“Watch yourselves when you’re in town,” Dag warned. “The Constabulary is well-armed, and they have a fondness for hauling people off to jail to make it look like they’re doing something useful.”
Dag had managed to run into a few people who still remembered him-some of them fondly. He had not encountered any trouble, though the same could not be said for the good Doctor, who had returned with a swollen eye, a chipped tooth, and part of an ear missing.
“But you should see the other cat,” Dag said with a proud grin.
Dag had spread the word that he would pay well for information regarding Alcazar or Henry Wallace. His silver rosuns had garnered something, though not much that was useful. About a week ago, a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age had appeared in the high-class brothels and gambling dens, making inquiries about a Freyan gentleman by the name of Henry Wallace.
The young man was handsome, well dressed, soft-spoken. He told people he had been sent by his mistress, Lady Wallace, to find her husband, who had gone missing. He had a description of Sir Henry, which matched in many respects the description given by the countess. No one had seen such a man, however, at least so far as Dag was able to determine.
Stephano found this odd, but not particularly enlightening, beyond the fact that someone else was searching for Sir Henry. This young man might be what he claimed to be-a member of Wallace’s household. Or he might be an agent sent by a foreign government, the grand bishop, or even his mother, though Stephano doubted that. The countess had told him she could not trust any of her agents and whatever other faults Cecile de Marjolaine might have, she had never lied to him. Since any number of people could be looking for Sir Henry for any number of reasons, Stephano did not give the matter further thought.
Dag’s questions about Alcazar had drawn a blank. Alcazar was a fairly common name in Westfirth, and while many people knew men named Alcazar, none were journeymen and none matched the description.
“There are three Alcazars residing in Westfirth,” Dag said. “One is a middle-aged baker, another a farrier, and the third is a sailor.”
“What about the warrant for my arrest?” Rodrigo asked anxiously. “Am I a wanted murderer for killing Valazquez?”
Dag shook his head. “I asked. If there is a warrant, no one here has word of it.”
“I told you. My mother took care of it,” said Stephano.
Rodrigo gave a faint smile and a shrug. Stephano gazed thoughtfully at him, then asked Miri what she had found out. She reported even less success than Dag. She had questioned her fellow Trundlers about Sir Henry. None of them had ever heard the name. They had not seen anyone resembling his description. The same with Alcazar.
Stephano shoved away his empty plate and sat back in his chair, frustrated.
“Not much to go on. Still, one of these Alcazars might be a relative of Pietro’s. Miri, you and Dag pay a visit to the baker and the farrier. I’ll go to the docks and ask around about the sailor. Gythe, you stay here to mind the boat. What’s wrong now?”
Gythe was shaking her head and indicating she was accompanying her sister.
Stephano frowned. “You’ve been really ill, Gythe. I’m not sure you should be going-”
“Gythe, dear,” said Miri, fussing with her hair, “I need another pin for this cap. Would you be a love and run fetch one for me.”
Gythe ran down below. When she was gone, Miri said with a grimace, “She hopes to run into Brother Barnaby. I tell you, she’s besotted with that man.”
Rodrigo was incredulous. “Impossible. With that dreadful haircut!”
“I don’t think love has anything to do with his haircut,” said Stephano dryly. “I know Trundlers don’t know much about the Church. Does Gythe realize that Brother Barnaby is a monk and that monks take vows not to… uh…”
“Frolic beneath the sheets,” said Rodrigo.
“I’m not sure. I’ve tried talking to her,” said Miri, sighing. “She either doesn’t understand or refuses to understand. I’m really worried about her, Stephano. Gythe seems well enough, but she’s changed. She stops dead in her tracks sometimes and stares off into nothing. She’ll frown sometimes and wince and put her hand to her head, as though she’s in pain.”
“Sounds like love to me,” said Rodrigo. He tapped Stephano on the shoulder. “It’s time we were going-”
“Maybe this has something to do with her magic,” said Stephano, getting to his feet. “Is that possible, Rigo?”
“If so, I have no idea what it could be,” Rodrigo said. “Ask Father Grim and Dreadful.”
“His name is Father Jacob,” said Dag in stern and rebuking tones. “You shouldn’t make fun of a priest.”
“Trust me, my friend, I find nothing at all funny about that man,” said Rodrigo.
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Miri,” said Stephano. “I can plan a raid on a heavily fortified castle, fly a dragon through cannon fire, and even battle demons from Hell. A young woman in love with a monk is beyond my capability. All I can tell you is to keep clear of the area around the Old Fort. Father Jacob said they would be staying there as guests of the archbishop. He’s taken over the residential part of the Fort.”
Gythe returned with the hairpin, which she gave to her sister, along with a look that said plainly she knew they had been talking about her. Gythe adjusted Miri’s hair, patted her own cap in place. Miri and Gythe were dressed as servants from a well-to-do household, wearing neat gray dresses and frilly white caps. In such disguises, they could claim to be anything from parlor maids to seamstresses to cooks as the situation warranted.
“Dag, you and the Doctor go with Miri and Gythe. Do you have money?” Stephano asked.
Miri exhibited a small leather purse she carried around her wrist.
“Are you armed?” Stephano asked.
Dag indicated his weapons. Miri reached into her bosom and drew out a corset gun, then hiked up her skirt to reveal a knife in her stocking.
“And the hairpins,” she said, grinning. “Amazing what damage you can do with a hairpin.”
“Very well, good luck,” said Stephano. “Take care of yourselves. Rodrigo and I will visit the docks-”
“After I’ve been to my tailor,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano sighed and went below to dress. He wore his brown, militarycut coat and a plain shirt, no frills and no cravat. He put on his tricorn, draped his sword belt over his shoulder, slid the dragon pistol into his belt and a smaller pistol into a loop in the top of his boot. He came up on deck prepared to face Rodrigo’s scathing criticism of his clothing. Rodrigo scarcely gave him a glance and said nothing beyond the fact that he had a spot of mustard on his shirt collar.
The two left the Trundler village, taking the road that led into the central part of the city. The time being midmorning, the road was crowded with people of Westfirth coming to visit the Trundler village, and Trundlers taking their goods to market. Trundlers were tinkers and craftsmen, tending to excel in weaving, embroidery, and fine leather and metal work. A few traded in gems, while others sold charms and herbal potions and remedies. Trundler villages-closed up at night-were open to the public by day.
Rodrigo wanted to take a cab to their destination. The day being a fine one, Stephano felt in need of exercise after being cooped up on the boat. He had always been fond of Westfirth, wild and lawless as the city might be, and he proposed that they walk.
Rodrigo agreed, though with obvious reluctance.
“God forbid you should have to appear wearing the same lavender brocade coat trimmed in ermine you wore in Evreux,” Stephano teased, as they continued down the street. “I suppose there would be a warrant out for your arrest.”
“My dear fellow,” said Rodrigo with a faint smile, “even you must concede that my clothes are not suitable for mourning.”
“Mourning…” Stephano came to a sudden stop, much to the annoyance of several people behind him and regarded his friend in remorse. “Oh, my God, Rigo, your father
! I’m sorry, damnably sorry! What with all that’s been happening, it never occurred to me-”
“Keep moving,” said Rodrigo, drawing Stephano along. “You’re impeding traffic.”
“We can take a cab…”
“No, no, I don’t mind walking. See the sights. I need to stop at a stationer’s if there is such a thing in this city. I have to write a letter to my mother explaining why I was unable to attend the funeral. I’ll have to make up some tale. I can hardly plead fighting giant bats as an excuse-”
“Rigo, stop playing the clown!” said Stephano. “You should have said something. You don’t need to hide your grief. Not from me or the others. We’re your friends.”
Rodrigo was silent long moments, then he said in a muffled voice, “I wasn’t trying to hide from you. I didn’t… want to think about it. Then, last night, I realized I would have to appear in public today and I had nothing that was suitable. My father is dead. He was murdered, and I have nothing to wear except lavender…”
Rodrigo lowered his head. Blinking his eyes rapidly and walking very fast, he blundered into a costermonger, who threw down his cap and doubled his fists and challenged the “gentlemun who thinks he’s better’n the likes of us” to a fight. Stephano hailed a passing cab, and bundled Rodrigo into it before the wheels had stopped rolling. He gave the address of the tailor shop, which was on Threadneedle Street. Rodrigo sank into a corner and sat with hand over his face.
Stephano knew that no words of his could help ease Rodrigo’s pain, but he also knew that the words didn’t matter. What mattered was the warmth of a friend’s voice, the touch of a friend’s hand. By the time the cab rolled to a stop, Rodrigo had recovered his composure. He hastened into the tailor shop. Stephano paid the driver and, as was his habit, cast a routine glance up and down the street.
Rodrigo was a longtime customer of this particular tailor’s shop, which happened to deal in fine-quality silks at prices much lower than anything he could buy in Evreux; mainly due to the fact that the silks entering Westfirth entered the city through unconventional means. Stephano, who detested going to the tailor’s and did so only when forced, had always managed to avoid accompanying his friend on these trips. He had never been to this shop or even to this part of Westfirth.
There had been a time in the city’s history when streets had been named after the nature of the shop owners’ occupations. Thus there was Market Street, Butcher’s Row, Smith Street, and so forth. The needs of a burgeoning population, especially a growing upper middle class (or lower upper class as they liked to think of themselves), had brought about changes. Threadneedle Street was still known as a place where one could find tailors, milliners, and dressmakers. Now one could find lodging on Threadneedle Street, as well. An inn, newly built, had opened across the street from the tailor’s shop. A cafe known as the Four Clovers was next door.
Stephano, loath to go into the tailor’s, where he was certain to be accosted by the tailor trying to sell him new trousers or the latest fashion in waistcoats, remained outside, observing the people. His mother, the Countess de Marjolaine, would have never been seen on Threadneedle Street. Her dressmaker came to her in the palace. The wife of the wealthy ironmonger who had recently been knighted for his ironmongering services to the country came to Threadneedle Street. “Lady Ironmonger” was shown pen-and-ink drawings of the dresses worn by the Countess de Marjolaine and she would then instruct her dressmaker to make a dress exactly like that worn by the countess only “it was so plain” and to add a few more feathers and a lot more ribbons and perhaps plunge the bosom and raise the hem.
Stephano also saw what were termed “men of affairs” hastening along the street, engrossed in their own business which was all about money and the making of it. Meeting other men of affairs, these gentlemen would stop to talk in urgent voices for the making of money always demands urgency.
A group of priests passed him, hands in the sleeves of their robes. Stephano gave them a sharp glance, prepared to bolt, but none wore the black cassock. He did bolt when he saw several naval officers from one of the navy ships patrolling the harbor near the Old Fort. One of those ships was the Royal Lion, commanded by Stephano’s old enemy, Captain Hastind. None of these men were Hastind, but Stephano might know them from his days in the Dragon Brigade, which had been part of the navy, or they might know him from his notorious duel with Hastind. Either way, a meeting would be awkward. He ducked into the tailor’s shop.
The “Sew On and Sew Forth” as the shop was named, was a large establishment employing many workers, some engaged in cutting the cloth, others in creating the patterns used for the apparel, and others doing actual sewing. Many of the workers sat at tables placed in front of the windows to take advantage of the daylight.
Rodrigo had been an excellent customer over the years, and the owner of the Sew On and Sew Forth came out personally to greet him. The tailor was deeply saddened to hear of Rodrigo’s loss and immediately drew him over to view the somber-colored cloth worn by gentlemen in mourning.
After selecting the fabric, Rodrigo next had to decide upon the pattern for the coat, and he and the tailor were soon absorbed in leafing through the pattern book, talking of the styles being worn in court, determining the proper trimmings, and then taking measurements.
Stephano sat on a tall stool, watching his friend, glad to see Rodrigo finding comfort in the familiar routine and remembering with a pang when Benoit had brought Stephano his own suit of mourning clothes. He had flown into a rage, slicing up the black coat with his sword until he fell onto his knees sobbing-painful gasps of grief and rage. He remembered Benoit putting his arms around his shaking shoulders and saying, “I can’t take his place, lad, but I will always be here.”
Stephano stood up and walked over to one of the windows where he stared out, unseeing, into the street. He was forced to turn back to assist Rodrigo in deciding whether to add velvet trim to the collar or stay with satin. When all was finally concluded and the suit had been ordered and paid for, with strict instructions to have it completed as swiftly as possible, Rodrigo pronounced himself ready to leave.
“Feel better?” Stephano asked, as they emerged into the bright sunlight and began to walk down the street.
“I do,” said Rodrigo. “I have only to write to my mother with an explanation. God knows what I’m going to say to her.”
“There’s a cafe across the way,” said Stephano. “Let’s discuss it over a bottle of wine.”
“And they make an excellent roast capon served with new spring potatoes and the first crop of asparagus,” said Rodrigo.
The two walked across the street.
The cafe, known as the Four Clovers, was near the inn that was called, unimaginatively, Threadneedle Inn. The cafe catered to the patrons of the inn, as well as to the tailors, the wives of ironmongers, and men of affairs. On fine days, the owner placed tables and chairs on a patio in a garden that separated the inn from the cafe. Trees provided shade. Flowers scented the air. The small wooden tables were crowded close together to provide room for as many customers as possible, which meant that diners were seated so close they sometimes knocked elbows with their neighbors.
The cafe was crowded, for it was dinnertime. Many of the shops and businesses in Westfirth closed at noon, allowing owners and employees to dine at their leisure and then refresh themselves with a nap. The shops would reopen in the late afternoon and remained open until the lamps were lighted.
Dubois sat in the park beneath a linden tree. His bench faced the street and the entrance to the inn where Harrington was staying. He was astonished beyond measure to see Stephano de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve enter the tailor shop, the Sew On and Sew Forth, which was directly across the street from the inn.
Far from being glad to see them, Dubois swore beneath his breath and consigned Stephano de Guichen and his friend to the bottomless pits of Hell. James Harrington, alias Sir Richard Piefer, lodged in the inn.
At that moment, James Harring
ton, wearing the fashionable clothing of a man-about-town, left the inn. Dubois prayed to God and every saint in the calendar that the captain and his friend would not look out the window. Dubois’ prayers were answered, apparently, for Harrington entered the Four Clovers cafe without attracting any notice.
Four Clovers cafe. Dubois shifted his thoughts from Captain de Guichen as the report of one of his agents came to mind-Harrington had purchased a bouquet of clover from a street vendor and left them on a gravesite.
The clovers were a message for Sir Henry! This cafe was the meeting place!
Feeling a thrill of anticipation, Dubois watched until Harrington had found a seat, then he had hurried to the cafe and entered and asked for a table. He located James Harrington, sitting by himself. Dubois cast a glance around the people in the cafe and recognized the elderly priest with a hunched back seated at the table next to Harrington as Sir Henry Wallace.
Sir Henry had deliberately selected a table in the back near the garden wall with few other tables around it, which meant that Dubois could not acquire a table near enough to the two to eavesdrop on their conversation.
He found a table as close as possible and gazed with envy at the sparrow pecking at crumbs beneath Wallace’s chair, wishing he could change places with the bird. That being impossible, Dubois ordered a plate of cold meat and a flagon of wine and settled himself to wait for Sir Henry to leave, at which point Dubois would track his quarry to his lair.
Dubois had not forgotten about Captain de Guichen and his friend. He saw them leave the tailor shop with relief that was short-lived, soon replaced by horror.
Captain de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve were coming to the cafe.
Dubois had once witnessed a runaway wagon crash into a carriage containing a wedding party. He had seen the wagon rattling down the street; he had watched the carriage driving straight into its path. He had known a disastrous wreck was imminent, and he had been helpless to prevent it.
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