“Here he is visited by certain friends and equals of his tribe, the tribe of Dan, who seek to comfort him what they can.”
-Samson Agonistes, Milton
The Daringest Hand of Far Dastardy was, by all accounts, Peter Grim, whose rude rule of the Back Tier won the grudging respect of his Russian betters. Though they were merely Russians of Manchucko and Siberia, which entailed that their mothers had been of a squint-eyed, black-haired breed, they were still Russian, if only of Lower Siberian type.
‘My Father, Lord of the Back Tier of Far Dastardy has earned respect. May, I, with guidance of God, not squander it,’ prayed Young Peter.
These words he offered in thought to heaven above as he walked by his father’s left side, up to the pier, facing off with Duke Ivan’s two sons, about his size, but more squat, their Mongolian blood showing across their dark brows as well.
Saluting his bare forehead, Father addressed his Liege Lord, “Duke,” spoke Peter Grim, “I mean to hold the Back Tier, ‘ave appropriated Ball’s men for fortification work and mean like to trade fur for powder, shot and a swivel gun or two. I have taken polar bears, come far south they have. Perhaps your Great Lady would like such pearly white hides; gift, of stewardship.”
Duke Ivan looked knowingly at Gustavus of the New Urals, his chief vassal and naval officer, and to Erlik, his vassal of Fort Tacoma, with steely gray eyes that invited no comment, then back to Father, “Peter Grim, three sons you have lost in my service. For this I am most sorry. Lord Erlik, get two swivel guns from your pinnace—Gustavus has the sea ways secure. See your sons to have your men bring them to Grim’s wagon. Admiral, please, detail your eldest son to take powder and shot from Gee’s stores on my account.”
These men were dispatched with a look from their fathers.
Duke Ivan then looked at Young Peter yet spoke to Father, “A fine youth, who should not be slain by some savage hand—for he has a brain. Lord Grim, I pray you found him out to my house, for I mean to have a tutor, a man at arms of learning, a papal factor, not an Orthodox regent, for what dast can afford such from Moscow. Young Peter may be tutored alongside my sons.”
“Liege,” said Father, “your grace is good. Yet, I would not want my son to learn his first lesson of his eighteenth year to tuck tail and run.”
The Duke seemed sad and led them without a word down the pier to the Papal Sloop. Sailors were hauling all manner of goods down the plank, hausering others on pallets and in crates to the pier. The Captain, a dour, though gay-clad man in yellow buff jacket and pantaloons above hard black shoes, stood awaiting the Duke and his company.
Among the pallets and crates, to far exceed the impression of the chests, barrels and sacks hauled down the plank, was a canvas covered thing of framed iron on an oaken pallet.
The Captain saluted, speaking in a wine-soaked Italian accent, “Duke Ivan, MiLords, I am Captain Raul Cabot, Vatican Navy. Before you are gifts all, not a coin or bar accepted, though furs we will trade for fresh water and food. The contents of this vessel are a gift of Pope Boniface Saracen-Scourge, Sword of Christ, Shield of the Church.”
The men were impressed. The Duke spoke, “Thank you, Captain, Praise be to Pope Boniface. My Admiral, Gustavus, shall provision your ship across the Sound, at his frigate station. All my lords will deposit their furs, save the white ones for My Lady Dutchess. Say, Captain Cabot, our pilot spoke of a tutor, of special cargo?”
The Captain seemed relieved, and frightened, despite being drunk. He pointed with opened hand to his right to the canvas covered iron on the oak pallet, “A furnace of sorts, a thing of papal sanctioned alchemy against winters fiercer than before. And…”
So his voice trailed off as he looked above over his left shoulder to the top of the plank, where a man taller than Cod Gee, who, devil-speak-his-name was all curiosity up behind Peter Grim, placing a new white fur hat on his head, stood, a coffin of strange carven make, lid in the likeness of a slain knight in repose, over one shoulder as if it were a musket.
All eyes tracked to the stranger, the seamen now quiet as death in his presence, not daring to look at him. The man wore a sircoat of black panther hide, pants of black felt tucked into boots of black ermine-lined leather. Beneath the sircoat was blued steel mail. The man’s head was wide as a Mexican melon, the eyes a hand span apart, like the saracen Lord from the Song of Roland, his face brown as a Berber, his nose hooked like a Chaldean, his hair a wool, serving as the lining of his spired brass war hat, with its coif of brazen mails hanging across his shoulders. The robe was of black boar hide dyed black, over black leather, and hooded, as heavy it looked as mother’s bedstead tapestry. An arming sword and dagger hung from his belt, a Swiss flamberge [1] long sword from his back. The broad belt of black leather was worked in silver stud crosses, as the sir coat was on the breast.
“I’ll be,” spoke Lord Erlik, “thanks to God I am Orthodox and follow the rule of Constantinople, for the Pope has a negra crusader!”
The Duke glared at him and the chuckle died in Erlik’s teeth.
The crusader, one of the 12, it seemed that attended the famously battle-hungry Pope Boniface Saracen Slayer, who invaded Africa every year for the last 50 years of his 80 years of life, walked in a stately manner down the plank, reverently leaned the coffin against the canvas covered Iron, doffed his war hat, pulled back the hood of the awesome robe, and bowed to the Duke, “Duke Ivan of Sea Alaska, My Master, Pope Boniface Saracen Slayer, gives This Slave, the Furnace, and the Coffin of Roland, to the most daring man of hand—the ordinaries to be distributed according to your will.”
The men were silent.
The man straightened and towered nearly seven feet.
‘Oh, my, Lord, I did not fancy Roland to stand seven feet—for the coffin is like to fit the giant standing before us, even across the shoulders!’
The giant, the self-named Slave, looked narrowly at Young Peter, who for a moment wondered if he had spoken aloud, though he knew better, having excellent control of his tongue, and none turned their ear to him.
“The Pope does what he will for his own reasons,” mused the Duke. “I shall leave it to my Lords and men-at-arms, theirs and mine, to decide this, though I have my idea. My sons, may not apply for this dubious honor, for I am the civic lord and high general of these small-peopled great-landed parts. Sea and Back Tier daring are for my vassals.
Hard Gunwald, the Lithonian Man-At-Arms to Admiral Gustavus, stepped forward hungry for glory, “I would have you, Pope Slave, for a man-at-arms so I might be captain under my Lord Gustavus.”
Gustavus nodded his accent.
The other men-at-arms backed down.
Young Peter wished he were half the fighter as Gunwald, who was thick like Father and as skilled as Young Peter, who was known to be the Smartest Sword in Far Dastardy, but young yet, having not yet killed a man or fought a battle.
Peter Grim stepped forward, “I came in hopes of an English or Spanish tutor for my son here. Crusader, I advance Young Peter Grim, my sole surviving son, as daring enough to cross blades with ye’!”
Hard Gunwald sneered, “Not with me? I would wreck your whelp!”
Peter Grim drew his sword, “You and I, Gunwald, to first blood or disarm, while my son takes on this giant Pope’s man.”
Duke Ivan said, in a rising tone, “Then it is done… and if any kills his man he shall be fined double his worth. For I do not have enough of you brutes as it stands!”
Peter was shoved at the giant by Father, drawing on the way, three steps to get to sword strokes.
The first step he heard that Father and Gunwald had already crossed steel, both lunging like cougars.
The second stride, saw the armored monk had yet to draw his sword, as Peter’s leapt from its scabbard. Father and Gunwald were grunting as if in a bind.
The third stride sounded a grunt and shaking of the pier boards as the two unseen men to his right crashed down. Peter, aimed for the wind, where the half open robe exposed the place where the arms and post of the crucifix met on the crusader’s Sir Coat.
‘Such a shame to ruin that mail coat on a monk too large to be quick of blade,’ mused Peter as his blade turned palm up to break the links and draw first blood. Not lunging hard, he did not imagine drawing much blood, just enough.
A great hand slapped that blade upward, while another big hand slapped the elbow of Peter’s sword arm. His hand went numb and the blade tumbled upward as he was cradled in one great arm like a toddler and the other mighty hand snatched Peter’s arming sword from the air, sheathing it in Peter’s own scabbard. As the Smartest Sword in Far Dastardy felt like a fool, the giant set him down, with a soft word, “Excellent form, Young Master. We shall work on your application.”
These words rumbling serenely in his ear from a voice like a drum, Peter was treated to a view of Father’s rough and tumble affair. Gunwald’s sword had cut Father across the forehead, blood gushing down his face. Ignoring this first blood cut, Father grabbed the blade, bending it, cutting his own left palm and fingers, as he jammed his knee into Gunwald’s belly and poised to punch the man with his brazen cross piece. Gunwald was snarling, “I cut you first, twice, thrice even!”
“I kill you first!” growled Peter Grim.
To which the laughing voice of Gunwald’s master, Lord Gusavus, chuckled, “For daring, Peter Grim has got it, my Hard Man. I will buy you a Muckleshoot woman to sooth your pride. Now yield.”
Gunwald yielded and Peter Grim rose to his feet, letting go of Gunwald’s straight saber with cupped hand guard with his blood dripping hand, and using that dripping mess to lift Gunwald by his new, white-waxed linen buff coat, which brought a scandalous curse from Gunwald, “You very Back Tier boar of a man! I should fence you with my boar spear!”
Grim sheathed his own sword, pressed his bleeding hand against his own brown bearskin vest and agreed, “Yes, you would have cut me four strokes before I cleared your teeth from that yap!”
“Now, men,” commanded Duke Ivan, “Vodka and boons now. No more fight.”
Grim then went to pat Gunwald on the back with the bloody hand and the other skipped through the crowd with a master swordsman’s shift. To that antic the giant rumbled in Young Peter’s ear, “Young Master, before winter is done, you shall be as swordly as that hard one.”
Notes
-1. A wave patterned sword edge for cutting enemy pike shafts.
