Black Wreath

by Peter Sirr

  McAllister fell into the rhythm James had set, bundling a few clothes and private papers into a portmanteau.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

  They had, James reckoned, about half an hour before dawn would begin to shift the college into its morning life and the square below would begin to clack with footsteps and chatter. James went out onto the landing to make sure no eyes or ears were near, then beckoned McAllister. They went down the stairs and out the back door, and then along by the Anatomy House. From inside that grey building came a sudden sharp laugh that chilled both to the bone. They stopped dead and waited, but no one came out. They could hear a faint murmur of voices from within, but whoever was there was intent on their own business and had no interest in who might be passing outside.

  ‘They must have a fresh body for dissecting,’ McAllister whispered to James.

  There was nothing unusual about this. McAllister had on several occasions gone to witness a dissection in the great theatre inside, but now the thought seemed to fill him with horror. They hurried past until they came to College Park.

  McAllister, now full of urgency, made to run across the wide expanse of the park, but James pulled him back. ‘What if we should be seen racing across the park like a pair of thieves? We should move swiftly but normally, as if it were our ordinary business to be here. That way, if we are observed, no note will be taken of it.’

  McAllister seemed unconvinced, but agreed. They walked the tree-lined paths around the perimeter of the park. A faint light edged the trees as they walked down the avenue. They would soon reach the rear entrance gate, after which they could melt into the waking city. As they turned the corner at the bottom of the avenue, their spirits lifting at the prospect of escape from immediate danger, a figure suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, on the path in front of them. McAllister moaned with fright. James stood transfixed, not daring to move any further forward. The figure was brown and somewhat stooped and was making straight for them. It had a cane in its right hand, which it now began waving at them.

  ‘Who is it?’ James hissed.

  McAllister looked dead ahead, his body slumped from fear and exhaustion. ‘It’s the provost,’ he managed to whisper from the side of his mouth.

  Dr Baldwin! What was he doing here at this time of the morning? James had never met the provost but he had heard many fearsome stories about him, of parties broken up, students expelled for bad behaviour, terrible tongue-lashings, and even beatings, all administered by him. To meet him here, now, as the dawn began to come up over the college, was the worst possible fate that could befall two would-be escapees.

  ‘What, who goes there? What fellows are you and what is your business in the park at this hour?’ the shape shouted in a hoarse voice.

  As the provost drew near, James made out a man of sixty or more years, his coat shabby, his stockings mud-spattered and clumps of thick grey hair sprouting from under his wig. The hand that held the cane was large and knobbly, and the arm looked strong enough to inflict a blow to remember.

  ‘Well, are you deaf?’ the provost raised his voice. ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘McAllister, sir, pensioner, Junior Sophister …’

  How much more information did he want to give? James wondered despairingly. Did he want to lead him back to his rooms and up to the attics to search for the tell-tale sword in its cut scabbard?

  ‘And what are you doing here at this hour of the morning?’ the provost continued. ‘And with your portmanteau with you?’ He tapped it with his cane.

  ‘My father is taken ill, sir. I am summoned home.’

  ‘And where is home?’

  This is the time to use your imagination, James thought. But McAllister was not someone to whom imagination came readily in times of need.

  ‘County Waterford, sir.’

  There he goes, chapter and verse.

  ‘Indeed,’ the provost said, observing him keenly. ‘And is this the way to the Waterford coach?’

  McAllister looked on the point of giving up, as if he might confess everything and throw himself on the mercy of the provost. It was rumoured Dr Baldwin had killed a man himself once in his youth in England, but that didn’t mean he would be likely to forgive the crime in others.

  ‘Please sir, I asked my master if we might call by my aunt before we undertook our journey, since we may be gone some time. She lives nearby in St Patrick’s Lane.’ James knew this was a risk, but there was little time for elaborate invention.

  The provost now turned his beady eyes on James, who had been, until that moment, as invisible as all servants are.

  ‘I am sure your master can speak on his own behalf. Do you usually make so bold as to speak for him?’

  ‘No sir, I am very sorry, sir.’

  Dr Baldwin continued to eye them both balefully and looked in no way convinced by anything that he heard. Then his eyes lightened and lifted from them and, without another word, he moved off into the dawn, his cane clacking on the avenue.

  McAllister immediately reached for a handkerchief to mop his brow. He was close to tears. ‘I can’t do this, James, I don’t have the strength for it.’

  ‘You must, sir. You mustn’t give up. We’re nearly out of the college now. And from now on, we’d better not be so quick with our names.’

  McAllister nodded eagerly. ‘Of course, you’re right.’

  Spurred on by their brush with danger, they walked quickly towards the gate that led out of College Park, and found themselves on the street where James had said his aunt lived.

  ‘What if he had decided to verify your aunt’s residence?’ McAllister asked.

  ‘No one’s curiosity extends as far as servants,’ James said simply.

  McAllister gave him a sharp look but said nothing.

  James led them on a circuitous northward route towards the river. In an alley off the quay they found an inn just opening for the day and they went inside the dark, tobacco-smelling room and called for food. As they were waiting, James inquired about the times of the packets to England.

  ‘Ten shillings will get you to Holyhead,’ he told McAllister on his return. ‘There’s a packet that leaves on the afternoon tide. But England will be dangerous; you’ll need to get passage for the colonies as soon as possible.’

  McAllister nodded. He didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘I have the feeling that all of this is happening to someone else,’ he said. ‘The old McAllister and his life have vanished forever, and I have no idea what will replace them.’

  He looked at James. ‘Would you come with me, James? You know you’re more than a servant to me. What is this city to you after all?’

  It was a good question. What was there in this city for James other than hardship and possibly worse? Why not take the packet with McAllister and meet whatever new life it would lead to? Why not try his luck in the colonies? But McAllister’s question made James realise that, in spite of everything, his fate was bound up with this city. Only here could he claim his inheritance, when the time was right. Only here could he confront his uncle, only here could he find the justice that would restore him to his rightful position. After all, I am Lord Dunmain, he thought to himself as he considered McAllister and his proposition. He didn’t much feel like a lord right now as he ate his dish of cockles, and he didn’t have as much as a roof over his head, but there was no doubt in his mind as he shook his head.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ he said. ‘I must stay here even if it seems hopeless now.’

  He told McAllister to write to him at the bookshop in the piazzas; the owner would keep any letters safe for him.

  ‘Best stay out of sight until it’s time to take the packet. And be careful as you embark, in case they’re watching.’

  McAllister nodded and smiled a little ruefully.

  ‘Stay well, James, and stay alive,’ he said.

  Eleven

  Dunmain’s Man

  Buy sweet whey; buy the pure sweet whey

  Hard c
ruds here, hard cruds for the boys and girls!

  The ‘cruds and whey’ woman moved slowly along the quay with her pannier on her head. A chimney sweep and his boy emerged from a side street, the boy weighed down with brushes and rods, both faces black even at this hour, and the shops and taverns were bustling into life as James walked slowly westward along the river, not sure where he was going. Everyone he saw was driven by a definite purpose, with a sure knowledge of where they were going and how, and where, their day was likely to end. Even the beggars assuming their positions along the quayside were working according to a plan as they stood or sprawled on the ground and whined for alms. And the seagulls crying above the ships knew what they were about and could, James felt, give a good account of themselves if they were asked. Only he had no clear destination in mind, and no notion of how or where his day might end.

  He was woken from these gloomy thoughts when he noticed a man standing at the corner, a broad, hulking figure, leaning against the wall and scanning the quays like some beast of prey. Everything about him proclaimed malevolence, from the darkness of his eyes and the twist of his mouth to the long arms and pale fleshy hands that looked like they would be very happy squeezing a throat. James shuddered slightly at the sight of him. Something about him seemed strangely familiar, as if James had seen him before somewhere. But where? And then he saw him, in his mind’s eye, walking down the aisle of the cathedral and looking over the mourners and onlookers with a glance of unconcealed contempt. He was one of the Uglies that his uncle employed to frighten anyone who might give him trouble, and do who knows what other evil deeds on his behalf. He looked like someone to whom violence came as easily as the leaves to the trees. What was he doing here? James could hardly stop looking at him, even though he knew it was foolish. The man seemed to have a force around him that could suck in the unwary.

  Suddenly James felt the man’s eyes on his own. James looked away quickly and continued walking along the quays, but he could feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Then he heard the man’s voice crash around his ears.

  ‘You there! Little man, come here you, I want you!’

  Whatever he wanted, James decided he was in no hurry to find out. He kept walking briskly, and when he heard the man shout again and, looking over his shoulder, saw his great bulk begin to shift on the cobbles, he darted up the quay as fast as he could and slipped into a narrow laneway. The laneway was dark and empty, but as James ran he saw no place where he might conceal himself. Maybe the man hadn’t seen him enter the laneway but had run past further up the quay. But that hope was dashed when a shadow darkened the lane even more and he heard the man running up the alleyway. For one so big he was surprisingly agile. ‘Come back here, boy, or I’ll throttle you!’

  As he ran up the lane James saw a narrow gap between two warehouses, and without a second thought, dived into it. He found himself in a courtyard strewn with lumber and barrels, some completed and some still being worked on. There were tools and benches, though no workmen yet. With a surge of panic James realised there was no way out of the courtyard other than by the gap he had entered. He looked around but could see nowhere to hide. He crouched behind a barrel, then opened the lid and, finding the barrel empty, he clambered in and closed the lid after him. He had no sooner done that than he heard footsteps on the cobbles of the courtyard.

  ‘I know you’re here, you little scut. Come out now or it’ll be the worse for you!’

  Had he really seen him slip into the courtyard or was he bluffing? James was tempted to get out of the barrel and surrender before he was found there. Maybe the man wasn’t as bad as he seemed, maybe he just wanted to ask him something and had been angered by his running away. Better to give up now than be caught and beaten black and blue by the brute. James was about to lift the lid when he heard the sound of barrels being kicked and rolling across the cobbles. If he could subject the barrels to such violence, what was he likely to do to James if he found him?

  James crouched deeper into the barrel in the hope that he mightn’t be seen should the lid be flung off. The kicking seemed to be nearer. James felt his stomach knot with fear and beads of sweat run down his back. Surely the man could smell him! He felt as if the stink of his fear must reach every corner of the yard. He hoped there were no dogs about, or they would surely sniff him out. He nearly cried out at the next blow, it was so near. It must be the barrel beside him. James braced himself for the blow which must come any second now, but then he heard other voices in the courtyard, angry voices calling out to the man.

  ‘What’s going on? What are you doing to our barrels? Who are you?’

  The coopers must have come into their workshop. James’s terror subsided a little.

  ‘Have you seen the boy?’ James heard.

  ‘What boy? There’s no boy here! Look at these barrels. A day’s work destroyed! Who’s going to pay for that?’

  The man seemed to have calmed down, and was now trying to placate the angry coopers. James didn’t dare move. He put his ear against the wood of the barrel as he strained to hear what was being said.

  ‘A boy, fair-haired, maybe fourteen years or more …’

  ‘And what is he to you, this boy, whoever he might be?’

  ‘Oh he’s just a friend of a friend. I have some business with him.’

  ‘A kicking business, a breaking business, to judge by the violence done here.’

  ‘I’ll pay for it. Compliments of Lord Dunmain.’

  After another few moments, James didn’t hear his voice any more, but still didn’t dare move. He would stay here all day if he had to; he had no intention of moving until he was satisfied the brute was no longer in the courtyard.

  Suddenly the lid was swept off the barrel, and James cowered, waiting for the blow.

  But all that came was a voice, rough but kindly. ‘It’s alright, he’s gone, you can come out now,’ it said.

  James looked up and saw a grinning face looking down at him.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ James couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Because I know my own barrels,’ the cooper said, helping him out. ‘And I can tell a full one from an empty one.’

  ‘You can?’ James wasn’t entirely convinced.

  ‘And I can tell when a lid isn’t down properly. I finished this barrel yesterday before knocking off. So what did your friend want you for?’

  The other coopers gathered round him, wanting to hear his story. James was afraid one of them might take it into his head to run after the Ugly and fetch him back, but no one moved.

  ‘Did you rob him?’ asked one, eyeing James suspiciously.

  ‘No,’ James said. ‘The robbing is all the other way. The brute belongs to my uncle, the man who calls himself Lord Dunmain.’

  ‘What do you mean, calls hisself?’

  ‘Because,’ James said, surprising himself, ‘I am Lord Dunmain.’

  His words produced first a stunned silence, then a clamour of questioning.

  ‘Wait, quiet everyone, let him speak,’ said the cooper who had rescued him.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, turning to James, ‘you’d better explain yourself. And it’d better be good. We don’t take kindly to blather around here.’

  ‘My father was William Lovett, Lord Dunmain. He died this year and my uncle assumed the title–’

  ‘Where were you if you were the son?’ The questioner sounded sceptical.

  That didn’t surprise James. He sometimes had trouble believing his story himself. ‘My father abandoned me, he and Miss Deakin, whom he married though my mother is still alive. It was something to do with money; they couldn’t have an heir in the way. So they farmed me out with a relative, who was no relative. And they gave out that I was dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just kill you, wouldn’t that have been simpler?’ It was the sceptical cooper again.

  ‘I don’t know,’ James said. ‘Maybe it’s not so easy to kill a son. I don’t think he was all bad.’


  ‘Bad enough, from what I heard,’ said another of the coopers.

  ‘If it’s hard to kill a son, I’ll warrant it’s a deal easier to kill a nephew,’ said the kindly cooper. ‘A man who surrounds himself with the likes of that bowsy wouldn’t think twice about murder.’

  ‘He was offering money,’ the sceptical one reminded him. ‘Maybe we should let the family work out their own business.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to give me up,’ James said. ‘And I can’t offer you any money.’

  ‘There’ll be no talk of giving anyone up, or of money either. Not while Matt Brady is in this yard.’

  James’ stomach unknotted slightly at the man’s words. The other coopers muttered their assent, even the sceptical one.

  ‘Your father was a foolish and quarrelsome man,’ Matt Brady said. ‘He owed money all over the city, and if he hadn’t got himself killed for his own pride, he might have got it some other way from someone with good reason. But your uncle is more than foolish, he’s a dark-souled thug who they say has killed for the pleasure of it. What kind of man will you be, if you ever get that far?’

  ‘I hope an honourable one,’ James said. ‘I mean to fight my uncle when the time is right.’

  This statement was met with sniggers.

  ‘Well, lad, you’ll need to keep alive for that,’ Brady said, and James remembered McAllister’s words of only hours before. Staying alive was, he saw now, an even bigger challenge than he thought. How much did his uncle know? Had that brute really recognised him, and were they hunting for him throughout the city? He had been foolish to reveal his identity here. What good could it possibly do him? It would take very little for word to get back to his uncle – a tale in a tavern, a casual mention to a friend. He was angry at the pride that tempted him to take an unnecessary risk, and silently swore that he wouldn’t be so quick to reveal himself in future, but he was glad he had chosen Matt Brady’s yard to hide himself in. For every evil he encountered there seemed to be an answering good. If only things could continue like that, he might be safe.