‘But how will you manage the figures, Father? Your eyesight is not what it was, and you hardly have time—’
‘There is nothing whatever the matter with my eyesight. I have perfect eyesight. But you should be at home more. The servants need more supervision. Though I’m not saying it was not pleasant to have your company. But you are not making your way much in society, and you should be able to do things other women of your age do, as Zachary has pointed out. He is quite right, it is selfish of me to keep you closeted in my chambers.’
Zachary put down the bobbin. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘And there is no need, I shan’t lack company, Zachary will assist me,’ pronounced Father.
Zachary jumped to attention. ‘If Cousin Elspet wants to carry on, then I see no reason why she should not, I was only saying—’
‘It will be a pleasure to have your company, and I’m sure Elspet will fill her time perfectly well with women’s crafts.’
‘But what about my fencing?’ Zachary was frowning now, sitting forward in his chair.
‘There’ll be time enough for that, never fear.’ Father beamed uncharacteristically at them both. ‘So it’s all settled.’
The next day, Zachary bent his head against the wind and hurried away towards the square stone tower of St Paul’s. Another morning with Uncle Leviston had almost finished him. However did Elspet Leviston stand it? He’d told his uncle he was going to his fencing training but, truth be told, he had yet to find a legal Master of Fence to take him on – at least, one who had served his proper state apprenticeship, not just a twopenny charlatan. He had hankered after studying with a certified master for so long now that the ache had taken up permanent residence in his bones.
Leviston had given him a purse for his first lesson, and today he felt like escaping the warehouses and finding a bit of fun. His uncle’s company already stifled him.
Zachary shook the wet off his hat, crossed the threshold of St Paul’s and swaggered inside. The big church was a place he knew every inch of, especially the stone-vaulted ceiling. When he was small he used to nip and foist there with his brothers – that is relieving country folk of their purses, and taking the pickings back to his mother. She never asked any questions about where their trimmings came from, but accepted them as a gift, as if they were farm cats bringing back a mouse.
Out of habit he looked at people’s shoes to see where they hailed from. Country folk were the best pickings. When he was younger, he’d pretend to faint, and you could always tell the country folk by the way they rushed over to see what was amiss. As they bent over, a quick chop would let the moneybag fall like a plum, and up he’d leap and scramble away. A small paring knife was his first weapon, and it still had a place in his armoury even now, tucked up the lining of his sleeve.
To mark himself out as a gentleman, he threw his cloak over one shoulder to flash its green silk lining, strode down the aisle and looked about for any acquaintances who might fancy a fencing bout or two. But not his brothers; he didn’t know where Saul and Kit were now and he didn’t want to know. They’d gone off to find their ruffian father, Ben Hagget, and now they were on the dub with him, like as not. Ben Hagget had beaten them all, his mother included, until they’d fled. And his sons were rent from the same cloth; like father, like son.
Inside the church it was bustle as usual; Paul’s Walk was less like a walk and more like a dodge. It was not long before he spotted John ‘Gin’ Shotterill, already in the company of two country squires. Gin was trying to persuade them into one of the nearby ordinaries for a game of dice.
‘Hey, Deane, over here!’
Zachary sauntered over to his friend.
‘Allow me to present Mr Ashley and Mr Walker.’
He bowed low to the gentlemen, who seemed relieved to see a diversion.
‘Pleased to meet you both.’
‘We’re just going over to the Green Man for a game of dice,’ Gin said.
‘Good plan. I’ll join you.’ Zachary turned to the one called Ashley, whose woollen stockings and iron-soled boots shouted ‘country’. ‘Been in town long?’
‘Since yesterday,’ answered Walker for his companion. Ashley looked a little uneasy, but he let Gin lead them and Zachary brought up the rear. It was for all the world like herding sheep. If he and Gin had a pen, he thought, he bet they could get them both into it, easy as winks.
‘Just one game, then,’ Walker said, ‘and we’ll be on our way. We have another appointment to keep.’
‘Do we?’ Ashley said.
‘Yes, we do,’ Walker cut in tersely.
Zachary grinned to himself. ‘Oh well, better be just a quick one, then,’ he said.
They wended past the tract sellers and bookmen huddled under canvas in case it should rain, and into the Green Man. Supplied with a jug of ale, Gin and Zachary dropped their dice on to the table. Ashley lowered his bewhiskered face close to the table to inspect them.
‘Let’s use mine,’ Walker said, fumbling in his satchel.
‘Fine,’ Zachary said. ‘You look like a trustworthy fellow.’
Walker relaxed a little then, thinking his good honest dice were in play. After he and Ashley had lost three rounds, Zachary said, ‘Lady Luck is smiling on us today.’
‘Give me the dice.’ Walker was suspicious. Gin put on an innocent face and passed them over. Walker weighed them in his hands, examined them an inch from his nose, then waved them at Ashley, who nodded. Reassured they were his own, Walker blew on them to bring good fortune.
They played another three rounds. Gin and Zachary let them win the first one, so as to give them confidence, but after that the men brooked two more losses.
‘I say!’ Ashley slapped his hand over the dice. ‘We’ve lost nearly two pounds! Best stop now.’
‘No,’ Walker said, ‘our luck is about to change, I can feel it. A few more rounds, just to see if we can break even. These gentlemen won’t mind another couple of games, will you?’
They shook their heads emphatically. Gin caught Zachary’s eye and had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.
‘But what about our appointment?’ Ashley looked uncomfortable.
‘What? Oh, that. It can wait,’ Walker brushed him off. ‘Three more rounds, I say. Whose cast?’
‘Mine,’ Zachary said and rattled the cup.
‘Another half-crown on the number one and three,’ Walker called, sliding his coin in.
Zachary threw the dice from the cup on to the table to roll and land six four.
‘Hell fire and damnation, you win.’
Zachary raked in the winnings.
‘One more.’ Walker was desperate now. His face had turned pale as gruel.
Gin and Zachary glanced at each other. Gin’s eyes had the familiar triumphant glint Zachary knew so well. They were a team, both well-practised at the sleight of hand necessary to change the gulls’ dice for their own. Zachary’s set were ‘bristles’, made with a horse hair glued to one dot to make it fall to the six or four. Gin’s were ‘gourds’, hollowed out and skilfully weighted to fall to the three or five. By artful juggling between the honest set and theirs, they never failed to relieve ignorant folk of their excess coinage.
Walker and Ashley never stood a chance.
Zachary did not consider it cheating, as it needed a genuine skill and training to master it. It had taken years of practising casting those dice to get them to fall pat as he wanted. Zachary had no interest in any ruse that did not require intelligence and a deftness of touch.
They were about to leave the two country sots four pound the poorer when there was a commotion at the bar, and a shout: ‘Look to your swords!’
Zachary’s hand shot to his hilt. Gin swiped the remaining coins from the table. A quiet game of cards at the other end of the tavern had turned over into a brawl.
‘What’s to do?’ Ashley grabbed Zachary’s arm, and hastily put himself behind him.
‘Leave go, man,’ Zachary said, shaking
off his clinging hand and craning his neck to see.
Everyone in the place was standing now, and a circle of heads surrounded the disturbance. A sound of smashing crocks and then an audible exhalation as the whole crowd of men surged backwards. Zachary was knocked back into Ashley, who tottered backwards into the stools. His balance went and he slumped like a sack of coals against the wall behind.
‘Outside! Take it outside. I’ll have no duels in here!’
The landlord’s disembodied voice was ignored. A blade whipped through the air over the heads in front and the crowd pressed to the side.
The door banged open and cold air rushed in. Zachary was jostled out of the door by the throng, where he elbowed his way past the taller men amid curses to get to the front. Two men were fighting on the rutted road. One was a sinewy yellow-haired youth, slashing and hacking at his opponent’s sword. His face was red as a beet and he sprang from foot to foot as if he had ants in his shoes. He leapt to the side to parry away the point of the other man’s sword. But it was the other, the swarthy man in the dark doublet, with hair white like a frost, who held Zachary’s attention.
‘Who is he?’ he asked the man next to him. But the man just shook his head, his eyes glued to the unfolding duel.
Never had Zachary seen a man fight like this. He was completely arrested by him. The fluidity of his movements made him hold his breath. A bolt of envy and admiration shot through him. It was not just the swordsman’s technical proficiency, it was as if his whole being was the sword. He did not fight with the sword, he was the sword. The blade simply swooped in the air like a bird.
The crowd was silent but for the noise of the lad hacking with all his strength and might. He blustered and lunged, groaned and slashed. And the other swung his arm easily, his blade arcing, moving against every attack as if it were nothing, a horsefly to be brushed away.
Finally, as if tiring of the game, the man in the black doublet aimed a swift dart and the lad was on his back in the dirt, a flesh-wound to his thigh spurting a red jet of blood.
The other sheathed his sword with one, sleek movement and wiped his hands on his doublet. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. His accent was slight, but noticeable.
‘To the death!’ the lad cried, sitting up and trying fruitlessly to stand. He was brave enough, Zachary thought, he would give him that.
‘No,’ laughed the foreigner. ‘I would not have the dishonour of a young man’s death on my hands.’ He picked up his hat from the ground and turned to go.
A young woman rushed in to tend the lad’s wounds, but Zachary only dimly noticed her. He leapt after the man who was walking away. The swordsman placed his low-crowned hat back over his white hair as if nothing unusual had happened. The crowd parted for him as if he were royalty. There was something in his mien that made men give him space.
Zachary arrived breathlessly in his path. ‘Are you a fencing master? Do you have a school?’ His voice came out less politely than he had hoped.
The man had no option but to stop, for Zachary was blocking his way. He looked Zachary up and down in slight surprise. ‘No. Not in London,’ he said.
‘But who taught you? I have never seen fencing like that. Zachary Deane, sir, at your service. Please, won’t you tell me from whom you have the skill?’
‘The skill, yes.’ The man laughed. ‘You are right. It is a good translation. La Verdadera Destreza. It means the true skill. You might call it, mastery. I learned it from Carranza – in Seville.’
‘Can I—’ His words were cut short by a thud and a sharp pain in the side of the head. He grunted and his knees cracked as they hit the ground. He sprang straight back on to his feet, and spun round. The street wavered before his eyes, a pulse throbbed in his ear.
Walker and Ashley. Both were bouncing in their shoes, fists raised before them like prize-fighters from a penny chapbook. Walker’s fist had blood on it. Zachary brought a hand to feel his ear where he had been hit.
‘Bastard!’ he said in disbelief as he saw blood on his hand.
‘Cheat us, would you, you beggar?’ Walker yelled. The crowd closed in on them.
‘We picked up your dice.’ Ashley was red in the face. ‘Thought we were too stupid to notice, did you? They’re rigged.’
‘Not my dice.’ Zachary held up his palms and shook his head. ‘Must be Shotterill’s.’
‘He says they’re yours,’ Ashley said.
‘We’ll settle this by combat,’ Walker said, puffing himself up. The crowd let out an ‘Aah’, followed by a general murmur.
‘By the sword,’ Zachary said.
‘No, by God,’ said Walker. ‘None of that nonsense. Man to man. By the fists.’
‘Duel by s—’ Zachary began to protest.
Walker pushed his fist up to Zachary’s nose. ‘Seven o’clock, I’ll fight and Ashley will be my second.’
Zachary viewed the stocky figure of Walker with consternation. He was a thick-set bugger. Word was, these northern men were used to wrestling, and it was something of which he had little experience. ‘You will lose,’ he jeered, with false bravado. His head throbbed.
‘Don’t bank on it,’ Walker said. ‘Where?’
‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields. At the lightning ash.’
‘Is it far?’
‘You’ll find it.’
‘Your friend Shotterill seems to have left you hanging,’ Walker said. ‘We expect to see him as your second. If not, we’ll be calling these good folk to witness you tried to cheat us and would not give us fair dealings.’ The staring crowd of onlookers hooted and heckled.
‘I can’t stand a bad loser,’ Zachary said, goading him. ‘We beat you fair and square. As we surely will tonight, if it’s a fair fight.’
‘And we will prove you wronged us, sir – by the grace of God, and my fists.’
‘Till tonight, then,’ Zachary said. He had intended to be back at West View House by nightfall. He hoped the bout would be a quick one, and he could be back before curfew and that they had saved him some supper.
As for Gin Shotterill, he knew exactly where the crafty snake would be hiding. By hook or crook, he’d make damned sure he joined him at the lightning ash.
Chapter 5
Elspet had been restless all day with nothing to occupy her. True to his word, Father had taken Cousin Zachary with him to the Exchange and his chambers. But when he returned in the evening, he rode alone, trailing the new horse which tossed its head and rolled its eyes. She hurried out.
‘What has happened? Did it throw him? Where is Zachary?’
He clambered off his gelding, saying, ‘Nothing’s amiss. Don’t fuss so.’ Broadbank, the groom, had appeared at the sound of hoof-beats so Father handed him the horses and said, ‘Come inside. Don’t loiter out here, it looks bad. You should be at your music.’
‘Your hands are cold,’ Elspet said, reaching out to rub them between hers. ‘Where are your gloves?’
He pulled his hands away. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘but somehow I am always in the saddle before I remember to put them on, and then it’s too late – the reins are in my hands and I’m trotting off.’
‘I will have to tie a ribbon to the reins to remind you!’
‘You will not. My horse would end up like a blasted maypole. Come along, let’s get within.’ Broadbank led the horses away and she took Father’s cloak and hung it up in the chilly hall.
‘What about Cousin Zachary?’ she asked, ‘Did he not go to the chambers with you?’
‘He’s –’ Father paused, frowning. ‘He’s gone to meet with some fellows for some fencing practice. Hanging Sword Alley, I think he said. He’ll be back to eat with us.’
She took his arm and squeezed it. He patted her hand briskly in reply and disengaged his arm. In the oak chamber jugs of warmed wine stood steaming on the stone hearth which framed a struggling fire. Exhaling, he sank into his usual cushioned chair and she settled into hers.
‘So how was it at the Exchange? What’s new? Has the rest of the
consignment from Brussels arrived yet? I need some more of the shell edging for the pillowslips I’m making. But I’ve taken the dogs out . . . and I have been studying, working on my music and Latin.’
He nodded distractedly.
‘Pliny the Elder,’ she went on, ‘humankind and nature, as you suggested; I’m enjoying it. The description of Hannibal and the elephants is most extraordinary, don’t you think?’
Father did not answer; he was looking pensively into the fire, with its weak blue flames. To garner some response, she asked, ‘And how did Zachary like sorting the consignments today?’
‘Well enough,’ he said, between sips of wine. ‘Give me a moment before you start with your chatter.’
‘I was only asking—’
‘He is very quick. Asks all the right questions and I can see he’s sharp as a nib. Of course, he’s a little rough around the edges – he’ll need training.’
‘You mean, you are thinking of hiring him?’
‘Hiring him?’ He laughed. ‘No, you goose. A man needs a younger man to learn his trade, and I can see he will do very well. He is family, and we must do right by him.’
The shock must have shown in her face for he got up and came to stand before her, offering her a cup of wine.
‘You need not fear,’ he said. ‘I have it in hand, to make sure you have a suitable match. I know you have supported me with the business very well, better than I could have hoped. You have a good head for figures and it is to your credit.’
The cup was in her hand and she set it on the floor to protest, but he carried on over her, ‘And don’t think I have not been grateful for that whilst you were still a child. But you are grown now, and should be married already, with your own sons to keep you busy. You need to develop more womanly tastes. Besides, the lace trade is a cut-throat enterprise, despite its appearance – no business for a gentlewoman. No, I will go this week and draw up a dower agreement with the notary. Do not fret, there is ample provision to secure your future.’
A Divided Inheritance Page 5
