CHAPTER
THE SIXTH
The march across the width of England at the head of his squadron of galloglaiches could have easily been much worse, Bass reflected as he stood with his squires, bannerman, bodyguards, and a few of his gentlemen observing the loading of troop horses onto the barges sent to Liverpool by agents of Sir Paul Bigod. Of course, his brainstorm decision to scatter the worst troublemakers around onto the ships of his private fleet, to serve under the rather strict discipline exacted by his no-nonsense Commander of Marines Fahrooq, had been of great help in maintaining relative order on the march. After the merciless young Turk had had six or seven of them severely flogged and two recidivists hanged on the main yardarm of Revenge, the others seemed to have gotten the message and behaved themselves for the remainder of the voyage.
In the hurried, harried days just before the squadron set out for the long march to Liverpool, Walid Pasha and Fahrooq had sought an audience with Bass, and he had finally been able to make the time to see them. When they appeared, both men were once more dressed in rich Middle Eastern garb, and Walid Pasha, at least, was less worried-looking than Bass ever before had seen him, save during sea battles.
“Sebastian Bey,” Fahrooq had said, “I have received correspondence from certain highly placed parties in Anqara. A part of the message is to the effect that whenever you have no further need of the ship, it and all of us will be most handsomely ransomed; however, so long as you do need the ship and us who handle her, we are yours by order of Omar III. the Omnipotent, et cetera. What he has heard of you has greatly impressed him, and he sends to you effusive greetings and gifts. Walid?”
Walid Pasha had then stepped forward and proffered a small chest, all carven and gilded. Upon opening it, Bass found a splendid, deeply cursive dagger of highly polished damascene steel, the hilt, guard, and case of which weapon were gilded and virtually encrusted with seed pearls and small precious stones, the pommel being an inch-thick sphere of rosy-hued quartz. Also within the dagger’s fitted chest was a small silver-stitched silken bag, and within the bag was a heavy red-gold ring composed of several thick wires of gold tortured into an intricate design.
Walid had visibly started when he saw the ring and then had exchanged a meaningful glance with Fahrooq.
Stepping forward, Fahrooq diffidently had asked, “Your Grace, we had been ordered not to breach the casket, so we knew not exactly what it contained. Please, may I examine that ring for one moment?”
Wordlessly, Bass had handed the bauble over to the young Turkish officer. After a brief examination. Fahrooq had handed it back and said, “Your Grace den Norfolk, your grace must be made aware of the great, the rarely extended honor of the gift of the ring. No matter where your grace may find himself, all that he need do is to seek out the resident ambassador of the Christian Kingdom and Sultanate of Osmanli Turks, display the ring, and he and his will immediately fall under the full protection of the might of Omar III. Walid Pasha bears such a ring, as too do I, but only a bare handful of non-Turks ever have been so honored. The gift of the ring apparently is intended to bear earnest to the third portion of the message to your grace.
“Should ever your grace decide to quit England, for whatever reasons, he will find a most cordial welcome and well-paid employment in Anqara. All that he need do is to contact any ambassador of Omar III and a ship will be dispatched to bring him in speed and comfort.”
Later, Sir Ali had slowly drawn and carefully examined the blade of the showy dagger, used its edge to slice a hair-thin shred off one of his fingernails, then said, “Your Grace, it is true, first-water damascus, though the style marks it as having most likely been forged in Isfahan. It is a sash-dagger, meant to be thrust beneath a belt and sash— that is why the tip of the case hooks as it does, that case and all will not be dislodged when the blade must be drawn. The small grooves near to the point are there to hold resinous venom, if such is desired.”
“It is indeed a lovely item, a princely gift to a man never before met or even seen,” agreed Bardn Melchoro, adding sadly, “It is too bad that Your Grace cannot keep it.”
“Now, dammit, Melchoro, it was given freely to me, no strings attached, so why can’t I keep it?” Bass had demanded testily, then immediately regretted the childish-sounding outburst, reflecting that this Portuguese nobleman had been of inestimable help to him in teaching him just how a man of his new rank should behave and bear himself in various situations.
But the baron answered readily, sounding neither intimidated nor peeved. “Your Grace, my friend Bass, you rendered an oath of fealty to Arthur III Tudor, you hold your various English lands in feoff from him. Therefore, any foreign ruler who gifts you a valuable gift is actually gifting your ruler, your overlord, you see? If this came to you through the Turkish ambassador, you may be certain that others now know of it, so to not at least offer it to Arthur might well cause him to believe you either miserly to a fault or not fully loyal to him, and. knowing you as well as I do, I know that you want neither thought of you by anyone, especially your own, dear liege lord, the King.”
All of which had meant that Bass had had to send his herald. Sir Ali, with a suitably strong and impressive party to bear the gilded casket and its contents from the anchorage of his fleet off Great Yarmouth down to Thamesmouth and thence up the river to London, the newly rewon capital city.
Very, very near to the eve of departure for the west and Ireland, Sir Ali and his party returned, but by land, riding in company with Reichsherzog Wolgang and all of the Kalmyk troopers still remaining of his Schwadron Totenkopf after so many years and campaigns, some six or so score of them. A few of them still rode their scrubby, weedy, big-headed little steepe horses, but more of them now bestrode moor ponies.
Alone with Bass, the Reichsherzog had said simply, “No fighting in Englandt iss, not anymore. The witch-bitch Angela escaped me und Arthur, did, but the great pleasure we had of watching portions of the week-long tortures of the actual murderers of my niece und her little children, before Arthur had the Schweinen burnt on slow fires mit gunpowder rammed into their bodies. That done, my oaths carried out, I soon must return to my own landts. But before I do. another campaign I vould see.”
“But Wolfie,” said Bass familiarly to this old, dear friend and his overlord for his Carpathian lands at Velegrad, “I thought that the electors and Emperor Egon had forbidden you to take any personal part in the fighting here anymore.”
“Chust so.” The bulky, powerful German nobleman, grinned. “Chust so, but forbidden war I to fight in Englandt or Wales, only, noddings about Ireland! was written. I grow fat und lazy, und my Jungen , too.”
“The King has agreed to this, Wolfie?” asked Bass dubiously.
The German’s grinned broadened. “Of course, mein alte Kamerad. else to be here I vould not.” He then drew out a letter on a sheet of vellum, all properly signed, sealed, and beribboned. “Und Arthur ordered already has more barges for the transporting of the Pferden of me and mein Jungen . If to read the letter you vill, you vill findt vords of Arthur that say ve are free to go to serve Brian VIII, but only if to approof of our inclusion first you do. Do you not want me und my Kalmyks on your campaign?” “Wolfie,” said Bass truthfully, “your Kalmyks fight like demons out of the Pit, and any field commander would feel himself fortunate to have them under his banner. You are personally a very brave and ferocious fighting man. but more important to me is your broad and deep knowledge and experience at warfare. In fact, you should really be in charge of this operation, if you are set on coming along. I’d be more than happy to serve under you, commanding only my squadron of galloglaiches, my guards and my gentlemen. . . .?”
“Oh, no, Bass.” the Reichsherzog declared vehemently, “the Hauptmann grosser you are, the Leutnant I vill be. If to help gif or advices to offer to mein Hauptmann. I vill und most gladly, but to command, you must.”
“But . . . but, why Wolfie? Admit it, you are far more qualified than am I for the command,” Bass remonstrated. “For vun thing,” the massive German ticked off on thick fingers, “such Cousin Arthur’s vish iss. For the second, to observe you in a field command, your decisions und the reasons behind them, I vould to see for mein own self. Third, for mein own pleasure, partly, a point I am herein stretching und to flagrantly disobey the express orders of my own liege lord, I dare not, a very bad example that vould set for my peers in the Empire. Nicht wahr?”