‘Of course he won’t!’ snapped Gresham. And then realised his mistake.
From across the room, Giles watched with a certain detached interest. But when he saw his lordship clawing frantically at the fingers slowly tightening his collar, he decided that it was time to intervene. Quite without haste, he strolled across the room marvelling that so few people appeared to have noticed the incident. By the time he reached the little group, however, it was attracting rather more attention – for Robert had joined in the fray and was trying, so far without success, to break Alex’s grip. Gresham’s breath was coming in wheezing gasps and perspiration beaded his brow. Giles stepped forward and tapped Robert on the shoulder.
‘Allow me,’ he said politely.
Robert retreated thankfully and, as he did so, Alex turned his head. Giles did not hesitate. With a small, satisfied smile, his fist shot out to take Alex on the point of the jaw and send him reeling back amongst tables and benches. He went crashing to the floor and was still.
Giles stood over him, absently rubbing his knuckles and then looked up to meet Danny’s astounded gaze.
‘You took your time,’ he drawled. And, looking beyond Danny to Matthew Lewis’s enigmatic countenance, ‘Sorry, Matt. It couldn’t wait.’
Matt walked forward and looked thoughtfully on Alex’s prone figure.
‘How many times did you have to hit him?’
Giles smiled. ‘Would you believe once?
Matt grunted. ‘He’ll be well into his altitudes then. I’d best get him home.’
‘Yes. In a minute.’ He turned back to Gresham who had collapsed in his chair and was massaging his throat and choking spasmodically. ‘I should point out, sir,’ said Giles with unusual crispness, ‘that I prevented Mr Deveril from strangling you for his sake rather than yours. With his reasons for wishing to do so, I am in complete accord. And, that being so, I must insist on a full retraction of your slanderous attack on Prince Rupert’s valour and leadership – both of which are above reproach. Should you refuse, I shall have no alternative but to serve you in a similar manner to that of my unconscious friend here. Well?’
Lord Gresham had suffered a very trying fifteen minutes. He did not doubt that Giles was capable of carrying out his threat and one look at the faces of Danny and Matt was sufficient to inform him that they too would be delighted to manhandle him.
‘Oh vewy well!’ he said with the nearest thing to a snap he could manage. ‘I take it back – and do not doubt that His Highness has many excellent qualities. Satisfied?’
‘Not especially,’ replied Giles coldly, ‘but it’s an improvement.’ He picked up his lordship’s glass and put it in his hand. ‘Now get on your feet and toast the Prince’s health.’
Gresham glared but saw no help for it. He hauled himself out of his chair and jerked up his glass as ungraciously as he dared.
‘Pwince Wupert – his health.’ And he drank.
‘Prince Rupert!’ echoed a mixed chorus of voices.
‘And God bless him,’ added Matt.
*
Alex came round with a crashing headache, a jaw as stiff as last week’s bread and total recollection. With practised ease, Matt used his most uncommunicative front to prevent an eruption and it worked perfectly until he was forced into a refusal by a demand for brandy. His first flat denial was met with a dangerous silence but, standing his ground, Matt remarked that ale was easier on the liver and had the added advantage of being cheaper. Ten minutes later he was allowed to have his way – but not graciously.
And that was just the beginning. He stayed through the initial stages while Alex, sprawling in a chair, consumed his first jug; and, then, thinking nostalgically of night marches in wet weather, judged it safe to go out for a time.
When he came back the scene showed little change. Alex did not look up but sat motionless and apparently relaxed, mug clasped in one lax hand. The black hair was clinging in untidy dampness to his brow and the lawn shirt was crumpled and sweat-stained. Matt stood in the doorway where the hot, stale air hit him like a blow and assessed the situation. Then he walked to the window and, pulling back the curtains, threw it open.
Bright, merciless daylight spilled into the room and an icy blast blew over Mr Deveril producing an involuntary shiver. He looked round.
‘Close it.’ That was all. But his tone implied more than a death-threat complete with ritual.
Matt stared phlegmatically back without replying. With a lithe, violent movement that overset his chair, Alex rose swearing, lurched across the room and slammed the casement shut with a force that cracked two of its panes. Matt grinned sourly.
‘Man, you’ve a way to go yet,’ he said. ‘You’ve still got the use of your legs.’
As expected, he was awarded a dirty look.
‘Blame the ale. It’s damned slow.’
Matt retrieved the velvet coat from where it lay on the floor and hung it up. Then he poured himself a mug of ale and sat down.
‘It’s fast enough – unless there’s a shortage I’ve not heard about.’ And then, because he had certain private suspicions which he’d be happy to have proved right, ‘And if it’s that bad, I doubt you’ll find three days concentration will improve it. Why not find yourself a woman?’ And he waited for the explosion.
It did not come. Instead, his mouth curling unpleasantly but in much the same tone as one saying ‘Pass the salt,’ Alex said, ‘All women are whores.’
Matthew was imbued with a certain satisfaction for, in his opinion, a few days of rank discomfort would be small price to pay for an end to Madam Sarah’s hold over Mr Deveril. It was just a pity that, after a youth which had held no opportunity for more than passing dalliance, Alex should fall in love for the first time at the age of thirty with a rapacious beauty of doubtful reputation. ‘So if he wants to stay cupshot for a sennight, he’s welcome this once,’ thought Matt, cynically. ‘I’ll have a few myself just to celebrate.’
But, despite these heartening reflections, there is nothing very pleasant about being cloistered with an ill-tempered drunk and when, after a day of unnatural silence his attempts to persuade Mr Deveril to put some food in his stomach were met with an epitome of double-edged wit, Matt removed himself instantly and without a word, leaving Alex humming gently beneath his breath.
He came back, of course, because a few heated words were not enough to sever a bond forged over fifteen dangerous yet often hilarious years that he would not have missed for anything that he could think of and which made him remain now from what he insisted was habit. So, having walked off his temper in the cold air, he returned and was instantly rewarded. Still at the table, head pillowed on his arms, Alex was asleep. Mr Lewis nodded to himself and tiptoed out again.
It was some two hours later when Giles Beckwith ran lightly up the stairs, rapped at the door and received no answer. Having good reason to suppose that there was someone within, he waited for a moment and then knocked again, this time more loudly. After a moment he heard Alex’s voice, a trifle blurred but otherwise composed.
‘Who is it?’
‘Giles. Open the door.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Why?’
Mr Beckwith was aware of intense irritation.
‘Oh for God’s sake – don’t be an ass!’
That did the trick. The tumblers clicked and the door swung wide on the point of a sword. Coatless and disorderly, Alex examined his friend with an impersonal stare. Giles looked back, cool but cautious.
‘Is that really necessary?’ he asked, indicating the bright ribbon of steel.
‘Yes. I thought it might persuade you to just turn around and go.’
‘It hasn’t,’ said Giles simply. ‘We need to talk. But not like this.’
‘Why not? Scared?’
Giles looked from the perfectly steady blade to the expressionless face above it.
‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘You aren’t sober enough to present a problem.’
And then threw himself swiftly to one side at the sword drove at his throat. Hitting the doorpost, he grabbed the velvet coat from where it hung and used it to protect his hand as he caught at the flashing steel. He gave it a hard, downward twist and, abruptly, Alex let go. For a second they faced each other, both breathing rather fast, then Giles spoke, his voice icily quiet.
‘Do that again and you’d best hope to make a thorough job of it.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or I may forget our past friendship.’
‘My God! How will I survive?’ mocked Alex, smiling but pale.
The grey eyes hardened with something akin to disgust.
‘I don’t think I care.’
‘That’s the spirit! So is that all you came to say?’
‘No. I thought you might have sobered up and be ready to talk.’
‘You should have known better.’
‘As you say. Where’s Matt?’
‘Out.’
‘In other words, you’ve exceeded even his patience.’ Giles paused briefly, and then, ‘I presume we owe this epic tantrum to Sarah Courtney?’
Suddenly bored, Alex turned away and dropped into a chair.
‘Presume what you like – just don’t expect me to listen.’
‘I don’t,’ came the blunt reply. ‘But if you’re sulking because I hit you, accept that I did it before you choked the life out of that pompous fool and ended up in front of a magistrate.’
‘It wouldn’t have come to that.’
‘It could very well have come to that. You were drunk and in a foul mood – and capable of just about any kind of lunacy.‘ He paused. ‘You’re out of control, Alex. A spoiled brat taking your ill-temper out on everyone around you and plunging into whatever kind of dangerous stupidity occurs to you next. I’m just glad that Rupert isn’t here to see you.’
Alex came to his feet like an uncoiling spring.
‘That’s enough. You can chew on my failings till you choke – but not here. I don’t want sympathy, brotherly love or nauseating bloody morality – and I don’t respond to the magic name of Rupert being banged over my head. So go and mourn my decaying senses with Matt and Danny. They’ll agree with everything you say – which should comfort you – and I’ll be left in peace, which should suit everybody. Shut the door on your way out.’
Giles gazed across at him, his expression taut and cold. Then he threw down the sword so that it went clattering and sliding across the floor.
‘Go to hell,’ he said. And left.
*
A little while later when Matthew returned he found Alex at the window, his fingers pressed hard on the ledge and his face glacially composed. Matt took one look and suffered the rare sensation of being out of his depth.
‘Thinking hard, Matt? Difficult, isn’t it? The wrong word now could spell catastrophe.’ Alex’s voice was brittle and, when he turned Matt saw that the blue eyes were at their most impenetrable.
‘Aye. Who woke you?’
‘Giles. Thoughtless of him, wasn’t it? But cheer up. I’m going out.’
Matt eyed him sardonically.
‘On two hours sleep in as many days and no food to speak of? They’ll be finding you in some gutter.’
‘Perhaps.’ He crossed to the mirror and inspected his reflection with a wry grimace. ‘Oh God – Faustus reborn. I need a shave. And a clean shirt.’
‘And a bloody good wash.’
Alex turned, smiling a little. ‘Well, then?’
Matt did not respond but he did go in search of hot water. Nearly an hour later when Alex was washed, shaved and changed, he was still presenting an aspect of dour silence. Alex picked up his hat with its trailing white plumes and walked to the door, his face thoughtful. He laid a hand on the latch and then turned back.
‘Matt?’
‘What?’
A hint of colour touched the flat pallor of his cheeks.
‘It’s not easy, I know – but it will pass. Until then, don’t let me …’ He hesitated a little. ‘I’m aware that I’m often my own worst enemy. But bear with me – if you can.’
Matt scowled.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said gruffly. And then, ‘If you go to Ashton’s house, you’ll probably meet Mr Giles there.’
‘Ah.’ Alex met his gaze with one of limpid innocence. ‘Then I should be in for an interesting evening, shouldn’t I?’
And was gone.
~ * * * ~
THREE
It was close on five o’clock when Alex let himself out of the house and the wintry dusk was almost complete. He walked swiftly in the direction of the Acorn and was nearly there when, cutting down a narrow passage, his ears were alerted by sounds of a scuffle round the corner ahead of him. He checked his pace and moved silently to the end of the wall.
It was too dark to see details but the overall picture was plain enough and Alex stifled the first impulse to laugh that he had felt in three days. What he had heard was nothing more that the ensuing struggle as an inexpert young man attempted to embrace an unwilling young lady. As Alex turned the corner, she dealt her admirer a ringing box on the ear and, as he stepped back to try and capture her arm, followed it up with a well-placed kick on the shin. The young man released her, cursing, and bent to rub his afflicted leg. Strangely, the girl remained where she was, watching him.
‘Damn it all, there’s no need to cripple me!’ he expostulated.
The girl said something Alex couldn’t quite hear and the fellow replied with, ‘Well, I didn’t think you meant it. And it’s not as if you don’t know how I feel about you. But I suppose I should have guessed how it would be.’
‘Indeed you should,’ said Alex, his voice quivering slightly.
The girl stiffened and pulled her hood more closely about her face while the young man straightened so quickly he banged his elbow against the wall.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he gasped, clutching this new injury.
’Call me the Voice of Experience,’ returned Alex. ‘And I’m appalled by your clumsiness. Don’t you know better than to maul a girl in a draughty alley? And if you must do so, you’ll find it helps to decide beforehand the way your attentions are likely to be received. When uncertain, a wise man always protects his flank by taking the lady’s hands – so!’ And before the youthful pair had any idea of his intention, he had imprisoned the girl’s hands and pulled her against him to hold them behind her back.
‘I say! What the --’
‘Watch and learn,’ reproved Alex. ‘You’ll find it worthwhile. Now, where was I? Ah yes. One hand should suffice – now darling, don’t struggle – and with the other you may lift her chin.’ He smiled fleetingly into the girl’s startled face, very little of which could be seen for her enveloping hood, and then bent his head till his mouth found hers.
Hovering uncertainly, the young man watched in astonishment, his mouth opening and closing as he formulated and discarded a variety of objections. He was naturally reluctant to lay hands on a fellow wearing a sword, but he knew he ought to defend his companion, who was fighting to free herself. Only then, in the seconds he spent hesitating, she stopped struggling. He watched in rising indignation as her hands, now released, showed no inclination to attack but slid up the gentleman’s arms to his shoulders and on till they clasped each other around his neck. And Alex, finding both arms suddenly free, used them to gather the girl still closer. It was more than their outraged spectator could tolerate and he surged forward to grasp the audacious gentleman’s arm.
With an easy action, Alex shrugged him off but retained his hold on the girl. Startled and somewhat unsettled by the surprising depth and sweetness of her response, he was more than a little tempted to kiss her again in order to find out if he’d imagined it. But, even as the thought occurred, her hands disentangled themselves from his hair and moved to pull her hood more closely around her face again. Slowly, Alex released her murmuring softly, ‘Well … that was unexpected. But extremely enjoyable, I must say.’
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Then, removing his hat, he swept a deep bow that encompassed both the girl and her would-be swain and said, ‘It seems we’ve all learned something tonight.’
And with that, continued on his way, leaving the stunned pair to stare wordlessly after him – one with sulky anger and the other with shaken and confused blankness.
*
Having spent a pleasant hour in the Acorn without starting a fight, Alex duly made his way to James Ashton’s house just off St John’s Gardens whence he had been invited for a bachelor supper to be followed by a little gaming. Had he not been in need of a distraction, it is unlikely that he would have availed himself of this invitation for he did not particularly like Ashton. They had first met in Paris at the beginning of 1651 but James, though some five years older, had let his father go alone to Worcester and then sat out his exile in safety and comfort, living off the relatives of his despised French stepmother. Beyond this, Alex knew only that Ralph Ashton had lost his life in a Royalist conspiracy before the Restoration and that his widow, having returned to Oxford in 1660 with her stepson and young daughter, had followed him shortly after it.
He was admitted by an untidy manservant and had hardly removed his hat when his host was upon him with what was surely misplaced affection. At thirty-five, James Ashton was already putting on flesh and his ruddy, heavy-jowled face bore the marks of soft living and over-indulgence.
‘Deveril, m’dear fellow!’ he boomed, heartily pumping Alex’s unresponsive hand. ‘Glad you could make it. It’ll be quite like the old days in Paris.’
Since Alex had only been fifteen years old at the time, he could not imagine to what old days James might be referring. Contenting himself with a lift of one ironic brow, he allowed himself to be ushered into the parlour.
‘Two friends of mine, Deveril – Bob Colne and Sam Hassall,’ said Ashton, before moving away in response to a discreet gesture from his servant.
Alex bowed and murmured a polite greeting whilst scanning the rest of the company. He looked at Giles and their eyes met and locked. Then, excusing himself from the two merchants, he crossed the room and bowed to him with exaggerated courtesy.
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