[David Becket and Simon Ames 01] - Firedrake's Eye

by Patricia Finney

  Simon bowed and then scurried to catch up for Sir Philip was striding over to speak to Richard Broom once more. Behind him, Adam stood in his rough clothes, ignored and forgotten and biting his lip.

  XVI

  It was on the Sunday following that Ames went to find Becket in his usual haunt. Becket had done his duty that morning and gone to church with his landlady, Mrs Carfax, and was in a foul disputatious mood at the stupidity and length of the sermon.

  ‘To speak of the Spaniard as it were of dogs or horses, and the French too, and to say they are not men but devils and say they have no stomach to fight true English in the next breath…Ptah.’ He spat. ‘Christ, I should like to give him a pike and stand him up against the tercio of Sicily and see how the stupid windbag likes it. This beer is worse than ever.’

  'Hm,' said Simon.

  ‘Ay, give him a pike I say if he wants to fight the Spaniard, let him try it. I give you odds of the entire Court to a pound of turds he shits his breeches and runs like a rabbit. I know I did the first time.’

  ‘You what?’ asked Simon incredulously.

  ‘Well, I held my bowels, but I ran along with all the others.’ Becket laughed at Simon’s face. ‘You never saw so many English lose so much piss and vinegar so quickly, and by my reckoning any rabbit would have been trampled over we ran so fast. The Spaniards nearly burst their bellies laughing. Oh never look so shocked, Ames, we all went out to Flanders thinking war to be a thing like a tourney writ large, with no wounds but upon the head and shoulder glancing, so as to bleed a little and be romantical and brave thereafter. We none of us knew one end of an arquebus from the other, but we knew God would keep the Popish cannon fire from touching us. We learned better. To see your friends shredded to meat before your eyes, now there is a good lesson in God’s will.’

  Simon nodded and bit down on his thumbnail abstractedly. Becket nodded as well, sighed and tipped his hat to three dice players in the comer. One of them came over to invite Becket and his Court friend to play, but he laughed and refused.

  ‘Never play with that man nor any he introduces you to,’ Becket said covertly to Ames when the bones had begun their clicking again. ‘He can switch you a bale of highmen to lowmen and back and you would swear he was only scratching his head. As he is now, see. Keeps them in his hat.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Simon blinking short-sightedly at him and tapping his fingernail on his goblet. Becket sighed again, eased his broad arse back into the inmost comer of the booth and put his boots on the table.

  ‘Wake me again when you have made up your mind about whatever is addling it,’ he said, untying the bands of his ruff so his chin could rest easy on his noxious shirt. Simon blinked at him and found himself thinking that the ruff looked remarkably like a greyish caterpillar with ambitions for Becket’s jugular.

  ‘Only I know not what to do,’ he said at random.

  ‘Ah.’ Becket had not opened his eyes.

  ‘Where to begin. Those footpads you rescued me from…. They were not merely footpads.’

  ‘Bonecrack Smith has never been anything else.’

  ‘Yes, but someone had hired them to kill me.’ Becket opened his eyes, but said nothing, only listened. ‘This is to do with my work in Whitehall which I may not tell in full to any man.’

  Becket lifted an eyebrow. ‘Never say you are one of Mr Secretary Walsingham’s men?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Only a clerk at present.’

  ‘Oh ay,’ Becket drawled. ‘And on the good and sufficient ground that whatever a man says he is at Court, he is generally the opposite, I hereby deem you Walsingham’s inquisitor general.’

  Simon flushed for this was nearer the truth than he liked.

  ‘Is some Papist Mass-gabbler after your blood?’ Becket asked. ‘Or a Court caterpillar of Burghley’s faction.’

  ‘If I knew the answer to that I would hardly be speaking to you.’

  ‘Hm.’

  *A message came to me at Seething Lane, I know not how, that if I would know more of the men that attacked me, I must go to Brisket’s Court near Bank End this afternoon.’

  ‘Ah. Behind the bear-baiting.’

  ‘Yes, well, it is a place I know not and to meet a man I know not…. It could solve my perplexity or it could…’

  ‘Solve theirs, as it were.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And you need a henchman to protect you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Patiently Becket said, ‘In what weight of silver do you price your skin?’

  ‘Five shillings?’

  ‘Come now, Ames, you are a better man than that. Ten at least.’ Simon looked unhappy but nodded his head. ‘Five now and five shillings…er…afterwards.’

  Becket laughed. ‘Done. On condition that you will be guided by me.’

  XVII

  Every Sunday afternoon there are hordes of folk new-released from Divinity with pennies clutched in their fists and but one idea in their heads, to cross from the north bank of Thames to the south and there to throw their money away upon the bull or the bear. For which reason there is never a boat to be had upon the river and so I went round by the bridge while saner men were hearing their sermons. There are more and looser purses to charity at the bear-baiting and the bull-baiting than ever at a church door where the folk are virtuous and have been listening to the Gospel upon the rich man and the eye of the needle. The whores at the infamous Bell even gave me a knuckle of ham once when it was raining and I had eaten nothing for two days: they said I was better than a painted sign for them, since they pointed me out as a man run mad for unslaked lust.

  Becket and Ames were late for the fight, having first to make a visit to Barnet, Becket’s pawnbroker, and then finding no boats. They joined the tail end of the crowd about the Bank where the barkers were still telling the fight for the afternoon (Harry Hunks and Tom of Lincoln were the bears) and ballad sellers and ticket touts and orangado sellers and cutpurses and others were as busy as June bees at the harvest of a flowering field of people.

  They had no hope of a seat for all the boasts of the ticket-touts by the gates, but they might have crowded in at the barriers with the dog-fanciers and risked a fight if they shouted for the bear. Becket risked a fight in any case since he was well-known as a backer of bears, particularly Harry Hunks which was the first bear that had ever won him money. Though they milled around with the others, they made no attempt to enter in past the high round walls of wildly bear-painted wood. Becket paused at the sheds to admire Harry Hunks’ glossy nose and coat and watch Tom of Lincoln being led out to battle. He was wearing his brave brass collar and roaring back at the yelps of the chained dogs, all straining to be next for the fight.

  Beyond the bearsheds is a tangle of booths, alehouses, cookshops andconfectioners for the supplying of hungry thirsty crowds. Becket was talking to Jardin the bearwarden of the sad falling off in quality of bears in latter days, even Essex-bred bears that were supposed to be so fierce. Simon hopped from foot to foot trying to see over a group of Germans from the Steelyard into an alleyway that snaked behind the booths.

  Now an angel sang to me from the roof of the Bell, and so Tom climbed a wall and from thence leaped an alley to a balcony and went up and over the roof and along a gutter to perch like a new-grown gargoyle. The crowd in the bear garden quieted for a while to hear Tom of Lincoln’s pedigree recited and the pedigrees of all the eight dogs that would fight him, and the odds on each severally and together.

  There was a tingle of cooking smells from the cookshops along Bankside and Clink Street that tortured my teeth with the memory of beef and onions and mutton and mint. The trumpets sounded at the bear garden as Tom of Lincoln entered, standing on his hind legs and roaming at his supporters who cheered back.

  From my perch I saw Ames buy an orangado and suck on the sugary juice in the orange skin, blinking about him with a frown printed deep on his face. He wandered down the alley, Becket b
idding farewell to the bearwarden and following him. The bearwarden moved to Harry Hunks’ cage and lifted the grill to put the leash on his collar and change a frayed strap on his muzzle.

  Across Brisket’s yard a window opened and a long black gun muzzle poked through it quietly. Even above the food smells and the reek of bears and dogs came that gritty taste in the air of gunpowder smouldering. Within the darkness of the window I could see a red glow of a match that lit up half an intent face and no more.

  For once Tom behaved like a sane man. He stood up teetering on the gutter with a shingle in his hand, yowled like a pinched dog, threw the shingle. Becket was coming into the yard: he looked up, stared, caught the glimmer of match and the smell of it at one and the same time, launched himself at Simon.

  But he was thrown up and backwards into Ames and both went down in a windmilling of arms. The crash of the gun was sunk in all the shouting and roaring from the Gardens like iron in the Thames. I lost my grip and slid laughing down an outhouse roof and into a dungheap by a bearwarden’s pigpen.

  Two more men came running from an orangado seller’s door, swords in their hands. Becket rolled off Simon and scrambled to his feet, his sword and dagger guarding both of them. When he saw the two swords-

  men he kicked a spray of mud at one of them and charged at the other.

  The arquebusier had disappeared from his window and down in the yard was a confused melee of legs and arms and blades with Becket dodging and prancing between the swordsmen, a somewhat skittish bear. Simon hovered at the edge of the fight with his dagger raised like a Court damsel at a banquet, not knowing which stuffed fig to prick. He had sat upon his sword and broken it. Becket roared. One man had caught him from behind in a hold, under his arms from behind, levering his head to his dented chest while his face went puce and he kicked and bucked and cut behind with his sword. The other man dodged his kicks, yammering in foreign, waiting until Becket should tire.

  At last I stopped Tom’s fool laughing, stood up, went to the gate of the pigpen and opened it, just as Simon recovered his wits and kicked in the arse the one who was holding Becket. Becket elbowed the man in the stomach and flung his crossed sword and dagger up in a guard just as the other swordsman cut down on his head. Simon was shouting for help, two whores were leaning out a window in the Bell, laughing and picking sides and laying bets on better sport than bears.

  There was a peaceful snore beside me. I looked and there was a pretty little piglet asleep in the dung. I picked him up and threw him at the man trying to spit Becket on his long rapier. He bounced off the man’s leg, uncurled and began running about squealing like a small exorcised demon. His dam lurched to her feet, grunting angrily.

  Becket was panting hard as he swapped blows, blood blazing on his leg. Now the arquebusier reappeared, he was propping his gun on a wall ready to fire again, but the angry sow charged into him as the nearest enemy and bit him on the calf. He screamed and kicked her, she charged, 1 jumped up and down and cheered her on. Simon was hiding behind a pile of barrels, dodging the ferocity of a swordsman who knew his business, albeit Spanish style. Suddenly there came from beyond the yard a closer roaring than the garden.

  A vast brown furry body came thundering into the yard and rose on his hind legs, his bearwarden panting behind waving the broken end of a leash and cursing horribly.

  The sow turned at bay and honked defiance at the bear; the bear, who was Harry Hunks distracted from his true business by the smell of blood, roared and clawed at the arquebusier. The arquebus went off again and blew splinters off the wall beside me. Harry Hunks bellowed and caught the man in a huge hug which splintered and crumpled the gun like a reed. The arquebusier disappeared shrieking behind great furry shoulders.

  Becket was bleeding from the leg, had lost his dagger and was clearly tiring: both swordsmen were now concentrating on him, having accurately judged Simon a poltroon, but failing to see that he was not stupid. He got behind the barrels again, pushed mightily and sent them rolling through the yard. One cracked its lid open and the mead washed all across the yard, scandalising the chickens in their wattle run. The sweet honey smell brought Harry Hunks away from his thoughtful lapping of the arquebusier’s ripped skull and he shambled in a puzzled way towards the source of it, swaying his great head from Becket to the two swordsmen and back again. They could not keep their eyes from him and while both were glancing nervously behind at the bear, Becket ducked down deep on his haunches under a whistling blow. He came up again, catching a rapier’s hand-guard with his left hand and wrenching downwards, while the blade in his right hand went up under the man’s armpit and through his lung. Now he twisted his sword out and turned to the third attacker with all his teeth showing, and the man backed off and ran.

  Becket saluted the bear with his red sword. Harry Hunks snuffed, grunted and then dropped to all fours and began lapping at the raw mead running about the cobbles and flagstones. The bearwarden crept up to him cooing, ‘There there honeypot, there, there, babykin.’ The bear ignored him.

  ‘Now look at him,’ snarled the bearwarden. ‘You have only ruined the afternoon, my master, no more. He will be too drunk to fight and have a sore head in the morning, poor sweeting. I cannot stop him having his fill now, can I? You should pay for the loss of trade, you should…’

  ‘Kiss my arse,’ said Becket pleasantly, bent to clean his blade on his kill’s small round cloak and paused with a grunt as if someone had punched his middle. His face whitened and his breath rasped.

  ‘Shite,’ he said, and stumbled over to a still standing barrel to prop himself. The muscle of his thigh under his ripped canions was quivering and jumping where the rapier had scored him and the front of his doublet was strangely dented. Nearby the arquebusier lay with his head mainly ripped off, while Simon blinked down at the swordsman who had coughed out his life at last and lay glaring at the grey sky.

  ‘I wish one of them could have been alive but wounded,’ he said shakily.

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Becket began to laugh and then coughed and swore, his fingers gripped around the hole in his leg.

  Simon shook himself, put his unmarked dagger away and came to Becket. The other bearwarden had appeared at the entrance to the little yard with a bowl of honeycombs, trailed by a crowd of fascinated boys and trulls come to see what the noise was. Not many had heard though, as was of course intended.

  Harry Hunks caught scent of the honey and swung his head that way, undecided which would be better and already weaving a little with drink. The sow was nosing her piglet back into the pen; she too sniffed at the fumes about her.

  There was a moment of balance and then Harry Hunks grunted happily and followed his bearwarden’s coaxing to the honeycombs, leaving the sow to slurp at what mead was left, which was very little.

  ‘There there, Harry my love,’ said the bearwarden reattaching the end of the leash. ‘Here’s honey for you. Ahh. And you, you whoresons, you take your devil-damned fights away from here and if 1 ever…’

  Simon Ames had retrieved the dagger and was bending over Becket’s leg. Now he straightened and tried to speak, but Becket interrupted.

  ‘We’ll go now, Jardin,’ he said. ‘This was none of our doing…’

  ‘I give not a fig for it, get your arses out of my yard or I’ll set him on you, see, poor little love…’

  Becket and Ames limped forth and out onto the Bank through a narrow alley. By the river Becket leant against a wall and gripped his thigh while his hand rusted with blood.

  Simon whistled desperately for a passing boat, waved his arm. The boatman glanced them over, saw their case and rowed speedily on. The third that came by gestured at Molestrand Dock and came in there, so Becket must up and limp over to it, past the disgruntled early leavers from the bear-baiting. Now I came up, dusting pig dung from my backside and took his other arm and so with his weight slung between us, we got Becket into the boat while the waterman watched and pointedly asked no questions.

  ‘Where to, sirs?’ he ask
ed after a decent pause.

  ‘Petty Wales Steps, by the Tower,’ Simon answered.

  The waterman sucked his teeth. ‘There’s the bridge to shoot and the tide on the ebb,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘which I would never recommend unless you gentlemen was in a hurry.’

  Tom hooted and made oink oink noises like a pig in a trough as a comment on this. Simon was already at Becket’s dented cuirass, the buff jerkin open and pulled off.

  ‘And a notorious loony in the boat too, ’ added the waterman, leaning on his oars. ‘Not but what I’m happy to take, if he is aiding you gentleman, but there will be extra on the fare for cleaning of the cushions and…’

  ‘There is a shilling waiting for you if you take us to Petty Wales.’

  ‘One and^ix.’

  ‘Christ,’ snarled Becket, slapping at Simon’s hands, ‘I shall bleed to death while you cheapen for the fare. Waterman, take us to Temple Steps and I’ll go to Mr Gifford.’

  ‘And then there is the law against duelling,’ said the waterman reflectively-

  Ames’s pale brown eyes glittered a little. ‘Not to mention the regulations of the Watermen’s Guild on charging and overcharging. One shilling if we come there whole and soon.’

  The waterman spat a gobbet into the river. ‘Where did you say, sir?’

  ‘Temple Steps,’ growled Becket.

  ‘Petty Wales,’ insisted Ames. ‘My uncle knows an excellent surgeon that is no pomade-merchant but learnt his trade from the wars…’

  ‘God’s death, that’s all I need, some pissant butcher that buried his lessons in Flanders…’

  ‘And served with the tercio of Lombardy.’

  ‘Oh,’ muttered Becket, subsiding a little. ‘He might be good, but…’

  ‘So which is it, sirs?’ asked the waterman politely.

  ‘One shilling, to Petty Wales.’

  The waterman nodded. ‘You will be wanting speed, then,’ he said as he whirled the boat into the central racing current. ‘Else the gentleman might be true as his word and I’ll thank you to keep the blood out of my cushions, if you please, sir. Central arches I think.’