Unicorn's Blood

by Patricia Finney

  Then he laughed softly with excitement and slapped the priest on the back.

  “I am sorry about . . .”

  “Not being able to climb the rope ladder? Why?” said the priest. “It was my fault for expecting it of you, I should have known better. Now, let me see.”

  He squatted before Becket and examined the links of his leg-irons. Becket looked about nervously.

  “I could make assay at the ladder now . . .”

  The priest looked up and grinned. “See here,” he said, feeling about in a sack he had swung from his back. “Aqua fortis, as your friend recommended, and a blacksmith’s bolt-cutters.”

  He unstoppered the little glass jar he had wrapped in leather to protect it and poured the alchemical paradox onto the middle link, where it hissed and steamed and made a hot, vinegary smell. A few puffs of sand on the same place and then he tried with the bolt-cutters and the jaws broke the links as if they were cheese.

  Becket laughed again, pulled the chain apart and stretched his legs luxuriously. The priest grunted and led the way across the courtyard to the ladder.

  “W . . . wait,” gasped Ames. “B . . . Strangways, will you not take me?”

  The priest started, having missed seeing him entirely, since he sat so still in the shadow of the courtyard wall.

  Becket looked at him calmly. “Do you want to come, Mr Anriques?”

  “I . . . I . . . yes.”

  “If you are patient, surely your family will bail you out.”

  “Y . . . yes, I . . . but Mr Newton will surely beat me and put me in the Hole when he comes in the morning and finds you gone.”

  Becket nodded at this undeniable truth. “Would you not rather suffer it in patience than risk your life escaping with me?” he said, gravely reasonable.

  Ames hung his head. “No,” he said, his desperation to keep close to Becket lending wings to his thoughts. “He might even kill me for failing to raise the alarm. He has beaten others to death when they angered him.”

  Becket and the priest exchanged glances.

  “He has not shouted to wake the gaoler,” the priest pointed out, “which he could have done and been rewarded.”

  Becket seemed about to protest but then he nodded and came back to the stocks, unbolted them and lifted off the top.

  Ames was so cold and stiff he could hardly move, and when the priest helped him up, he found his feet were completely numb with cold and almost collapsed under him. He rubbed his cramped legs and stamped as quietly as he could while he followed the other two over to the ladder. The priest went first, waited for them on the broad top of the wall, where he had put cloaks to protect their legs from the broken glass. Becket indicated Ames was to follow the priest, and then came up immediately behind him, steadying him occasionally on the rungs. They crouched in a row on the wall, glass pressing through the padding and their shoes to their feet. The priest lifted the ladder, hefted it carefully over the three-foot-high spikes, fed it back down to Fleet Lane. With extreme caution, he climbed over the spikes, creaked down the ladder.

  Becket had already climbed over and was looking impatiently at Ames while he started to retrieve the cloaks that had been bundled on top of the glass.

  “Can you not climb?” he demanded.

  “I . . . m . . . my legs are so numb . . .”

  “Fft,” said Becket, and without further ado lifted Ames up under the armpits and hauled him over while his numb feet scrabbled at the spikes. “Watch out as you come down the ladder.”

  Becket went next, a jangling hulk, Ames last, moving painfully slowly. By the time he got to the bottom they were whispering together, almost certainly about him and his slowness.

  “We must run,” said the priest, putting the ladder back in a yard passage of Fleet Lane. “At least until we get to Holborn Conduit. If Mr Anriques cannot keep up, he will have to stay behind.”

  “You first, then him, then me,” Becket said, taking the sword-belt handed to him by the priest and shrugging the baldric on his right shoulder. He drew the sword, testing its weight in his hands, shook his head regretfully and put it back. The priest took a pair of loose-topped buskin-boots from a sack by the wall and Becket changed into them, coiling the broken ends of his ankle-chains into them.

  Then they ran, Ames stumbling and lurching until the blood started to get to his feet again, and soon after that he was panting for breath. So was Becket, but he hardly seemed to care; in fact, he seemed as happy as a boy in a race.

  At Holborn Bridge they stopped while Becket caught his breath and Ames leaned against a wall and panted. Then, since Holborn was empty, they ran on down Holborn Hill. The priest jinked left at the square tower of St Andrews, down Shoe Lane, right at the Fleet Street Conduit into Fleet Street, past Salisbury Court where the French ambassador had his house, past Hanging Sword Court where the fire-drake had been born five years before, past the Gatehouse Inn where Ames had first met Becket, and left down Crocker’s Lane near where Becket had rescued Ames from his attackers. Thence they slipped between two buildings, into a tiny yard and stopped at a door which still had fragments of carving above it, my statue made headless by the Reformers and the serpent under my heel left whole.

  By that time Ames was crowing for breath and close to puking. Even Becket was leaning against the wall and gasping.

  “Christ, I’m weak,” he panted. “Give me a minute, Hart.”

  Father Hart was unlocking the wooden door. “No,” he said, “up you go. We are in the Liberty of Whitefriars, but Davison has sent pursuivants in here before. Better not to be seen.”

  Shaking his head and spitting, Becket pushed Ames, wheezing, ahead of him up the stairs after Hart, to the second floor and in at the door.

  The room smelt sweet as a meadow after Eightpenny Ward: there were fresh rushes on the floor, a chest, a table, papers neatly stowed. Ames turned to face Becket with a smile, took breath to congratulate him on a smooth escape.

  Becket showed his teeth again, and punched Ames deliberately in the stomach.

  LVII

  CAREY ROSE SEVERAL HOURS before dawn on the day of his duel with Gage. He had made his will the night before, which essentially amounted to the distribution of his clothes and jewels, instructions for his burial and an appeal to his father to pay a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of debt, which he had no doubt his father would ignore. George Clifford, Earl of Cumberland, had agreed to be his second and was snoring in the other bed.

  Stepping carefully over the body of Michael, also snoring on a straw-pallet by the door, Carey dressed himself and went down to the lane. He felt almost as if he had a fever, unnaturally clear-headed and alert, his stomach fizzing with anticipation. The sky was spattered with stars, and out of sheer habit Carey counted the Pleiades and smiled up at the North Star and Orion. He was content to think of the sky as the wall of heaven, tapestried with black velvet and spangled with diamonds, as befitted a King’s palace. On the other side, he knew, was Paradise. He knew, theoretically, that by the end of the day he might be on the other side of that lordly tapestry, face to face with Judgment, but it did not worry him because in the core of his heart he could not really believe it possible. All evidence to the contrary, even despite making his will, like most healthy young men he believed himself immortal and knew that God would look after him.

  By the time he went back up the stairs of his lodging, Michael had gone to fetch hot water and the Earl of Cumberland was sitting up, scratching his face and muttering to himself about fleas.

  “Jesus Christ, Carey, why are you looking so bloody happy?” George grumbled. “What’s the time?”

  “A few hours before dawn,” Carey told him with a smile, used to being hated in the morning. “Are you getting up, my lord?”

  “Urrrh. Have you got any beer?”

  Good-humouredly Carey poured some into a goblet and gave it to the Earl, then poured some for himself.

  “Where the hell is Michael?”

  Michael reappeared, toiling
up the stairs with two heavy jugs of hot water from the cookhouse down the lane. Carey told his servant to shave the Earl because he preferred to shave himself and got busy with soap and a small mirror.

  Cumberland said nothing until they went down the lane to the water-steps to cross the river.

  “Second thoughts?” he asked. “Accept an apology from Gage?”

  “No,” Carey said. “Gage thinks I owe him an apology for hitting him.”

  Cumberland yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Oh yes. I had forgotten.”

  “Wake up, George. Have you got your sword?”

  “Urrf.”

  “Who is Gage’s second?”

  “Drury.”

  “Any good?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Carey, I’m not planning to fight the other second.”

  “You might have to if he tries to help Gage. That’s why I asked you to be there.”

  “He’ll not fight.” George yawned again mightily. “And this is no way to settle a dispute.”

  Carey grinned. “How would you do it?”

  “The proper way. The old-fashioned way. You gather your servants, your kin and your tenants, he gathers his, you find a field and you all fight it out.”

  “I have only one servant and I share him.”

  “Scandalous. Or you ambush him. That’s how my father would have dealt with it.”

  “So would mine,” Carey admitted. “But this is more honourable.”

  There was no need of a boat, which simplified life greatly. They walked to the Stangate Stairs across the ice, which creaked ominously, and along the muddy road called Lambeth Marsh.

  George had arranged for the duel to be in a small field surrounded by copses on a rise of ground by Lambeth Palace. John Gage was already there waiting with Drury, pacing up and down.

  Carey took off his hat and bowed politely, a courtesy barely returned by Gage. Drury and the Earl paced together and talked in low voices while Carey looked with interest at Gage and wondered what he was thinking. He was pale, perhaps he was scared. Carey felt extraordinary: not afraid, not at all, but he was at a pitch of excitement he had rarely experienced in his life before. Perhaps it was something comparable to the way he felt when he was hunting wild boar, or perhaps when he was playing primero with the Queen and gambling more that he could afford on a hand he was not sure of. He felt as if his whole body was full of stars, each one fizzling with life, his mind as cold and sharp as a razor. Unbidden the thought came to him that, unlikely as it might seem to anyone else, he was happy.

  Our of pure gratitude to Gage for revealing this to him, he smiled across at him, quite unaware of how wild he looked.

  The seconds came back and Cumberland muttered something about Gage being unwilling either to receive or give an apology. Carey began unbuttoning his close-cut doublet to give his shoulders more room to move. Cumberland held his cloak. He took his sword-belt off, along with his doublet, and gave it to the Earl. Sharp feathers of cold air bit through his shirt-sleeves.

  They moved into the centre of the grassy patch, which was crunching with frost, hard and slippery underfoot.

  “Will either of you gentlemen apologise and so avoid this meeting?” asked Cumberland again ritually.

  Carey was afraid he might laugh if he spoke, so he simply shook his head. Gage said, “No,” and sounded as if he was speaking through clenched teeth. The light was coming up at last, the frost-sugared eastern end of London taking fire from the still-invisible sun. Carey breathed deeply, tasting air like wine. God, this was glorious.

  Drury took Carey’s sword and checked it. Cumberland did the same with Gage’s. Carey took the sword from Drury, smiled as he felt the weight in his hand. Gage also took his sword. They paced off the proper distance, raised the swords so the blades were parallel. Cumberland exchanged glances with Drury.

  “Begin, gentlemen,” he said.

  Carey stepped back at once, as Sidney’s sword-master Mr Becket had taught him to do the previous year. Gage misinterpreted this and instantly came to the attack, swinging his blade crosswise. Neither of them had rapiers, on Cumberland’s advice, who felt it was un-English to use Italian pigstickers, and furthermore because Gage had been studying with Rocco Benetti, who was known to teach all swords as if they were rapiers.

  Carey parried, parried again, gave ground and parried, watching Gage to see how he moved. They had fought before, veneys with heavy staves, sword practice with blunt weapons for tournaments. They had even drawn against each other in the last Accession Day tilts, and for the life of him Carey could not remember who had won. Probably it had been a draw, because they were so evenly matched.

  But this was different. This time the clanging blades were sharp. Gage was still attacking, not finding a way through. Carey tried a couple of experimental passes, feeling him out, very nearly fell for an old trick to make him overreach himself and had to skip backwards to avoid a nasty belly cut.

  It was risky, but worth a try. Invitingly, Carey left the opening again, saw Gage slash at him and knew that the man was not pressing home, had unknowingly pulled his blow.

  Ah, thought Carey, as if he were watching the duel from far away, he does not want to kill me. In fact, I do believe he is afraid of killing me.

  Do I want to kill him? Carey asked himself, as they separated and circled, watching each other and catching their breaths. The answer came that he not only would kill Gage, but he could, he had fewer compunctions. But do I want to kill him? Carey thought, parrying a couple of experimental blows and ignoring an obvious feint. No, I do not. What would be the point?

  His attention was focussed on Gage the way he had been taught, not looking at his opponent’s eyes but straight at the middle of his body, so he could see all movement and all intention. But the excitement that had been almost lifting him off his feet since he woke made the whole world sharp and clear. He felt as if his skull were transparent and he could see right through it in every direction. And so he knew, without consciously registering the fact, that they were no longer alone. Something moved among the trees at the very corner of his vision, and neither Drury nor Cumberland, who were supposed to make sure they were uninterrupted, paid any attention.

  The blades clanged and scraped again. For a moment Carey felt real fury with Cumberland, but then he laughed and took a chance. “Come on, Gage,” he said loudly and theatrically. “This is foolishness and disrespectful to the Queen. Drop your sword.”

  Gage snarled at him. “Drop yours first, bastard’s get.”

  No, he does not know, he has noticed nothing. Cary backed again, decided to gamble on his guess in the hope of salvaging something from the farce, dramatically threw down his sword.

  “There,” he said. “Now you.”

  Gage came swinging for him with his blade, murderous at last now it was too late. Carey had not expected it, had been certain Gage would be wise enough to copy him. At last he was afraid and angry that Gage would attack him when he was unarmed. The world shrank away to the single intensity of the point of Gage’s sword; he saw but didn’t register Cumberland’s mouth open with horror, felt rather than saw more hurried movement among the trees.

  Carey caught the beat, dodged the metal twice, and then threw himself bodily at Gage in a shoulder tackle, as if they were playing football. Gage went backwards, still holding his sword; Carey landed on top of him, holding Gage’s right wrist, punched him hard a couple of times in the face.

  The men-at-arms were already trampling out of the undergrowth, hands grabbed at Carey’s shoulders, caught his arms, twisted them up behind him and pulled him up and off. Gage was dazed and had dropped his sword at last. He was treated the same way by two men-at-arms in the red velvet of the Queen’s livery. Carey looked over his shoulder at the young Earl of Cumberland, who was standing back, looking completely unsurprised and very relieved.

  “George,” he said reproachfully. “You traitor.”

  Cumberland shrugged. “What did you expect? You can thank me some othe
r time.”

  There were four other men-at-arms standing around with halberds, some of them looking amused, waiting for somebody. Out from the shadow of an oak tree strode a broad figure, over six feet tall, dark-red hair rusted to grey around the temples, magnificent in black velvet timed with gold brocade, the white staff of the Lord Chamberlain in his heavily ringed right hand. He paused and inspected them, standing four-square, looking eerily like the portrait of the Queen’s father in the Whitehall Waiting Chamber, his eyes less piggy and his face less puffy, but with just as great authority. He was glowering at Carey.

  “Oh my God,” Carey said weakly. “Father.”

  LVIII

  LORD HUNSDON MADE ABSOLUTELY no concession to his youngest son, did not even acknowledge him. One of the men-at-arms carried the swords as they marched back to Stangate Stairs, over the frozen river again, and this time up the Privy Stairs that led to the Queen’s private apartments. Carey marched with them, the happiness of the duel completely deflated and about twenty years suddenly disappeared from his life. He felt as he had when he had been caught for the hundredth time playing with the dogs in the kennels at Berwick Castle instead of attending to his Latin lessons: hot, embarrassed, resentful, knowing perfectly well he was at fault but completely unrepentant. His tutor had birched him regularly for running away, which he disliked, of course, but you got used to it and he always reckoned a sore arse a price worth paying for a few hours of freedom to throw sticks, play football with the stable-boys and dog-pages, climb on roofs and, naturally, fight.

  Well, thought Carey as he and Gage stood side by side in the waiting room outside the Queen’s Presence Chamber, elaborately not looking at each other, at least now I am a man Father will not beat me for this. Probably. Lord Hunsdon had gone ahead into the Presence, along with the sergeant-at-arms who had commanded the men. There was a low murmur of voices through the door.

  When at last it opened and they went in, the Queen was not there, only maids of honour standing around the walls staring at them morbidly, and one or two courtiers. Sir Walter Raleigh leaned languidly on a windowsill in his pear-grey damask and conversed with one of the red-and-green parrots in a cage, his surprisingly soft voice burred with Devon.