‘Do you know who I am, lad?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the answer. ‘You’re the barber on Stoney Street, sir. Also, my friend over there, the tall one, he delivers bread to your tavern.’
‘Yes, among many other things, I am most certainly a barber too, indeed. A wearer of many hats, I am. And who might you be, young man?’
‘My name is Tristan, sir. Tristan Conway.’
‘Well, I’m certainly pleased to meet your acquaintance, Mr Conway. I, Nathaniel Hale, am now in your debt.’ Hale stuck out his hand to greet him. ‘And that’s a good thing, in case you wondered.’
Tristan could not help but take an immediate liking to the man, and he tried to grip the hand in front of him, watching helplessly as his small hand disappeared into the big man’s grasp.
‘You’re one of the delivery boys, aren’t you?’
Tristan did not want to rectify the man’s statement, that he was, in fact, the gang’s leader, and merely nodded.
‘Splendid job that you do, or so I hear people say. Why don’t you come by the Two Daggers tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Hale. ‘Your friend can show you the way. I can then settle my debt in full, or perhaps we can work out a deal, but until then, I’m afraid this will have to do.’ Out of thin air, he conjured up a gold guinea which he held out to Tristan.
Tristan gasped at the sight of the valuable coin, completely unexpected. He had seen these coins exchange hands at, among other places, the Royal Exchange, but never before had he held one or had one been offered to him. The sight of it made him feel uneasy. I only returned the man’s watch, he thought and shook his head. The barber then flicked the coin in the air and watched the boy’s hand shoot out to pluck it from the air. Hale let out a chuckle which was echoed by his two companions.
‘I insist.’ Hale smiled and tipped his hat to Tristan, who took that as a sign to get going.
‘Thank you, sir. I will be there. Tomorrow. Thank you, sir.’ With that, Tristan rushed over to his friends who were all bursting with excitement for they had seen the exchange taking place. All three of them buzzed when Tristan produced the gold coin. He did not know why but decided not to tell them about the impending meeting with the barber. Perhaps I should hear the man out first, he thought afterwards.
The Hungry Ones came up trumps in their first skirmish and to the victorious, and now the rich, went the spoils, and the foursome quickly decided to treat themselves to a deserved feast. When the rest of the gang joined them later in the day, there were still plenty of pies, tarts, pastries and cider left. The newcomers munched to their hearts’ content while the four filled them in on all that had happened. Finn acted out every scene in the story, mimicking every move and adding a few of his own but the cider was starting to take its toll, and when he ended on his back while showcasing his now-infamous kick, everyone burst into laughter.
Tristan looked at his brothers, his comrades, all of them happy and laughing. He ran his fingertips over his right cheekbone. The swelling had gone down, but it was still tender. He had already decided that he would tell Sissy exactly what had happened. She was sure to be proud of him even if he would get a scolding first.
The cider had dulled the pain, and with a full stomach, he lay back to watch the Finn Sullivan show. How lucky we are, he thought with as much joviality as his ten-year-old mind allowed him.
Chapter 6
Tristan was late. He would have been later still had it not been for Timmy, who had returned earlier and offered to do his last delivery. As soon as Tristan had strapped the wicker basket to Timmy’s back, he headed for the tavern.
The Two Daggers was far up Borough High Street, and the main street was as busy as usual. The effects of yesterday’s celebration had finally worn off but Tristan’s murky mind had been busy all day. Even now as he ran, he was trying to work out who owed who after the gold coin had exchanged hands. Mr Hale had certainly given him a lot of money, and he did not know why, but he had this strange sense of anticipation. His duty at La Boutique was waiting, so he had to be quick and started sprinting as fast as his legs, and the traffic allowed him to.
Dead tired, he finally turned right into Faulcon Court and could see the tavern’s sign hanging outside a building close to the end of the street, just like Ralf had said it would be.
The Two Daggers was a tavern alright. From outside the front door, the sweet odour of brewed cider and ale was unmistakable. However, the malodorous ammoniac reek of old urine, coming from stained walls nearby, managed to cut right through it. The festive noise from inside carried through the closed front door and he could hear the faint screeching sound of a fiddle that was almost drowned out by the loud murmuring coming from patrons inside. It was quite possible many fairgoers had found their way to this side of town.
The four-storey tavern sat nestled in between two smaller shops, a cutlery to the left of it and a drapery to the right. It had nowhere to go but upwards. Tristan laughed to himself. The owners of these two shops probably had many interesting stories to tell. The windows on both sides of the tavern’s entrance had their shutters closed. Tristan looked up and studied the wooden sign hanging from an iron rod above the entrance. Two daggers were positioned in an X and placed over a tankard from which frothing beer spilled. It was not a gaudy sign at all compared to some of the other inns on Borough High Street, but it did the name justice. The front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and walked into the darkness.
As the door closed behind him, Tristan found himself inside a large elongated room that was dimly lit by lanterns on walls and tables. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light, and he relied on his nose and ears to give him a sense of his surroundings. Sweet tobacco smoke filled the air and mixed with the more pronounced brewery smell from earlier. At the back of the room, steam rose up from a cauldron that hung over a firepit. The delicious aroma of a meaty pottage added another flavour to the already dense air. All around him ebullient voices told of numerous affairs being conducted in the dark while further away, an excited shout suddenly rang out as someone celebrated his winnings in a card game.
‘He’s upstairs.’
The composed voice amidst the noise unsettled Tristan. At first, he did not recognise the man sitting at the table next to him. Then he remembered the face. It was one of the two men who had accompanied Hale at the market. The thickset man wore a sleeveless leather jerkin without a shirt, his enormous arms covered in marks that looked like old cuts. Tried as he might, Tristan could not see where the man’s head ended, and his body began. The lantern light reflected off his bald and sweaty head, emphasising a jagged scar that ran on the right side of his head, all the way down to his ear. He was not remotely within cry of the dapper gentleman that Tristan had seen the day before.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Tristan finally managed to peel his eyes away from the man and with his sight now adapted to the dimness, he started looking around the room. There were several tables with mostly gentlemen seated at every single one. Some were in deep discussion, and he overheard them exchanging their thoughts on everything from politics and war to debaucheries they had indulged in at the fair. Others tried to enjoy a quiet early dinner made difficult by some drunken loud-mouthed braves who failed miserably to impress the few ladies scattered about with their newfound prowess and chivalry.
Tristan recognised one of the ladies by the peculiar tawny dress she was wearing. It made her almost blend in with the surroundings. She was one of Madam’s, probably trying to make some extra money. Piper, one of the girls at La Boutique, had confided in him once that although the girls led a lavish lifestyle, they earned very little. He frowned. The girl was taking a very big risk coming here. Madam had a strict set of rules for all her whores. Punishment was swift and sometimes severe for those who broke them. Tristan had seen what could happen if these rules were ignored and he knew Giles took great pleasure in enforcing them. He lowered his head slightly to avoid any eye contact and did not think anything further of the mat
ter.
‘The stairs are to the left of the counter,’ said the man next to him.
Tristan nodded and made his way through the tables, chairs and people. At the counter, several patrons were guzzling down cider and ale. Some celebrated their fortunes while others drowned their sorrows. Sissy had told him that most people found solace in ale and cider when they had fallen on hard times, but he could not imagine such a thing. He liked both drinks because of the warm fuzzy feeling he got whenever he had one. Then again, perhaps she is right, he thought, because one does seem to care less.
The barmaid who served the customers at the counter did not see him walk past. She was completely enthralled by a young man who was playing “Merry Merry Milkmaids” on a fiddle, much to the delight of a small crowd that had gathered nearby, singing and clapping along.
In the far-right corner, a few young men were trying their hand at Ringing the Bull. By the cries of dismay, it did not sound like they had much success, and their aim was sure to get worse as the afternoon wore on. Not far from where they were playing, patrons were loudly cheering two sailors on who were each having a yard of ale. Their respective friends were standing by to help the men lift the yard-long glass, each man pleading with his companion to finish the drink first, reminding them not to spill a drop and forfeit the challenge. A lot was at stake. The winner and his helper would remain champions, with the challengers buying the drinks.
There were wooden stairs on both sides of the counter. Tristan took the ones on the left as the man had said.
The noise from downstairs made its way to the second floor, which was a much more subdued affair. There were a few tables spread out across the floor, most of them occupied by murmuring men who tried their luck at various dice and card games. It sounded just like the beehive he and Finn stumbled across during one of their trapping excursions. At the back of the room, a long hallway led to several rooms, all of which had closed doors. Behind Tristan, a single staircase headed up to the second storey.
He made his way through the tables while he tried to pick out the barber among the lot but had no luck. And then, from a dark corner at the back of the room came a familiar voice.
‘Over here, lad!’
Tristan saw the arm wave to him. Close to the hallway’s entrance, Hale was seated on a big wooden bench. With his legs kicked out underneath the table in front of him, he was half sitting, half lying against the wall at his back. In his right hand, he held a clay pipe from which a constant stream of smoke rose up in the air. He was not alone. Next to him, tucked away in the corner, sat a dainty woman wearing a light-blue dress.
As Tristan walked across the room, he looked at her. The pale skin of her face was unblemished, like a new piece of white porcelain, but the long curly blond hair that hung loosely over her shoulders had lost some of its shine. Right then, she lifted her head and gazed at him as he approached. Her blue eyes had a dullness about them, and with the lack of proper light, they appeared sunken, almost hollow. Strangely, she reminded Tristan of Piper, and while she seemed much younger than the barber, her demeanour made her look just as old, if not older, yet she was still a beautiful woman. He should know for he had seen many ladies in his lifetime and as he weaved through the last tables, Tristan wondered who she was.
The barber pointed to the empty bench across from them, and said, ‘Wel—’
Down the hall, a door suddenly burst open, and a young man with a big smile on his face came racing past them. Behind him followed a dark-haired lady busily adjusting her breasts that appeared to be spilling out of her corset. As she walked past the three of them, she stopped and ran her fingers through Tristan’s hair.
‘And who is this strapping young lad?’ asked the woman in a honeyed voice.
‘Let him be,’ grunted Hale. ‘Go lay your laced mutton paws on a grown fella!’ His disgust was clear, his voice threatening.
The woman jerked her hand away and rushed down the stairs, disappearing quicker than she had arrived.
‘Who’s that lady, sir?’ Tristan felt compelled to ask as he took a seat. He was sure that he had heard those words before – laced mutton.
‘She’s no one. Nothing but a whore, lad, nothing but a whore.’
Tristan remembered. The term had been bestowed on Piper one night at La Boutique by a drunken elderly gentleman who according to her “could not get it up”. Back then, Tristan did not know what the poor man had struggled to get up, but it sounded pretty important to the business they had been conducting. The angry old man had blamed Piper rather vehemently, and Madam had him quickly escorted off the property by the twins. Tristan wondered if he should tell the barber where he lived, and that his dead mother had been a laced mutton too. Now is not the right time, he decided.
The barber took a swig of ale, placed the tankard back on the table and returned to his relaxed posture. He appeared somewhat agitated by the interruption, but then he looked up at Tristan and smiled.
‘Where was I now…welcome to my humble establishment, Mr Conway, or shall I call you Mr Black Eye from now on?’ Hale laughed at his own joke before turning serious again. ‘How’s the eye, lad, seeing that I had a slight hand in your current circumstance?’ Hale pulled a trencher laden with bread, meat and cheese closer and, using a beautifully crafted knife, he cut thin strips of salted meat which he placed on a piece of buttered bread.
‘’Tis no bother, sir,’ said Tristan and watched as Hale took a big bite followed by a pickled onion from a jar. The man can sure fit a mouthful.
‘Well, that’s grand…just splendid. We have a tough one here, Annabelle,’ said Hale, still chewing. Suddenly he slapped himself in the head and slammed the knifepoint into the table, startling both woman and boy. ‘Good God, where are my manners? Mr Conway, this here is Miss Annabelle Smyth. Annabelle, this here is young master Tristan Conway, the noble young man who returned my watch, and he even took a bit of punishment in doing so.’
Tristan did not like being called young master for he did not know if the barber was mocking him or being serious. Annabelle’s hand was soft and cool in his own, callused from years of pulling carts and lifting baskets.
‘How do you do, Mr Conway?’ Like her hand, her voice was soft, almost reserved.
‘Very well, thank you, ma’am.’
Hale grabbed Tristan’s outstretched arm before he could take it back. ‘Now lean closer.’
Tristan did as the man asked. Hale’s hand was cold and clammy on his face. He drew a sharp breath as the man twisted the bridge of his nose. Hale was more careful when he pressed his thumb against the lower part of Tristan’s eye socket.
‘That looks fine,’ said Hale. ‘However, I can make a small cut underneath the eye and let some of that purple blood out.’ Tristan did not respond. ‘You don’t trust me, lad.’ Hale watched his face closely. ‘Or are you afraid of a little pain?’
‘Neither, sir. Shouldn’t I see a doctor for that?’
‘I can be a doctor. See, I told you I wear many hats. I cut people’s hair. I pull their teeth. I can even cut your heart out if I have to.’ Hale chuckled, still studying Tristan’s face intently. ‘See, that’s what a barber surgeon does, lad, and such is my vocation, but this place…this place,’ he looked around him, ‘herein lies my heart and soul.’
Seeing that he himself had so many jobs, Tristan was surprised to hear the man’s full repertoire, but at the same time could not help but wonder where his own heart and soul lay.
‘This place was born out of a very simple philosophy. Do you know what philosophy is, lad?’ asked Hale, pointing the knife at Tristan before slicing a good-sized chunk of cheese and offering it to him using that very same sharp point.
‘No, sir.’ Tristan accepted. He was hungry and helped himself to a piece of the bread too.
‘Well, you take yourself an idea and mix in some illusion, and you got yourself a philosophy. Now, that in itself is a very simple concept, is it not?’
Tristan nodded but had no idea what the m
an was talking about. Surely it’s the ale talking. He laughed inwardly.
‘See, folks come here for a smoke, a drink and something to eat. We sell the best tobacco in town. Smoking and drinking make them hungry. Hungry people must eat and we sell them food, and what’s a meal without something more to drink? Our drinks might be the cheapest in town but ‘tis certainly not the rotgut you would find on Borough High Street, and if a man gets too drunk, we offer him board and a woman. Now, if for some reason, he can’t pay his bill the next morning after a night well spent, then that just means that he owes us.’ Hale took another sip of his ale to wash away the salty aftertaste from his mouth and sat back with a content grin on his face. ‘You see, we do it all lad. ‘Tis what you would call a “full service”, not that different to your Madam. Now that’s good thinking, isn’t it?’ Hale chuckled, tapping himself on the side of the head with the knife that was covered in remnants of cheese. ‘’Tis a good thing to have people owe you something and in there lies my predicament, dear fella, for I now owe you.’
‘I just did the right thing, sir, and you already rewarded me for it, more than enough.’
Hale laughed out loud and turned to the woman next to him. ‘See that, Annabelle? Isn’t that refreshing?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Well, son, that watch means more to me than you could ever imagine. If that thing fell into the wrong hands or got seen by the wrong eyes, well…never mind.’ After he had put a light to it, Hale took a few deep puffs from his pipe. ‘Well, lad, you are here now. Tell me what happened.’
Tristan told him the story from beginning to end, stopping with the food and drink that they had afterwards, courtesy of the man’s reward.
‘So, you’re the leader of a gang, you say,’ affirmed Hale. ‘Would you believe that I too am the leader of a gang?’
‘No, sir, I believe that you cut people’s hair and pull their teeth.’
The Fire Within Page 9