The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

by Antonia Hodgson

  ‘No wenches,’ he said, barring our way. ‘Not tonight.’

  His companion pulled back his hood. ‘Sure and what am I, Jed?’

  Jed spat a wet clod of tobacco at his feet and chuckled. ‘Fuck knows what you are, Neala Maguire.’

  Neala . . .? The torch caught the man’s face and revealed that he was, in fact, a woman – shorter than me by a head, but by God she was as broad and solid as an oak tree. Her black hair was cut short to her nape, framing a strong face and a square jaw. She spoke with an Irish accent, her voice low and rough as a man’s.

  Kitty stepped forward, the torch turning her red hair to spun gold. ‘Have you forgotten me so soon, Jed?’

  ‘Kitty!’ He grinned in surprise, then grabbed her in a tight hug, lifting her half off the ground. ‘Didn’t know you in them rum togs. Heard you was left a round sum.’ He jerked his chin towards me. ‘He come after?’

  She put an arm about my waist. ‘Before. Loves me for my sweet temper not my purse, ain’t that right, Tom?’

  Jed near pissed himself laughing. ‘Go on,’ he said, gesturing inside. ‘Never saw you.’

  The tavern was packed, the air thick with pipe smoke, sweat and liquor. The noise alone almost knocked me from my feet – men yelling to be heard as they clustered around the ring in the centre of the room. I stood dazed, battered by the sound, the stink, the roiling mess of it all. I’d fought in riots quieter than this. If a man found himself in trouble here, then God help him – no one else would. I craned my neck, searching for Howard, but couldn’t see him in the crowds. There must have been two hundred men in there at least.

  Kitty grabbed my hand and pressed eagerly to the front, kicking ankles and treading on toes to carve a way through as spectators fell back in shock, open-mouthed. There were no other women that I could see. Some fellows grinned at me as if I were the luckiest devil alive, while others spat oaths and frowned in disapproval.

  We pressed forward to the edge of the ring, leaning over the fence. The cocks were being paraded before the fights began, smart and proud of their silver spurs. Kitty studied them all keenly, as if she were choosing one to marry. ‘I like the look of him,’ she muttered in my ear as one strutted by with its chest puffed. She elbowed the man on her left – an old gent in bent spectacles. ‘Hey, there. What’s his pedigree?’

  His eyes swivelled behind his thick lenses, then widened in dismay. He tugged at my cuff. ‘Sir, this is not proper! The entertainment tonight . . . It is not suitable for a lady . . .’

  Kitty laughed at him. ‘Do I look like a fucking lady?’

  The man opened and shut his mouth like a panicked fish. Damned with a ‘yay’ and damned with a ‘nay’. By God, I knew that feeling.

  Two of the cocks began to squabble, pecking and clawing the air. The room goaded them on until they began to fight in earnest, turned savage by the crowd. The owners shouted and waded into the fray, but it was too late. The larger cock jumped upon its opponent, and with one vicious slash of its spur, ripped open the other bird’s belly. It was still pecking and jabbing furiously when its owner pulled it free. The injured bird lay bleeding and calling piteously, guts spilling out onto the sawdust. Its owner cursed and wrung its neck. The cock’s legs scrabbled and danced, then fell still.

  The parade over, the tavern owner lumbered into the ring to announce the start of the night’s entertainment. A gladiatorial fight with swords . . . he skidded to a halt as he spied Kitty. ‘Out!’ he yelled over the din. ‘Take that strumpet out!’

  Two hundred men craned their necks to stare at us. There was a woman in the crowd! For some reason I couldn’t fathom, this was an outrage beyond measure. True, most cockfights were meant for men alone, but there were always a few women allowed in the room – women of the town, in the main . . . but tonight there were none, save for Kitty.

  A fat, sweaty man in a waterman’s doublet cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Have you come to see a handsome cock, slut?’ He grabbed his breeches.

  ‘Aye, but I’ll take the last one standing,’ Kitty yelled back. ‘Not the first one spent in the ring.’

  The waterman’s jaw dropped, and then he guffawed with laughter, raising his fists in approval. Nothing a Thames boatman appreciates more than a filthy mouth. The crowd roared with him, but there were as many protests as cheers. I drew Kitty closer. ‘You might be safer outside with Jed,’ I whispered in her ear. Scenes such as this could turn ugly very fast.

  The landlord grabbed me by the coat. ‘Out. Both of you. Unless you want a blade in the ribs . . .’

  A shot rang out. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then chaos, as men ducked beneath tables or pulled out their own daggers and pistols.

  ‘Fuck,’ the landlord breathed, lifting his gaze to a bench at the back of the room. A man in a dark velvet coat stood on the bench with a pistol in his hand, smoke trailing from the barrel. A gentleman with a mad man’s face, lips twisted in a humourless grin. Howard.

  The men who had drawn their own weapons groaned or sat back down upon seeing him. Perhaps because he was a nobleman – or perhaps because his reputation was well known in such a place. Either way, no one had the appetite for a fight.

  He stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, as if he might eat me alive. Then he relaxed, and tucked his pistol back into his coat. ‘Let ’em through, Smith,’ he barked at the landlord. His manner was rough, but his voice had the clear, irresistible authority of a courtier. Smith obeyed at once, cursing under his breath as he led us across the room.

  Howard was sitting above the ring on a raised platform, attended by a gang of five men. Two I recognised as his chairmen, the rest were gentlemen – of a fashion. Howard watched me without a word as I clambered up to meet him, his face curiously blank. I tensed as he stepped forward, jaw aching at the memory of his last punch. At least there was no powder left in his pistol. If he attacked us I could pull Kitty back into the crowds and out of the tavern in a flash. I was sure she knew the back alleys around here better than Charles Howard.

  ‘You’re a brave man . . .’ he said, taking a long swig from a bottle of claret.

  I said nothing, watching him closely. Ready to run.

  ‘ . . .bringing such a fine jade here.’ He bowed towards Kitty, then returned his gaze to me. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight – the gleam of a man standing on a precipice for the sheer hell of it. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  I stared at him. Was it possible? Did he not recognise me? ‘Thomas Hawkins,’ I replied, too astonished and relieved to lie. I gave a short bow.

  ‘A gentleman,’ he said, voice thick with sarcasm. ‘Well then, sir – join us.’ He gestured to his chairmen to leave the bench. As they rose, the young rake propped between them slid boneless to the floor and lay still. Howard put a foot beneath the boy’s ribs and rolled him out of the way.

  The rest of the party was drunk too, bottles littered beneath the bench, but Howard seemed steady enough. Well, he had enjoyed years of practice – he was in his early fifties now, though he looked much older. I thought he must have been a handsome man in his youth, but he had ruined himself by decades of wild living. His face was bloated and sallow, with burst veins across his nose and cheeks.

  ‘My thanks for your help, sir,’ I said, nodding at the bulge of his pistol beneath his coat. ‘You must permit me to buy another bottle or two . . .’ A debauch would be a good way to extract useful information from Howard – if I could remain sober myself.

  ‘Put a guinea on the Irish bitch when she comes on and we’re even,’ he said, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a mighty squeeze. I buckled a little, and let out a silent whimper. I still ached from the morning’s torture. I smiled and nodded through the pain, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. He welcomed Kitty with a surprisingly charming bow, while I settled down upon the bench, marvelling at my good fortune. He truly didn’t remember me from the fight in the park. Well – it had been dark and he had been fearsome drunk. And I had knocked hi
m senseless. There was still a cut upon his brow even now, scabbed and bruised. With luck I’d knocked the memory clean out of him.

  He took another swig, studying me closely. ‘I feel I know you from somewhere, Hawkins . . .’

  The blood drained to my toes. ‘The gaming tables, perhaps . . .?’

  He scratched his jaw. ‘Perhaps.’ He took Kitty’s arm and escorted her to the bench, settling her beside him. I gritted my teeth as he patted her hand, forcing myself to hide my revulsion. And yet there was some ghost of gallantry in his behaviour – some echo of a younger man more able to dissemble and present a gentlemanly appearance. There was the actor who had fooled Henrietta into marriage – the dashing captain wooing a sheltered young girl half his age. An orphan from a noble family with a fair fortune. He must have been licking his chops behind his hand. How long had he waited to reveal his true nature? A few days after the wedding at most, I wagered. A few days before the beast ripped its way into the open. Poor Henrietta. Only sixteen. She must have been terrified.

  ‘D’you know, it’s strange,’ Howard frowned. ‘You both seem familiar. Are you an actress, madam?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Kitty smiled. ‘We own a bookshop, on Russell Street . . .’

  He swayed, thinking. ‘Hah! Cocked Pistol! Best damned shop in London!’ Howard punched one of his companions in the arm. ‘D’ye hear that, Drummond?’ And soon the entire company fell to discussing the shop and what a great, civic service it performed. I could scarce believe my luck. Not only did Howard not remember our fight, it transpired he was one of our best customers. He sent a boy for most of his purchases, but was sure he had met us both on his own brief visits. I confess I did not remember him, but then I spent most of my time upstairs at my desk.

  ‘Was there not a murder on Russell Street last night?’ Howard asked. ‘Some old bore was talking of it at White’s . . .’

  ‘Joseph Burden. Carpenter. He lived next door.’

  Howard gave a jolt of surprise, then began to laugh, clapping a hand to his knee. ‘Joseph Burden . . .’ he chuckled. ‘Haven’t heard that name for a while. Now there was a vicious, godless rogue. He’ll be roasting in hell tonight, on my word.’

  Kitty stared at him. ‘Godless?’

  ‘He was a brothel bully when I knew him,’ Howard said. ‘Bawdy house off Seven Dials. Twenty years back, now . . . Blackest, meanest place in the city. Not for simpering boys, you understand. Rooms for every vice.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Whipping. Pissing. Dogs if you fancied.’ He laughed and the rest of the company laughed with him. ‘Burden was paid to stop the worst of it. If a man took a knife to a girl, or beat her too hard. But he had debts. One could always pay him to look the other way.’ He laughed again. ‘My God. The things Joseph Burden didn’t see . . .’

  Fresh cheering brought our attention back to the ring. Someone had entered the pit – in a state of near undress. ‘Neala!’ Kitty gasped. I leaned forward. My God, so it was – the Irish girl we’d met outside. She had removed her long riding cloak to reveal a tightly laced bodice and a short petticoat of white linen, her solid legs bare. She was holding a two-handed sword, the blade a good three inches broad. She raised it high, drawing another roar from the crowd. A second girl joined her in the ring dressed in the same uniform, though she wore red ribbons on her sleeve where Neala wore blue. Her blonde hair was tightly plaited close to her head, to keep it from her eyes.

  ‘A guinea on the blue,’ Howard ordered, pushing me towards the pit. ‘First to draw blood.’

  ‘And a pie!’ Kitty called after me.

  I found a man near the front of the tumult willing to take my bet – the same waterman who had traded insults with Kitty. Neala was striding about the ring, calling out the many fights she had won. She spoke of her eight brothers back in Ennistymon, who’d taught her how to use a sword like a warrior. I was near enough to catch her eye as she passed. She gave a curt nod before turning to shake her opponent’s hand.

  I had never seen a female gladiatorial battle before. I’d heard of them being used to entertain the crowds before the men came out to fight – a little sport with no real danger. This was different. The point of Neala’s sword was blunt, but the edge was sharp as a razor. I tapped the waterman’s shoulder. ‘How many rounds?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’re fighting for coin. Depends how desperate they are.’

  Neala was down on one knee, praying with her head bowed. As she rose she crossed herself, then bounced on the balls of her feet.

  ‘Papish bitch,’ someone muttered beside me.

  I suppressed a frown. My mother had been raised in the Catholic faith. I bet him a crown the bitch would win. Touched the gold crucifix hidden beneath my shirt for luck.

  The fighters circled one another slowly as the men shouted encouragement. They both held daggers in their left hand to ward off blows, keeping the swords away from their bodies. The English girl was taller than Neala and moved fast. She was the first to attack, her sword crashing down hard enough to ring out through the tavern. Neala bowed her legs beneath the blow and sprang back.

  It was a hard, brutal fight, and the packed room was hot as the centre of hell. The girls were soon drenched in sweat, their skin glistening and their white petticoats clinging to their thighs. As I glanced over the seething crowd of men, I understood why Kitty had been so unwelcome tonight. It was not just a lust for blood that had them baying at the girls. Several spectators had shoved a furtive hand in their breeches.

  I leaned over to the waterman, pointed to a gang of apprentices across the ring rubbing themselves with vigour. ‘Side bet on who spends first?’

  The waterman snorted. ‘Young puppies. They’ll be spent before I’m done speak—’ He stopped. Pulled a face. ‘Told you.’

  Howard squeezed in next to me and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Some sport, eh?’

  I had to admit it was a great spectacle. The other girl was a pretty creature and knew how to play to her audience, flashing them smiles as she hacked hard and fast with her blade. With a quick dart she sliced open Neala’s arm, blood spurting from the wound. First blood to England. The crowd cheered. Howard had lost his bet.

  ‘Bad luck,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to care. But then, it wasn’t his guinea.

  He leaned closer and pointed at Neala’s blood, spattered on to the sawdust. ‘Nothing better, eh, Hawkins?’

  A hundred thousand things.

  ‘I’d like to see your scarlet whore in the ring. She’s a wild slut, no doubt. How d’you keep her to heel?’ I shook my head, not able to trust my tongue. He laughed. ‘You’re not sick for her, are you? Damned fool.’ He pushed back into the crowds to talk with the landlord.

  There was a pause as Neala’s wound was stitched and a bandage applied. She took a large glass of spirits to steady her nerves and returned to the ring, blade high.

  ‘Game girl,’ the waterman said at my side.

  The fight continued. After half an hour Neala had suffered another cut across her chest and was bleeding heavily, but her opponent was staggering with exhaustion now, barely able to raise her sword to protect herself. Neala could have moved in ten minutes before and chanced an attack, but she took her time, prodding and thrusting and falling back until the crowd grew restless.

  ‘Finish her off for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Use your blade, damn it!’

  She ignored them, parrying a final, weak attack. Her opponent crashed to the floor and dropped her sword, hands raised in defeat as Neala approached. Neala threw her fist in the air and grinned as the few of us who had bet on her to win shouted our approval. Hah! I was up one crown! And down a guinea, but there was no need to think of that.

  The loser was now walking through the crowds selling herself for the night to the highest bidder. No one seemed interested in buying Neala and she did not seem interested in selling, either. She took her winnings from the fight and crossed the ring to greet me. I congratulated her and invited her to join us for supper. Her eyes flickered up to
Howard’s bench where he was seated again, talking with Kitty. A guarded look crossed Neala’s face. ‘That’s your woman up there? I would take better care of her, if I were you.’

  I watched with a sinking heart as Howard laughed and smiled, the mask back in place. Neala was right to scold me – but I could not send Kitty home on her own. The dark streets were just as dangerous as Howard – and at least I could keep my eye upon him. I sighed to myself. So much for my pretty dream of my first full night with Kitty. So much for a blazing fire, a warm bed, and the finest wine I could afford. I bought her a wretched-looking pie and returned to the bench. The first pair of cocks were out in the ring now, parading in their silver spurs once more as the landlord called out their pedigrees. Kitty broke off her conversation with Howard to take the pie.

  ‘We should bet on that one, on the left,’ she said, taking a huge bite. ‘Saw his grandfather fight like a fucking demon in Clerkenwell.’ She nudged her shoulder against mine. ‘Is this not fun, Tom? We should come here every week.’

  I knocked back some claret, grimacing as the fight began and the cocks tore at each other. The truth was, I hated cockfighting. I know I am alone with the Quakers, but I can’t bear to watch two innocent animals ripping each other apart for sport. It’s a shame, as there is good money to be made if one knows the birds’ pedigrees and fighting history – but I cannot help my squeamish nature. I tried to explain this to Kitty as her favourite gouged a wide hole in its rival’s neck then stood on its lifeless body, crowing in triumph.

  She wiped the grease from her fingers. ‘You wish me to feel pity for a chicken?’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Dear Tom.’

  The night drew on and Howard grew restless. He had won a few bets in the first matches, but was now down almost three pounds – all of it borrowed from the pockets of the young sot under the bench, who had barely stirred all evening. I asked the most sober companion left standing who the boy was – a nobleman, I thought, judging from his clothes.