Lamentation

From what I could see of the melee, the surviving fugitives were effectively parrying blows from our side, backing slowly and deliberately towards the Antwerpen. We must not let these people get aboard. I stepped closer, though in the feeble lamplight I could see little more than rapidly moving shapes, white faces and the quick flash of metal. Stice received a glancing blow to his forehead but carried on, blood streaming down his face, felling one of the sailors with a thrust to the stomach. I stepped forward, but again Cecil pulled me back. ‘We’d only be in the way!’ I looked at him; his face was still coldly set, but the rigidity of his stance told me he was frightened. He looked at Lord Parr’s dead servant, face down on the cobbles, blood pooling around him.

Nicholas and Barak had their hands full with the guard Leeman, who was indeed a fierce fighter. He was trying to edge them away from the centre of the fight, towards the little lane we had come down.

‘At least I can get this!’ I said, darting over to Vandersteyn’s bag, which lay disregarded on the ground. I picked it up, thrusting it into Cecil’s arms. ‘Here! Look after this!’ And with that I pulled out my dagger and ran to where Leeman, wielding his sword with great skill, continued to lead Barak and Nicholas back towards the alley, thrusting mightily and parrying their every blow, years of training making it look easy. His aim was clearly to separate them from the others, to allow McKendrick and Vandersteyn to get on board the ship. Beside the Antwerpen the fighting continued, steel ringing on steel.

I raised my dagger to plunge it into Leeman’s shoulder from behind. He heard me coming and half-turned; Nicholas brought his sword down on his forearm in a glancing blow as Barak reversed his sword and gave him a heavy blow to the back of the head. He went down like a sack of turnips in the entrance to the lane. Barak and Nicholas ran back to the main fight.

It was now seven against five — Vandersteyn and McKendrick and the three surviving Dutch sailors. I hoped the other members of the crew were all in the taverns getting drunk. But suddenly one of the sailors managed to jump back on board the ship. He held out an arm and Vandersteyn, despite having been wounded in the leg, jumped after him, leaving only one sailor and the Scotchman behind.

On deck, Vandersteyn and the crewman used their swords to sever the ropes securing the ship to the wharf. The sailor snatched up a long pole and pushed off. The Antwerpen moved clumsily away from the wharf, instantly caught in the current. Vandersteyn shouted to the two men left behind, ‘I’m sorry, brothers! Trust in God!’

‘Stop them!’ Stice yelled. But it was too late, the Antwerpen was out on the river. The current carried her rapidly downstream, bobbing wildly, the two men on board struggling to control her, almost overturning a wherry which just managed to row out of the way in time. A stream of curses sounded across the water as the boat headed for the middle of the river. I saw a sail unfurl.

The remaining Dutchman and McKendrick had their backs to the river now. Realizing it was hopeless, they lowered their swords. ‘Drop them on the ground!’ Stice shouted. They obeyed, metal ringing on the cobbles, and Stice waved his men to lower their own weapons. I looked at the four prone bodies on the wharf: the Dutch sailor, Curdy, Cecil’s man and, a little distance away, Leeman, lying on his front in the entrance to the alley. ‘He’s dead,’ Barak said loudly.

On neighbouring boats watchmen still stood staring, talking animatedly in foreign tongues, but Barak had been right; they had not wanted to get mixed up in a sword fight involving a dozen men. One man shouted something at us in Spanish, but we ignored him. More men, though, might appear from the taverns. I looked at the Dutchman and McKendrick. Returning my look, the Dutchman spoke in heavily accented English. ‘Citizen of Flanders. Not subject to your laws. You must let us go.’

‘Pox on that!’ Stice shouted. ‘Your bodies will go in the river tonight!’ His head and shoulders were covered with blood from his wound; in the light of the lamp he looked like some demon from a mystery play.

The Dutch sailor seemed shaken, but McKendrick spoke boldly, in the ringing tones of a preacher, his Scotch accent strong: ‘Ye’ve lost! We know Mynheer Vandersteyn had a book, by Anne Askew. Carried on his person, not in that bag. That’s why we got him aboard. Ye’ve lost!’ he repeated triumphantly.

Stice turned wildly to Cecil. ‘We have to get that boat intercepted!’

‘On what grounds?’ Cecil said, his voice sharp and authoritative now. ‘Exporting heretical literature? The book would be public knowledge in a day. And intercepting a foreign trading vessel could cause diplomatic trouble; that’s the last thing we need just now.’