Swords From the Sea (27 page)

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.

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.

"A good day, yonker," his voice boomed at me. "Where is there a cart going to Leyden town?"

"God keep you, my master," I piped up. "Here." And I pointed out our cart, with the dog sleeping in front of it. When he climbed up the dike top and saw it, he laughed. Noticing how I was working at the sundial I had made, he sat down and pulled out a pocket compass with a needle that pointed to the north. By it, he set my dial true.

A long, stooped man this mariner was, fair as a Viking with his red beard. He stood as if leaning into the wind, his hands swollen by fisting ropes, his shoulders bent by hauling at tiller shafts. His clothing hung from him stiff as armor plate, only mended with cord. Curiously he gazed at the fishing craft and the flat land beyond.

"What port are you from, mynheer?" I asked.

"No port." He shook his head idly. "From the seas."

Now I thought that this gentle, lonely master was one of the fellowship of navigants, coming in from the waters that do lie beyond the knowledge of us townsfolk, and I forgot all about the sundial. "Have you been upon the Sea of Darkness?"

"Old vrouws' tales!" he snorted. "Do not listen to them, boy." Then he saw the disappointment in my face, and tugged at his beard. "Why, boy, I have seen fish that fly through the air off Madagascar-aye, and spouts of water drawn up to the sky."

While I was drinking in this marvel, old Ludowyk came up, counting the coins in his hand. When he saw the man from the sea he hastened his steps. "Come away, boy!" He took me by the hand.

"A good day, Ludowyk," said van Straaten.

"A bad day, when you show your face again." Ludowyk seemed to be angry. "I hear say how you have come back with an empty ship."

The stranger rubbed his big hands together. "Why, no, I have some fox and miniver skins, and whale ivory," he said.

"Pfut! And is that the treasure of Cathay?"

Whereupon Ludowyk hauled me away, walking fast. "The Devil," he muttered, "looks after his own."

When I asked how that happened, he grumbled. Nick van Straaten had tried to winter in the north, beyond Norway, beyond the North Cape, in the floes of the Ice Sea. Half his crew had deserted at the wardhouse of the cape, and others had sickened and died. But van Straaten had lived through the winter. "Ya-he hath no fear of God. To go into the ice floes with his ship. Nay, he seeks what may never be, and will not turn back. Let it be a lesson to you, boy."

For Nick, he said, had been no older than I when he left the clam digging to gain his living on the Lofoten fishing banks. All his years he had spent out there, until he was master of a lugger, with which he plied up and down to Boulogne, until he had been able to buy that bark of his. So far, good. But with that bark he had gone to seek a way to Cathay, at the world's end. To Cathay, with its silk, and pearls, and lacquer and elephants' tusks.

He thought that up beyond the North Cape there was a way by water to Cathay, in spite of the ice. And he sought there for this northeast passage, on the top of the world.

"Pfut!" said Ludowyk, "now he is poorer than a herring fisher. He lacks guilders to outfit his boat."

It was better, old Ludowyk said, not to think of the fantasies of the deep seas. Here in Leyden we grew fruit and made good cordage and cloth as our fathers had done-getting a good price at the Amsterdam market. We were better off than any seafarer. "A penny earned is a penny got."

Truly, it seemed to be as he had said. For I saw Nick van Straaten thereafter sitting at the tavern tables to drink, and hanging around the canal to speak with the cloth merchants, who turned a deaf ear to him.

That evening, in front of the Pieterskerk after candlelighting I heard him roaring at our good burgomaster, Adrian van der Werf, as if he were opzee-drunk.

"When will you lift up your eyes, my master? The Spaniards hold fast the New World. Aye, they have seized upon the firm and continent land of America. Already Balboa bath sighted the ocean that lies beyond."

Patiently the burgomaster listened, leaning on his staff. He was a rich and kindly sir, and very wise. "But they have not yet found a sea passage to the northwest," he said.