Sackett's Land

            'Wait. We will have enough to eat.'

            'They will search for you. You know that?'

            'Do you know aught of the fens? They'll not find me, not in a hundred years. Mile upon mile of deep marsh, willows, alders, and channels. Places where you can walk for several hundred yards, then drop through the grass into a hole large enough to take a cathedral. We will go there.'

            I paused, considering. 'Yet I do not believe any in Stamford knew me. I was there on business.'

            'And he whom you saw on business? He will not speak?'

            'I think not. He seemed a good man, but one who would keep silent. And there is reason for his silence, a good reason.'

            He looked at me but I did not explain. One does not tell a stranger with a dagger and a sword that one has gold.

            'Still, a man of your size, with your skill at arms ...'

            'Nobody knows my skill. Not even my friends. My father taught me at home when none were about. There are few who know me. Some know I own land; most only that I have worked in the quarries.'

            'Your father was a soldier?'

            'Yes.'

            'A neat parry,' Jublain muttered. 'I'd have taken you for a swordsman.'

            'I am a farmer,' I insisted, 'planning to buy a cow and a few acres more.'

            'A cow?' Jublain was scornful. 'In your position I'd choose a blade. You'll have more need of it, for all your swamps.'

            'I have a sword, and no good it does me, hanging upon the wall. In truth, three of them I have, a halberd as well, a brace of pistols and a fowling piece.'

            'What kind of a farmer are you who goes armed like a pirate?'

            'My father took the weapons in battle. One sword was given him by a great Earl.'

            'A likely tale!'

            'An Earl,' I replied with dignity, 'who would have died had not my father stood over him on the field and slain nine enemies who would have killed him as he lay helpless. The Earl gave him a sword, a purse of gold with which he bought our land, and promises which I have forgotten.'

            'It is as well. Such men are free with promises and freer at forgetting them.'

            'I have the sword.'

            'You'd best wear it, then.'

            'A farmer with a sword? Folk would think me daft.'

            'Better daft than dead. You've made an enemy, my friend, who will neither forgive nor forget. My advice is carry the sword, charge the pistols, and sleep not too well.'

            We talked long, then slept. But before the light of dawn, we were upon our way. Then I led him into the fens, and a long way it was, by such routes as only then fen-men knew.

            I had no fear of pursuit. A step or two to right or left might put a man over his head in an ugly tangle of roots, floating plants and decaying, matted reeds. But there were safe and certain ways to be followed by the knowing, and the grass had a way of springing back up when one passed, leaving no trail to be followed by a stranger.

            Three days we traveled before reaching my cottage, and a neat place it was, my father being a man of judgment in such matters. The cottage was of four rooms, large for its time, with a stable for animals separate from the house. The cottage was of limestone quarried on the spot, with a roof of deep thatch, tight and well made.

            'A tidy place,' Jublain said, 'a right tidy place.'

            When I had lighted a candle he looked at the swords on the wall. First was the gift from the Earl, a straight, double-edged weapon with a good point. The second a Turkish scimitar, engraved and beautiful, and the third a falchion, broad-bladed, incredibly sharp.

            'You did not lie,' Jublain admitted reluctantly. 'These are blades!'

            'My father took the scimitar from a Turk at Lepanto. He was also at the victory over the French at Saint-Quentin, and at the Battle of Zutphen. There were others ... many others.'

            'That's a spread of years,' Jublain acknowledged.

            'He went to the wars at seventeen, and was a soldier until three years before he died. I have heard he was a noted fighting man.'

            There was food enough in the house, meal, cheese, dried fish and the like. I put them together and went to the cool place near the well where I kept my ale.

            Then we sat down to eat.

            If he could fight like he ate, this Jublain was a noted warrior himself; but well as he ate, he drank even better. With a cup of ale in him he talked well of wars and weals and bloody times gone by. The stories were like my father's tales, but with my father each tale had a point for my instruction; he seemed to know his time was short and he wished to pass on what he could. He wished me not to go unarmed into the world, and warned me to prepare for wily men and wilier women, and to face danger with some knowledge and some art.

            'All this I have learned,' he told me one night, beside our fire, 'and much more, but of what further use if I cannot pass it onto you. Learn from me and avoid the scars your soul and mind will take, let alone your body. Profit by what I say, Barnabas, and go on to learn new things, and when you have a son, teach him.'

            'I may not have a son.'

            'Have a son, by all means, but choose the lady well. Breeding counts for much in dogs, horses, and men. Breed for strength, health, and stamina, but for wisdom, too. Your mother was a better person than I, a clear-eyed one who saw to the truth of things, and I see much of you in her.

            'You will see many women, and often you will think yourself in love, but temper passion with wisdom, my son, for sometimes the glands speak louder than the brain. Each man owes a debt to his family, his country and his species to leave sons and daughters who will lead, inspire and create.'

            He was a talker, my father, when we were alone, but sparing of words with others around. When he spoke of wars it was of what had been done, what might have been done, and what he believed should have been done.

            'The art of war can be learned,' he told me. 'But after the principles are learned the rest is ingenuity, the gift that goes beyond learning, or the instinct born of understanding.

            'There are good ways and bad ways of attacking fortified positions, of crossing streams under attack, or withdrawing when the situation is no longer favorable.

            'Learn the accepted modes of attack and defense, then use the variations that are your own. Masters of battle know what has already been done, then go beyond it with skill and discretion. Alexander, Hannibal, Belisarius ... study them. They were masters.'

            Of these things I spoke to Jublain, and he stared at me. 'Your father was only a soldier? He should have been a captain himself.'

            'Captains' commands go to men of birth. My father was a strong man with a sword ... perhaps in another time, another place ...'

            'Aye,' Jublain muttered. He took a swallow of ale. 'I think sometimes of the lands oversea. If rough soldiers such as Pizarro could do it, why not I? He had no particular birth, no position. He had only courage, will, and a sword.'

            'In a new land,' I agreed, 'all things are possible. I have given much thought to this. Perhaps in a new land only achievement would give rank, and not birth. To be born of an eminent family is nothing if you are nothing yourself.'

            'In a new land a man might become a king. He might take hold of land as did the Normans when they came to England, and the Saxons before them.'

            'I do not want to be a king,' I said, 'I want only freedom to grow and do and be as much as time will allow.'

            For two days we ate well and lived quietly. Jublain was content to rest, for there were cold, hungry days behind him, and as for me, there was much to do about the place. For months past I had worked in the quarries, with but few nights at home.