The Bell Inn was not what Thomas remembered. If it was still an inn, it was in name only, as few people would have been likely to stay there. The hall had a large fireplace on one side but was still open to the roof beams. The rushes on the floor were old and, as one trod, the broken shells of mussels cracked underfoot. The walls were whitewashed, to make the most of the light, but here and there were smears where beer had been thrown or spilled. A number of jugs and flasks hung from hooks in the walls; others lay on the floor, in the lee of a barrel or bench. The men were raucous and drinking beer, not wine. The only women to be seen were the landlord’s wife and another serving woman. There were just two long tables, and most of the spaces were full, but there was room on one bench for the three of them, albeit in the darkest place, furthest from the window. The aroma of meat in the air made Clarenceux’s mouth water. One glance at Greystoke, who looked uncomfortable, told Clarenceux that this would be the ideal place for them to eat.
He saw a platter of carved meat carried by the landlord down to the men making the most noise by the window, beckoned the fellow over, and asked for a similar platter for the three of them, as well as three pottles of double beer. As they waited, Clarenceux turned back to the rowdy group, who seemed no less noisy for the food they had been given. That was when he noticed the boy who was with them.
He was about fourteen years of age, thin, and just above average height, with curly hair, a narrow face, and high cheekbones. There were scars on his face. He had a curiously graceful way of moving, being extraordinarily lithe. He was smiling—laughing even—but he was also nervous—Clarenceux could tell by the small hand movements to his face. He could not hear what the boy was saying, but suddenly all the rowdy men fell quiet as the boy placed something on the table. At the same time he held up what at first seemed to be a piece of paper—but Clarenceux heard the immediate roar of approval and realized it was a playing card. The boy was smiling again, and men were patting him on the back; he picked up a coin from the table.
As their platter of meat and the tankards were delivered, Clarenceux heard someone standing behind him talking about the boy, whose name he heard as Fyndern: “He sleeps in a shed by St. Katherine’s wharf…his parents both died in the great plague of sixty-three…bless his soul, his luck with the cards is his only good fortune.” Clarenceux drew his knife but offered the first pick of the meat to his companions. Thomas declined, ashamed to eat before his master, until Clarenceux insisted. Greystoke then also accepted and picked the piece of beef nearest him.
“Some people have a hard way in the world,” said Clarenceux, nodding in the boy’s direction before he put the meat in his mouth.
“I don’t think so,” replied Greystoke. “Look at the size of the bet.”
Clarenceux saw that, where before there had been one coin, a penny, now there were two, and one was much larger than the other. The latter looked like a shilling—a working man’s wages for three days. He put down his knife. He wanted to eat but could not drag his gaze away from the boy. No one was saying anything now or even moving; there was silence throughout the tavern. The boy was just lifting his hand up and down. Then, slowly, he turned and held two cards up above his head and flicked them across the table. One landed on the table, face up; the other fell to the ground. Two men scrambled for it and held it up. A cheer went around and the boy bowed.
“Whatever he’s doing, he’s good at it,” said Greystoke.
“Too good,” replied Thomas. “Look at the scars on his face. You don’t get hurt like that for making mistakes.”
The noise of two dozen men chattering resumed. Clarenceux took another piece of beef. “Mr. Greystoke, do you have any idea how the women who attacked me might have entered my house?”
“No. None at all.”
A thick slice of bread was placed in front of each of them by the landlord, and Clarenceux signaled his thanks with a raised hand. “But both times you were on hand to attack my assailant, as if you knew she was going to be there. On both occasions you were armed, even when we had come straight from church.”
Greystoke seemed put out. “Would you rather I had not attacked them?”
“No, but I do wonder…”
“But why are you surprised that I go armed? Walsingham gave me instructions to watch out for you and your family. How could I do that if I weren’t armed?”
“Are you carrying a sword now?”
“Yes. Are you?”
Clarenceux swallowed. “Yes.”
“Well then.” Greystoke broke his bread and dipped it in the sauce. He bit off a piece and chewed, looking Clarenceux in the eye. “Both women were dangerous. On neither occasion were you in a position to defend yourself, and my orders from Walsingham are to protect you and your family. The second time, when Ann Thwaite had your wife by the neck—”
“Ann Thwaite? You know her name?”
“I heard what the coroner said,” said Greystoke, continuing to eat. “That was the second time. The first—you were too slow on the stairs, with that hip of yours. You claim you’d come good in a real fight, but I reckon your hip would be your undoing. I’ve watched you long enough; I know it is one of your weaknesses.”
“You say that as if it is some kind of threat.”
Greystoke lifted his tankard. “On the contrary. It is my business to look out for your weak spots. A good shepherd knows where the wolf is most likely to break into the fold.”
Clarenceux took the third-to-last piece of meat. “Thomas, you are being very quiet. What do you think?”
The old man lifted his tankard too, saying, “Would that I had been as agile as Mr. Greystoke here.”
There was a shout again from the men watching the boy with his cards.
Clarenceux looked at Greystoke. “I have probably not been grateful enough, Mr. Greystoke, and for that I apologize. But you must know that Mr. Walsingham and I have not always been friends. He has accused me of treason on more than one occasion. He has even wrecked my house before, destroying almost every possession. But that is why I am very curious about what information you have given him concerning me. You have been feeding him information, have you not?”
Greystoke nodded. “I have sent messages concerning both attacks.”
Clarenceux drummed his fingers on the table. “Does he intend to do more to help us? Can he? Can you?”
“You ask many questions, Mr. Clarenceux. We can only do what we can—”
At that moment there was another cheer—but only from some of those present, and it died suddenly in the air. Clarenceux looked at the curly-haired boy, who was no longer smiling. He was backing away from a man with short blond hair who was getting out of his seat. Everyone was silent.
“How did you do that?” shouted the blond man. “Is this witchcraft?”
Clarenceux saw the boy lose all confidence with the utterance of that word. Like a dog that has been beaten too often and recognizes that another beating is imminent, he backed away, reaching for the door. But he backed slightly the wrong way. A moment later the coins had been snatched up and the cards scattered. The blond man was between the boy and the door, and there was no escape. “You pick up my money,” he shouted.
“You made the bet and I won it,” pleaded the boy. “It’s my money now.”
Clarenceux glanced at Thomas and saw he was frowning. He turned back in time to see the blond-haired man take a swing at the boy. He missed, but voices spoke up for the man. “Go on, Ned, he’s asking for it.”
“You can be sure of it,” said Ned. “He’s not having anything from me but a hiding.”
Others started to get up. The boy had nowhere to go.
“This is going to turn bad,” Thomas said in a low voice.
A couple of men glanced anxiously in Clarenceux’s direction. He and Greystoke were the only gentlemen present, their clothes marking them out as men of influence and authori
ty. If anyone was going to intervene, it had to be one of them. Clarenceux rose to his feet. He took a couple of steps and clapped a man on the shoulder, bent down, and whispered in the ear of the surprised drinker, “What is that man’s name?”
“Ned Wilson,” replied the man immediately.
Clarenceux patted the man’s shoulder and walked over to the corner where Ned Wilson was haranguing the boy. Those cheering in support fell silent and drew back. Suddenly everyone was quiet, watching Clarenceux.
“Why are you menacing this boy, Goodman Wilson? What harm has he done you?”
Wilson’s gray eyes were vague with drink. “You saw—surely you saw? He’s a lying cheat. Or are you his father? If so, you are the father of a lying cheat.”
There was a moment of decision as both men reckoned the other. At the instant that Ned Wilson reckoned in his alcoholic confusion that he had enough support to pile into this gentleman, others pressed forward to hold him back and stop him from being so foolish as to strike someone of status. Clarenceux swept back his long cloak, revealing his sword. Greystoke did the same and stepped forward along with Thomas.
“Do you have a name, boy?” asked Clarenceux, keeping one eye on Wilson.
“Fyndern Catesby, sir.”
Clarenceux spoke in a loud voice. “If there is a brawl in an establishment like this, the landlord stands a good chance of losing his license.” He paused, looking between the faces, seeing the unspoken dialogue. Clearly fights often broke out in there but no one spoke of them. “I have just enjoyed some good meat and I would not want this place to close. Fyndern Catesby, I suggest you come with me and leave these men to their ale and beef dinner. Your tricks are no longer wanted here.” He beckoned the boy forward with his hand, then felt in his pocket for the coins with which to pay the innkeeper. Greystoke and Thomas both followed him out of the building.
“Come with me,” Clarenceux said to Fyndern, and he began marching back toward Cheapside. Fyndern’s tousled brown hair and brown eyes reminded him of his own appearance as a boy. “Your name is most unusual. Your parents cared what they called you, so I presume they cared for you too. Where do you come from?”
“Essex, sir.”
“Fyndern is in Derbyshire.”
“My father’s family came from there, sir, or so my mother said. She died in the plague three years ago. When she died, her brother took over the farm and told me to leave. So I came here.”
“Surely the farm should have been yours?”
“It belonged to my mother’s father, sir. He was still alive when my mother died. My uncle was his heir.”
Clarenceux stopped and looked at the boy in the clear light of day. He watched him scratch his head: presumably he had lice in his hair as well as in his clothes. His doublet was torn and had mud caked in it. His leather shoes were split along one side.
“What was the trick that that man Wilson could not believe?”
“A true trick, sir.”
“A true trick?”
“One where I guess the answer—and I am always right.”
“Always? Tell me.”
“I would, sir, if I still had my cards.”
“Tell me in words.”
The boy glanced from Clarenceux to Thomas and Greystoke. “I give the man some cards, normally a dozen: six red, six black. And I say, ‘Place them facedown on the table in any order you want, and I will tell you its color.’ For each one I get wrong I pay a penny—but if I get them all right, then they pay me a shilling for them all.”
“How does it work?”
The boy shrugged. “I guess them right. I feel it in my hands. I don’t know how or why, but I just know. That’s what worries people.”
Clarenceux studied him. “I need a boy who can tend my horses, not play tricks. You say you grew up on a farm. Do you want employment?”
“What’s the money?”
“Two and a halfpence a day, plus food and a roof over your head.”
“I earned a shilling in there.”
“You earned it, lost it, and were on the verge of walking out with nothing but a beating. Do we have an agreement?”
Clarenceux knew what the boy was going to say before he said it. He knew for the same reason that the boy could guess the cards: instinct. Clarenceux had known it himself once upon a time, about the same age. He could tell that the boy recognized a similar spirit in him. Kindred and kindness were the reasons why he would say yes, not because of the money.
“Three pence a day and I’ll say yes.”
“Two and a halfpence a day to begin with—and the food will be good. You’ll eat with me and Thomas.”
“Meat?”
“Every day that isn’t a fish day.”
“Then let us try each other out—I’ll see if it feels right.”
45
Helen Oudry entered the room and closed the door. She looked at Sarah Cowie, who was waiting there, lying on one of the mattresses. “Is Joan still in the house?”
“She has been in there for over an hour.”
“She had better come back soon. Clarenceux has just come home and he seems to have a curly-haired young man with him, a new stable boy.”
Sarah drew her knees up in front of her. “Christ be told, I am looking forward to the day when we can leave London.” She scratched one of her knees. “All the time I am hungry—hungry and thirsty. I worry about someone finding the body of the woman who owns this house and the constables coming here. I worry about hearing Clarenceux on the stairs when I am in his study trying to read his damned books. I worry about not sleeping and, at the end of it all, being hanged. Or worse, not knowing how my daughters fare—fearing they will be murdered by the countess. Would that I could wipe Father Buckman and her away entirely. It would leave the kingdom a cleaner place.”
“It is not for much longer. The place we wanted near Cecil House is paid for. I have just seen Buckman. He wants you and Joan to move there tomorrow.”
“And you?” Sarah looked up at the woman whom she realized had become a friend through their days together.
“He wants me to remain, to continue spying on Clarenceux. In case he says anything that affects our plan.”
“I’ll miss you,” said Sarah. “Joan is a difficult woman at the best of times. You at least have preserved your humanity.”
“Have I?” said Helen, kneeling down on the mattress. “I look at Joan and see a woman who would cut someone’s throat as readily as tell them what to do, thinking only of her Jenifer. The truth is that I wish I could be like her. It would make me feel so much stronger.”
“You’ll never be like her. She was living the criminal life even before she met the countess. You were caught stealing a sheep; me, three pewter plates, a candlestick, and a salt cellar. Ann, a couple of blankets and a ewer. We three stumbled into crime. She embraced it, willingly.”
46
Clarenceux placed a dozen cards on the elm table, facedown. There was just enough light from the window for them not to need a candle. He looked up from where he was sitting. Fyndern was standing a short distance away.
“Ready?”
Fyndern smiled. “The first one to your right is a red card, a diamond. It’s a picture card.”
Clarenceux turned over the Jack of Diamonds. “Next?”
“A black three. Spade.”
Clarenceux turned over the Three of Spades. “Next?”
“Hearts, I don’t know the number.”
“So you can’t always see the card?”
“I never see it. I just ask my hands which of the two it is, red or black, and I feel the answer. My hand with the right answer feels heavier. If it is a red I ask my hands if it is a heart or diamond, and I can tell that. But it’s accidental if I suddenly feel it’s a picture card or a low card. That’s not my asking. I feel threes and fours most.”
Clarenceux sat back, looking at him. “The Lord gives you this gift—but I wonder why. What other things can you divine? The locations of lost things, as wizards do?”
Fyndern shook his head, as if remembering something from long ago, before he acquired the carapace of his scarred features. “I never claim to know anything. If someone asks me, I always say I do not know—in case they accuse me. The penalty for witchcraft is death on a rope.”
“Only if you kill people. We have not treated normal wizardry as a crime since the old king died.”
“All the same, there are people who fear it and hate it. And if I get known for telling when ships have gone down, I will not be able to pretend later I don’t have that knowledge if the law changes again. Or if someone looks to blame someone for a mysterious death.”
Clarenceux’s eyes widened. “Can you do that? Tell when ships have sunk?”
“Give me the name of a ship.”
“The Davy.”
“She is at the bottom of the sea.”
Clarenceux looked at the boy, amazed. But for all his smiles, the lad was nervous. He looked away when Clarenceux held his eye. That showmanship he had displayed in the Bell in Gracechurch Street was a defense mechanism. Even his lithe body suggested a need regularly to wriggle out of tense situations.
“How did you get the cuts on your face?”
“One was from a man in Deptford. Another from a man in Bromley. The short one down the right-hand side was from a woman in Hackney. The ones on my back were from my uncle. Those hurt the most.”
Clarenceux picked up a candle and took it across to the fire, lighting it from the flames. “What can you divine about people?”
Fyndern ran his fingers over his face. “I look at people and I realize how little I can sense. If I could feel how good people are, or how malicious, I would not have these scars.”
Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) Page 21
