by S. J. Parris
The thought of her brought another sharp pang of longing; I would miss her presence in the room that night, despite the torments it provoked. After only three days it had come to feel quite natural; the rise and fall of her breathing in the dark, our instinctive modesty as we averted our eyes or covered ourselves, self-consciously trying to avoid the accidental intimacies that come from sharing a small space at night. I imagined her lying under the rafters of the weavers’ cottage and wondered if she would also miss me, but I had to close my eyes against the unbidden image of her by the light of a candle, turning the warmth of her smile on young Olivier and his pout.
Declining the entreaties of my landlady to stay and drink with her after my meal (it’s not every inn would be so welcoming to foreigners, she assured me, though for herself it was a rare treat to encounter such a well-mannered and handsome gentleman), I gathered a full purse and my bone-handled knife and set out into the dusty street. The heat of the day was abating as the sun slid down towards the horizon like a melted seal of crimson wax; at the corner of the street a group of children played a game that involved jumping over a crudely made grid scratched into the dirt. They fell silent as I passed and stared up at me with wide, unblinking eyes; one of the smaller ones crept behind an older child and peeped out with an expression very like awe.
“Where will I find the Three Tuns?” I called to the older boy.
He took a step back as I stopped, putting out a protective hand towards the little one clinging behind him. Mute, he pointed to his right.
“Watling Street.” His voice came out barely more than a whisper.
“Thank you.” I tossed him a penny; it landed in the dust at his feet, where he looked at it suspiciously for a moment before reaching down, never taking his eyes off me.
Their reaction puzzled me; did I look so unusual to them? I followed the direction of the boy’s pointing finger, and turned back at the end of the street to find them still staring, rooted to the spot. Children like novelty, I told myself, as I continued around the corner. But I couldn’t quite shake the uncomfortable sense that their response had been one of fear. Perhaps, even clean-shaven, I looked like one of the murdering Spanish pirates their mothers warned them about.
From the outside, the Three Tuns gave the impression that it had lost the will to keep up appearances; plaster cracked and peeled from the walls and the thatch of the roof suffered from threadbare patches. But the taproom was crowded, busy with the din of lively chatter, snatches of song, and the occasional shout of protest as one drinker knocked another in the crush; smoke hung thickly under the low beams of the ceiling, mixing with the yeasty scent of beer and warm bread. It was clearly not one of the better inns in the town, to judge by the dress and appearance of its customers, but its roughness held a certain appeal. I guessed it was the sort of place the law would knowingly overlook, where all manner of illicit activities might go on with a blind eye turned. There was an edge to the atmosphere, as if a fight might erupt at any moment.
In the corner farthest from the door, a group of young men were gathered around a long table playing cards. A pile of coins spilled across the board between them, glistening in a puddle of beer. I pushed through the drinkers standing around the serving hatch, fending off the attentions of a couple of bawds on the way, and found a spot where I could stand and observe the game alongside the handful of other onlookers. The six players had evidently been drinking for some time. I scanned their faces, waiting for the right moment.
A skinny young man with wild red hair knocked twice on the table and his fellows laid their cards faceup. A brief pause followed for calculation, then a cry went up from one curly-haired youth, who leaned forwards and scooped up the pile of coins. His friends cursed and thumped their fists on the table in a show of resentment as the red-haired boy gathered the cards, gave them a practised shuffle, and began to deal again. I was not a great connoisseur of cards—Sidney had tried to teach me without much success—but I knew enough to see that they were playing one-and-thirty, a reasonably simple game to follow. When each player had five cards, more coins were thrown into the middle, along with more spirited cursing and threats.
“If you keep on at this rate, Nick, you’ll have lost all your father’s legacy before you even get your hands on it,” remarked the young man with the curly hair, who had won the last hand. The boy opposite him glanced up sharply, frowning. He was unremarkable to look at, with light brown hair and a sparse beard over a solid jaw, thick eyebrows that met in the middle, and a nose that had once been broken. There was an angry cast to his features, as if he held a grievance against anyone who so much as looked at him.
“Don’t worry yourself about that, Charlie,” he said, slurring his words. “There’s plenty there to be going on with.”
“It’s not in your coffers yet, though,” said the red-haired boy, examining his new cards. He seemed the most sober of the lot.
“It will be as soon as they catch that bitch and burn her.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Jesus Christ!” The boy called Nick slammed his pot down hard on the table; beer sloshed across the cards. “I said I’m sick of talking about it. Are you going to play or sit there all night gossiping like a laundry woman?”
There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd, followed by a crash as the young man at the end of the table slumped sideways on his bench and fell to the floor.
“God’s blood! There’s Peter finished for the night. I’ve seen girl children hold their drink better than him.” The red-haired boy pushed his chair back reluctantly and knelt to haul his fallen comrade into a sitting position. “Leave him there, he can sober up in his own time. Damned if I’m carrying him home again.”
“Who will take his cards?” The curly-haired youth named Charlie turned expectantly to the little group standing by the table. “Anyone?”
“I’ve better things to do with my money than throw it to the likes of you,” muttered one man, with a broad grin. The other spectators laughed.
The boy looked disappointed; he cast his eyes around the group until finally his gaze came to rest on me.
“I will play, if you like.” I shrugged, unconcerned. The crowd fell silent and I felt their eyes on me, curiosity piqued by my accent. I looked only at the boy who had spoken. He raised an eyebrow, then glanced around at his friends for approval.
“All right, stranger. Join us for one game and we’ll see how you go.”
“You mean, if you take my money, I can stay on.”
He grinned.
“See, he understands. There are men who travel from town to town making a living from cards—we want to be sure you are not one of those. Take Peter’s seat. Nick, shove up, will you, make room for—what’s your name, stranger?”
“Filippo.”
“Where are you from?” The boy called Nick turned his belligerent glare on me as I squeezed onto the bench beside him. He smelled sharply of sweat and drink; I clenched my fists under the table as I thought of him pawing at Sophia. For this could only be Nicholas Kingsley, the son of Sophia’s dead husband.
“Italy.” I pulled a handful of coins from the purse at my belt and tossed them on to the pile before consulting my cards and smiling at my new companions. I may not be much of a gambler, but years of travelling had taught me that no one makes friends quicker than a man known to be a gracious loser at the card table.
And so I proved to be. I let them take money from me on the first game, laughed at my own ill fortune, was duly invited to stay for the second, bought another pitcher of beer for the table, and another—though happily my companions were so far gone in drink themselves that they failed to notice I drank off one pot to every two or three of theirs. By the end of the night my purse was considerably lighter and my head reeling from the strong ale, but I had been pronounced “a good fellow” by the red-haired boy, whose name was Robin Bates and who seemed the self-appointed leader of the group—all sons of minor gentry or gentlemen farmers,
in their early twenties, with a small allowance at their disposal and no apparent inclination as yet to apply themselves to any profession.
“You should play with us again tomorrow, friend,” Bates said when the night’s gaming was over, chinking his winnings in his palm with a nod of satisfaction. I was about to reply when I noticed a murmuring among the group of onlookers, which died away to a pregnant silence as they parted to make way for a newcomer. The curly-haired boy elbowed Nicholas Kingsley, who sat up, blearily focusing, before his face set hard.
“Where’s my money, Kingsley, you son of a whoremonger?”
I looked round and saw, with some surprise, that the speaker was the broad-shouldered gatekeeper from the cathedral. He appeared even larger in the low room, and it was clear that, despite their bravado, the man’s size and the grim look on his face were causing Nicholas and his friends to shrink back in their seats. No one spoke. Eventually Nicholas rubbed his forehead and sighed.
“Not this again. I owe you no money, Tom Garth.”
“Your family does.” The gatekeeper stepped closer to the table, jabbing a meaty finger an inch from Nicholas’s nose. His friends slid as far from him on their benches as they could manage. “Your father has owed my family reparation these past nine years, and now his debt passes to you, though you sit here gaming away money that isn’t yours to lose.” His voice shook with a rage he was struggling to master.
Nicholas shrugged, his eyes fixed firmly on the contents of his tankard.
“Take me to law for it, then.”
This seemed to have the effect of poking an angry dog with a stick.
“As if I could!” Spittle flecked Tom Garth’s lips; it was clear that he had taken a drink, though he was just drunk enough to be aggressive without losing control. “Your father was the law in this town—what chance did we have?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The law has no time for the likes of us. Is it any wonder we have to take it into our own hands?”
Nicholas looked up finally, a sneer spread across his face.
“Oh, you are become a lawyer now, are you, Garth?”
This was a mistake; Tom Garth seized Nicholas by the collar of his shirt, bunching it in his fist, and dragged him forward over the table until their noses were touching.
“I know what’s right and what’s wrong, you little shit. Your father was a murderer and you’re no better. Damned lucky for you your stepmother ran off the way she did, eh? Otherwise people might start asking what you were doing there that night.” He tightened his grip; Nicholas gave a little yelp.
“Now then, Tom Garth, let’s not have any trouble here.” The landlord had materialised beside our table, arms folded across his ample belly, his tone a practised mixture of calming and warning.
Garth glared at Nicholas for a long moment, then shoved him forcefully onto his bench; Nicholas hit the wall with a thump and slumped back, rubbing his neck.
“You lying churl bastard!” he managed to croak. “Say that again and I’ll have you in gaol for it. Your mother’s a witch and your sister was a whore, all Canterbury knows it.”
Garth made as if to step forward, but the landlord laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“Probably time you all turned in for the night, boys,” he added, turning to us, his tone amiable enough, though it was not a suggestion. “And you be on your way too, Tom.” He clapped the larger man gently on the shoulder in a manner that made clear where his sympathies lay. “If there’s any brawling in the street outside my inn, none of you’ll be coming back tomorrow, or the next day, or in a month of Sundays.” He looked carefully around the group to make sure we had understood.
We all nodded meekly, like chided schoolboys, and for a moment I wanted to laugh. Tom Garth ran a hand through his hair, directed a last scorching look at Nicholas, and strode to the door.
Outside in the street, no one spoke. My companions peered anxiously up and down the lane, as if afraid Tom Garth might leap at them from the shadows.
“That fellow has quite a grudge against you,” I remarked.
“He’s a drunk and a madman. My father should have had him locked up.” Nick Kingsley untied his breeches to piss up the wall, turning over his shoulder to his friend. “I shall stay with you tonight, Robin. I’m not walking home alone with that churl waiting to knock me down.”
“Again? What is the good of inheriting such a fine house if you are always too drunk to sleep in it?” Bates said, slapping his friend on the back.
“Why do you not hold the game at your own house to save you the walk?” I asked.
Nick focused his gaze sufficiently to glare at me. “Because there are no women there, of course.”
I shrugged and gestured around the group. “I don’t see any women here either.”
“Ha! Good point, my friend. It’s because he would have to provide the drink,” Bates said.
“It’s a good thought of the Italian’s,” said Charlie, leaning on Bates’s other shoulder. “Better than giving all our money to that arsehole Hoskyns for the watered-down cat’s piss he serves up.” He jerked his thumb towards the Three Tuns. “And no one to tell us when to leave. We could keep going till dawn, if we wanted. Your father must have left some fine barrels in his cellar, Nick—someone should make use of them.”
Nick rounded on him with a sudden lurch, pointing unsteadily.
“The house is not in my name yet, nor anything in it,” he blurted. “The attorney says—”
“Oh, the attorney says, the attorney says!” Bates rolled his eyes. “You bleat it like a catechism. Fuck the attorney—of course it’s yours! What are you, a child? Are you going to let that murdering bitch deprive you of your inheritance? Your father was hard enough on you when he was alive—the least you deserve is to enjoy his money now.”
“But I can’t touch it yet!” Nick wheeled about, looking from Bates to Charlie to the others until finally his wild gaze came to rest on me and I saw a dark flash of anger in his eyes, a hint of unpredictable fury.
This was a young man well capable of violence if provoked, I had no doubt, but the murder of Sir Edward, though brutal, was no hotheaded, sudden attack; the killer had planned it, waited for his opportunity, even planted evidence to condemn Sophia. I had yet to see whether this Nick was capable of such calculation.
He pointed a trembling finger at me, his eyes clouded with drink and rage.
“She will not take it from me,” he said, as if this were a personal threat. “Nor will that churl Tom Garth, nor the Widow Gray, nor any of them.”
I nodded in agreement, since this seemed the only possible response. Bates laughed.
“Poor Filippo has no idea what you are talking about, you arsehole,” he said. “Well then, it is settled—tomorrow we shall drink the night away at your house, Nick—and you must join us, friend.” He turned to me and winked. “Meet us here at seven—and be sure to bring a full purse.”
I punched him heartily on the arm by way of reply, a gesture I had learned from Sidney and which he seemed to appreciate. Silently, I congratulated myself; an invitation into the Kingsley house was more than I had expected on my first day in Canterbury. It would be something encouraging to tell Sophia, in any case, when I saw her the next day; a thought I comforted myself with that night as I lay alone on my straw mattress at the Cheker, sleep held at bay by questions. What was Tom Garth’s grudge against the Kingsley family? He must be a relative of the maid Fitch had mentioned, the one who had died, but what did he mean by taking the law into his own hands? What had he meant when he said Nicholas Kingsley was there that night? And what did the Widow Gray have to do with Edward Kingsley’s money? I sighed, turning uncomfortably to one side and then the other. Even the release that came from imagining Sophia stretched out beside me failed to bring the sweet oblivion of sleep.
Chapter 7
I decided to call at the apothecary’s shop early the next day, as it was on the road to the weavers’ houses. Though my stomach was much improve
d—a change I could only attribute to the ale at the Three Tuns—I calculated that the purchase of Fitch’s tonic might be repaid by the garrulous apothecary’s store of local gossip. Plenty of people were abroad in the High Street by the time the cathedral bells were striking the hour of eight, carrying baskets or pushing barrows of goods, and most of the shopfronts had their windows open to passersby, but when I reached Fitch’s shop I found it still shuttered and the door closed fast. A plump girl in a white coif was peering anxiously in through the windows, her hands cupped around her face. A basket covered with a linen cloth sat on the doorstep.
“What time does he open?” I said, by way of conversation.
She jumped at being addressed, looking me up and down with apprehension, but then her eyes flicked nervously to the window again. “Is he expecting you?”
“He told me to come back this morning for a remedy he recommended. But I forgot to ask what time he opened.”
The girl shook her head. Neat white teeth chewed at her bottom lip. I guessed her to be in her late teens, though she had that freckled, pink-and-white English complexion that made her look younger.
“He’s always open before the bells sound for eight. And he especially asked me to stop by good and early as he wanted to send me shopping before I go to work. I do what I can for him since my aunt died last year. Poor Uncle,” she added, with a confidential air. “I used to help in the shop sometimes—he liked to teach me a little of his business—but Mother said it was not fit for a girl to learn, so that was an end of that. Now I have to work on the bread stall for Mistress Blunt.” She made a face that left no doubt as to her opinion of her current employer.
“You must be Rebecca, then,” I said, smiling. “He spoke of you when I was in the shop yesterday.”
