‘What’s happening?’ I called to the carter.
‘More of Philip’s men. God’s pains, why these Roman Spaniards have to come here – fondling our women, taking English positions at court, renting the houses we need! We should send ’em all back where they came from,’ the man complained. There was a shout, and suddenly something came flying through the air. This was different. Perhaps the stores of bread rolls were diminished now, but whatever the reason, this time it was a cabbage that came flying. It struck the side of the car near the driver himself. He knelt upright and bellowed, ‘You kiss my arse, you peasant, bleeding rufflers!’
I could see nothing of swaggering Spaniards, but I was prepared to watch while the London mob took advantage of a small group of them. It never hurts to watch a foreigner coming up against Londoners in full cry. I once saw a Frenchman take umbrage at a comment from a costermonger and seek to punish the fellow. The costermonger, who had made only a mild comment on the Frenchman’s ancestry, called for assistance, and the Frenchman found himself confronted by some dozen before he fled. However, today I was in a hurry. I had to get a move on, else I could be stuck in London for a long while. I pushed and shoved, and generally made a nuisance of myself, but made no headway until there was a sudden shriek, and the crush seemed to melt away like snowflakes on a fire. In no time, I was alone with a body lying in the road and three Spaniards who stood gaping all about them with alarm.
There was a muttered oath – I assume, for it was not in English – and a long rapier flashed towards my throat.
Those who have followed my previous adventures will know that I am never keen to find myself in the presence of the injured, all the more so because often it is assumed that I myself may have some form of responsibility for the body lying before me. Looking down at the point of the blade coming closer, and hearing rapid, heavy boots approaching, I sought to step away and make myself scarce, but even as I turned to flee, I saw two things that made me reconsider: the fallen man’s purse and the little movement of his hand.
I am not foolish enough to forgo a possible reward. This was a wealthy young Spaniard, from the look of him. He had a dark complexion, with a narrow, well-formed face and fine little beard that followed the edge of his jaw, and which had been neatly trimmed. His hat was richly coloured and decorated with tiny pearls, while his jack was bright scarlet, with sleeves slashed to show a bright yellow silk interior.
But it was his purse that had caught my attention. This was one of those fellows who trusted no one. He kept his worldly wealth on him, or so it looked. The purse was made of beautiful leather, I thought, with a red hue, but patterned with the impression of some kind of repeated symbol, like a coat of arms. The leather looked soft, but very strong. Of particular interest to me was the way it bulged in such an enticing manner. My occupation until last year had been that of professional cut-purse, and I was very successful in my calling. I knew my targets: those who were younger, who were as green as fresh-stripped bark, who had little experience, and, ideally, those who were so new to the big city that they hadn’t had time to rinse the mud from their shoes. Those who stood gawping at the tall buildings, who gazed on the spire of St Paul’s cathedral as if expecting it to topple at any moment, who didn’t notice the shit in the alleys even when they stood in it; these were my targets. And who could be easier to fleece? Why, a Spaniard, newly arrived with a purse full of gold.
His hand clenched, then spread, and he gave a groan, rolling on to his breast, placing his hands on the dirt of the road and pushing himself upright. Reluctantly (for he had fallen into piles of ordure from dogs, pigs and horses), I squatted at his side and murmured soothingly into his ear. I ignored the blade that was pointed at my throat. It was the action of a nervous man who had just been the centre of unwelcome attention and was wary of any newcomer, rather than a serious threat.
Mind you, this new fashion for carrying lighter swords is a growing problem. In the past, a foister like me, who was practised at picking pockets, only had to worry about the poor gull carrying something like a riding sword or heavy-bladed broadsword. Those things took time to pull from a scabbard and couldn’t be used just anywhere – they were too cumbersome – but these Spanish toys were light, swift and lethal. A man could be stabbed twice before he realized he was in danger from a Toledo steel. I didn’t like them.
‘It’s good enough, fellow,’ I said to the man on the ground, patting his back. God’s wounds, but that purse looked heavy! ‘They all fled when they heard me arrive. You poor man! What sort of a welcome is this for a foreign guest, eh? It was your head, was it?’ It was easy to see that he had been struck. The blood was gathering in his hair. His hat must have protected him a little, but he had been clobbered well. No doubt the brute who had done this was already enjoying a quart of ale at the expense of his comrades, celebrating this victory over the hated foreigner. He would have had more companions with him if he had but grabbed the purse as well, I thought. This is the difference between a fool who enters fights for no reason and a man like me, who attempts to avoid the use of violence.
‘What’s all this?’ a harsh voice demanded. It was the catchpole. He stood with two companions, all grasping staffs viciously shod at either end with iron designed to break a man’s head. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Peter the Passer,’ I said. It was a name I have used often enough before, but it was never dishonoured, so far as I knew. I pointed back along the street. ‘I live just off Alegatestrete. I saw a mob here and hurried up to help. Some fools attacked this poor fellow. Look, they tried to smash his skull.’
The constable nodded suspiciously. His face looked as though someone had tried to batter Ludgate open with it. His nose was flattened, his brow heavy, his jaw massive. I had the impression that, were I to punch him, he would be unlikely to feel it, and my hand would be broken permanently. ‘Who did this?’
‘I didn’t see. I was at the back. When this fellow fell, and they all saw you coming, they scattered.’ I saw the carter, who was still standing and watching with apparent interest. ‘Ask him. I was with him when the crowd began to grow agitated. Better, ask these fellows. They will confirm my words.’
‘If they speak any bleeding English, which I doubt,’ the constable said.
He went to the carter and asked, while I remained, helping the fellow on the ground to sit up. He had a permanent wince on his face, and he laid his hand on his head as if to contain his brains before they spilled loose. ‘Did you see who hit your friend?’ I said to the others.
The sword had gradually dropped, and now the man who held it shamefacedly thrust it into the scabbard. He stared at me, then at his companions, and shook his head. I got the strong suspicion that the constable was right: these men spoke nothing of our language.
Looking down at my charge, I saw that his eyes were narrowed with pain. ‘I do not know,’ he said, in passable English. ‘They were just idlers and vagabonds.’ He felt quickly at his hip, before the tenseness suddenly left him. ‘But at least they did not try to rob me.’
‘No,’ I smiled.
The catchpole was glad enough when I offered to take the Spaniard off his hands.
Why did I want to do it? The weight of his purse was a great incentive, but just then I needed to get away from London and hide somewhere so that John Blount couldn’t find me. I wasn’t going to put myself through the strain of trying to kill some fellow in cold blood. That wasn’t the sort of man I was. But, as they say, a pickpocket can take a purse from a man, but no man can take a pickpocket from his haunts. Well, it’s what I say, anyway. I was made to be a thief, and I am an uncommonly good one. It was a hard trade to learn, and now I have grown to manhood, I find it difficult to resist the temptation of a good weighty purse like this Spaniard’s. I felt confident that I could have his purse swiftly enough, if I was given the opportunity.
Yes, it was a foolish idea. He had men with him, and finding them alert enough, and distrusting, should have warned me, but I was not t
hinking straight. In my mind was the command to kill this Jeffry, the horror of complying with Master Blount’s instruction, and the thought that I must get away from London permanently. Yes, if I stole this purse in my own home, the Spaniard would know who had taken it, but the beauty of my plan was that even if he knew, it wouldn’t matter, because by the time he appeared knocking at my door, I would be far away in Kent or Surrey.
So it seemed a good idea to bring the man to my home. It would have been better, were it only me and my gull, but I could not help the fact that the other three tagged along with me. They seemed still to hold some sort of grudge against me, as though I was as much of a threat as those who had assaulted them in the street. I would never do such a thing, of course, but they clearly did not trust me.
‘Who are you?’ I asked my companion as we walked.
His face was pale under his brown complexion, but he walked with his head held as high as a knight. If only he had used the odd vile oath or two, I would have thought him a nobleman. ‘My name is Luys de Aguilera.’
‘And you’re over here with the Queen’s husband?’
‘Yes. We came with King Philip, and we are here still to support him and his wife.’
He shot a look over his shoulder as he spoke and I gained the clear impression that, whatever else, these four were not here just to fetch and carry for the Queen’s man. He muttered something in his rattling language, and the men nodded grimly. I got the impression, I don’t know why, that this man, with his showy style and apparent riches, was no less a scoundrel than me. In particular, I was convinced that his name was not Luys any more than mine was Peter the Passer.
‘Here we are,’ I said.
Luys stared up at my house. ‘This is a big house,’ he commented in his strange accent. It almost sounded as if he was surprised to learn that I had such a large property. I could have been insulted, had I given myself time to think. But maybe that was only his accent, and I was doing him a disservice.
Instead, I threw open the door and helped my charge inside. Bellowing for my servant, I asked Raphe to bring me a footstool, and soon had Luys installed in front of my fire with blankets all about him to keep him as warm as possible.
While I was seeing to his comfort, his companions stood in a huddle, eyeing my belongings, my pewter and other items on display. My suspicious friend, who had been so keen to draw his sword and point it at me, stood with an expression of grim uncertainty on his face, as if expecting at any moment to be set upon once more. Plainly, he thought I kept a small brigade of ferocious ruffians in my home in order to do away with chance visitors, the fool.
I called to my servant for ale, and then glanced at the three and changed my mind. Foreigners from the Continent, so I had heard, preferred to drink wine. With that in mind, I gave Raphe instructions to go to the vintner’s on the corner and buy a small barrel of good Guyennois wine. Thinking, I pulled out my purse and fiddled, hoping that the three would take the hint and offer to pay, but they were clearly well born, and therefore as tight-fisted as a Scotsman. Reluctantly I put my purse away and told him to promise to pay for the wine later. I hoped to be long gone before the vintner appeared to demand his bill be settled.
‘You would offer hospitality to us?’ Luys said.
‘Of course,’ I said. Although I had given the wounded gentleman my chair, I yet had a stool, and I plonked my arse on it. No sooner had I done so than there was a slither of steel and that damned rapier returned to my throat.
Now, generally I dislike being threatened. It grieves me to risk my good looks and limbs, let alone my life, but this man’s routine resort to cold steel was seriously annoying me. I looked along its blade, to the man’s eyes. He was older than my battered companion, with a face that had surely seen a certain amount of excitement. He had a ragged scar on the right of his face, and his mouth held a sardonic grin as a result. His brow swept back, and he had a significant widow’s peak that gave him a strangely feline look. But it was the appearance of a wild cat, not some casual mog from the street; he looked more like a feral brute that would scratch my eyes out in an instant.
However, I had shown him kindness, I was investing in wine to entertain him and his injured friend, I was delaying my departure (yes, only so I could steal some of their wealth, but they didn’t know that), and, all in all, his habit of threatening me was growing worse than tedious – it was also rude.
‘Master Luys, would you tell your dog here to remove his blade, or I will shove it so far up his arse that he’ll have to sharpen it by opening his mouth,’ I said coldly.
Luys chuckled at that, wincing as he did so. He rattled off some words like a fusillade of artillery, and the man relented. The rapier withdrew an inch or two, and he stared at me resentfully before thrusting it back into his scabbard. Turning to Luys, he snapped something that sounded appallingly rude, but, for all I knew, he could have been commenting on the weather. Luys returned with something that sounded conciliatory, and Rapier Man gave a gesture of disgust. Strange how some gestures are easily comprehended. He threw his hands up, rolled his eyes and gave a little gasp, and I could see at once that he was telling Luys, ‘This Englishman cannot be trusted, but you ignore my good advice and prefer to pander to him? You should have your brain examined. It’s scrambled by that blow.’
Raphe entered with a flagon of wine and goblets. He filled them, passing them to our guests, and one to me, and I had to tell him to refill the flagon and bring it back. If I could, I would have had the vintner’s barrel in here too, because if I understood men at all, the thieving scrote, Raphe, would drink half the barrel in the parlour while we were in here.
Luys drew me back to the present, glancing at me. ‘My companion is determined to think that you are a dangerous fellow. He said that we should beware of you, that your kindness and … your good looks could be a clever ruse to disguise evil intent.’
‘He does, does he?’ I said coolly enough, looking up at the man.
‘Ramon is not very trusting. It is not surprising after what happened in the street.’
‘It is odd that he should seek to distrust the one man in London who came to help you.’
Luys gave a quick grin. ‘It is that which makes him mistrust you!’
I grimaced. This Ramon was a fair bit brighter than Luys, then. I was sure that he was a servant here to protect his young master. ‘I think him a very cynical fellow.’
‘Cynical?’
‘It means he seeks to find the worst of any man he meets, rather than treating them as another Christian soul,’ I said, allowing a degree of hurt to enter my voice.
‘Do not mind him,’ Luys said.
He was the son of a Spaniard who was in the King’s court, he told me, and keen to learn all he could about this land. The customs, the habits of all the people – these were his study. ‘You see, I must learn about the foods, about the drinks, about the …’ He blushed slightly.
‘The women?’ I said.
‘Indeed, these too,’ he said, and I instantly saw what form of fellow he was. Here he was, a young fellow set loose in the greatest city in all Christendom, and he was desperate to get to fencing with a bawdy basket. He would be desolate if he didn’t find a wench.
‘Are you free this evening?’ I said. If I had to, I could put off my disappearance for one more day, I thought, staring at him to prevent my eyes from sliding down towards his purse.
‘I could be,’ the lad said, glancing up at Ramon. He didn’t have to say what was going through his mind. Ramon had to be left behind.
‘Meet me here this afternoon, and I shall take you to a safe place,’ I promised. And I smiled.
It was approaching the time when sensible men would be seated at their grand tables ready to fill their bellies, and I had plenty of miles to cover if I was to escape the city, yet I was now in two minds about fleeing or making the most of the opportunity represented by that purse, as I saw the Spaniards to the door. They gazed up and down the street before setting off
purposefully southwards.
That purse. It filled my mind with dreams of gold and jewels, and I could barely contain myself.
Raphe entered the chamber, glowering about him with the look of a terrier who had heard a rat. I ignored him, as a well-bred man would. I did not even comment about the reek of wine on his breath.
‘I suppose Master Blount will be happy to hear you’re looking out for Spaniards,’ he said as he picked up a goblet with a grimace. Anyone would have thought he considered the vessel polluted with poison, the way he took it up.
‘What has he to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. What would I know?’ he said with that strange, wheedling whine that is the proud manner of speech of the lowest orders of servant.
I was about to kick him from the chamber when a moment’s reflection caused me to hesitate. ‘What makes you say that about Blount? What do you know about him?’
‘I know little enough. I know what you are paid for,’ he added.
I jerked the dagger from my belt and held it high, as though to plunge it into his breast. ‘You know my profession?’
He looked up at the blade with a wavering uncertainty in his eyes. ‘I had heard something.’
‘What?’
His gaze flashed from the blade to me and back. ‘Nothing, I’m sure. It’s nothing.’
‘Are you well enough paid for being here?’
‘I … yes!’
‘Then if you want to keep your … your position here, and not lose things you would prefer to keep, you will watch your tongue.’
He nodded. Clearly my little pause had given him time to reflect. If he had once been told that I was an assassin, he would think twice before irritating me again.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘why did you say that about me looking after Spaniards? What do you know?’
‘Master, I meant no harm!’ he declared suddenly, and I thought he would piss himself. His face was anguished when he stared at me. ‘Don’t hurt me! I know about Master Blount, because he told me to keep a close look on you, in case you should come into danger. But he also told me you had a new task, and I was to watch in case a Spanish intelligencer might set men to keep an eye on you. That’s all!’
A Missed Murder Page 4
