A Divided Inheritance (11 page)

He might be a bit short on stuffing, but at least Bradstone was keeping to the old faith and wasn’t one of those who sway back and forth and never quite make up their minds. By the time
Bradstone left, there was the beginnings of a match made, he’d stake his life on it, and it would not surprise him one jot if dear Cousin Elspet were to be wed and bedded by the autumn. And
God willing, it would fall sweetly for him too, then, for he could continue unharrassed as Leviston’s nephew.

He could get used to living at West View House, he really could. After Bradstone had gone home, Leviston confessed that when his wife and child had died he had blamed himself, and was so beset
with remorse for his unfaithfulness that he had not searched for him as Magdalena, his mother, had asked. Only after his narrow escape from death by the plague had he begun searching, curious to
see how his only son had fared. Now, to Zachary’s great benefit, he was desperate to make amends for neglecting him all these years, and could not do enough to please him. And Zachary felt
himself growing fonder of the old fool, despite the feeling of guilt that niggled him.

From Elspet’s earlier apology, and her conversation, he guessed she could not have had enough time to read his mother’s letter. He felt for it now, where it was tucked inside the
pocket of his breeches, out of sight of Elspet’s prying eyes. He sighed, reassured. The parchment was still there. He took out the Calvary wood, worn smooth by his mother’s touch, and
rubbed it between his fingers.

Nevertheless, it would be as well if Elspet were provided for, and even sweeter if she were a few hundred miles away in Yorkshire. It was hard to keep a lid on his past, and she was sharp as
nails.

A few days later, Zachary met Gin Shotterill in their old haunt, the Green Man, for the usual ratting. When the bout was over they watched the men lead their whimpering dogs
away, tails curled like eels between their legs. Shotterill emerged from the crowd round the pit rails and handed over his winnings.

‘Knew that brindled bitch was no good right from the start,’ Gin said.

‘Her ears were back even before she was let loose,’ Zachary said. ‘Still, that was a fine match with Thatcher’s dog.’

‘He peppers them beforehand. Makes ’em snarl. By the time they get in the ring they’d go for a bloody bear, if he’d let ’em.’

Zachary glanced to the corner, where the landlord of the tavern was bargaining over the dog, trying to do a deal. The dog was straining at its collar, teeth bared, eyes on the make-shift pit
where a few pathetic rats still writhed on the bloodstained boards.

‘Do you not fancy a dog, Deane?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for the moment, anyhow. Can’t see Uncle Leviston abiding another dog. They’ve got two already.’

‘What’s he like, your uncle?’

‘Niggard-pursed. Hard to get him to open his palm for decent food and beer.’

‘Still, you’ve got a better billet than before. Can’t complain, can you? I can’t get over it, you being related to a man like that.’

‘Hmm.’ Zachary had told Gin the bare minimum. The less he knew, the less likely it would be he’d slip up.

‘You don’t seem very keen,’ Gin said. ‘What’s the matter?’

Zachary weighed his words. ‘Nothing. I suppose he’s all right – if you like pulpit bashers. But I tell you, it’s a strain having to mind my manners – not to spit or
swear because there are ladies present, and to unbuckle and leave my swords in the hall every time I go in or out.’

‘Ladies? What sort of ladies?’

‘Not that sort. My cousin.’

Gin elbowed him in the ribs, and grinned, eyebrows raised in question.

Zachary warned him, ‘Now don’t get any ideas.’

‘Go on, what’s she like?’

‘Too tall, too serious, and too attached to her rosary beads for you.’

‘Oh. One of those.’ They threw on their cloaks and made for the door, stepping around the crowded tables, and out into the fresh air. Immediately they were outside there was a
high-pitched yell from a street trader. Zachary turned in irritation.

‘Mounseer Lagardy, finest fencer in the whole of France!’ A young lad thrust a handbill into Gin’s grasp.

‘What’s it say?’ He passed it to Zachary.

He glanced at the title. ‘Hark at this!
Tonight at eight of the clock,
’ he read, ‘
at Hanging Sword Alley, by the Signe of the Fish Hook, Monsieur Lagarde will
demonstrate his Schoole of Defence: The Sword and Dagger, The Short Sword and Gauntlet, The Single Rapier and The Case of Rapiers. Fencers are invited to try their skill against Monsieur Lagarde
and his fearless students on this Field of Honour.
’

‘How’s your mettle, Deane?’

‘Not too bad. Been doing a few hours a day.’

‘You going to have a go? He might be good.’

‘What do you think?’

Gin slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Without a word they set off towards Hanging Sword Alley.

The Alley was not the easiest place to find for those who didn’t know it – it being just a crack in the wall near to Water Lane by the Thames. They had to press
their weapons close to their sides to even get by. The sign of the Hanging Sword was jammed crookedly between the buildings at a perilous angle. It looked as though it might tumble at any moment
and cosh someone, but as yet it never had.

Once through the needle’s eye, though, the place seethed with young bloods, lounging against the walls or perching on the ale benches outside the taverns. On each house swung a sign with
the fencing master’s insignia – the fighting bull, the rampant lion, or swords crossed in diverse ways.

They walked past the sign of the fighting stags where Zachary’s old master Signor Pietro had his school, and on to the Fishhook, where they turned right into a walled courtyard. Fish were
unloaded and gutted there when it was not being used for fencing. The cobbles were slimy with fish entrails and the place stank enough to peel the inside of a man’s nose. Two lads in twill
jerkins were brushing over the yard with straw and sawdust. Zachary and Gin stood to watch them work, along with a few others awaiting the entertainment.

Gradually a crowd gathered. The wall sconces were lit against the approaching dark. A few men impatiently stepped from foot to foot, or circled their shoulders, warming their muscles.

‘They don’t look much.’ Zachary nudged Gin, who made a derisive snort. Zachary recognized the hangers-on from other bouts. They were puffers, most of them, and despite this
attempt to impress the onlookers, most were endowed with more brawn than wit.

A commotion in the crowd was followed by a shout and a flourish as the man Zachary presumed to be Monsieur Lagarde strolled in, accompanied by two or three mealy-mouthed apprentices carrying his
arms.

Gin turned to him. ‘Bandy legs,’ he hissed.

They sniggered. Zachary took note of Lagarde’s yellowish complexion and wispy beard, assessing his form. He was a man of about forty years old with two frown lines scored vertically
between his eyebrows, presumably from screwing up his eyes too hard.

Lagarde bowed to the audience who stamped and clapped lustily. One of his youths stepped forward to introduce him, in a thick French accent, and relieved him of his cloak, before handing him a
rapier. Lagarde leapt into a low stance and twirled and brandished the blade in a show of speed and bravado.

The crowd laughed and jeered, but he ignored them as he and one of his students began a match designed to show off his skill. Zachary sighed and shook his head. Lagarde fought well enough, but
then so would he, if his student conceded every point and left himself wide open for his thrust.

‘Hey, will you look at that!’ Zachary protested, outraged. ‘He let him win!’ He turned to Gin. ‘It’s just a bloody dumb-show. Men like that make me mad. I
could do better than that with one hand tied behind my back.’

‘Calm down,’ Gin said. ‘What did you expect? A fight to the death? It’s entertainment. He’s got to please the crowd, and he’s a living to make, like all of
us.’

In front, a man jumped forth from the crowd and spat on the ground. Lagarde, though a little breathless, accepted the challenge and Zachary and Gin pressed nearer to see what would come of
it.

They fought noisily with rapier and dagger, neither with much skill as far as Zachary could see and, with a lucky strike, Lagarde thrust the point of the dagger through the challenger’s
shoulder. A cheer went up. Zachary groaned.

‘The Frenchman prevails!’ shouted someone.

‘Not bad,’ Gin said.

‘Fake!’ Zachary shouted. He could not help but remember the movement of that white-haired foreigner in the tavern near St Paul’s, his swooping sword, and the strange Spanish
technique he said was called
La Verdadera Destreza
. The words were embedded in his memory; he had repeated them so often lest he forget the name. It meant The Skill, and that foreigner
would have whipped this bandylegged Frenchman and not even broken sweat. It made him angry that men such as Lagarde should take money from gullible folks for lessons.

‘Who’s next?’ called one of the young men.

Zachary propelled himself forward.

Gin Shotterill’s hand reached out to stop him but Zachary dodged it, and jumped into the open space. He paced round Lagarde, taking advantage of the breathing room, his rapier fixed steady
between them. Now he could see the Frenchman’s eyes, and they were narrow and determined. But Zachary riposted with his most penetrating stare, and Lagarde quavered. His eyes still on
Zachary, he threw away his rapier and dagger and a youth ran up and handed him a long sword.

‘Two-hand sword, is it, you want try?’ Lagarde said.

‘If you wish,’ Zachary called back, coolly.

Lagarde was trying to catch him short, but Zachary called his bluff and he, too, threw off his arms.

Gin Shotterill appeared from the front row and gathered up Zachary’s tackle. ‘Be careful,’ he called.

Zachary glared back at him. ‘Someone hand me a long-sword!’ he shouted.

A long-sword bobbed and danced over the heads of the crowd. Zachary grabbed hold of it to find it much weightier than his own at home, and badly balanced; the edge toothed as if it had been used
for hacking wood. He hoped he could wield it. He wanted to make this charlatan eat the dust.

He brought the sword up over his shoulder, and swung it around his head a few times. His arm muscles burned. The crowd gasped in excitement, for he was short, and the sword was a monster of a
thing.

He and Lagarde circled each other. The Frenchman made the first pass and Zachary leapt nimbly out of reach. Whilst Lagarde recovered Zachary swung the blade overhead and let the momentum slice
it towards his opponent’s poll. With a grunt he hauled it back up at the last moment so the tip just touched Lagarde’s head with a little tap.

Lagarde staggered backwards looking up, and placed his hand to his hair in puzzlement. The crowd laughed. Zachary turned to them and waved his free hand in a flourish.

Lagarde was rattled. He lunged clumsily with the point of his sword, but Zachary dodged sideways and the blade struck forward into empty air. As he passed, Zachary was able to turn the flat of
his blade and neatly spank him on the backside.

The crowd went wild, cheering and laughing. Lagarde turned to see where the blow had come from, making the crowd guffaw even louder. His mouth began to tremble and his breath escaped in a
wheeze. He ran with a yell, all control gone, and sliced a glancing diagonal towards Zachary’s shoulder. It clashed against Zachary’s blade and sent a jolt like a lightning strike up
into Zachary’s shoulder. For a moment they tussled there, locked together until Zachary wrestled his weapon free.

Having the advantage, Zachary pursued him with the sword threshing side to side. But Lagarde backed away, fearful now, holding his blade out like a cross until his back was up against the wall.
Intent on more sport, Zachary gave a trim flick and Lagarde’s sword flew from his hand and clattered to the ground.

Zachary lifted Lagarde’s doublet with his point. ‘Hey, won’t you take a look, his knees are knocking together!’

The crowd let out a cheer, but the cheer turned into boos, as a hand coiled around Zachary’s neck and something stung him through his sleeve. He twisted round. One of the French
students’ faces was right up against his own, the ire burning in his cheeks. A dagger in his hand dripped blood.

‘
Arrêtez!
Enough!’ the lad hissed, trying to prevent Zachary from humiliating his master further.

‘You dog!’ Zachary cried, looking in amazement at his arm where blood was soiling his sleeve. ‘This was supposed to be a fair fight! You cut me from behind!’

There was a yell of protest. Straight away, Gin and a throng of men from the crowd launched themselves forth and set to beating about the youth. From the corner of the yard more of
Lagarde’s students leapt to join the fray.

Zachary whooped. A fine battle had burst out, with each man desperate to see some of the action. The yelling and commotion drew folk from the rest of the alley and soon the whole yard was afire
with everyone trying to whack Lagarde and his students. Zachary took on the nearest lad who was slashing wildly with a billhook. Just when he was about to pinion the lad to the wall, a shove from
behind landed Zachary face down in the yard. The fish smell nearly choked him and he scrabbled to stand up.

His nose was bloodied and his doublet smeared with slime. The man he had been fighting was gone. Incensed, he darted about the yard looking for Lagarde, but he was nowhere to be seen.

He ran up to Gin, panting. ‘The yellow dog. He’s left his scholars fighting his cause. What a rogue. Look at his men, though, you can tell he’s got no skill.’ He pointed
to where some of the French students lay groaning on the ground.

A warning volley of fire threw everyone into a panic.

‘Quick.’ Gin Shotterill grabbed his arm. ‘Out through the tavern!’

A group of the King’s men had sealed off the yard.

They sheathed arms and dodged inside the fusty dark of the inn. They crashed past the tables towards the door, but when they got there it was barred by two more of the King’s men. They
turned tail and headed back to the yard but there were men bristling with pikes at the back door too.