A Famine of Horses (17 page)

“Nay, master, I’m too innocent for…”

Barnabus sighed and produced a groat. “I could likely find the place myself,” he said, “or ask someone else?”

Young Hutchin took the groat smoothly and led the way down the nearest wynd.

Barnabus liked the boy’s technique. For instance, he was perfectly well aware that he was being led on a deliberately twisting and complex route so he would have difficulty finding the place again and that Young Hutchin had tipped the wink to one of the lads sitting in the street minding his family’s pigs that he was bringing in custom. He didn’t mind in the least, it made him feel nicely at home, though every time he looked up he saw a nasty unsmoky sky and almost every wynd off Scotch Street eventually ended in red brick wall.

Down one of the culs-de-sac they came on a brightly painted house with red lattices, a painted wooden sign of a rainbow and a girl sitting on the step. She stood up and smiled at him, leaned over so her large breasts could press enticingly over the top of her stays, and in a reek of cheap perfume, said, “Can I help you, sir?”

His breath coming short, on account of being away from the stews of Southwark for so long, Barnabus nodded. To Young Hutchin he said, “You stay here, my son, we wouldn’t want your innocence being corrupted, would we?”

“What, wait here in the street?” asked Young Hutchin with dismay.

“Tch. You’re far too young to go into a place like that,” said Barnabus gravely, perfectly well aware that Young Hutchin might even lodge there when he wasn’t in the castle, being the age he was, even if he might not be able to do much about it yet. On the other hand, Barnabus as a sturdy lad of thirteen had many fond memories of the Falcon in Southwark and in particular of a girl called Mary. Perhaps he sold his…No, he didn’t look the type and in any case Barnabus doubted that the more sophisticated London perversions had got this far north. Anyway, it was the principle of the thing.

“I’d never shirk my responsibilities to you, my son,” he added preachily, “and you’re not getting corrupted on my money today. Besides, if you stay outside and give me a list of everyone who comes in and goes out while I’m there, you could earn yourself enough for two women in the one bed.”

That caused Young Hutchin to brighten considerably and he settled down on the step as Barnabus went in. He was met by a grey-haired woman of formidable expression, dressed in a tawny velvet kirtle with a damask forepart and embroidery on her stomacher, her hair covered by a cap and a long-crowned hat in the Scottish fashion, with a pheasant’s feather. Her ruff was edged with lace and starched with yellow starch and altogether she was as magnificent a woman as complete flouting of the sumptuary laws could make her. London work, as well, Barnabus estimated, his eyes narrowing, it seemed Hutchin had brought him to the most expensive place in town. No matter. Barnabus regarded money invested on good whores as money well-spent. No doubt the Scots went to the other bawdy house, wherever that was, since he could hear none of their accents which he was just beginning to be able to tell from an English Borders accent.

“Welcome to this house,” said the woman in a clear southern voice, somewhere in London, Barnabus judged in surprise. “How may I serve you, sir?”

The common room where the whores paraded was nicely floored with fresh rushes and had a fireplace, though no fire since the weather had turned warm and muggy. There was a man there, no doubt acting as security against anyone who tried to leave without paying, a young, clever-faced man, with a weather-beaten face, black ringlets and long fingers. There was something familiar about him but Barnabus couldn’t place the resemblance. He was throwing dice idly and Barnabus watched how he scooped up the ivories and tossed them and hid a smile to himself. It seemed coney-catchers were another universal thing. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“Shall we have a game, sir?” asked the man in friendly fashion, “To pass the time until the whores are ready?”

Barnabus swallowed a laugh. “Well,” he said, “I’ve only a little bit more than the price of a woman here, but I’ll keep you company.”

He sat down, took the wine he was brought and sipped it cautiously, and waited for the other man to make the first throw.

“I’m Barnabus Cooke,” he explained, “servant to Sir Robert Carey, the new Deputy.” Since they almost certainly knew that already, he didn’t see any reason not to confirm it.

“I’m Daniel Swanders,” said the man, “peddler by trade, but I’m waiting about here for a while until whatever’s happening in Scotland has finished happening.”

Barnabus nodded pleasantly, betraying no interest at all. He calculated they’d give him about twenty minutes to win some money before the whores arrived and then after he’d finished with a woman, Daniel Swanders would have a friend arrive, and he’d be brought into some plot to cheat the friend at dice since he was such a good player. Barnabus felt a warm pleasant feeling lift his heart nearly as much as the prospect of seeing to some womanflesh; it was almost like being back in London again.

Two hours later, comfortable and easy in his skin with only a tiny niggling doubt chewing in the hole at the back of his mind where he’d locked up his conscience, Barnabus Cooke walked out of the Carlisle bawdy house, known as the Rainbow, about two pounds richer than when he came in. Daniel Swanders was still inside, examining his four identical dice with great puzzlement, since they seemed to have betrayed him for the first time in his life, and his friend was trying to be jovial with Barnabus and offering to see him home. Barnabus, who had last fallen for that game when he was twelve years old, loosened his knife and explained to the importunate friend that he already had a guide to see him back to the castle and his master was expecting him to wait at dinner.

As they walked back up the wynd, past the courtyards redolent with herring and mackerel drying on the racks, Barnabus said quietly to Young Hutchin, “Can you use a knife?”

Young Hutchin looked insulted. “Ay, master, of course I can.”

“Good,” said Barnabus. “Now, we’re being followed by a large co from near the bawdy house, ain’t we?”

Hutchin stopped to kick a stone, dribbled it round a post in the street and back again. Good, Barnabus thought, liking the boy’s style.

“You know ‘im, don’t you,” said Barnabus, as usual losing his careful Court voice in the excitement.

“I might. I dinna ken his name, but,” said Hutchin.

My eye, thought Barnabus, it’s probably your own brother.

“Now then,” said Barnabus as he stopped to examine a cooking pot hanging on an awning for sale, “I don’t want to ‘urt ‘im, I just want to ‘ave a little talk wiv ‘im, see?” Young Hutchin looked bewildered and Barnabus got a grip on his tongue and repeated himself more clearly. Young Hutchin nodded nervously. “This is what’s going to ‘appen. I’m going down that alley there to take a piss, and you carry on and give ‘im whatever signal you’ve arranged between yourselves.” Young Hutchin’s mouth opened to protest his utter innocence but he wasn’t able to stop his fair skin colouring up. Barnabus had often given thanks that he wasn’t liable to blushing with his sallow complexion. The pockmarks helped as well.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured the boy, “I was doing your job down in London before you was born. Now, as soon as you see him go in after me, you follow and put your knife against his back first opportunity you get.”

“I canna…” began Young Hutchin indignantly. The large man was standing by another shop, staring elaborately at the sky. Barnabus hid a grin.

“I’m not asking you to knife the bugger, did I say that? No, so don’t jump to conclusions, I want you to prick him enough to let him know you’re there and tell him to stop what he’s doing.”

“But…”

“Listen, son. If you don’t want to do it, just say so now and you can hop along up the castle and we’ll say no more about it. But if you want to learn something from a real craftsman, you do as I say and I’ll pay you for it too out of my dice winnings.”

Hutchin’s mouth dropped open. “You
won
the dice game?” he gasped.

“‘Course I did, I told you, I’m a craftsman. Well, what do you say?”

“I’ll help ye,” said Young Hutchin.

“Just one thing to bear in mind, my son. I don’t want to kill this man, but I will if I have to, and the thing that’ll make me have to kill him is you buggering me about, you got that? And if you do that, son, I’ll find you and I’ll teach you better manners, you got that?”

“Yes, master,” said Young Hutchin in a subdued tone.

“Never mind,” said Barnabus kindly, “you’re doing your best, don’t worry, it gets easier as you know more.”

Arthur Musgrave saw his quarry disappearing down a wynd that was almost blocked out by the heavy buildings straining towards each other overhead. He’d had the all clear from Young Hutchin. He hurried after the plump ferret-faced southerner, taking out his cudgel as he went, hoping this would square it with Madam Hetherington who was enraged at him and Danny losing the bawdy house stake. He paused to take his bearings, wondered where the bastard Londoner had got to and felt a heavy weight thump down on his shoulders from above. The lights went out.

Fighting his way clear of the cloak, he got his head free only to find somebody’s knee crunching into his nose. He lost his temper and managed to grab the Londoner by the doublet front and bash him against the wattle and daub wall of one of the houses, making a man-shaped dent in the plaster. Suddenly he felt the cold prickle of a knife at his back and stopped still.

Somebody’s fist smashed into his gut three or four times and he toppled onto his face, mewing and fighting to breathe. The cloak went over his head again, his belt was undone with unbelievable speed and then wrapped around his body and arms at the bend of the elbow and buckled tight, all before he’d even managed to breathe once. So he lay there, choked with muddy cloak, waiting for the worst and found himself being lifted upright.

It was the bastard bloody southerner again, with that mangling of consonants and dropping of aitches which made him impossible to understand.

“Speak slower, man,” he shouted, wincing at the pain in his belly and tasting blood from his battered nose, “I canna understand ye.”

“I don’t want your purse because I know there’s nothing in it and I don’t want your life yet,” repeated Barnabus patiently, “I want to know who’s the King of Carlisle.”

“What?”

The would-be footpad tangled up in Barnabus’ cloak couldn’t show the bewilderment he felt, but Young Hutchin’s face said it all.

“Bloody hell,” said Barnabus, “are you telling me there isn’t one? Isn’t there anybody collecting rent off the thieves here to keep them safe from the law?”

Young Hutchin snorted with laughter. “No, master, generally it’s the thieves that collect the rent from the lawful folk.”

“If ye mean surnames, mine’s Musgrave, and my father’s cousin to Captain Musgrave, so if ye…”

“Shut up,” said Barnabus, kicking him. “Young Hutchin, are you saying that none of the thieves and beggars in Carlisle are properly organised?”

Young Hutchin nodded. “There’s never been enough of them in the city,” he explained. “Outside, well, I suppose every man takes a hand in a bit of cattle-lifting and horse-thieving now and again, even the Warden or the Captain of Bewcastle.”

“Especially the Captain of Bewcastle,” muttered Arthur Musgrave, who hated all Carletons.

“Who do you work for then?” demanded Barnabus of Arthur, “Your father?”

Arthur Musgrave’s father was humiliated by Arthur’s inability to get on with horses and had kicked him out of the house five years before. “No,” said Arthur, “it’s Madam Hetherington’s stake you’ve got there.”

“
The
madam?”

“Ay.”

Barnabus nodded. It stood to reason, of course, seeing she was a southerner. Well, that changed his plans a bit.

“All right, on yer feet,” he said, giving Arthur Musgrave a heft and leading back into Scotch Street. A few people glanced at them but didn’t feel inclined to interfere. It gave Barnabus great satisfaction to navigate his way back to the Rainbow without Hutchin’s help, and yell for Madam Hetherington.

A moment later she appeared on the top step with a primed caliver and lit slowmatch in her hand. Barnabus grinned at her and toed Arthur forwards until he landed on the bottom step, and lay there, feebly struggling.

“I’ve got no argument with you, Madam,” he said cheerily. “And just to show what a generous sort of man I am, here’s half of your stake back.” He took out the twenty shillings he’d earned and tossed the half-full leather purse onto the step at her feet.

Madam Hetherington’s eyes narrowed and the gun did not move. “Why?” she demanded.

“Well, I’ve charged you the money for the useful lesson in diceplay I gave your lads…”

“No, why did you come back?”

Barnabus’s smile went from ear to ear of his narrow face. “I want to be a friend, not a coney,” he said, “I know you won’t try this on me again, but I’d like to be welcome here to join the girls if I want.”

Madam Hetherington finally smiled. “I welcome anyone with the money to pay me.”

“Seriously,” said Barnabus.

“And I would be willing to pay for more lessons in diceplay.”