Later, they sat against the wall, staring up at the sky and enjoying the warmth of the sun.
“Will you stay long in Sangreston?” Varian asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can we do this again before you leave?”
“We can do it again now, if you like,” Anton said.
Varian grinned his grin again.
Chapter Two
There was a creak on the stair below, and immediately Edric Edison reached for his clothes. Ailsa looked up from her canvas, annoyed at his fidgeting, but her expression softened when she saw his guilty smile: he looked like a boy caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen. He tiptoed over and looked at the half-completed canvas, raising an eyebrow.
“Madam has been more than flattering in her proportions,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
Ailsa giggled when his moustache tickled her face. She was pleased with the painting. It showed the tall auburn-haired figure in a relaxed standing pose, weight on one leg and pelvis tilted. The muscles, and even individual hairs, were clearly defined, rendering it an academic study. But this was how she liked to capture her men.
Edison clasped the bundle of clothing to his chest and winked at her. He was an actor who had enjoyed some success as the lead player in a local troupe. He needed to supplement his income, and she required a model for her painting. Fate had brought them together. He pushed the grey hair away from her face and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
“You must come back soon, so that I might start on the head,” Ailsa said. She knew he could not promise to return.
He moved towards the open window. The early morning rainstorm had passed, and warm spring sunshine was working its magic to transform the town. He swung one leg over the window ledge, leaned out and threw his clothes up onto the flat roof. He blew her another kiss. She watched, fascinated, as the naked figure reached up to find a handhold and pulled himself up.
Ailsa heard footsteps just outside the door, trying to be stealthy. When she looked back towards the window, Edison was gone. She smiled to herself and swirled her brush in a jar of water.
Splintered planks from the door exploded inwards, with a shoulder and a triumphant smile just behind them.
“Got you, you sneaky bastard!” the big man said.
“Come in, the door is open.” Ailsa adopted a serious expression for the coming encounter.
A tide of scarlet rose into the man’s hairline. He stared at the grey-haired lady in the paint-splattered smock who stood before the easel. Broad hands shifted the broken door clear of its frame, and the barrel-chested young man shuffled in. He stood looking at his boots. “I’m sorry. I... er... thought someone else was in here. Edric Edison,” he mumbled.
“Never heard of him,” she lied, turning back to her canvas and catching sight of one of Edison’s boots as she said it. Ailsa wrinkled her nose as the sharp smell of sweat entered, followed by the smell of cheap scent, and then by a wheezing gargoyle of a man.
The hunchback heaved his lumpy body through the door and stood panting. His quivering limbs jutted out from his body at awkward angles, and the greasy leather tunic he wore creaked ominously every time he drew breath. “Well?” He grunted.
“Perfectly, thank you for asking,” Ailsa smiled sweetly, hoping to buy Edison enough time to flee to safety.
“Where is he?” the hunchback gasped.
“Who?”
“Edison.”
“I’ve never heard of him, as I have already told your... curly-haired friend here.” She looked the young man up and down critically. He was attractive in a meaty sort of way. Biceps bulged beneath the unbleached cotton shirt. “You wouldn’t care to pose for me, would you?” she asked.
“No, he wouldn’t,” the hunchback snapped. “And, my good woman, if...” He stopped, and squinted short-sightedly at the canvas. He moved closer. His fleshy nose stopped just short of the wet paint. “Hmmm!” He licked his lips appreciatively. “You wouldn’t care to sell this, would you?” He turned his good eye toward Ailsa, a lop-sided leer on his leathery face. “I appreciate fine art with well-proportioned figures.”
“As you can see, the canvas is incomplete...” She was distracted by a creak overhead.
A fine trickle of dust powdered the hunchback’s bald, liver-spotted skull. He looked up.
Ailsa gasped: Edison must have been crouched up there all along, not daring to move. “Of course, if your friend here will pose for me now, I could complete the painting for you today,” she said loudly.
But the hunchback was at the window, peering up onto the roof. “It’s him, help me up!”
The big man put his shoulder under the hunchback’s mismatched buttocks and heaved. Ailsa watched, fascinated, as muscles strained and writhed beneath taut cotton of the young man’s shirt. She sighed.
The hunchback’s legs flailed wildly until he managed to pull his stomach up onto the roof. The curly-haired man quickly followed him up. Above, boards creaked and in the little studio dust snowed down.
Ailsa shook her head sadly. Edison was on his own now. He was such a nice boy too. She loaded the brush with flesh tint and regarded the canvas critically: had she really captured his size correctly?
Edison would have liked to stay to see the painting completed, partly because it flattered him, and partly because he needed payment for posing. He was only days away from being thrown out of his rooms, and had been relying on this income. His luck at the gaming table had deserted him, and charming money from a wealthy widow had been a much less risky proposition than taking to the rooftops as a thief. Or so he had hoped.
The roof of the studio was almost flat, the boards slanting only sufficiently to carry away rain water. But once Edison had crossed this, he was faced with all manner of tiled roofs with varying degrees of slope. He stopped at the roof-edge, an alley between him and the next roof. That roof sloped smoothly up and away from him, affording no holds for even an expert climber.
Already, behind him, he could hear the huffing of the hunchback, Grimwade, heaving his bulk up onto the studio roof. A cobbled alley lay below him. Four storeys down. The only escape was across to the other building.
“Edison! I’ll have your scrotum for a shilling purse when I lay hands on...” Grimwade stopped mid-curse and stared open-mouthed.
The naked figure, clutching his clothes to his chest, launched himself across the alley and, using his forward momentum and a prayer, ran up the roof opposite to its apex.
The hunchback teetered on the edge of the flat-roofed building, hurling a few choice items from his vocabulary at Edison, who had managed to heave himself up and now sat astride the ridge of the neighbouring house.
Edison grinned triumphantly, waved, then inched his way forward to the edge of the roof. He lowered himself cautiously over the front eaves, and in through a small attic window.
Grimwade was left to jig about in scarlet apoplexy, shaking his gnarled fists.
Shrieks followed Edison out of the back door of the house. He ducked through lines of now-dry laundry in the back courtyard, grinning to himself: he could imagine the mother’s expression as she covered the eyes of the smiling teenage daughter.
Shouts behind him. The hunchback giving instructions: he must have had more men on the ground. Time to get under cover and dress.
Edison ducked out of the lines of washing and into the back street, ignoring the laughter and ooohs behind him. He slipped into the first shadowed alley he came across and found himself between the blacksmith’s and a barber shop. The far end of the alley opened into the sunlight and a yard behind the smithy, where iron rang on iron.
Leaning back against the cool stone wall, Edison wondered how many men the hunchback had out looking for him. Perhaps if he made for the town gate now, before Grimwade could get word to all his men...
The street end of the alley suddenly darkened. Edison smiled an unconvincing ‘Anything wrong gentlemen?’ smile at them, backing into the courtyard, where footsteps c
ould be heard gathering.
Edison blinked in the bright sunlight. Grimwade had seven men around the smith’s yard, as well as the two blocking the alley behind him. The hunchback appeared in the doorway of the smithy, idly twisting one of the irons in the red-hot coals of a brazier.
Edison laughed nervously and hugged his clothing more tightly to his chest. “Ah, Mr. Grimwade, I was just... er... thinking of you.”
“Really? And what were you thinking?” the hunchback asked, casually menacing.
“Oh, that I still owe you that little sum of money, and that I must see that you get it very soon.” Edison smiled brightly and moved further out into the sunlight.
Grimwade’s men moved up behind him on either side.
“I see. Then perhaps you could hand over the money now, and I could bid you good day.”
“As you see, I am without my purse,” Edison gestured apologetically with one open palm, still clutching his clothing.
Grimwade looked up, his face clouding. Edison’s arms were seized from behind; his clothes dropped to the ground as he was pushed forward.
“You try my patience, Edric. I do not believe you have my money, and you treat the matter far too lightly. Perhaps you feel that I am not a man to be taken seriously?”
“Well, no. I...”
The hunchback drew the iron from the brazier and blew gently on the glowing orange tip. His spit sizzled on contact. Edison’s green eyes widened as Grimwade ambled towards him; he struggled ineffectually against the grip that held him. Grimwade brought the iron close to Edison’s cheek. The heat made his eye water.
“How would you like to be ugly? Like me?”
“You’re not ugly, Mr. Grimwade. Just... homely!” Voice quavering.
“Don’t mock me!”
The iron moved fractionally closer. Edison could feel the burning heat stretching his skin dry, could see the shimmering heat turning Grimwade into a ghostly, grinning ghoul. Sweat beaded Edison’s forehead.
“I might have to spoil your pretty face. Now that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
Under the circumstances, Edison thought it best not to nod.
“Or perhaps I might do some less... visible damage?” The hunchback lowered the iron to crotch height, his smile twisting his face further askew.
The corner of Edison’s mouth twitched, a trickle of sweat ran down from his temple. His balls were trying to crawl up out of reach. “There’s no need for this ugliness,” he croaked. “I’ll get the money for you.”
“Eventually, eh? You’re hoping I might die of old age waiting for you to pay up? I won’t wait any longer!”
Edison’s eyes crossed as he looked down his nose, trying to keep an eye on the end of the hot iron: in his anger, the hunchback was quaking, unaware.
“It is not that I need your piddling eight silver shillings, you understand.”
“Seven,” Edison corrected, then remembered the glowing iron, and quickly added: “But eight including interest!”
“The sum is unimportant. But if I don’t collect a debt, it would set a dangerous precedent. It would be bad for business. Everyone would try to avoid their debts. You see my position?”
Edison managed a smile and nodded, more worried about his own position.
“Why don’t you pay off your debt in another way, eh? Come and work for me. You’re a nice boy. You’ve got an attractive body: we could make a lot of money from it, you and I.”
“Renting it to dry old ladies and sweaty merchants? I would sooner die first!”
“Oh, you wouldn’t die. Not at first, anyway.” Grimwade smiled at some private thought. “I must warn you, I am not a patient man. I will have my money, or I will have you on your knees screaming for mercy. Your body will be mine, and I will subject you to such torments that...”
“You are drooling down your shirt,” Edison said.
“Eh?” The hunchback looked down and brushed at his tunic. His stomach grumbled loudly then, distracting him. He shrugged resignedly. “I like you, Edric. I am willing to extend to you a generous offer.” Grimwade plunged the iron into a nearby trough, staring into the steam.
Edison’s eyes rolled with relief and he released a long sigh. Behind him, several of Grimwade’s men did likewise.
“A very generous offer. I will give you one more week to come up with the money. At the end of that week, on Friday night at eleven o’clock, you will meet me and we’ll have a friendly drink together. If you have the money, you can pay me and we will both be happy, eh? I couldn’t be fairer, eh? Generous, eh? What else are friends for? But if you do not deliver the money, then you are mine! What do you say?”
Edison had no choice but to agree. He nodded once.
“And Edison, if you don’t show on Friday, I will send my boys out to look for you. They will find you. Wherever in this land you try to hide, they will seek you out and drag you back to me.”
“Suppose I bring you the money before then?” Edison asked.
The hunchback looked up, his face clouding. Then he smiled. “You won’t.” The hunchback rubbed his hands together. “I look forward very much to our next meeting, Edric Edison. Until then, look after that fine body of yours!” He winked his good eye, a grotesque, theatrical gesture, then turned and hobbled across the courtyard cackling, his henchmen in tow. He paused in the gateway and looked back.
Edison looked up from pulling on his breeches.
“You know,” the hunchback called back. “That painting was a little over-generous – but only a little.” And with that he was gone.
“You weren’t seeing me at my best,” Edison muttered. He plunged his head into the cold-water trough. Not a completely disastrous encounter, he mused. He considered fleeing town, but knew that the gates would be watched. And even if he managed to get out, Grimwade would set the dogs after him. He would not give the hunchback the pleasure of the hunt. Even if he failed to come up with the money in time, at least he’d be whole and able to plot some other escape.
His one stockinged foot was wet from a puddle left by the morning’s rain. A sea breeze blew through his damp hair and raised goose-bumps on his flesh. Perhaps he’d die of a chill before nightfall? There seemed little chance of this, so he made his way back towards Ailsa’s studio: he could collect his other boot, and finish posing for her. Sadly, the fee she had promised him wouldn’t cover what he owed to his landlord, never mind his debt to the hunchback. If Grimwade and I displayed her painting, we could certainly drum up some trade, he thought wryly. If I die by his hand, that is how I wish to be remembered.
Edison paused and looked up at the rooftops he had recently crossed. He walked on, trying to decide how best to resolve his predicament, and knowing there was only one possible solution. He was some distance along the street before his gait became its customary swagger.
Chapter Three
Mrs. Writtle had been widowed young, and ran the Unicorn on her own. It was not as fine as the inns up by the castle, but she ran a clean house and it was nowhere near as rowdy as those down by the docks. Her barroom was used mainly by residents, and she preferred it that way. She knew the beer she brewed wasn’t popular, it was cloudy and had a strong yeasty taste, but the wine she bought in was as good as any served round about. Her fare was limited – the same few dishes she had learned from her mother – but it was freshly prepared each day, and she only took delivery of meat from a butcher she trusted. Today it was beef, cooked slowly in a big iron pot with vegetables, and her own special gravy made using the cloudy beer.
Her days were long, and she never quite made enough money to employ someone to share the workload. Mrs. Writtle always said that if she had more time, she’d go out and find herself another husband. But if the opportunity ever came her way, she wasn’t sure she’d take it: she liked running her own life, and a husband might get in the way of that. However, if the offer of a tumble came along, she wouldn’t be turning that down. Not that her latest guest was likely to be offerin
g, but a woman could daydream, couldn’t she?
He was a thin young man with prominent cheekbones, and blueish stubble shadowed a strong chin. A broad silver ear-ring pierced his left ear, giving him a vaguely piratical look, but his smile was broad and warm. And this evening there was a twinkle in his grey eyes she hadn't seen before.
“No need to ask what you’ve been up to,” she said, putting a plate of stew and boiled potatoes on the table in front of him.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Writtle,” Anton said.
“I can tell from your smile: you’ve spent seed.” Her own smile revealed her top front teeth were missing.
Anton thought about denying it, but then shrugged and grinned.
“I knew it! Lucky bastard.” Mrs. Writtle winked at him. “I’ll be on my own again tonight with a carrot.” She sighed, and hurried back to her kitchen.
Still smiling, Anton turned his attention to the stew, pushing the pieces of carrot to the side of his plate.
“Ah, Leyander, there you are!”
The voice made Anton look up from his plate. He didn’t recognise the man who stood over his table.
“What a happy coincidence to find you here,” the man said.
“Neither happy, nor a coincidence I would wager,” Anton said.
“Perhaps it is not fate alone that brings us together,” the man admitted. He pulled out a chair and sat down, uninvited.
Anton set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, and stared at the intruder. The man was balding, unshaven, and had one arm splinted between two sticks and hanging in a dirty sling.
Mrs. Writtle came over to retrieve the plate. “Will you be wanting anything else?” she asked. This wasn’t accompanied by the usual suggestive waggling of eyebrows. She was eyeing the stranger suspiciously.
Fortune's Fools Page 2
