He related the story then. It followed the one Tankarville had told. “The family had two branches, or so I have heard, the one intelligent, religious, devout. The other not religious, though nonetheless they were loyal to a fault, and of great courage also.”
My meal was complete. I paid what was required and stood up. Then the door opened and Tankarville stood there, his face flushed with hard riding in the wind, and with anger as well. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“Gone,” I said.
“She took it all! Every last coin, every ring, every candlestick!”
So that was what was in the bundle! How she had managed it, I did not know. And yet … when we were fighting, Tankarville and I, where was she then? Was she gathering up the more valuable jewels and hiding them on her person?
“We are fools, my friend, for she has duped us both and is away, gone three hours or more.”
He slammed his fist upon the table, then dropped into a chair. “Give him a mug of cider,” I said. “And I shall have another. She’s gone, my friend, so forget about it.”
“Forget about it? There was a fortune there! A king’s ransom, if you will! Not the gold so much as the gems! A full dozen of them!”
He gripped the handle of the mug and swore, then looked up at me and suddenly grinned. “Ah, what a handy wench! She will fare well, that one!”
“Where did you come upon her?”
“You may well ask. She is anything but a lady, though who she is I do not know. I will not say how or where we came upon the treasure, but we came upon it. She was also in the process of helping herself so we had no choice but to carry her off—at least far enough so she could not inform upon us.”
We talked no more, but finished our cider. I went to my horse and Tankerville followed, muttering in his anger.
When I swung to the saddle, I held down a hand to him. Enemies we had been but he was a fine hand with a blade, and a daring rogue, withal.
“If you will,” I said, “go to Henry of Navarre. He needs good fighting men and I think he will be generous. Tell him Tatton Chantry sent you, though it may or may not help.”
With that I was off to Rouen, with England just down the river and across the channel. It was in my thoughts that after nearly four years I would be close to my homeland again, home from captivity in Spain, from meeting with Henry and all that had transpired between.
And what of my ventures? What might have become of them after four years?
And what of Rafe Leckenbie?
27
The Rouen into which I rode, coming down a winding trail from the plateau above, was a bustling port, crowded with shipping from the sea and with boats and barges down the Seine from Paris. There were numerous inns and drinking places, and sailors everywhere, mingling with soldiers and civilians.
I found an excellent hostelry close enough to the waterfront to observe the ships. There I stabled my horse and entered the inn.
The room I had was small and neat and absolutely clean, which was a pleasure. Water was brought to me and I bathed, taking my time about it while considering my next move.
To find a ship to England or Scotland, and one leaving at the earliest possible moment, was my most immediate goal. There were many here friendly to England. And once again I must forget my Irish ancestry and consider myself a native of the Hebrides.
The keeper of the inn directed me to a nearby tailor and I ordered four suits, head to heels, one of them for travel.
While they were being made, I went to my horse. He was standing in a fine stall, munching very good hay, and seemed content to be there, but he took his nose from the manger and nudged me with it. I patted him on the shoulder, talked to him a bit, then walked out into the street, going first to the Quai du Havre where I strolled along, examining the shipping.
Several of the vessels were Flemish, and at least one was from the Mediterranean—a dark, low vessel that lay quietly alongside the quay with no visible activity amid the bustle and confusion of the other ships.
Some seamen loitered near a bollard and I paused. “Hear you aught of a ship loading for England?” I asked.
They looked at me and made at first no reply. Then the smaller of the lot, a slim, wiry fellow, answered. “Little enough for there this fortnight,” he said. “Mostly they are loading for the Baltic or the Mediterranean. Is it passage you seek?”
“Aye, and if you hear of aught I am Captain Chantry at the Hotel des Bons Enfants, in the street of the same name. And there’s a bit of silver for him who brings me a true word.”
“It will not be one of us who decides you may go,” the man said.
“Of course. Just word of a ship. I shall do the rest if it can be done.”
My street was a bit of a walk from the quays but the masts of the ships could be seen from my window, and it gave me a feeling of nearness, at least. Back at the inn I seated myself in the common room and ordered an omelette and a bottle of wine.
It was the custom to eat but two meals, one at ten and one at four, but travelers such as I ate when hungry, and that I was. The omelette was excellent, and followed by a potpourri composed of veal, mutton, bacon, and vegetables.
Suddenly a man loomed over me. Glancing up, I saw a big, swarthy young man with rings in his ears. “You seek a ship for England?”
“I do.”
“For yourself alone?”
“Myself and my horse, and the horse is a fine one. Do you know of such a ship?”
“It may be. I shall speak to the master. It is to London we sail.”
“Bespeak a passage then for myself and a horse. The name is Chantry.”
He stared at me. “Be you Tatton Chantry? The swordsman?”
“I am Tatton Chantry, and I have a sword.”
“Ah, the master will be pleased!”
The passage back was rough but short. When I led my horse down the gangplank to the London dock he could have been no more pleased to reach land than I. Mounted, I rode at once to the house of Emma Delahay.
For a moment I could only sit my horse and stare. The house was partly burned, the windows boarded over. Emma Delahay was gone! I asked a passerby for news. He merely shrugged and walked on. I walked my horse up the street and stopped at a familiar sign. There a man named Holmes had a small shop where he sold clothes to sailors and the like.
“Emma Delahay, you say? Been gone for four years, Cap’n. Seen nothing of her, all that time.”
At my next question, he nodded. “The Good Catherine? Aye, she came back, and many a time since. Good ship! Due in again soon.”
My further inquiries concerning Emma Delahay went for nothing. She had simply disappeared … vanished. And my money with her!
At the old inn Tom showed me to my old room. “I’ll care for your horse, lad.” At my question, he shook his head. “Jacob? Been three … almost four years. But he’s a wandering man. No telling where he’s come to by now. Sooner or later he’ll come back.”
He brought me ale and sat down across from me. “Quiet it is,” he said. “All is quiet now.” He looked at me sharply. “You did him in, you know.”
“Who? Jacob?”
“Not Jacob! Oh, no! Never him! I mean Leckenbie. That last piece of yours, it destroyed him. It angered the Queen and she had hard words for some of her people. They hanged a dozen of them at Tyburn and put a few others behind bars. But not Leckenbie! Oh, never him! He got off, skipped out—and is a wealthy man, they say.”
“And Tosti,” I said, “what of him?”
“I have not seen him. For a while, he was much about, a lonely man, I think. Yet all has changed here. Robin Greene is sunk far into drink and all the talk now is of Kit Marlowe, Thomas Kyd, and Will Shakespeare.”
London had changed. Or perhaps it was I who had changed, for does a man ever remain the same? My voyage to sea, my captivity, mild though it had been, my experience of other lands and other peoples, had had their effect upon me.
When Tom had gone about his business I sat long over my glass. I was older … four years older, and nigh onto five. The months had passed quick in Spain, and in the wars as well. Now, looking back, they were a blur of confused images with only a few moments standing out, stark and clear. Often they were the inconsequential moments, or what seemed so.