His expression changed as if by magic. I had never seen such a complete transformation in a face. He put a hand over the note and gestured to the bench opposite him. “Sit you,” he said.
He glanced at the paper, then looked up at me. Carefully, I explained my situation, as Jacob Binns had instructed me. He listened, and I would have wagered all I possessed that he could have repeated my story word for word when I was finished.
“Leckenbie, is it?” He lifted a finger and a man from the nearby table joined us. Very concisely, Greene explained, “This be Cutting Ball. He is about when needed.”
“You know Rafe Leckenbie?” Ball demanded. “You have actually met him?”
“Aye, but far from here. We fought then.”
“Fought? And you live?”
“We fought, and I seemed to hold my own for a time, then he had all the better of it. I think he was about to kill me when I stepped back over a steep bank. I fell … very far. We were in the mountains, you see. To reach me was a long way around and I escaped him.”
“It is said he never failed to kill a man once he began it.”
“I was fortunate. Soon he will know I am here, and when he does he will come seeking me. We will fight again.”
“What do you need from me? What can I do?”
“Keep the others away.”
“But what of him? You confess he had you bested. What then?”
“I am older now, and I have learned much. Perhaps he cannot beat me now.”
“Don’t wager a penny on it,” said Ball. “I have seen him fight. I think I have never seen better, although I hate the man and would gladly see him dead.”
Greene smiled wryly. “Ball does not like him because he has usurped power that Ball once had, and such a lion leaves little for the jackals.”
“Nonetheless,” I insisted, “I will fight him if need be. I have learned much since last we met, and I am older and stronger.”
“So has he, and so is he.” Ball studied me cynically. “Who did you learn from?”
“Fergus MacAskill.”
Cutting Ball whistled. “MacAskill, is it? A great fighting man, perhaps the greatest. I do not know how much he can teach, for some of the greatest cannot explain how it is done. You fenced with him?”
“For months.”
“You must be good then, but that is not enough. It is not enough to be brave, and to have skill, for you must know what the other man might do. Such a man as I am, for example,” he smiled, revealing broken teeth, “I would not fight as the gentry do. There are foul and evil tricks … I know them all.”
“Teach me, then.”
“I am no teacher, but there is another who is. He is skilled in the art of fence, but he knows the other things, too. He is Portuguese, and was twenty years in India, China, and the Indies.”
My attention returned to Greene. “It is an honor,” I said, “to speak with you. It is said you are the greatest writer in London.”
He stared at me, his old truculence returning for a moment. “I? No.” There was an edge of bitterness in his tone. “Perhaps once … I do not know. There are others now.” He paused a moment. “Too many others. Writers come from under every rock, from behind every village wall! Bah! Most of them know nothing! Are nothing!”
I started again to speak, then thought the better of it. Let him have his say. The last thing I should mention was that I, too, thought of writing, although I did not think of myself as a writer.
He railed at English readers, at the playhouses, the managers, and at the Stationers’ Company and their grip upon publishing.
Finally, I made my escape and Ball followed me outside. For a few minutes he talked, warning me of places to avoid, and suggesting I make myself small in London until I knew more. It was good advice, and I fully intended to take it.
The streets were crowded with people, sweaty, struggling people, open-faced innocents from the villages nearby, the wise and the tough from the city, the proud in their velvets and laces. Yet often the laces were not too clean, and the velvets were stained. Many carried burdens on their backs and shoulders. Occasionally a rider came through the streets, scattering the walkers, heedless of their safety. I kept close to the buildings as I went along the street, seeking my way back to the inn.
Yet even as I was aware of all that went on around me I was wondering about the odd effect of the name of Jacob Binns on Greene. Robin Greene was a bitter, scoffing man, yet the name of Binns had suddenly made him an attentive listener. I wondered why. There were secret societies in Europe, some of them very powerful, and I suspected Binns was a member of such a group. Back at the inn all was quiet, yet I was uneasy. Was I afraid of Rafe Leckenbie? I considered that, and decided I was not. I was worried about his followers, men of whom I knew nothing, and the thought of that bitter night upon the mountain returned to taunt me. I had been beaten then, saved by an accident … There would be no cliff to fall over in London! Nor any to save me here. The fight was my own, and by the gods, I must win it myself. Yet if I had become a better swordsman, had not Leckenbie also? And he had fought … I had not. My training was from a master, yet it was training only. A sham fight remains a sham fight, no matter what. It is another thing when men draw the sword for blood.
Doubts would come. They thronged my mind despite orders I gave them to leave. I told myself I would win, yet I had not won before. And then, too, I had believed myself a skilled swordsman.
I held to my room. I slept, awakened, read and ate, then slept again. For not only was there thought of Leckenbie and all his dark crew, but of the need to find a place for myself in the world. I had money, but money idle is money soon departed, and I needs must find some way of rebuilding my fortunes.
When the hour was late I went below to the common room and Tosti Padget was there. He waved a hand and I crossed to his table.
“Ha! You are here! I was afraid Leckenbie had you spitted on his blade! Have you seen him then?”
“I have not. Nor do I wish to. I shall fight when the time comes. Until then I have much to do. Know you a printer named Richard Field?”
“Aye, he is new in the town but lately has set up for himself. He is a good man I think. What is it you plan?”
“I’ve the need to earn a penny or a pound. Even two. Money does not last forever and it is little enough that I have. I am no writer, no playwright or poet, but I know a few words and my father often wrote and inspired me to try. Perhaps there is a bit of something I could do until I can find a place, somewhere.”
“A place? Forget that. Unless you have friends who will speak for you there is no chance of preferment. There are too many seeking, and too few places for those who seek.” He shrugged. “You might turn a penny with your pen, God knows there’s little enough of talent in most of the ink spilled around now.
“Greene had it but wasted it with drinking, and Marlowe also, who has lately come from France. There is whispering that maybe he was a spy. Don’t accuse him of anything, however, for he is quick with a blade, and handles himself well. They’ve lately had to put him under bond to keep the peace, for he has several times beaten a constable on his way home.”
“I aspire to nothing but something with which to buy bread. I shall go into trade when I can. I have had a bit of that already.”
“Why not? It was once only the ladies and gentlemen who wore the fine feathers, but now any tradesman’s wife can preen herself about in silks and furs with the best of them. Times are changing, Tatt, but for the better or worse, who can tell?”
Across the room I saw a man with eyes upon me which he hastily averted when mine met his. He was a sorry, ratlike fellow with yellow cheeks and some lank strings for hair. He looked at me again, and I mentioned it to Tosti.
“Aye, he is likely one of Leckenbie’s runners! He has them sneaking about everywhere, listening for what he can use or to hear of something to steal.”
When I looked again the man was gone. Inside me I felt a queer lightness, and an urg
e to get up and go, yet I would not. Stubbornly I ordered another ale for each, and sat where I was.
It was not long, either. The door opened suddenly and there he stood. It was Rafe Leckenbie all right, and a broad, big man he was. Larger and stronger even than before, but with a set of expression on his face that had changed. There was no more of the boyishness that had somehow remained when I came upon him first. Now there was arrogance and a brutal power.
He looked quickly about and his eyes met mine. I stood at once, gesturing to the empty bench at our table.
He crossed, staring hard at me, to frighten me I think, but I was not frightened. I was a fool, maybe, but not a frightened fool. My toe nudged the chair toward him.
“Sit you!” I spoke more cheerfully than I felt, yet there was a lightness and a daring in me, too. “This is a far piece from the moors of Galloway! I hear you have become a greater scoundrel than ever, gone from attacking lonely wayfarers to raping and thieving. Is that it?”
He stared at me, but was not angered. He looked at me with contempt. “You talk too much,” he said. “I may slit your tongue.”
“You once tried that,” I replied cheerfully, “but though I held back and gave you every chance for exercise, nothing came of it but a little dust and sweat.”
“Youheld back?” He motioned for a waiter. “I should have killed you then.”
“Aye,” I agreed, “for you cannot do it now unless you set some of your thieves upon me.”
“I’ll not do that,” he replied. “You I want for myself. It is a pleasure I have long promised myself.”
The ale came and quickly. The waiter’s eyes were round and frightened. He had no doubt with whom he dealt, I could see that.
Leckenbie drank, ignoring Tosti. “What do you here?” he asked.
“Like you,” I said, “I came seeking my fortune. My fortune,” I added, “not somebody else’s.”
It bothered him not at all, so I desisted. Taunts meant nothing to him, for as I was to learn, he simply did not care.
“A poor place to seek a fortune unless you have one,” he said. “But they be recruiting men for the sea, if you’ve the stomach for it.”
“Another time,” I said. “Now I am for London. I shall find a bit to do around here and see what comes.”
We talked then, quietly and easily as though we had not been enemies, although I had no doubt of what was in his mind, nor was he trying to ease my fears or entrap me. He was, I suddenly realized, hungry for talk of his own country, and so I spoke of it, and of Scotland.
He listened, his eyes wandering the room the while. “Will you have something?” he said suddenly.
“Of course,” I agreed, “as I do not mind eating with a man I mean to kill.”
He laughed, with genuine humor. “Ah, I like your nerve!” He looked at me closely. “Or is it bravado? Are you putting a face on it?” He looked again, and seemed surprised. “You know, I really believe you think you can do it. I really do! And after what happened back there.” He motioned the lad over again and ordered for us three, and ordered well. “I was about to run you through,” he said, “when you backed off the hill. I was sure it was an accident, but mayhap it was a trick, a device to escape me.”
“Escape you?” I spoke lightly. “Rafe, I simply did not wish to kill you. I like a fine bout with the blades and you afforded me the best exercise I’d had in a long time. I had no wish to kill you then. I was saving you for another bout. Soon, I hope. I grow rusty.”
He chuckled. “I almost like you, damn you,” he said. “Well, eat up. It will not be tonight, and not here.” He looked across the table at me, one thick hand resting on its edge. “Odd, that you should choose this one. The one place where even I dare not kill you.”
I was puzzled. Why not in this place? I wondered. What was there about this special place that made him draw back? Yet I did not ask the question. If he was mystified I wanted him to remain so.
“It is comfortable,” I replied cheerfully. “They do be most friendly here.”
“Aye, they would be. There must be more to you than it seemed that day on the moors when I took you for a mere vagabond.
“Not many come here, you know, and fewer are allowed to stay. I wish I knew why!” His tone was petulant. “It is a mystery, yet the word is all about. No trouble here! None!”
“You could chance it,” I suggested.
He shook his head. “No, I’ll not. There is a power here, and I’ve a wish to command it. But first I must know from whence comes the power.
“Is it the Queen herself? I think not. Some secret papist group? Again, I think not. Nor is it a place sponsored by some great noble. I’ve worked out that much, but every thief and cutpurse in London knows to leave this place untouched. I must find out why.”
He looked quickly at me. “If you tell me, I will pay, and pay well.” He grinned with thick lips. “I might even let you live.”
“Perhaps,” I said, and unwittingly hit upon it, “they do not want attention. Perhaps they wish to exist quietly and without notice, content to be as they are.”
He glanced at me. “That might be it … but why? That is what I must know … why? And I must know, too, who comes here. And also how it is that you yourself are here.
“And you could tell me if you wished,” he said, irritably. “How does it happen that you who are just come should be allowed here, and I who am known to all London am not?”
His doubts aroused my own. Why was I here? Who was Jacob Binns?
19
Alone in my room I took myself to my desk and began to think on what I might write to earn a penny. Sure, and it was no writer I was nor intended to be, yet many of those about me were no better, and I at least had command of language and some memory for tales heard.
In my grandfather’s time there had lived an Irish thief and vagabond of whom many stories were told, yet I dare not raise questions by making him Irish. Nor was England in any mood for an Irish story when all was going badly for them there. So I made the man a gypsy and, using a little information learned from Kory and my own roadside experience, I put together a tale. And as the street name for a rascal was adamber, I called my storyThe Merry Damber.
It was written hastily but from stories long known, strung together by means of the road itself, and of that I knew a good bit. I wrote the night through and by the first light of dawn I had completed my story.
With a faint light already at the window, I lay upon the bed and slept, content that I was done, yet not knowing whether what I had written was good or ill.
There was unease in my mind that went beyond the writing, and when scarcely an hour had passed in sleep, I was awake, brushing my hair and considering where I might deliver my story in hope of payment. The unease lay not in the story or the writing, but in the secret of this inn, and of the man Jacob Binns.
Where was he now? Was he sleeping? Or was he at large upon the town on some secret business, for he seemed to have no other.
Descending the stair to the common room, I found Tosti Padget there. He noticed at once the roll of manuscript.
“Ah? You have been at it.” He looked at the roll again. “It is a lot.”
“I worked all the night. Do you wish to read it?”
“No,” he replied frankly, “and mind you show it to no one but he who might buy. The others do not matter. Most people are not fit to judge a thing until it is in print, and only a few of them then. If they want more, it is good, and if they talk about it among themselves, it is better. I had rather have one story talked about in an inn or over a campfire than a dozen on the dusty shelves of the academies.
“You may well ask, if I know so much, why I am not writing successfully … well, I know what should be done, and I can talk well of it. But,” and his tone was suddenly bitter, “I have not the will to persist. I tell myself I shall change, but I do not. I try to hold myself to a schedule, but I am diverted by the flights of fancy in my own mind. I dream of it, want it, talk
of it, think of it, but I do notdo it. Writing is a lonely business and must be forever so, and I am a social being. I want and need others about me and the loneliness of my room is a hateful thing.”
“One can be alone anywhere,” I suggested. “The quality of solitude is in the mind. If you wish people about you then write here, or in some other tavern, or in many of them, but sit among people only isolated by your mind.”
“I have tried that,” said Tosti Padget. “But my friends gather about me, they wish me to join them at games or walking after the girls, or they wish me to come along to another tavern where they gather with their friends.” He paused, then shrugged. “They scoff. They say I should come along and write another time.”
“They drink in taverns,” I said, “and twenty years hence they will still be drinking in taverns, no longer so bright and cheerful, no longer so friendly, only grown morose and sour with years and disappointments. As for their scoffing, the Arabs have a saying: ‘The dogs bark, but the caravan passes on.’ “
Tosti stared gloomily into his glass, perhaps because it was empty. I ordered another round and wondered how long I should be able to do so. Yet I liked him. To me he was a window upon a world of which I knew too little.
We talked then of people about London, of those who came and went, of possible sponsors to whom a writer might dedicate a book with some hope of pension or remuneration.
“To whom,” he asked me suddenly, “will you dedicate this? And what will you write next?”
Who, indeed? I knew nothing of those in London, and it went against the grain to curry the favor of some great man, yet all did it, and it seemed the only way to modest success. Nonetheless, my nature rebelled against it. At the same time an answer came to the second question.
Rafe Leckenbie!
To gather what was known about him and his activities would be simple enough, and then to expose him for what he was. He had come into London and like a great leech had fastened himself upon it and now was sucking it dry. True, he was as yet only one of many others, but superior in intelligence and with connections in high places, he was rapidly advancing to a position of control.
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