by Dan Davis
“I shall pray you rest well, Lady Cecilia, and wake fully recovered for the journey tomorrow.”
“Good night, Richard,” she said softly.
In the morning, she carefully ignored me and we continued on, our horses splashing through the remnants of the rain and sinking into the mud. The wind helped to rid the street of the water and then the sun came out and the surface firmed up so that by late afternoon we came to Gravelines. Thomas would take over leadership of the company while I returned to England.
“It is my duty to cross with you to England. My men shall remain but I also have business in London.”
“You continue to honour me with your protection, sir, and I have so little to offer in return.”
“Your company is more than enough, my lady. The crossing should be swift if the wind remains as it is but the journey can be tedious unless one has diversions.”
She blushed and looked down, covering her face with a lovely hand. “I should greatly wish to share a ship with you for the crossing, dear Richard,” she said, speaking softly. “Yet my good name is the only thing of any value that remains to me.”
“I understand, my lady,” I said. “I shall ensure that you and your household reach your estates but I shall do so from afar.”
“A true knight, indeed,” she said, starting to reach for my cheek before pulling her hand back to place it over her heart.
After we embarked, I barely saw her, even from a distance. But I kept my word and made certain that there were no delays in ports. Our ships both travelled around Kent into the Thames and the port of London. The crossing was as easy as any I have undertaken and I have crossed that channel more times than I care to count.
London was teeming with ships, as ever, with large and small cogs with single masts, the fatter hulks and even a handful of huge Genoese carracks with sleek sides, two masts and more than one sail. They brought all manner of goods from Italy and beyond and in return brought English wool across to Flanders or back home, for our wool was rightly prized for its quality. Between the great ships, hundreds of wherries taxied passengers to and from ships, and across and up or down the Thames.
While I waited on the dockside for her to disembark, her brother, Sir Humphrey, rode up with a dozen men on expensive horses, crowding the space. Walt cursed them for their rudeness but I forestalled him.
“Sir Humphrey,” I said, walking directly to his horse. The men around him put their hands on their swords but Sir Humphrey waved them back and called out to me in return.
“Richard?” He frowned, looking between me and the ship. “You travelled with the Lady Cecilia?”
“But of course!” I said, purposefully misunderstanding the specifics of his insinuation. “Did not the King himself order me to protect the lady and see her home safe, sir? I am not a man to shirk his duty.”
Sir Humphrey curled his lip and furrowed his brow. “Where is she? Where is my sister, man?”
“I assume she is yet to disembark. I just arrived from my own ship.” I jerked my thumb down river and he visibly relaxed and even began to smile a little. Then he looked up and the smile spread across his face.
“Cecilia!” he cried, and fairly leapt from his saddle to run to her.
She was a vision as she stepped onto the dock helped by her servants and a swarm of bowing sailors. She and her brother embraced and he directed a dozen questions at her before she could answer the first one. Eventually, she laughed and pushed him away.
“I am well, I am well. All is well.” She looked at me, then, for the first time but so directly that it was certain she knew precisely where I was. “Thanks entirely to Sir Richard’s chivalrous attentions.”
“I am sure,” Sir Humphrey said, all but growling. “I shall have to thank you in some way, sir. Are you going to that manor of yours directly?”
It was clear he was prompting me to make my departure and now that I would be robbed of my planned, passionate farewell with his sister, I was liable to get going forthwith. “I have a house in London and shall stay there until my business here is complete. Then I must return to my company in Villeneuve. Lady Cecilia, I am glad to see you well and back in the arms of your family. If there is anything I can do for you, you need but ask it. Good day, my lady. My lord.”
He all but growled at my presumption yet she beamed at me in open affection. It stirred my heart but it was tinged with sadness. She seemed to be perfect. A woman grown, strong and forthright but kind and filled with physical passion tempered with the wisdom to control it. If only she could be my wife, I thought, as I rode away on my rented horse. But I knew just as she would that her destiny was to marry some great lord, perhaps even an earl, and bear him many children.
“To Master Stephen’s house, sir?” Walter asked as we plodded by the carts teeming with barrels of salt cod and herring.
“It is my house, Walt,” I said. “And no, I am beyond filthy and in need of a bath. I shall cross to Southwark and go home later. Go home and tell Stephen to have my chambers prepared and to ready a fine feast. And good wine.”
Walt nodded. “My old man used to say, God rest his soul, if you cannot have a woman, son, then you might as well have a drink.”
I shook my head. “I see that you come from a long line of wise fools.”
Yet it was I who was the fool for sending Walt away from my side.
7. The Assassin
Soaking in steaming hot water, I leaned back against the side of the tub and sighed. I could not recall the last time I had taken a bath. Certainly not during the campaign and not for some time before then. It was somewhat indulgent of me but then I did so hate coming to London at all and anything I could do to balance the unpleasantness was perfectly acceptable, as far as I was concerned.
The Southwark stews, on the south side of the Thames across from the City of London, served as the bathhouses for anyone who could pay for them. While they were all private establishments, some were more affordable than others. The one I utilised was the most expensive of them all and thus I enjoyed the privacy of my own small room and a woman to serve me as I bathed. It was a well-made room, lit by small windows high up on the exterior wall and a decorative, iron-framed lantern on an ornate dressing table. The floor was tiled quite finely in a white and green pattern evoking the sensuality of nature, an effect enhanced by the fresh lavender and other herbs filling the room with delightful scents.
A most welcoming woman scrubbed my shoulders with a sponge and good Spanish soap, kneading my flesh as she washed. Try as I might, I could not cease thinking of Cecilia. She had bewitched me utterly and no matter if I directed my thoughts to the conduct of the war or the possibilities for our search for the immortal Frenchman, I found myself recalling moments that I passed with the lady, and even fantasising about conversations that we might one day enjoy. Absurdly, I even pictured myself married to her and sharing the truly intimate relationship that comes from daily sharing a bed, a home, and a partnership with another. And, as was as natural and inevitable as the changing of the seasons, I sinfully indulged in base, lustful daydreams where I stripped Cecilia of her clothing while she smiled up adoringly at me.
“That feels remarkably restorative, Pernille,” I muttered.
“I do apologise, good sir, but as I have previously expressed to you, I don’t be doing that sort of thing no more.”
Surprised, I noticed that I was idly stroking one of her hands as she worked on my neck. “My apologies, Pernille. Upon my oath, it was not my intention to initiate--” I broke off from my explanation as I saw that my intention was in fact jutting up above the surface of the grey water.
“And besides,” Pernille continued, as if I had not spoken, “I am far too ancient to excite a young man such as yourself.”
I stopped, because I knew then that she wanted me to talk her into it. Quite suddenly the wantonness of her subtle proposition turned my incidental lust into a fervour and I grasped her hand firmly in mine, pulling her gently but firmly closer to me by
an inch or two.
“My dear, I am a hundred and eighty years of age and you are nought but a spring chicken to my eyes. I would be honoured if you would share the pleasures of this bath with me.”
She assumed I was joking about my age, of course, and she laughed even though there was no jest to be found in my remark. “I shall call one of the younger girls, my lord. One more suited to your needs. Surely, you cannot wish to waste your coin and your ardour on the likes of me.”
“By all means, call one of your girls in to serve us both while we recline in the waters. Come, come. You are perfection itself.”
“Oh, you are spouting flattery, sire, as surely you must know that beneath my clothes my body is quite unbecoming.”
“I would never pursue a woman who does not desire me in turn, Pernille, so do nothing that would not please you. But you can see in my eyes that I speak truth when I say I want no woman here more than I want you.”
At that, she disrobed and we made love very slowly in the waters. If I had to guess, I would have said she was aged between thirty and thirty-five and she was quite lovely in body and in spirit.
“I truly have not lain with a man here for some years,” she said later, reclining in my arms as one of the servants let cold water out from the tub and opened the brass tap to allow the hot water to fill up to the brim once more.
“Then I am honoured by your generosity.” It was her job to make men feel wanted, and special, and I suspected that she recited the same words a few times a week. Even so, I was ever contented to be deceived by a comely woman.
“There is something unusual about you, my lord,” she said, trailing a finger over the back of my hand where it rested on the rim of the tub. “And I do not speak of your talents in the ways of love, which are quite remarkable.”
I sighed, as she was rapidly spoiling my relaxed mood with her professional patter. No doubt she wanted me to ask for her the next time I returned but I wanted a few more moments of peace before I went back to doing my duty to the King, and to my Order and my oath. And I wanted her to be quiet so I could think of Cecilia and imagine that one day it might be her reclining in my arms.
There was a cry from somewhere else in the building, rising over the usual hubbub and occasional barks of laughter.
Something about it called for my attention.
It was the sound of a woman protesting in outrage. After laughter and cries of passion, that was the most common noise to hear in that place and yet there was a tone of terror in it.
Pernille was attuned to the sounds of her bordello also and her body tensed at the cry.
“Go see what that’s about, Maggie, dear,” she said, her demeanour suddenly serious and commanding, to the young woman attending us. Maggie nodded and went to the door.
A shout of warning went up from beyond the room, far closer than before, and it was accompanied by the sound of a man’s feet approaching along the floorboards.
My instincts kicked in and I pushed Pernille away from me and stood in the tub, looking for my clothing. The rules of the establishment were that no weapons were allowed within and so my sword was in the guardroom along with the two burly porters who dealt with trouble using stout clubs when necessary. No doubt, I thought, they would soon put an end to whatever the trouble was but still I felt somewhat vulnerable as I stood there with the water streaming from my naked flesh, knowing that I was entirely unarmed.
My instincts were always good and they had been honed further by the many decades of danger I had lived. And they had not failed me.
The door to the soak room burst open, striking young Maggie and knocking her aside as a huge fellow barged through with an angry expression on his face and a drawn sword in his hand. Pernille, moving with admirable speed, hopped from the tub, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her, and retreated to the corner, dragging Maggie with her.
The attacker was not interested in the women.
Indeed, he did not even take a moment to look at the naked one and instead had eyes only for me as he paused in the doorway.
My first impression was that he was taller than me, and considerably stouter. He wore the clothing of a middling townsman yet was bareheaded and his hair was unkempt and he sported a rather wild beard, which was really quite unusual at the time.
His eyes were filled with the fury of violence and as he looked rather like a wild bear wearing a tunic I did not waste time attempting to forestall him with words.
Instead, I jumped from the water across the room, away from him, trying to reach my clothing and the knife that was on my belt so that I would at least have something sharp and steel that I could stick the bastard with.
My lead foot, wet as it was, slipped from under me as I landed on the tiled floor and I fell hard, banging my elbow and hip and jarring me to the bone. What often saved me in a fight was my instinct to always be moving and even as I fell, I twisted and rolled and sprang back to my feet. And a lucky thing it was, too, as the bear-like fellow was already slashing his blade down at my naked back.
He caught me with a glancing blow, cutting me obliquely across the skin over my shoulder blade. I cried out in surprise more than pain, as I had not for a moment imagined such a beast of a man would move so swiftly and I knew then that he was an immortal. He had to be.
I glanced behind me as I changed direction, bounced off the wall and dived for the neat piles of my clothing upon the dressing table. The man was growling as he thrust his blade into the air, judging very well just where I was heading.
The point punctured my flank, low on my ribcage, penetrating quite deeply before my momentum pulled me from the blade and I crashed into the table, grabbing hold of it and crying out from the terrible pain shooting through me.
There was no hesitation from him and he followed me with a stride that brought him to striking distance. Before he could finish me off, I grabbed the heavy lantern on the table top and swung it with all my strength at his head. He ducked but still it struck him good and proper right on his crown and the blow shook him down to his toes. Such a blow would have smitten a mortal man and likely would have felled a warhorse but it did little more than slow my would-be murderer. As his sword point waved, I steeled myself, batted it aside with my forearm and charged into him. I lifted him with my shoulder and carried him across the width of the room until his back crashed into the opposite wall. It was such a terrible impact, even through the heft of the sturdy man’s flesh, that the force of it knocked the wind from me and I fell back and down to the floor, as did the other man. The women were screaming.
Before I could recover, he was somehow throwing himself on top of me. My wound was deep and blood was pouring down my side and I felt my strength leaking out of me along with it. The great big bastard forced me down beneath him as I tried to squirm away on my back. He brought the edge of his sword to bear and pushed it down toward my throat. I reached up and stopped the blade by grasping it with both hands, taking the weight upon my palms. He heaved down and the edge sliced through my flesh. His face was contorted in rage and his lips pulled back in a sneer, baring his yellow teeth. A stream of blood gushed from the top of his head where I had split his skull with the lamp. I was strong enough to resist his downward force but he began to saw his sword back and forth and the blade sliced down to the bones of my hands and I knew then that he would cut through my hands and drive the blade through my neck.
His head burst apart. Cloven in two from above by a blade. Pink brains and blood showered down on my face and I twisted his body from me.
Above me stood my man, Walter, looking quite concerned.
“Good Christ, sir,” he shouted, “you be in a right bad way.”
“God love you, man,” I said.
He was grinning at the terrified women, feasting his ignoble eyes upon Pernille’s flesh even as she cowered in fear and disgust. The dead man twitched and blood gushed from the large gap between both sides of his head.
“Help me into my clothes,” I commanded, “qu
ickly, man.”
Walt jumped to help me to my feet. “Sir, I must say your wounds are grievous. Sit here and I shall fetch a surgeon to bind you up.”
“No surgeon. Help me to the house. I will recover there.”
“As you command, Sir Richard. But should we not wait for the bailiffs? This bastard done killed the stew’s porters down at the door. I cannot flee from the body or else they shall say I am guilty of murder myself.”
He was quite right. But I knew that I needed blood or else I would not be long for the world and I had no wish to be caught up in an inquest. It would be possible to bribe the right men to keep my name from public mention but only if I was not seen with the body by too many people, and already I could hear folk gathering from elsewhere in the stew.
“We shall do what is right and no harm shall come to you, Walt,” I said, hurting quite badly, “as long as you help me to dress and get me out of here.”
“Right you are, sir,” Walt said, then immediately shaking out my shirt.
“Leave my purse for the ladies.”
“Ladies?” He looked around, confused. “The whores? How much?”
“Leave the purse,” I hissed. They would know what I wanted in return. “And for the love of God, remove your blade from the man’s head.”
***
“You must have some idea who he was,” Stephen said, pacing back and forth across the width of his solar on the second floor of his house.
It was our house, in fact, belonging to the Order of the White Dagger. We had taken turns to reside there over the decades, though I had used it the least because the decadence and stench of London made my skin crawl. But Stephen lived there publicly and had spent most of the previous century living there, on and off, and as such it was imbued with his personal taste. Having said that, Stephen would rather have by his bedside twenty books, bound in black or red, of Aristotle and his philosophy than rich robes or costly fiddles or gay harps. What décor I could see was far too modern for me to feel comfortable at the best of times and I was already feeling unnerved by my recent close brush with death.