Fair Blows The Wind Part 22

Suddenly I was restless. Too long had I remained inactive and I wished to be about my business. I was never one who could spend my days in social activity, no matter how pleasant. I said as much.

"Soon," O'Connor said. "We are preparing now to send men to the Lowlands. I shall see that you are among the first to go." He paused then, walking to the window that overlooked the narrow street. "You know," he suggested, "there are worse lives than this. You have started well. You have made a place for yourself here.

"Don Vicente likes you. You are important to him as evidence of his first success, but he obviously likes you personally, as does his family. They have great power here, and I am sure your every success would be considered a success of their own."

"That may be as you suggest," I replied, "but my future must be elsewhere. I must return to my own country."

"Sooner or later they would find you out."

"That may be, but there I must go. I will serve with you, and serve you well, but sooner or later I must return to Ireland."

"Very well." He buckled his sword. "It is time for me to go. You are meeting Don Vicente?"

"I am. We are going to some races. I-"

"A moment!" O'Connor lifted a hand. "I have been meaning to warn you. There are family feuds here in Spain as well as in Ireland, and Don Vicente and his family have enemies. Only last night one of my people informed me that Don Vicente is in grave danger.

"He is fiercely proud, as are all hidalgos. His enemies intend to destroy him, and with him the pride of his family. For as you know, he is an only child."

"Destroy him? How?"

"One of their number is Don Fernand Sarmiento. He is one of the finest swordsmen in Spain, and lately returned to Spain from France, where I understand he killed two men in duels. For one reason or another, he is desperate to establish a pretext for challenging Don Vicente."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am. One of the princ.i.p.al ways of remaining secure in a country not your own is to be aware, to know where the power lies, and what moves are being made. Long ago I established my own lines of communication. Believe me, my information is reliable."

I considered what General O'Connor had said and debated what best I might do.

Warn my friend? That would do no good, for his pride was such that he would not flee from danger, or even try to avoid it. In fact, to warn him might only precipitate the situation I would be trying to avoid.

I had fenced much with Don Vicente, and held my skill from sight, careful not to seem too proficient, but to let him have the better of me at times. After all, he was my friend, and what had I to gain by proving myself better than he? With a skillful swordsman for an enemy, Don Vicente would have no chance at all.

The place we had elected to start out for the races could scarcely have been worse. It was at the top of the Calle Mayor where stood the church of San Felipe el Real, where people of the arts-writers, painters, dramatists, and others of the theater-were wont to meet. Mingled with them were young gallants of the town, soldiers home from the war and many another who called himself soldier but who avoided any battle other than those found in taverns or boudoirs.

Standing there, awaiting Don Vicente's arrival, I listened to the talk and laughter, the witticisms and attempts at such with only a piece of my mind. Rather, I wondered what it was I should do.

Don Vicente's conduct toward me had been most courteous. Without his influence I should have been in prison or pulling an oar in a galley.

Suddenly I heard a strange voice behind me. "Luis? This is my friend Don Fernand Sarmiento."

"A pleasure, senor!" said the man named Luis. "You are to be in Madrid for long?"

"A few days only. I regret, but it is true. A small mission here, and then I shall return to Malaga." Another voice broke in. "Quiet now! He comes." And indeed I saw Don Vicente approaching. They must have known of his coming, and been awaiting him here. He must often come this way ... that might be it. But there might also be a spy in his household, someone in Vicente's own establishment. Yet the servants whom I knew were fiercely loyal, or seemed to be.

Don Vicente came up the steps. "Tatt! You are here before me! I am sorry, for I would not have you wait."

"Think nothing of it," I said. "Down the street there is a place-"

Don Fernand had turned sharply, b.u.mping into Don Vicente. Instantly, I stepped between them. "Senor!" I spoke sharply. "You are rude!"

For a moment he hesitated, his eyes going from Don Vicente to me. It was Vicente with whom he wanted to quarrel, not I.

He was a narrow-visaged man with piercing black eyes and a face somewhat pocked, a lean and savage man. "Out of my way!" he said. "I have no business with you!"

"But you do, senor. And you have a sword with which to conduct it."

Trapped, he glared at me. Dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword, he spoke in what he meant to be a menacing tone. "Once more, senor, I command you, Step aside! I do not wish to kill you!"

25.

"Have no worries, senor. It will be my pleasure to see that you do not."

He frowned, furious, yet hesitant. It was Don Vicente whom he intended to kill. Who in G.o.d's name was I, this interloper, this stranger?

"Who are you?" he said. "I know you not!"

"Captain Tatton Chantry, senor. At your service, if you are not a coward?"

"A coward? For that I'll-!"

"But not on the steps of a church, senor. There must be a secluded corner where we can enjoy the festivities."

"In the alleyway then, and I'll slit your gullet."

"What has come over you?" Don Vicente was astonished. "He sought to evade the quarrel!"

Another man, a slim and handsome fellow with red mustaches, had come to stand beside us. "It was you, senor," he said to Vicente, "it was you I believe he wanted. The man is a famous maton, a killer for hire."

Don Vicente's lips tightened. "If it was I he sought, then it is I who must fight him."

"I am sorry, my friend," I said gently. "It may have been you he intended to fight, but it is I who named him a coward. Therefore, I must give him satisfaction."

"That is the way of it," our new friend said, and then he added, "I am Tomas O'Crowley, an officer in His Spanish Majesty's service." He bowed slightly. "I have heard your name spoken, Captain Chantry. We are to be brother officers in the Lowlands, I believe. If you please, I should like to be your second in this affair."

"I accept the offer. Shall we go? I have no wish to keep them waiting." Turning to Vicente, I said quietly, "Keep your back to the wall. It is you they wished to kill, and he may have others with him."

The alley was a cool and quiet place, and secluded. As I approached, Don Fernand Sarmiento had drawn his sword and was waiting.

"Come! Let us have done with this!" he exclaimed impatiently. "You, Senor Whoever-You-Are! On guard!"

I was young, and he who faced me older. It was his mistake that he coupled my youth with the a.s.sumption that I must also be inexperienced and therefore impetuous. He was cool, adept, and disdainful. My whole intent had one purpose: to catch him out of tune, for timing is of the greatest importance.

My opponent was a killer, hired for the task, yet I was not his prey. Therefore he wished to be rid of me quickly. In several brief exchanges he seemed to have the better of me, yet I had learned to trust to my subconscious instinct for the proper moment of attack. When it came ... he lunged. His recovery was a little slow, but my riposte was not. My cut was for the cheek but my point was a bit low-or perhaps he s.h.i.+fted his head at just the wrong instant. My point struck his jawbone and was deflected downward. He took four inches of my blade through his neck.

My withdrawal was instantaneous but already he was choking on his own blood. I stepped back, blade still on guard. And it was well that I kept it so, for in one wild, vicious effort he swung the edge of his sword at me with a wide cut, in a desperate effort to take me with him.

My blade caught his and deflected it, although the power of the cut was staggering.

He stumbled forward, his own point striking the pavement as he fell. Then he rolled over, face upward, his ruff stained red with blood, his eyes already glazing.

"I think," O'Crowley suggested, "we had best be away from here."

"Just one thing more," I said, my naked blade still in my hand. "You, who came with him. Tell your master there is to be no more of this. If other matones are sent to do his b.l.o.o.d.y work, tell him that I shall seek him out, and he shall pay, not such as this." I gestured toward Sarmiento.

A few minutes later we sat in a small bodegone or tavern. "A gla.s.s 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 Malaga where a s.h.i.+p 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 Malaga was a busy one, so we took another, to be out of sight. The death of one maton 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 Malaga and reported to our s.h.i.+p.

Aboard, I saw at once what could be done, for I was just lately from doing the same on the s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sage 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+ed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+p?"

"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."