Plague

by C. C. Humphreys

  With that, the captain pulled the trigger.

  The spark of flint striking the steel was tiny, lost in a sunbeam, the fizz of powder scarcely audible. In Coke’s face, Pitman sought signs of further resistance, readying the cosh. Noted only the slightest of smiles.

  “Now, that is just how my luck has been of late,” Coke said. Then he flipped the gun in the air, caught it by its barrel and held it out.

  Letting go the breath he had not realized he was holding, Pitman stepped forward again, his attention on the other man’s right hand, for a sword was at his hip. But the captain let him have both that and the pistol, made no other move except for the closing of his eyes.

  “I’ve got a length of rope for him! A rope for the Monstrous Cock!” The cry was louder than the axe blow that followed it, and taken up by others.

  Many others. Pitman frowned. He’d once intimidated a score of looters at Soudley Churchyard by sheer size and bravado. But this mob had its blood up and might steal his prize. Unless—there was a loft above, with a stair leading to it. “Go,” he said, pointing with his chin. The captain, with a glance at the splintering door, shrugged and went.

  In the shadows under the eaves was a smaller door. Pitman kicked it hard and the door burst open. The scent of livestock wafted through, a faint lowing confirming the adjacent warehouse’s use. “Are you game, Captain? Die here or have that extra day and a chance to make a brave last speech?”

  That slight smile again. “I’ve had one long prepared. After you?”

  “Nay, sir. Gentlemen always first.”

  Coke slipped through. Just as Pitman followed, the doors below crashed open and the cooperage filled with angry men.

  The shouts faded behind them as they ran around the loft, which lay above three pens with a cow in each. The far wall had no door, but the slats were old, rotten; Pitman demolished them with a few kicks, then peered into yet another warehouse, by its acrid smell and the clucking a home to chickens. Another loft, but this one ended in wood far more solid and no door. There was, though, a gap in the roof. Hoisting himself up, Pitman thrust his head out into the air. Conjoined roofs moved away in all directions, chimneys disgorging the smoke from cooking fires.

  He dropped back down, heard the clear sounds of pursuit, men following the only passage through. He jerked his head above him. “Are you still game?”

  “How far? I weary of this chase.”

  “A noose over cobbles is more tiring, man,” Pitman replied. “Not far. Confuse the hounds and they may lose the scent.”

  “Then let us go.”

  They were neither of them small men, Pitman especially so, but after much squeezing the captain was through and he after. The slates were at least dry, for it had not rained in an age. They traversed several roofs before Pitman halted them. “There,” he said.

  It was a casement, standing proud of the roof like a doorway. Perhaps in the late queen’s time this had been a splendid mansion; now it was a wreck like most others, converted to lodge a hundred, or for commerce, or both.

  “Through,” commanded the thief-taker of the thief, and through he went, the bigger man following close; taking a stair that doglegged down; stopping just inside the first room, his hand wrapping around the other’s arm to pause him. This ceiling was solid, no sunlight through the slates. The walls too, though Pitman could make out broken lines of light at the front wall. “Shutters, I think. Wait here,” he said, pulling the door to and walking with his hand stretched out before him.

  It pushed into something, something soft. Between his fingertips, he felt it: fur, a dangling fur that swung away, swung back. Other furs brushed his face and hands as he crossed to the shutters. Reaching them, he put a finger under one slat, pushed it up, saw a group of men running past, shouting.

  “I think we should rest here awhile, Captain.” He was forcing up the slats as he spoke, more light admitted with each one. “If you are willing,” he said, “I’ve some sausage, a flask of ale.”

  He turned, stopped speaking. He could see only the captain’s boots. Above them, all was obscured.

  By cats.

  They were everywhere, hung from cords tied around their tails, so close that they touched each other, so many that they filled the entire attic. The cats swayed in the breeze of his passing, like so many inverted corpses upon a vast gallows tree.

  15

  ARRANGEMENTS

  Lucy Absolute heard the hall door slam and rose from her chair into the sunlight by the window, as she had half a dozen times already that afternoon. He would see her first backlit by fire, her golden hair aflame. She would draw him dazzled into the light to dazzle him further with the eyes he had so praised in verse. His would then drop, drawn to her breasts. Like every other man, she thought. How he had enjoyed them, with almost a child’s wonder, when first he’d gained admittance. She’d had to teach him much, she the elder by four years. He had been an apt student.

  Footfalls upon the stair. Placing her hands under her bosom, she lifted and compressed. She was wearing the new dress she’d borrowed from the playhouse, a countess’s castoffs acquired by Davenant, for the nobles who attended the theatre to watch versions of themselves portrayed liked to see those versions sumptuously clad. The gown, of cerise silk and trimmed with finest lace, had been too large for Lucy when she’d first coveted it. It was not too large now.

  The footfalls reached the landing. How softly he walked, the slim young man she loved. How graceful, like a cat moving through seashells on a mantel. She felt a clutch inside that spread below, nothing to do with the life growing there. If hearing him caused this, she would flood when she saw him. A month had gone by now, and she had never wanted anything so much as his hand reaching beneath her gown, up her shift, parting the folds of her underskirt. Pushing her down onto the divan …

  A knock. A soft one. Was it the shy earl who came this day? The lovelorn, the country swain, innocent of the ways of the Town, keen to be educated? Well, she had some tricks she had not yet worked upon him. He would like them. And when she had practised upon him, on that smoothest of skin, when once again he lay like a lamb folded in the embrace he called his paradise, she would tell him what she had to tell him and see the answer clear in his eyes. And in that moment, with him about to walk through the door, she knew what his answer would be.

  “Enter,” she called, turning her face again into the sunlight.

  The door opened. “My dear,” came the voice.

  Not his voice. Lucy sagged. “Sarah! Sister, what make you here? You know I am expecting Rochester. You must go. Quickly.”

  “I forgot. Forgive me.”

  Sarah turned to leave, but Lucy immediately noticed how exhausted her friend was, her usually shining skin sallow, creases lined with grime, her auburn hair limp, her bright eyes dull and swollen. “Dearest,” she said, crossing to catch Sarah’s hand. “What’s the news with you?”

  Sarah’s eyes brimmed, overflowed. “My John is gone.”

  “And has been these many days.”

  “You misunderstand.” She withdrew her hand from Lucy’s—just as the street door opening sounded from below.

  “It’s him,” Lucy cried.

  “I will go.”

  “Nay, I do not want you to pass on the stair. I do not want him to sense any conspiracy.” Lucy dragged Sarah across the room. “Wait in here. Do not stir—no matter what you hear.” She opened the second door, pushed Sarah into the bedchamber. “Wish me fortune,” she whispered.

  “Fortune,” Sarah said, the word drowned by the slamming of one door, the hammering upon the other.

  Lucy hastened to the window. “Enter,” she called.

  The door opened forcefully enough to swing in and bang upon the wall. The bold earl then, thought Lucy.

  “Sweetheart! I am here at your summons and at the command of His Majesty.”

  The drunk earl too, she realized, hearing the slur in the words. Well, he was a merry drunk in the main—and in some ways easier to
manage.

  “My Lord of Rochester,” she said, sweeping into a deep curtsey. He would pay little attention now to her fiery hair, her subtly highlighted eyes. His attention would be elsewhere.

  “Sweetheart,” he said again.

  He was upon her quickly, hands under her elbows, mouth stooping for hers. She smelled the sweet sack on his breath, turned her head aside. His lips found her cheek. “My love,” she breathed into his ear, “the door?”

  He crossed the room and slammed the door shut. When he swivelled around, she was sitting upon the divan, one arm along the back, the other lifted to him. “Come, my sweet,” she said. “And tell me why I have not seen you this long while.”

  Rochester flushed. The delay in closing the door, her poise, had sucked away his urgency. “I have been busy. The king, you know.” He waved his hand before him in a vague gesture. “ ’Twas he commanded me to see you today.”

  “Is it only your sovereign’s orders that brought you here?” She leaned toward him as she spoke. “Did love not have any sway?”

  His gaze lowered, as did his voice. “You know I am ever your servant, madam.”

  “Are you? Truly?” He nodded. “Then obey me in this. Come sit.” When he had, she leaned close till she could breathe the words into his ear: “Make love to me.”

  Though he was a little drunk and rushed, the command she’d always had over him she asserted now, slowing his caresses, delaying his advances, forcing him to take time, to pay attention to her. She knew such lovemaking would be better in several ways. For her, yes, but more importantly, afterward he would lie meekly in her arms, like a kitten after consuming a platter of fresh cream. Only then would she tell him that she was with child.

  They were kneeling on the floor in the end, she before him with her arms braced on the divan, for she knew that would be easier in her state. And when he spent with a great shout, she squeezed him and thrust back, her cries urging him on to further, final effort. He was so young his strength did not diminish, and soon she joined him in pleasure as he pressed her deep, his lips on her ear, their fingers entwining as she cried out.

  There were men she’d known—few, it was true, for she had known but three before him—who would withdraw as soon as they were done because they believed that for a woman to conceive she had to reach her height too. Her Johnnie was not like them. He stayed inside her until both realized the pain in their knees. With groans and giggles, they disengaged and climbed onto the divan. There he did indeed lie easy in her arms, laughing softly while she put on the accent of her childhood and played the Cornish milkmaid shocked by the young squire’s attentions. While she prattled, she ran fingers through his long, silken hair, disentangling all the knots. Then, after a silence, she took his head in her hands and looked into his darkling eyes.

  “There is something I must tell you, my sweet.”

  Sarah could not help but hear it all. Indeed, there was a pleasant distraction in listening to people in love and showing it. She and John had not been like that for years, indeed if ever. They had been like brother and sister for so long that being husband and wife had at first been hard. They had enjoyed each other sometimes, of course. But the last time had been a while ago now, for the result of it had been her pregnant and then he hadn’t wanted to come near. And when she lost the baby, she did not tell him because she did not want him near, not for a while.

  And now she would never have him near again.

  She did not know the why of it, the how. She’d had no news, from the captain or anyone. Yet she was certain that the final evil had befallen him. Up to the day before, she’d felt him in the world. Now she did not. And she knew she would not sleep well again until she found out both who had done it and why. Someone had murdered her John. She would look that person in the eye.

  Somehow, as the noise in the next room subsided to murmurs, she dozed, exhaustion taking her to a troubled sleep. She awoke, uncertain where she was until Lucy opened the door.

  “He is gone,” Lucy said, sitting on the bed. “Gone to make arrangements.” She took Sarah in her arms. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “all will be well. He even talked of eloping with me and damn his family.” She laughed. “Can you imagine me, my dearest, a real lady? I have played so many of them onstage perhaps I might carry it off.”

  She cried then, Lucy Absolute. For relief. For joy. And Sarah Chalker held her and cried also, for her own reasons.

  It’s been a lively day and that is always fun, thought Dickon, as the handsome young man came out of Sweet Lucy’s house. That’s what the cap’n always calls her. Sweet Lucy.

  He watched the handsome man step straight into a chair, a uniformed footman at each pair of poles lifting it and setting off at a trot. I’d like to ride in one of those, Dickon thought. But it would not be like the whee and the whoosh of the water this morning, not like shooting the race of London Bridge. That was the most fun—most fun!—they’d had in the longest time, on account of the cap’n being so worried and so not playing as he could. And they had not robbed in such a long while, not since that time in that place, wherever it was, that had ended badly, or so the cap’n said, telling him to forget it so he had. Mostly.

  He liked robbing, for the cap’n always let him do things and he liked to be useful, liked to earn his keep. Then the cap’n was happy to buy him things, like Afric peanuts off the docks, and cobnuts when they were in season. They’d gone to Kent to pick them off the bushes—when was that? Last autumn? The one before it? One of the two. Had to be one of the two because before that was before the cap’n. And he didn’t remember much of that time at all, and not because the cap’n had told him to forget it. He forgot it all by himself. He knew it had not been nice. No nuts, no nothing, really. Just hungry and shivery. Alone too.

  He shivered now just thinking about it, though it was hot. Also, he’d finished his hazels. But he could not leave and get more. He might miss the cap’n, who had told him when they were racing that man to go ahead and wait at Lucy’s. Excepting he was not sure if “wait at Lucy’s” meant wait in the doorway opposite or wait up in the room. Sweet Lucy would give him nuts and a sip of ale. But he’d waited too long not sure, and then the actress had gone up and not come down, and then the handsome man had gone up and had come down and gone off in the chair at a clip but not so fast as a boat under a bridge.

  Should he go up now? The cap’n had said, “This is the arrange-arrangeme-arrangement!” That was it. He’d said the “arrangement” would be to meet at Sweet Lucy’s. He would give the slip to the bearded giant who’d chased them on water and up the lanes and then he would come. And Dickon would be waiting.

  No, he thought, settling back down after standing to see how fast the chair moved—not very fast, was the answer. He would not leave this doorway. The cap’n would come. The cap’n was probably coming now. With nuts.

  Dickon pulled out the pamphlet, its pages ripped, its ink smudged. Still, he could see some words clear. He’d learn more of ’em. That would please the cap’n when he came.

  “Slaugh-ter,” he said. Now, what did that mean again?

  “Mr. Palmer. Are you certain that this superfluity of lace is essential?”

  The tailor, kneeling at his customer’s knee, sighed and took the pins from his mouth. “I repeat, my lord—quite essential. That is, if I am to obey his lordship’s instructions—to transform you into a man of mode. Now, be still, sir, I pray, and let me pin you.”

  Garnthorpe stiffened, anticipating yet another jab. Damned fellow had already stuck him twice, his apologies half-hearted on each occasion. He swivelled slightly, provoking a grunt of reproof and, yes, a prick to his knee. At least the coxcomb’s mouth is occupied and so I am not subjected to his ceaseless prattle, mainly concerning his other illustrious clients, reaching even to Whitehall now. Merely an excuse to charge ever more outrageous sums for the attentions of the Duke of York’s own tailor. Truly, Garnthorpe did not mind the expense—he knew he could buy and sell the duke and still have
change for oranges—but what was the expense for? This?

  He turned so he could gaze at himself again in the tailor’s full-length mirror. He was even more appalled. The lime ribbons Mr. Palmer was engaged in fitting at the knee contrasted sharply, vilely, with the breeches—petticoat breeches, he reminded himself they were called. These were magenta, and that colour was continued to the item that he wore under his unbuttoned dark blue doublet—what had the tailor called the damnable thing?—his tabby, that was it, a kind of waistcoat, its nauseating red standing out clearly against the cream of his billowing lawn shirt.

  He shook his head and saw curls sway. Another disaster, surely, though Mr. Palmer had insisted that since the king wore just such a wig, all gentlemen above a certain age must as well. He’d even sent him to the king’s own perruquier. A fortune spent on this monstrosity.

  At his knee, Mr. Palmer went back on his haunches, took a last pin from his mouth and began to sing under his breath. There was something about the song, something familiar.

  This was absurd. He was absurd. Garnthorpe could clearly see now what a mistake it had been to compare himself with the coxcombs and noble fops, and the preening, strutting players who were Mrs. Chalker’s daily acquaintance. To believe that she would be easier with him if he appeared before her in this fashion. Ridiculous! He’d seen what was in her eyes, that incandescent look she gave him when she first noticed him from the stage. When he’d been plain, ungilded. What she so instantly loved, surely, was Garnthorpe himself, the natural he, unadorned.

  Mr. Palmer, still humming, was leaning forward to place his last pin. “No!” Lord Garnthorpe declared. “Cease your fumblings, sir. I will no longer submit to them.” He pulled off the infernal wig and threw it to the floor.