‘Ahhh, we’ve got ourselves a clever one here, Annabelle.’ The woman next to Hale gave Tristan a polite smile, apparently appreciating his explicit honesty, then retracted back into her shell. If she was anymore inconspicuous, one might think she was not even in the room. She looked…lost. Tristan pitied her. Now up close, he could see the rings around her eyes. He had seen those before. ‘But you see, lad, I am indeed the leader of a gang. Now that shall be our little secret, alright?’ Hale stared at him with those piercing eyes, demanding his confidence.
‘Only if you promise to do the same for me, sir.’ Tristan held Hale’s gaze.
‘I like it. See, we’re already bargaining.’ Hale approved of the boy more and more, and he could not hide his delight. ‘And you boys are known as the Hungry Ones you say? Why? Did your mothers not feed you well?’ He laughed out loud.
‘No, sir, we’re named after a clan of warriors, from a country far away.’
‘The Hungry Ones aye? Indeed…indeed you are,’ said Hale, still chuckling.
Tristan felt like he needed to explain what it meant to be a Hungry One. ‘We’re all blood brothers,’ he said, and proudly held up his hand to show the man his scar.
‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence,’ said Hale. ‘We have the same rite in my gang.’ With that, he stood up, grabbed his white cotton shirt at the back and pulled it over his head. Tristan gasped.
A mosaic of scars covered Hale’s upper body. Some of the lesions were wide and jagged, while others were narrow and straight. They weaved their way across the pale white torso, traversing at some places. Tristan looked at his own hand, his effort almost appearing to be in vain. When he peeked at the barber’s body once more, the scars had taken on a lifelike demeanour as they twisted and turned under the flickering candlelight.
‘You look a bit pale, lad.’ The barber asked Annabelle to fetch Tristan a cider. And as she made her way downstairs, he spoke to himself, ‘There she goes, my angel without wings, the sane in my insanity.’
Tristan pulled up a chair and sat down. The man did not bother putting his shirt back on, and every now and then, Tristan stole a glance at the scarred body. Around the man’s veined neck, from a thinly braided leather necklace, hung a big black key and leather pouch from which a small black book protruded.
‘Fancy joining my gang?’ asked Hale.
‘I don’t think I will survive the baptism, sir.’ Tristan struggled to look the man in the eye for his own eyes were continually drawn to the web of scars.
The barber chuckled at the boy’s discomfort. ‘Well, if I recall correctly, I have asked you to come here so that we can work out a deal, so that I could repay my debt.’
Annabelle arrived with a large mug of cider and gave it to Tristan. Tristan thanked her and took a few large gulps, suddenly realising how thirsty he was. The effect on his stomach was instantaneous, and he felt the familiar wave of relaxation wash over him.
It was Hale who started the negotiation. ‘I need someone that I can trust to deliver parcels for me all over the city. My previous carrier had an unfortunate accident after he had lost one of my parcels. The Hungry Ones are in the delivery business, and I believe you can be trusted. I only have four rules: never open a parcel, never ask what is in it, always deliver the package no matter what and never converse with a customer. Do this for me, and I will reward you handsomely. What do you say, lad?’
The man had a way about him that made it hard to say no. Very calmly Tristan leaned forward and took another mouthful of cider, not saying a word. It had the desired effect.
‘But that means I would still owe you, doesn’t it?’ Hale scratched his head. ‘So that is the question, isn’t it lad? What do you want?’
What Hale could not have known was that Tristan knew much more than he was letting on. On their way home from the fair he had pulled Ralf aside and found out all that he could about Nathaniel Hale. He had been astounded and intrigued by Ralf’s knowledge of London’s underworld.
Tristan had learned that Hale belonged to a small yet ruthless London gang, the Two Daggers, known for their lurid ways. Tristan thought the name to be ingenious, so out in the open, yet so inconspicuous. In their name lay their weapon of choice and they were brutally efficient in combat which made them feared by many, including rival gangs like the Mims, the Bugles and the Dead Boys. Ralf had forgotten to mention, or perhaps he had not known that the barber was, in fact, the leader. However, Ralf had told him that the Two Daggers gang controlled the distribution of various smuggled and stolen goods across most of London, including many of the items that found their way onto Black Market, thereby circumventing the various guilds. The gang had achieved unrivalled success and had done so with knife and without mercy. ‘You be careful, Tristan. They are dangerous people,’ Ralf had said.
The scars on Hale’s body and the request to deliver dubious parcels had confirmed what Ralf had already told him. The barber’s interests stretched well beyond the cutting of hair and the pulling of teeth. Tristan knew there was a lot to the man that he still did not know, but one thing was certain, right here, right now, he was talking to perhaps the most powerful man in all of London…and the man owed him.
Tristan thought back to the fight that he had lost and the humiliation he had felt, not because he got beaten, but because of his inability to back his words with action. Did fate bring me here, he wondered for it was strange that a man so infamous had fallen victim to a measly pickpocket.
‘Teach me how to fight.’
‘Pardon me?’ Hale nearly choked on his ale.
‘I want to learn how to fight.’ Tristan could see Hale was caught off-guard even though the man tried his best not to show it.
‘And why this sudden need to fight? Not that I disapprove, of course.’
Tristan pointed to his eye. ‘To protect my friends and me.’
‘Ahhh, yes,’ said Hale. He leaned backwards, seemingly deep in thought over Tristan’s request, yet he did not know that it was a stalling tactic that the boy was well acquainted with. After a while, the barber took another swig to wet his lips, then made his proposal. ‘Every single day after you’ve finished your last delivery, you’ll come here. The man at the front door goes by the name of Arthur. He’s like a brother to me. You are not to discuss our agreement with anyone else but myself or him. Some days there will be a parcel to deliver, but most days there will be none and ‘tis on those days that you’ll receive your training, either by me or should I be unavailable, Arthur. For every parcel you deliver, a reward will come your way. However, should you break any of the four rules already mentioned, our agreement will cease to exist, and you will no longer be under my protection.’ Training the lad will be like an investment, Nate thought. ‘You will protect my parcels, with your life, of course, won’t you lad?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Do you agree to these terms?’
Tristan already knew the answer before the question was asked and nodded acquiescingly. ‘I agree, sir, but’—he took a swig of cider to get rid of the sudden dryness in his mouth—‘like you, I too have a close friend, a brother as you might call him, and he will stand in for me should I be occupied elsewhere.’ Tristan insisted, rather than asked. ‘He could also benefit from some training…sir.’
‘Can he be trusted?’
‘As much as your Arthur,’ Tristan assured him, and sensing that their business was about to conclude, asked the one burning question he still had. ‘If I may be so bold, sir, why not use one of your own to carry your parcels? Why place your trust in someone you barely know?’
The brazen question surprised the barber, whose authority within his ranks was without bounds. ‘That is my own business,’ he quickly snuffed out any possibility of an answer. ‘Any more questions?’ Hale challenged him. Tristan shook his head. ‘Then so it shall be, lad, but remember this, you and you alone will be held accountable for the safe delivery of my parcels.’
Hale stood up and stuck out his hand. Tristan did the same, and they shook ha
nds, sealing their agreement. The barber looked pleased with the arrangement.
‘’Tis agreed then,’ he said, and as he winked at Tristan, the scar under his right eye contorted slightly. ‘Arthur will see you out.’
Tristan was startled by the big man with no neck who had suddenly appeared behind him. ‘When do I start, sir?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Hale unintentionally stroked Annabelle’s long blond hair as he watched Tristan leave. The boy was mature, well beyond his age, and he would either be a great help, or a heap of trouble.
The last rays of the sun still shone brightly down Faulcon Court when Tristan exited the Two Daggers. His partial blindness came from the sun’s glare as much as it did from the dark place he had just been. He stood still and shielded his eyes with his arm until the worst was over. A mixture of relief and excitement, tainted with a tinge of dread, swept over him as he slowly started to make his way back to La Boutique. His mind was still reeling with the conversation that he had just had.
Tristan could not wait to tell Finn tomorrow. He wondered if he had made the right decision. He wondered if his friend would approve. He wondered.
‘And he will teach us both how to fight,’ said Tristan.
The two boys had left The Smoking Cod well before dawn and were on their way to the fish market to pick up herring for Mr Sullivan. They were pulling a handcart with two empty barrels and would return in due course with two full ones. Neither was looking forward to the journey back. Thankfully, their topic of conversation made light of the work. Finn kept quiet for most of the way and listened intently as Tristan told him everything from the exchange that he had had with Hale. Much to Tristan’s surprise, Finn did not cavil at all. He just nodded, no questions asked, except for one.
‘When do we start?’
Finn either had blind trust in him or, like him, his friend was looking forward to something more exciting and adventurous. ‘Today.’ Tristan stopped the cart and looked at him. ‘Finn, you know we cannot tell anyone about this.’
‘Aye.’
‘Not our families or our friends.’
‘Aye.’
They pulled the handcart through the deserted streets in silence, each boy contemplating his new future while around them, London slowly started to waken.
Tristan was soaked to the bone. The weather had turned quickly, and it made him remember why he hated this time of the year. One moment he had felt the warmth of the sun on his skin and the next, thick grey clouds had drifted in from the north peppering everything in their path with large raindrops. They pelted him for most of the way and sent street vendors packing while pedestrians scampered for cover.
His wet feet squished in his soggy shoes as he made his way up to the second storey of the Two Daggers where Hale was waiting at his usual table. When the barber saw the shivering young boy, he immediately sent Annabelle to fetch dry clothes. Tristan dressed in one of the rooms down the hallway and, though the clothes he had been given were several sizes too big, he managed to hold everything together with his wet leather belt. He had to bend his toes to keep the shoes from falling off while he walked. With a cider in hand, he warmed himself by the small hearth that provided heat to the patrons upstairs.
‘No parcels today,’ said Hale as he joined him by the fire. ‘Have you warmed up?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
The barber regarded the boy in the oversized clothes and a smile played across his face. ‘No time to waste then. Follow me!’ he said and led the way.
Tristan put down his cider and followed the man. They headed downstairs and then walked to the back of the tavern past the firepit where a stone staircase ran down to what looked like a cellar. The barber took a lantern off the wall, and together they descended into the darkness.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, two big wooden doors blocked their way. Hale handed the lantern to Tristan, took the big black key from his neck and unlocked the door. Taking back the lantern, Hale motioned for Tristan to stay, opened the heavy doors with their squeaky hinges and disappeared into the dark room.
Tristan sneaked a peek and saw the barber walk to the nearest wall. There the man ignited a mounted lantern and did the same for seven more until the whole room was properly lit.
‘What do you think, lad?’
Tristan walked through the wooden doors into the dank cellar, then came to a standstill in complete awe of his surroundings. To his left and right, half a dozen straw mannequins and wooden pells were lined up along the stone walls, and in between those, racks had been mounted. On the latter hung various weapons that he recognised – swords, daggers, spears and axes – while others displayed unimaginable objects like wooden clubs from which sharp metal spikes protruded. In the middle of the cellar was a large open space, and right at the back stood an enormous wooden table with benches all around it. Tristan walked over to a rack with swords and touched the hilt of an Italian rapier, feeling the cold steel under his fingertips. Sighting dried flecks of blood on the blade, he pulled his hand away.
‘I, I—‘ mumbled Tristan, as he looked around the rest of the room. Seeing a stiletto very similar to his own made him forget what he wanted to say. He walked over to where the daggers, dirks and stilettos lay on top of a wooden rack and picked up the one that he recognised.
‘Excellent choice, lad, but put it down!’ instructed the barber. ‘Here are your options.’ He pointed to a range of wooden wasters that were piled up in a crate and chuckled when he saw a frown of disappointment appear on the boy’s face. ‘Don’t despair. You’ll have a proper blade in your hand soon enough. I don’t want you to kill yourself or me on the first day.’ The barber chuckled and tried to make light of the situation.
Tristan grabbed what looked like a short sword, and as soon as teacher and student had taken their positions, his first lesson started and a new journey began.
Chapter 7
For the two weeks after his training with the barber had commenced, there were no parcels. Every day, Tristan would go to the Two Daggers, and every day, he would practice, swinging wooden swords and clubs until his muscles burned. Some days Finn joined them, but most days it was just him and Hale.
The barber showed him how to move, block and thrust. He made Tristan repeat the same stroke over and over until he was satisfied, and the boy exhausted. Tristan would hit the same spot blow after blow until there was no straw left on the mannequin. Then the barber would make him switch to the other side, and he would do more of the same. When the straw was gone, he would hit the bare wood of the pells, the waster vibrating in his hands and adding more pain to his already-aching palms and fingers. Blisters formed and these soon turned to calluses. He started waking up in the middle of the night clutching his blanket in two hands, wildly swinging away at the darkness, his body aching from the strain that it took.
Hale did not let up, and neither did Tristan. But frustration and pain eventually made way for a sense of achievement as his prowess of thrusts and cuts with the different weapons increased. Strokes got faster and harder, and movements more fluent as he became stronger and more agile. He learned different techniques, how to parry, riposte, counterstrike and more importantly, when to do it. ‘Always move! Never stand still!’ the barber yelled at him. ‘Attack first! Surprise your opponent! Be the aggressor! Do everything with intent. Nothing is left to chance. You either kill or be killed.’ With each attack, Hale reminded him of this. ‘Your mind’s the most important weapon,’ he chuckled. ‘Your head, you don’t want to lose it now, do you, lad?’
Next, Hale taught him how to box. With most of the basic tactics in place and his body accustomed to the different movements, Tristan quickly learned how to punch and defend himself using his hands, arms and even feet. ‘Remember, when you fight for your life, there is no nobility. You throw the first punch. You stab him before he stabs you. Bite if you have to. ‘Tis his life or yours. Faster! I said quicker! Harder! Again!’ When they stopped for a rare breather, Hale said, ‘The faste
r you become, the slower everything around you becomes, and the more time you have to react. It’ll feel like the world and time itself are standing still, giving you options, time to think, and then act. Again!’
Some days Tristan would box against Finn, and occasionally, their play-fighting turned serious whenever a blow landed on the wrong spot. Hale had to separate them a couple of times when boxing turned to wrestling. Any dent to their friendship was quickly ironed out over a cider in the tavern afterwards, and the bond between the two blood brothers grew stronger as a result of the secret they shared.
The 16th of September 1694 started like any other day but quickly turned out to be quite special for Tristan.
‘Pick your weapon.’
Tristan walked over to the crate.
‘No, lad, from the racks. A proper one today. But be careful now for what you pick will become your weapon of choice, and I shall train you in the finer arts.’
Tristan had waited a long time to hear those words. He wasted no time walking over to the rack with the knives and looked through all the different types of dirks and daggers. His eyes instantly strayed to the stiletto he had seen on the first day, and he picked it up. It was a good weapon – well balanced and not too heavy. He practised a few stabbing moves.
The barber noticed Tristan’s immediate fascination with the knife. It seemed an alluring object to the boy, almost a vague familiarity even. ‘Excellent choice, lad. Bring it here.’ Hale took the knife from Tristan. ‘Do you know what this is, lad?’
‘A stiletto, sir.’
‘You know the name.’ Hale sounded surprised. ‘And do you know its use?’
‘Fighting?’ Tristan knew that the barber was dying to tell him something.
Hale held his arm out straight so that the stiletto became an extension of his hand. He checked the elongated blade for any dents or flaws, and next, he ran his fingers over the cold steel, feeling the smooth surface. ‘This, my dear fellow, isn’t a normal knife. Notice that there is no sharp edge on the sides. Knights used it for what the French call a coup de grace, to show mercy to your injured enemy by piercing their heart or brain. Then, of course, it’s also the main weapon of choice for assassins,’ said the barber while he cradled the weapon like an injured bird. ‘Why did you choose it?’ Hale looked at Tristan with those piercing eyes.
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