‘It would not be the first time the Captain is in his cups. I am sure his need for a wet-nurse is past.’ Pierre’s peevishness hinted of more than exasperation for being called to fetch Willoughby home. Perhaps he had after all detected my earlier thought that I now sincerely regretted. Having dismissed any need for his attention, Pierre picked up the chair that had fallen and begun to sit, but halfway to the seat was brought back to his feet by Townley’s next words.
‘It is not for the Captain I ask you come, but for us. His intoxication brings danger to us all, with his lack of caution and loose tongue.’
‘You say he brings us danger?’ I asked. That cursed loosener of tongues!
Townley knew better than to give the answer of my question to Pierre, as some men would have done. He turned to me and said, ‘Schemes and designs spill out from him and into many interested ears. His revelations are causing a considerable stir and there are those who stand up and challenge him. We left the coffee house in a most ominous mood. Make haste, before he reveals too much!’
Now I was included in the plea, I came to Pierre’s side, took his arm and beseeched him, ‘He knows more than he should of our plans, and if he is in his cups and his mouth is so loose we must bring him home before he murders us all!’
‘My dear, if he is so intoxicated, his words may be considered those of a drunk fool.’
‘I would not be so certain.’ I turned back to the Jesuit youths, and asked, ‘Where is he?’
‘At Farr’s, under the sign of the Rainbow.’ And, as if my question was an agreement we would come, Townley then turned and left the room, with Palmer following close on his heels. Their urgency suggested it would be prudent not to ignore it. I paused only long enough to see Pierre’s nod that he would shadow us, blew out the candle we had been using to read the books, and did likewise.
I could have taken a moment to fetch my cloak against the cold air, and perhaps should have, but did not reflect upon it, when the Rainbow Coffee House was only a short walk from our front door. It was a decision I would regret for every chilly step north along Arundel Street, then East along the Strand past Saint Clement’s church on the left; but by the time we reached the Inner Temple Gate in Fleet Street, I was hot and breathless.
Soon after, we turned into Rainbow Court. The entrance to the coffee house lay behind the sign of the Rainbow. I hardly noticed the stray swine that the beadle had missed grubbing in the plants by the door, except to make a point to ensure ours were locked up when we returned home.
My mind raced ahead to the inevitable confrontation with Willoughby: would he be at the rogues’ table or the knights’? Captain Willoughby’s distinguishing trait was to weave engaging tales to interest and fascinate all, and so he would undoubtedly be welcome at any table at which he chose to sit.
Though wives and mothers proclaimed coffee as a drying liquor, shrivelling their men’s seed and enfeebling their men into apes, my own impression on entering divers coffee establishments was of a reverse nature: a man could match any role he might chose in a coffee house, so long as he could read, tell a true tale or debate a point on something of the time. There, where men were equal to each other, it was only women that remained subordinate to men.
Unusually, the pleasant Temple courtyard was not filled with students of the law, so tonight we arrived unseen in the darkness. Even before we reached the door, we heard raised, angry voices. Pierre stepped past our two young visitors that gladly allowed him, and pulled it open. Though womenfolk were not allowed, I followed close behind my husband, for I had been in many places women were banned when that is where some were particularly found.
Plumes of tobacco smoke snaked round the top of the doorjamb and escaped upwards into the star-filled sky, but did nothing to dwindle the thick, choking air inside. My eyes straight away stung with the mingling of wood smoke from the logs burning in the fireplace; spitting pig fat and smoke from the slanted rushlights, hanging glowing on every wall; as well as the copious curls of tobacco smoke from at least one clay pipe at each table.
Through the pane of separating glass at the far side of the room, coffee brewers ground black beans and boiled the huge vats, which we smelt a street away, ready for tomorrow’s business, all in sight of the customers who had seen it so regularly they no longer truly saw it. If the lords seated over there beside the bay window looked out into the darkness, I knew they would see Temple Court and, beyond that, the lanthorns of small and large boats glowing east and west upon the Thames, but some talked earnestly and others listened, occasionally looking over to the scene in the middle of the place.
And there he was – scarred but young, handsome, animated and exuding masculine forcefulness – in the midst of a group of gentlemen trying, and failing, to restrain him and suppress his boundless spirit…and his carrying voice!
As usual, he was provoking other regulars with his disposition and the turbulence he exuded wheresoever he went. He could not help it. Though I should disdain it as I would in any other, I could not help but soften at his childishness as he jovially argued with two men that still had sheathed swords, as evidenced by the hilts protruding from their sides. How long would they stay sheathed I did not know, but two things were obvious: if he continued to rile other customers he would soon be at the point of more than one weapon and that he would betray us if he continued to speak out as he was doing.
‘The king is in danger, I tell you! There is a plot against him. Do you hear me? They say the plot is by the Catholics, you see, but it is not the Catholics at all, but the Presbyterians, you see…ho! Monsieur Cellier! Tell them about the plot! Oh, and there’s the splendid Madam Cellier by his side…come and tell them, Elizabeth. Come and tell them about the Presbyterian plot against the Catholics. A plot the Presbyterians falsely cast upon innocent Catholic shoulders for plotting against the king…a farce as magnificent as any story by Alpha Behn, do you not think?’
‘Pierre, make him stop!’ I whispered hoarsely, trying not to flinch with each statement the fool threw onto the hotbed of tattle already rife in the coffee houses. ‘He throws out indiscretion from his Pandora-box mouth! He can do only harm if his lid is not closed.’ That he called me by my given name would add a different injury to Pierre and me.
‘No man will listen to such a fool,’ said Pierre.
The poetic ‘Welcome’ displayed inside the door, notified customers of the rules, but did not warn the customer of the remarkable power of transport a few words might take from ears that accidentally overhear to ears that seek out this information. Words insignificant to some might be read as treason by others. When a man might be tried for treason for merely imagining the king’s death, what our friend, the good captain, was loudly spouting would surely be pleasing bounty to the wrong ears.
The attention of every lord by the window was entirely on the actions of Willoughby now; as was that of every other man in the room. Even the pot-boys stopped pouring thick black liquor into the dishes on the tables, or paused their task of replacing the spluttering rushlights before they flickered out. He would once more be the talk of the city on the morrow.
Willoughby flailed free from his restrainers and thrust his hands, palms down, upon a nearby table, causing the coffee dishes to jump and one to spill over. One thin man sprung to his feet at the opposite side of the table from Willoughby and drew his rapier sword. His embroidered blue dress coat was not the style of our three kingdoms, but of a type oft worn by good King Charles on return from his exile in France. An uncommon design, it was trimmed with Flanders lace that Customs House might take notice of, and set off by an undershirt with frilled cuffs over blue silk britches. He wore the feathered hat of a cavalier and a long moustache that turned at the ends over a pointed beard. His voice held the familiarity of being obeyed.
‘Do you come prepared for a fight, when here we all are for discussion and debate, a most peaceful pastime? Restrain yourself, man! You ca
rry yourself with the dignity of a baboon and the mouth of a woman!’
Willoughby barely responded to the insults, so intoxicated was he, nor to the sword facing him, nor the raised hand signalling readiness of the cavalier to back up his words. Though he lifted his head to meet the man’s slitted eyes, it appeared he had no muscle to lift his hands from the table, but still his bold impudence remained strong.
‘And you, sir, are a tailor’s dummy! I bring you news of the gravest nature, of import to the king himself, yet your ears are covered in cloth and your actions without sense.’
‘To your sword, sir! You tell of this plot and that, and accuse every religion. Look around you, man. This night you have accused every man in this place of conspiracy. Do you see any left to be your knight? We are dignified men here, sir, and your hop-breath does not mingle well. I suggest you leave before you have injury to yourself, else drink a dish or two of Mr Farr’s excellent Arabian drink, and quit your ranting!’
Willoughby’s expression did not change. He seemed to puzzle over the other’s words, but his head was too filled with liquor to be able to do so. Then, without warning, he pushed himself from the table and lurched towards the four of us by the door. He reached the door before he saw us again, then, on seeing us, he stopped suddenly and smiled, and held out his hand.
‘Ah, there you are once more, Monsieur et Madame…s’il vous plait…give me twelve pence in advance of my work. I have erred and offended these gentlemen and must do right by them and pay for a dish each.’ He tapped on the pinned up sheet on the wall, displaying the coffee-house rule verse, the like of which is found in so many similar chambers, and read out loud the part that said:
To limit men’s expense, we think not fair,
But let him forfeit twelve-pence that shall swear;
He that shall any quarrel here begin,
Shall give each man a dish t’atone the sin
‘Non, Monsieur Willoughby. You have had bounty enough,’ said my husband. As ever when Willoughby and Pierre stood side by side, I was drawn to compare the two. For once, Pierre’s grey age and dignity were so much more preferable to Willoughby’s youth and impudent handsome face. ‘It seems you have also had ale enough.’ Pierre’s subtle effort to draw the Captain out without his causing trouble failed.
He was drunkenly rebuffed with a sneer, ‘Then I speak to the lady with the purse-strings, Monsieur.’ Pierre stopped only for a moment. In that hesitation it was as if he had been run through with the tip of a sharp thrusting-blade, but he fast pushed whatever thought that stilled him aside, and continued towards the bar, ignoring the drunkard. He put a penny on the surface and another on top of that. The man working there had paid attention to the proceeding actions and needed no instruction, but quickly poured a dish of coffee, then another. Pierre picked up the first and advance upon Willoughby with it.
‘Drink this,’ he said as he held the dish out to the Captain, who looked at the black liquid in horror.
‘Give me coins so that I can buy my own poison!’
‘Your sort of poison spreads out from the cup to corrupt everything around.’ I was uncertain whether Pierre referred to the drink or the man, but at this moment it was a fair point either way.
‘How about you give me a pound on account of the work I have done so far?’
‘How about you take a sip of this medicine and then we will talk about it.’
‘If you Papists are so oyster tight with your money, I will go to Lord Shaftsbury - he will give me plenty!’
‘Have you no honour, man? You fly from nest to nest with no loyalty to any but one that holds the golden egg!’ Pierre spoke the words quietly, but a rod of iron ran through them. His soft demeanour had fooled many a man to think him a fool for his age, but oftentimes they regretted their hasty judgement.
The thin man with the blade still drawn, again raised his other arm above his head in challenge to fight.
Men at nearby tables had put down their coffee and stilled their pipes to listen with great interest. It was too dark to see who sat in the corners. There might have been some that had a more than natural interest in this event, more than that of an accidental bystander, and this conversation was becoming one that those in other places might pay to hear. I did not wish to frustrate Pierre’s efforts, but was impelled to speak to hurry this affair to a conclusion.
As I opened my lips to speak, several things happened at once. The thin man with the sword came round the table towards Willoughby. Willoughby seeing this, attempted, badly, to draw his own sword, but instead struck the dish of coffee from Pierre’s hand. The coffee spilt on a poorly dressed man that sat close behind Pierre. Quick on his feet, that man pushed back his chair and shouted at both Pierre and Willoughby, ‘Fools! Take your fight into the street where it belongs!’ and he too drew his sword.
At that moment, Willoughby unbalanced as he unsheathed his own sword, and rolled back on his heels, falling against the back of a man who had eaten too many meals, and making his chest bang hard into the table with the sound of much expelled air, ‘Ooof!’
I was only glad this man did not also have a sword. However, he did have a voice and his angry shout carried to all corners of the room, so that the curiosity of any that had hitherto continued their own conversation stopped to watch the excitement. He also had a strong arm, and thrust Willoughby off him so hard the drunkard flew back towards the poorly dressed man and his sword.
The sniff of a battle, however small, had the effect of waking every man’s senses, so that they were all obviously much aroused by the tension. Shouts and cries rose from these sober men as if they had spent the night in a tavern instead of a coffee house, but however different their opinions and debates might be, they happily united against the captain.
I lost sight of Pierre for a moment, but when I next spotted him begging the pardon of the badly dressed man, it was with horror I saw Willoughby bent over and staggering across the floor toward him, sword raised in one hand, and his other outstretched to balance himself. The gentleman that first stood to his feet grabbed the unguarded hand to steady him, so that Willoughby spun fast around, his sharp blade following his body and not caring where it cut. The edge of it struck Pierre’s side and he yelled out loud, his hand going to where it hit and coming away with blood on it. He turned on Willoughby, angry now.
‘Ungrateful knave! You go too far - you wound me in every way!’
Without further ado, Pierre easily grabbed the sword by the hilt from the shocked and unrepentant fool, that had the empty face of an imbecile, wrenched it from his hand, and threw it to the floor in disgust. With one hand holding his side, he stood tall and grabbed a fist of Willoughby’s shirt from his front and pulled the man close to his chest and growled loud enough for every person to hear, ‘Get your self together, fool! I am taking you home.’
Then, with the dignity of a man of honour, Pierre, still holding tight on Willoughby’s shirt, turned him toward the two men with the sword. ‘You have offended these good men and disturbed their night with your prattling nonsense. You must atone for your actions, do right by them.’ As he said the last, he let go of Willoughby’s shirt and bent to pick up the sword he threw down only moments before. He held it up in front of his face so the silver caught the firelight and, taking a cloth from his pocket, wiped his blood off it. Then, still wiping the cloth up and down as if he were sharpening the blade with it, he looked at the clammed shut captain so hard I swear I saw him flinch.
‘If I have offended you, I humbly beg your pardon, sirs.’
Then, as he had in front of the king, he circled his hand two times above his head, swept it wide as the sun’s path across the sky and closed the elaborate bow by bending low, where he happened upon his hat that had fallen unnoticed from his head. In a smooth movement he grabbed it, stood up straight and placed the hat back on his head, no matter his periwig lay somewhere beneath some man’s fe
et. He wobbled as he completed this move, and Pierre grabbed him by the arm.
As Pierre left, he threw a shilling to the table closest to him and said to the closest pot-boy, ‘Be so good as to fill these gentlemen’s dishes, boy.’
With that, he dragged the captain ungallantly behind him and headed for the door. The two boys and myself stood to one side to allow him through, then followed quickly behind, closing the door behind us.
The autumnal night was crisp and cold, especially so after the warmth of the coffee house that had a fire burning night and day to make the drink. I shivered with cold and tension and fervently wished I had remembered my cloak. I almost ran to keep up with Pierre and Willoughby, who Pierre continued to drag behind him with more strength than I would have given him credit for.
Suddenly, Willoughby twisted free from Pierre’s grip and stood apart from him.
‘You are not my father, monsieur! Do not hold onto me as if you have authority over me!’
Pierre again squared up to the drunk, and I was pleased to see he measured up very well. I had always thought him the smaller of the two, perhaps that his age wilted him, but now he had at least an inch over the small and miserable Willoughby.
‘You dare question my right over you, unmuzzled maltworm13? I have taken you in and given you employment. I trusted you into my family and home. I have endured endless stories about your deplorable life, borne tales of how you have tricked gallant men of their well-earned savings, abided your arrogance at how you have survived being cast from town to town because no honest men will tolerate you long for your crimes. And all this with the belief that you are a fox changed into the more homely dog. But all the while I have harboured an unrepentant, cheating scoundrel, a thief, a rogue, a villain that does not deserve such kindness!’
13 Maltworm: drunkard.
The Popish Midwife Page 18