The Ravens’ Banquet (3 page)

His seasickness had made him ill-tempered. “Sea air is a cure for the melancholy they say,” I told him. “So drink it in while you may. We are half way to Germany now.”

“Thanks be to God that it is so. That this misery would end even tomorrow...” He would not even look me in the eye.

Stone was a strange fellow, and he had about his person the air of a Dissenter who had lost his God. At twenty-three, he was two years my senior, and his family lived on my father’s lands not far from where our own house lay. The Stones farmed a lot or two, but chiefly they were the blacksmiths in the village, and had been for many a year. In the fortnight I had spent in Samuel’s company, he had proved himself to be a hard toiler, sober in temperament, but possessed of a sharp tongue when prodded. And although he seemed resigned to his new situation, I caught a drift of a surliness that I had seen often in others like him. Chiefly the Separatist rabble that seemed to infest Plymouth before shipping themselves off to the plantations in America. But, if canting Puritan he was, I had already seen him hoist a double jug with gusto and curse a blue streak as well.

“Answer me this, then,” I said, “What would induce a man to leave his business and family to follow a stranger into certain battle in a land far from home?”

He nodded slowly and reached again to steady himself on the ship’s rail. “That be a fair question deserving of a straight answer even if I thought I’d made it already. I stand here because my father ordered me to it – no more, no less.”

“But
my
father did not order any of his tenants to this task,” I replied. “He asked for a volunteer to follow me into service with the Danes. Why did your father volunteer
you
?”

“Make no mistake,” said Samuel. “I had no wish to leave my home. That much is true. But neither have I yet taken a wife as has my brother, so you got me.”

“Then will you follow me into service and fight against the Papists?” I asked him.

He smiled a half-smile and looking over to me for the first time, swept his long dank hair behind one ear. “Aye, well, I’m a farmer and not a soldier, but if needs must, to keep an eye on you, as is my appointed task, then a soldier shall I be.”

“You don’t need to do it,” I said. “Even now the way lies open – we could set you on Kentish soil tomorrow should you wish it.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “And find myself a masterless man in Kent with but a few coins in my purse? That, sir, is no choice. I am my father's son and I serve his will as the Lord commands.”

“Then our purpose is fixed, Goodman Stone,” I told him. “And we are in God's hands.”

“Master Treadwell,” he asked, “What is it that makes
you
take leave of home?”

I was cut to the quick by his insolence but I answered him civilly. “Why what cause is there but the Protestant one? A noble cause and a means to make one’s fortune. There are worse fates to be had in Devon shire.”

Samuel nodded, but he was not necessarily agreeing.

“My father once told me that everything happens for a reason. It that is so, then
when
these things happen it must have reason behind it as well.”

His long face lay half in shadow, the right side illuminated fiery-bronze by the light of the forecastle lantern.

“You mean Opportunity must be seized when it appears,” I said.

“Aye, something like that,” he replied, as if it were a guessing game.

I tried to carry on our conversation but he cut me off before I could probe him any further.

“By your leave, Master Treadwell, I will take to my bed.”

I waved him off and Stone trundled away, shoulders hunched. Was he truly so dull as he made out to be, or was there something else besides? Perhaps he had seen in this adventure the means of his own escape from the drudgery of the hoe or anvil. As the ship rolled, I watched him bounce like a skittle off the bulkhead door and disappear into the darkness of the aft cabin.

By now, I had no stomach for more dice or drink and so decided to take to bed myself. I had been given a small cot in an adjoining closet to the master's cabin and so, once his gaming ended, was treated to the snoring of Captain Trask for the better part of the night. Eventually, my ruminations gave way to sleep, and before long I woke to the shouts and noisy toiling of the crew as the
Artemis
came to life once again.

Such went the voyage for the next few days, the weather fair, the sea seven shades of grey. A hundred sail I saw in that time though none ever threatened us even when we skirted that pirate’s nest of Dunkirk, our swivel guns primed and at the ready. An endless sprawl of white sandy beaches filled my view of the shore, desolate and scrub-specked with wind-ravaged rushes. I grew bored of cards and dice and prayed that the voyage would soon end so I would be spared the sound of Samuel’s retching.

The air was so sweet coming up the Elbe River; I shall never forget it. The tang of the sea fast disappeared as we ran in with the tide, carrying us with speed toward Hamburg. The river remained wide – near half a mile – as we made our way south. The land on either side was fertile green and rolling; the smell of grass and farmland was strong in my nostrils, so welcome after near twelve days at sea. Windmills, which sat here and there across either side of the river, welcomed us with their flailing arms.

Artemis
was far from alone that summer of 1625; other vessels plied the river, coming and going, and the waterway seemed to become swollen with craft the closer we came to the port. We sighted church spires and reduced sail further, running with only a bit of topsail to take us in. Hamburg lay on an island in front of us, the Elbe swinging away to the right, the Aelster canal to our left. A full twenty large merchantmen were at anchor in harbour, smaller barges and countless galleys in their number besides.

I stood at the taffrail with Samuel at my side as we slowly came to an open space to drop anchor. Samuel's eyes were like agates as he gawped at the spectacle before him. The jutting copper-clad spire of St. Nicholas, sombre and green with age, stood guard over its sprawling brood of houses. From the warehouses on the docks up into the city, near every roof was shod in red-coloured tiles, the whole of the town bright white. It reminded me much of Amsterdam, even in the detail of its canals, of which I could spy two from our mooring, packed tight with every manner of thing that could float.

The crew spread out into the rigging tying the sheets, Trask storming about the deck below, bellowing out his commands. I could see a boat pulling towards us from the quayside. In the pocket of the lining of my grey doublet, next to my heart, was a sealed letter from my father to one Colonel Nells, a regimental commander of the Danish Horse. There too, was another letter that I was to give to my father's banker in town. During the voyage, I had also secreted away ten pieces of gold in the lining of my boot tops, sewing them in fast so as they would not jangle when I walked. If all else failed, I could count on this money to get me passage home.

The wherry soon pulled alongside and after a short exchange between the occupants and Trask, we found ourselves climbing down over the side and into the boat. My chests were lowered down, Trask gave some final orders to the mate, and we began pulling towards the docks. Samuel clambered out first, and took my sword and baldric while I followed up onto the quay side. It was the strangest sensation to be on land once again; the ground under my feet was pitching so badly it was like trying to stand up on a feather bed. Samuel's pegs looked none too steady either as he helped with the chests, swaying and stumbling like some drunken fool.

“I'll summon you a cartman,” said Trask, shaking his head at Stone’s plight. “Where are you to put up?”

“Afraid I don’t know yet,” I replied. “I was of a mind to ask you which inn we might try.”

Trask waved his arms at a man with a hand-cart. “It matters not, Master Treadwell, every a one like the other. Same food, same drink, same whores. There be three inns just along here,” he said, gesturing down the street of tall, cheek-by-jowl houses.

“The matter of my debt – twenty florins, I recall.”

Trask turned to me again, laughing. “Nay, keep your money. The debt is settled to my mind. You pitched in like a good lad when it was needed.”

I shook his hand and thanked him for his service.

Trask swore a good-natured oath. “I find myself in and out of this place more times than I would like. Leave your letters at the Zum Hahn tavern, one street away, and I'll see to it that it gets home.”

And so we set off into the town, our cartman in tow. We walked past two giant cranes at the dockside, magnificent dragons of wood, their long necks jutting out into the river. Inside them, one could see three or four men, stripped and sweating, running the treadmill that swung the beasts up and down, the wretches looking like poor souls swallowed whole and labouring to climb out of the belly.

We walked past wagons and drays, barrels and boxes, dogs, beggars, sailors and journeymen, and followed the street, my eyes searching for the shingle of an inn. The first I spied looked to be so filthy a dog-hole that we marched on. The second, a little further down and the last house on the row, seemed a better proposition. It lay with one side to a canal and the front facing the street and the river.

I gave the grizzled old cart man a sixpence, which pleased him none for he grumbled and pawed it, finally giving it a bite before placing it in his purse. Inside the door, four stone steps led down to a tap-room of sorts, dimly lit except for an open door and windows at the back.

Now I had read the German tongue for a short time at Cambridge (along with Latin and French), and spoken it with my tutor, but the babble that floated to my ears bore little that was familiar. Even so, I did my best to make my demands understood by the innkeeper, a beefy man who approached smiling and jabbering upon seeing that a gentleman had entered his house. I told him that I wanted a room for myself and stalling for my servant. He scratched at his head and spread his hands and so I endeavoured again. After a time my tongue came untied, and my chests were taken to a room. I asked Samuel to take bread with me, mainly because I needed to tell him of my plans. But, truth be told, I also felt some pity for him. My German was poor enough but this rustic didn’t know a word and his face was simple confusion.

We sat at a trestle and soon were brought black bread and cheese. The innkeeper followed, all smiles, and placed two large clay pots of beer before us. Samuel began stuffing his chops with chunks ripped from the loaf, and I too, belly rumbling, joined him. Our fare was soon increased with the arrival of bowls of eel and leek stew. Somewhat sated, it was time to talk of the business that lay before us.

“This afternoon,” I began, “I’ll find my father's banker and draw money according to Sir William's instructions. And this banker may also be of a mind to help me find an armourer here too.”

Samuel grunted his understanding and clanked his spoon noisily into his mouth with yet another measure of eel.

“On the morrow, we must find the horse market and purchase three mounts – maybe one should be an ass for the baggage.”

Samuel impaled a wedge of hard cheese and spoke between mouthfuls. “Aye, an ass might be better than a horse with the weight of your baggage and weapons and such, but he will set the pace for the journey. You can be sure of that.”

“Well considered,” I replied. “By Christ, I ache to be on the move south even now.”

Samuel glanced up at me, pausing to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. “I cannot comprehend your passion to be in such haste to spill blood. This fight in Germany is neither mine nor yours. What’s to be gained?”

“My guts are fired by the cause that all Englishmen and good Protestants should heed,” I said, leaning over the trestle. “We all might find ourselves kneeling at a Romish altar in a few years unless we take the fight to the enemy.”

“As you say,” said Samuel, scraping his bowl.

Once we’d filled our bellies, we journeyed into the heart of the town.

Samuel and I soon found ourselves in a great flux of sadly clad merchants streaming back to business after taking their midday meal. Here and there drifted richly dressed noblemen and a swaggerer or two; I even heard the tongues of Frenchmen, Hollanders, and as I was soon to learn, Danes.

I bid Samuel to wait for me outside the Exchange and I went on alone, passing through a soaring stone portico which led to the interior. It was a magnificent structure, and I found myself staring at the ceiling some seventy feet up, alive with plaster flora. The great central atrium, across whose black and ivory chequered floor merchants streamed back and forth, was surrounded by a second tier that overhung the main floor. In groups of twos and threes, burghers conversed heatedly as they paced along the balcony, others ducked into rooms off the corridor to weigh their silver and gold or put their names to new contracts.

A gentleman I stopped offered to take me to where Johan Hoffmann conducted his business. As I turned to follow, a commotion ensued at one end of the Exchange. I saw a large hound come loping through, a joint of meat in his jaws. The crowd opened to make way for the beast, like a flock of gigantic blackbirds frightened into flight, and a ripple of laughter made its way from one end to the other. Pursuing hotly was a red-faced apprentice, chasing after either his meal or that of his master and no doubt torn between rage and the fear of the whipping he was bound to receive.

“Come,” said my guide, shaking his head, “We'll leave the circus down here, Herr Hoffmann has rooms upstairs.”

Hoffman was a short balding man with a well-trimmed beard and moustache of grey. His starched lace collar, fine though it was, all but overwhelmed his shoulders and made his head look like a pea. I explained that I was Richard Treadwell, son of Sir William, and that he should have been expecting my arrival to negotiate an arrangement of credit at my father's request.

Hoffmann looked at me without expression until I stopped speaking. “Your German is really rather poor, lad,” he said plainly. “You'll have to do better than that in the army, I’m sure.”