, Jem, can you aid the young gentleman?"
Thus adjured, the Bristol seaman did indeed respond; but he was unable to be helpful. He did recollect that there'd been a vessel from that place, oh, maybe a couple of weeks since--first one for years--but she'd sailed. Would there be another? Well, he couldn't rightly say. Didn't seem likely, though; first one for years, that'd been. Other men joined in the discussion, but all shook their heads. Well, no; didn't seem likely, didn't seem likely at all that there'd be another ship going to Lyonesse. For a while I was the focus of the sympathetic attention of the whole tavern; friendly people these were, but they could not assist me.
My London friend made one suggestion, perhaps from continued beneficence, perhaps to be rid of me and return to his drinking. "You should talk to Ben Emery. Quaymaster, he is; knows more about Bristol shipping than anyone, he does. He don't drink here, though, mind; he stays closer to the Backs, where the big ships discharge cargo. There's a tavern down on Back Street, the Trident; maybe you'll chance to find him there. Walk along St. Maryport Street and it's not far from the bridge."
Disappointed though I was, I managed to smile and express thanks before leaving the tavern. It was in no good heart that I went onward. If ships from Lyonesse came in so rarely, why, it might be years before I found a passage there! When the king discovered my deceptions, there'd be a hue and cry after me; and, if His Regrettable Majesty chanced to have learned where my father and brother had gone, my very enquiries today might give me away.
The directions I'd been given seemed clear till I reached the bridge, but then I got lost among narrow streets backing the wharves. A full hour had passed before I found the Trident tavern. It was past noon by then and most folk had eaten. A serving-maid was polishing plates in the back and the only other person visible was a squat, rumpled man, wearing a faded blue cyclas over a scruffy brown tunic and with a bristling fringe of black beard all about his face. He was sitting at a bench just inside the tavern. Before him were the scanty remains of what had clearly been a huge meal and by his elbow was an immense ale-jug, which he drained just as I entered. In no way did he fit my concept of so important an official as a quaymaster--only later did I learn that the quaymaster was not truly an official, but merely the strongest and most masterful of the men who unloaded and loaded the ships--so I was surprised at his answer to my hesitant enquiry.
"Seeking Ben Emery, be you? Well, then, you've found him. What can I do for you, young man?"
His voice was a surging roar, like the sound of waves breaking on an offshore reef. He signalled me to sit down and then thumped his jug for more ale. For this, naturally, I paid. When we had been served, I put my question once more.
"Wanting passage to Lyonesse, are you? Well, well...And just a week or so since, we had a ship put in from there; first time in many years, that was...No, Jem Shenfield was right--can't say when there'll be another-if there'll be another; you'll be mebbe raising your grandchildren by then!"
He took a pull at the jug, set it down and considered me reflectively. Pretty dejected I must have looked by then, for his mouth buckled up in a wry sort of smile, causing the fringe of beard to stand out like the prickles of a hedgehog, before he continued.
"No, there's been few enough sailings to Lyonesse in the twenty summers I've worked on these quays. Yet they do say as Lyonesse is in Rockall--and there are boats enough to Rockall! Mentonese boats they are that come here; and, though I've heard tell that there are other ships sailing from Rockall to London, English ships don't seem welcome in Rockall's harbours."
I had perked up considerably at this news. The quaymaster gave me another beard-prickling smile before continuing.
"Quite a trade there is with those Mentonese nowadays, for they bring many a thing that our English gentry like and will pay good gold nobles for. What do they bring? Why, a fancy red spice--teymery, they call it; and a perfume the ladies splash about themselves, called vodime. Then there's cakes made of pressed yellow berries, sindleberries; sweeter than honey, they are. And great rolls of white parchment; the bishops buy that, to scribe church accounts on I doubt not. There's candles, too, that them bishops like for their masses; they burn bright, ice-blue. And a stuff called jenoxiam, that's used for embalming. What do they take in exchange? Why, not gold, as you'd think; they're not interested in gold, though they'll use it, mind, in their dealings ashore. No, they want good English woollens and broadcloth, dyed in bright colours--red, yellow, blue; and they'll buy silks and velvets from France and Flanders, and wine from Gascony. Aye, that's what they're after."
He took another long pull from the jug, then went on: "Funny they be to deal with, though, these Mentonese. Big men they are, with tow-coloured hair like Danes; but they don't speak no sort of language that I've ever heard. Odd sort of a noise, it is! I doubt not they're some sort of unbeliever; there's always a little fire burning on their ships and strange chants being sung around it. But they're as astute as Jews in their dealings and quick enough at learning our tongue. Could you travel with them? Well, not to Mentone; not to Angmering, which seems to be their chief town. They won't allow that; I know, for enough of our merchants have tried, thinking to make a tidy profit."
He paused and, at my renewed expression of dismay, gave me a third time that hedgehog smile. "Yet maybe, if you could pay, they'd take you and set you ashore somewhere in Rockall. Yes, they'd accept your gold; they'd spend it in Bristol before they sailed maybe, or maybe keep it till their next coming. And I doubt not they'd treat you fair enough; they hold to their bargains, that I will say. Not many of 'em come on shore; you won't find 'em in the taverns or stews. Yet the captain'll always be ashore, of course, to do his dealings. Those Mentonese captains like doing their bargaining late in the afternoon. Strange ideas they have; they think good fortune only comes when the sun's past his prime, they won't willingly trade earlier in the day. Why yes, I will take another drink"-for indeed, he'd emptied the jug already.
When it had been refilled, at my expense of course, he continued: "And you've come to Bristol just right, for there's a craft from Mentone on the river now. Her captain's been doing business ashore these last three days. Yesterday she loaded and I did think she'd sail last night, but no, she's still on the river."
Involuntarily I heaved a sigh of relief. Ben cocked an eye at me and grinned knowingly: "Aye, there's a many good folk lost their fortune in battle and gone to seek another in Rockall; some not so long ago, I hear tell...Since his ship's still in harbour, the captain'll be coming ashore this day as ever. You'd best seek him and see about a passage..."
He broke off, gazing past me, his mouth dropping open; and he said: "Well, now just look at that!"
I turned about, my eyes following his. Indeed, the sight was startling. Out on the street, walking past the tavern, was a young man with the reddest hair and beard I had ever seen. There was a sword at his belt and he was carrying over his shoulder a whole bundle of staves for long-bows, made from a variety of woods. That was strange enough, for he was clearly neither of the labouring nor the merchant class; but what was truly startling was his garb. Over a tunic of the brightest yellow he was wearing a cloak of a colour I had never seen hitherto in cloth, only in the marigolds clustering round cottage doors--a rich, bright orange, echoed somewhat by the russet leather of his boots. In that dingy Bristol backstreet he seemed as out of place as a tropical bird.
A cluster of ragged children was following him and calling to him. As we watched he turned, laughed at them with an affectionate gaiety that quite warmed my heart, and dug into a leather purse at his waist for some coins to throw to them. While the children scrambled with noisy delight among the cobbles, he passed from our view.
Ben drank deep, then said: "Did you ever see the likes of that? I wonder what dyestuff they used? Of course, if it's good, it'll come to Bristol; everything good comes to Bristol...Well, now, yond ship from Mentone. These Rockalese won't bring their ships up to the quays. Maybe their ships can't sail in close, or more likely they don't trust us--and I can't blame them, at that, for there's ruffians enough on these quays. So they anchor downriver, seaward of the last of the quays out by the marsh. We have to load and unload from boats--a proper caper that can be, too, with the boats pitching and them Mentonese jabbering away at us in their heathen magpie-talk...The captain'll land on the first quay, just this side of the city wall where there's a stack of old barrels; you can't miss the place. You must wait for him there, but you've time enough--it'll be an hour or more ere he comes ashore."
He drank once more, then went on: "Don't let him take too much gold off you for the passage; you can be sure he'll try it on...Have I sailed to Rockall? Never, young man, never; and never will. I've never left Bristol and never shall. You ever been on a ship? No? Well, now, that's a pleasure to come-and you're most welcome to it!"
For a third time, the quaymaster drained his jug. Then he scattered some coins on the table in payment for his meal and, waving an amiable arm in response to my thanks, shambled away down the street.
I sat at the bench a little longer, sipping my own ale at more leisure and thinking. I felt much more cheerful now. Perhaps I could not find passage directly to Lyonesse, but at least I could travel to Rockall; and once there, surely I would find my way to Lyonesse quickly enough! Rockall was only an island, after all; the distance could not be great. These Mentonese sounded to be strange people, but clearly Ben respected them and, up to a point, trusted them...In any case, if I could be aboard soon, at least I would be safe from King Henry's men!
I procured some bread and cheese from the serving-maid, a dark and silent girl whom I guessed to be Welsh, and ate it slowly while I finished the ale. Then, when a crowd of sailors poured in and began to clamour for beer, I paid my bill and left also.
Most of the smaller coastal craft trading into Bristol sail up the lesser of that city's two rivers, the Frome, and unload their cargoes on the quays on the northwest side of the city, close to St. Augustine's Abbey. Only a few ships come in at the Backs seaward of the Avon bridge--the bigger vessels, from France, Flanders and the Hanseatic ports. That day only two were in. There was a cog from Danzig, with a great square sail striped vertically in red, blue and gold and an after-castle blazoned with arms in many bright colours. Sailors and labourers were swarming about it, under the attentive eyes of a group of portly and portentous merchants in furred robes. I watched for a while, then walked on. Beyond was a bigger, two-masted vessel with sails furled. From her name, Santa Catarina, I guessed her to be from Castile or Portugal. All her sailors seemed to be ashore and all her cargo already stowed or disposed of, for she appeared quite deserted. I walked on past her and out towards the city wall.
Here, behind the quay, there was a triangle of meadowland. Once it must have been an attractive place but now it looked pretty desolate, for it had become a sort of dumping-ground for rubbish from the quays. There were broken crates, heaps of straw, broken jars and flasks, knotted lengths of decaying twine and rope, torn fragments of faded cloth and the rotting remains of sacks, all amid a tangle of brambles and wild flowers. Two old coracles had been dragged ashore and overturned, looking like immense brown beetles among the weeds; and there were piles of beams apparently salvaged from wrecks of much bigger ships, so long ago that blackthorn bushes had taken root among them. Only the part of the quay closest to the water's edge had been kept clear of rubbish.
At the western end of this wasteland, on the inner side of the high city wall, there had been assembled by some industrious merchant, for purposes inscrutable to me, a vast accumulation of old barrels. There were piles of them, hillocks of them, ranging in size from quite tiny rundlets to huge casks big enough, I felt, to contain a pickled oliphant. Many were in poor shape, the staves starting out and the iron hoops corroded or rusted; these were strewn higgledly¬-piggledly, some upright, most lying on their sides among the weeds. In contrast, the ones in better condition had been stacked close by the edge of the quay, in careful piles up to six barrels deep. No one was about.
This, surely, must be the place described by Ben Emery, the place where the Mentonese captain would come ashore. Here, then, I must wait.
There was shade to be found among the forest of barrels, but it was too dank down there. After so many days of rain I had an urge to enjoy more sunshine. Maybe, if I were up on top, I might be able to spot the Mentonese vessel? Well, anyway, it would be fun to try climbing the barrel mound!
With much difficulty I ascended the highest stack; but it was no use, the city wall blocked off my view downriver. The wall itself could not be climbed here and, though there was a tower not far away, which surely must contain a stairway, I was disinclined to leave the quayside. My first sight of the ship must come later. As I cogitated, the barrel on which I was perched shifted under my feet and the whole stack swayed ominously. Hastily I descended.
In the heart of the barrel stacks was an immense cask, fully eight feet in height and hemmed in on three sides by piles of smaller barrels. To this perilously I scrambled and on it I sat, shrugging the satchel from my shoulders and arranging my rolled cloak to make a back-rest. This would make a good place for waiting, for there was a clear riverward view and I could even look for some distance along the quay. It was very quiet in the afternoon sunshine; even the activity about the Hanseatic cog had diminished. I dozed.
It must have been half an hour later when I awoke with a start. Stupid to fall asleep anywhere in a town, where one might so easily be robbed; particularly stupid to drowse when one was waiting for a boat to come ashore! However, no boat had moored; I sighed with relief. Yet something had awakened me, some person, some movement. I looked about me carefully.
Yes, that was it; there were men close by me, four men huddled in the shade of the barrel pile, hiding there...They were in a sort of alcove between high stacks of small barrels, quite close to my perch atop the huge cask. Three had the air of petty criminals. They were small, wiry men, two of them in ragged tunics and armed with rusty-looking shortswords, the third in plumed hat and padded jupon, carrying a bow as well. The fourth, though; now he was of quite a different class. He was wearing a coat of mail under a green surcoat; his legs were encased in stockings of good quality and his feet in boots with fashionably pointed toes, boots of which even cousin Hector would not have been ashamed. The sword hanging by his side was thrust into a scabbard chased with silver. Altogether, he was an unlikely figure in such disreputable company.
Evidently they had not spotted me, perched high above their heads as I was. For that I was grateful, since I knew they would have given me short shrift and knew also that I was not enough of a fighter successfully to battle even one, let alone four, assailants. Moreover, I was intrigued. Clearly they were lying in wait for someone. Were they waiting to ambush the Mentonese captain when he came ashore? No, surely not; they were looking not seaward, but along the quay towards the bridge.
Their leader turned toward me a little; I saw now that he was lean, dark-haired and bearded. He started, whispered something to his companions--I could not catch the words--and pointed. I looked also.
To my surprise, I recognized their intended victim. There, walking along the quay in our direction, was the young man in the orange cloak that had so startled Ben Emery. As he drew closer, I saw he was still carrying that bundle of bowstaves over one shoulder; but he was doubly burdened now, for he was also carrying a satchel much like mine. Evidently he was not anticipating trouble, for he was walking along jauntily and whistling. A sword hung by his side but realized sickly that, thus encumbered, he would be given no time to draw it. Already the man in the padded jupon was fitting an arrow to his bow.
No, the young stranger was certainly not aware he was in any danger; the men were too well concealed among the barrel stacks. He was coming close now and they were tensing, predators about to leap upon their prey. The man with the bow was drawing back his string...
Whatever the risk to myself, I could not let this murder happen. Quietly I rose to my feet; they were looking away from me, they would not perceive me now. I drew one of the little knives from my belt, pivoted it between my fingers and threw. Almost at the same moment, I yelled with all my might: "Ware ambush, stranger!"
The throw was good, better indeed than I could have hoped. Not only did the knife cut across the knuckles of the hand holding the bowstring but also, being needle-sharp, it severed the string itself just before the arrow was released. The bowman gave a sort of double howl of pain, the second coming as the broken bowstring clipped him smartly on the cheek. Bow and arrow clattered to the ground.
His three companions were almost as startled. One of them leapt backward so forcibly against the stack of barrels that it toppled and collapsed thunderously, an avalanche of casks rolling out onto the quay. The bowman and the man who had set the barrels moving both had their feet knocked from under them and were carried along the barrel tide, yelling with fright, till they sank amongst it. They were very definitely out of the fight for a while at least. However, the lean man and his remaining companion somehow contrived to leap clear. Then, with drawn swords, they advanced upon their intended victim.
By this time, the man in orange had thrown down both of his bundles and likewise drawn his sword. It was very quickly apparent that he was more than a match for his two assailants. A swift feint at the smaller man was followed by a backward flick, which sent that man's sword flying into the waters of the Avon. It was enough for him; he scuttled away like a rat among the barrels. His two companions, winded and battered by the rolling casks, picked themselves up and fled also.
Their leader was already retreating before the superior sword play of the man in orange. As I scrambled down to join the fray, drawing my own sword from its scabbard, the attention of the lean man was momentarily distracted. In that moment, the sword of the man in orange thrust powerfully past his guard and into his body. His mail-coat did not save him, for the sword had been driven upward beneath it. He gave a gulping gasp and crumpled backward onto the stones of the quay, staining them with his blood as he died.
foreword chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 (more chapters will appear in the future)
natural history | geography | home | governance | history | email
