Rapscallion (44 page)

The
Chief Magistrate was worried.

"Is
there anything I can do for you, sir?"

Read
looked up. His face remained serious and thoughtful.

"Yes,
Mr Twigg, there is. I'd be obliged if you could deliver a message for me."

"Very
good, sir."
Twigg waited
expectantly. After a pause, he said, "And to whom am I delivering this
message, sir?"

Read
told him.

Twigg's
eyebrows rose. "Do you think he'll come?"

Read
nodded. "He'll come."

"I'll
leave right away." Twigg made for the door.

"Mr
Twigg?"

The
clerk turned. "
Your
Honour?"

"Please
tread carefully," Read said.

Twigg
permitted himself a small smile. "I always do, sir."

Read
nodded. The clerk closed the door behind him. Read looked at the clock in the
corner of the room. He took a watch
from his pocket
and consulted the dial. Walking to the clock he reached up and moved the minute
hand to a quarter past the hour.

Perhaps
it was an omen, he thought. Time
was
ticking away.

In
the outer office, Ezra Twigg sent the waiting courier on his way and reached
for his hat.

He
wasn't sure if he should offer a prayer for his safe return before he left.

For
he was, after all, about to pay a visit to the Holy Land.

The
Hanged Man public house lay in a dark alleyway behind Buckbridge Street. It was
not the sort of establishment frequented by
gentlemen
or ladies of a genteel disposition. It catered mostly for those who lived on
the edges of conventional society, the borderland between the criminal and the
lawful. Gamblers, tricksters, forgers and debtors; opportunists, seducers,
procurers and paramours all frequented its dim-lit, beer-steeped, smoke-filled
interior.

At
the back of the main room on the first floor, four men wreathed in tobacco
fumes were playing dominoes. The men's faces were serious as they concentrated
on the game before them. Their moves were brisk and confident. There was little
banter. The position of the counters in front of each player face down, in two
rows of three - and the pile of coins by each participant's elbow testified to
the spirit in which the game was being played.

One
man seemed to be ahead in his winnings. He was stocky, with a craggy face and
short, pewter-coloured hair. His back was to the wall. When he was not
concentrating on his counters, his eyes watched the room. There was no fear in
his gaze but there was caution. A glass of brandy stood by his right arm. Every
so often he would raise the glass to his lips and take a sip before laying his
counters down. Despite his watchfulness, he gave the impression of a man at
ease with himself, his insalubrious surroundings and with the company he was
keeping.

Occasionally,
his gaze would pass over a solitary male customer seated at a table at the top
of the stairway leading down to the ground floor. The man sat with his back to
the panelled wall. He was young, with a strong face and dark, intelligent
eyes. Whenever he raised his drink to his lips, he performed the movement with
such economy it suggested his partaking of the spirit was purely a means of
keeping his hand and arm occupied rather than a desire to savour the contents
of the glass. The moment a customer ascended from the pub's lower floor, he
would place his drink carefully on the table before him, leaving his hands
free. Sometimes, he caught the grey-haired man's glance, but mostly he kept his
eye on the stairway. The young man's name was Micah.

A
new round commenced. Counters were laid down in quick succession, interspersed
with a rap of knuckles whenever a player was unable to follow on. Table stakes
notwithstanding, the atmosphere was friendly and relaxed.

With
one domino left in his hand and with a line of counters snaking unevenly
across the table top, the pewter-haired man undertook his reconnaissance,
scanning the departures and arrivals, faces unknown and familiar, assessing
whether they were likely to be friend or foe.

His
eyes moved to the table by the stairs and he stiffened imperceptibly. Micah was
no longer alone. Standing next to his table was a small, bow-legged,
bespectacled man dressed in a black coat and breeches and wearing a faded
three-cornered hat. A powdered wig which had seen better days poked from beneath
the hat's folded brim. The older man was talking. Micah was listening. Finally,
Micah nodded, turned and looked towards the domino table.

The
pewter-haired man laid down his final counter and collected his winnings.
Pushing his chair back, he stood up and swept the pile of coins into his palm
and then into his pocket.

"Thanks
for the game, boys. Deal me out of the next one - business calls."
Ignoring the protests of the other players, he stepped away from the table and
headed for the stairs.

Ezra
Twigg watched him approach.

As
the pewter-haired man reached his table, Micah rose to his feet.

"Well
now, Mr Twigg -" Nathaniel Jago gazed down at the clerk and sighed heavily
- "your being here can only mean one thing. What's the daft beggar gone
and done now?"

The
four riders crested the rise and urged their mounts towards the edge of the
wood. Moonlight dappled the men's features and the foliage that concealed their
passing. Their attention was focused on the outline of a low-roofed cottage
which lay some three hundred yards away, set back from the road. The rest of
the village lay beyond it, perhaps a dozen houses in all. Another one hundred
paces separated the cottage from its nearest neighbour.

"Looks
quiet," McTurk murmured. The observation made, the Irishman hawked up a
gobbet of phlegm and spat the result into the bushes.

Lasseur
wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"See
anything?" McTurk whispered to the
horseman
on
his left.

The
horseman
, whose name was Croker, shook his head and
growled, "Coast's clear, I reckon."

McTurk
turned to Hawkwood. "You set?"

"We're
wasting time," Hawkwood said. "Let's get on with it."

They
coaxed their horses out of the wood and back on to the path, riding two
abreast, McTurk and Croker leading the way.

A
soft breeze caressed Hawkwood's cheek. It brought with it the scent of the sea,
which lay less than a mile distant. He thought he could hear waves lapping
against shingle, but dismissed it as his imagination, though when he looked to
his right, he could see the occasional shimmer of moon on water through gaps in
the trees.

McTurk
and Croker did not speak and Lasseur was silent beside him. Progress was marked
by the steady perambulation of the horses and the faint gleam of candlelight
from the houses ahead of them.

It
had been a while since Hawkwood had ridden. The last time had been in Spain,
when he'd fought alongside the
guerrilleros
in hit-and-run raids against the French. He had never considered himself to be
anything other than an average
horseman
, with an
ambivalent attitude to the animal as a species. Yet when he'd lifted himself
into the saddle in Morgan's stable yard and thrust his boots into the stirrups,
it was as if the years had rolled away.

Lasseur
looked perfectly at home, handling the reins as if he had been born to it, which
he probably had, Hawkwood concluded. He recalled Lasseur telling him how his
wife had died and Hawkwood suspected that the privateer, despite his chosen
profession, was an accomplished rider and had probably accompanied his late
wife on early morning gallops whenever he was home. He knew that Lasseur's
unease was due to the morality of their task and not the fear of falling off
and breaking his neck or being trampled to death by flying hooves.

A
night bird called out from the darkness and the horses' ears pricked up.
Hawkwood laid a calming hand on his mount's neck and felt the muscles relax
beneath the smooth brown pelt. They were some two hundred yards from the house
when Lasseur leaned over and whispered in French, "I have no stomach for
this, my friend."

"And
I told you that I'd take care of it," Hawkwood said, in the same language.

Lasseur
sat back in his saddle and fell silent, his face thoughtful.

Hawkwood
didn't think the men ahead spoke French, but he watched them for any sign of
reaction. There weren't any, though it could have been because they were good
actors.

"I'm
sending two of my best scouts with you," Morgan had told Hawkwood.
"You say you want Captain Lasseur at your shoulder, but Pat and Jack know the
paths and they'll identify Jilks. After that, it's down to you. If you do run
into trouble, which I doubt you will, they're good men to have at your side in
a skirmish."

Hawkwood
had been expecting one man to accompany them.

Morgan's
announcement that there was to be a second was unwelcome news, as was Morgan's
next proviso.

"It's
possible Jilks may have a woman with him. I don't wage war on women. She's not
to be harmed."

"Wife?"

Morgan
had shrugged.
"Housekeeper.
Does it matter? She's
not to be touched. I have your word on that?"

"I
don't wage war on women either," Hawkwood said, and thought about the
murderess, Catherine de Varesne, and how he had put a bullet into her throat on
a London quayside.

They
halted. The cottage was less than one hundred paces away. Somewhere in the
darkness a dog barked and Hawkwood soothed his mount once more. At McTurk's
signal, they guided the horses off the path into the shelter of a spinney where
they dismounted.

Hawkwood
looked towards the cottage. There was no movement. A light was showing in one
of the downstairs windows. He drew the pistol from his belt and turned to
McTurk. "We go together. Croker stays here with Captain Lasseur to guard
the horses and keep watch."

McTurk
didn't look too happy at being on the receiving end of an order. His eyes
narrowed as he considered his response. Finally, judging that Hawkwood's
command made sense, he glanced towards Croker and nodded. He was an inch or two
shorter than Hawkwood; sinewy but strong, with dark Celtic features. His own
pistol sat in a holster secured to a bandolier across his chest. A stout wooden
club was thrust in his belt. He looked, Hawkwood thought, agile and tenacious.

In
contrast, Croker was stocky with large hands and a hard face that would not
have looked out of place on the neck and body of a pugilist.

Hawkwood
spoke to Lasseur in French. "Keep an eye out and watch your back."

"You,
too," Lasseur
said,
his face grim.

Hawkwood
jerked his head at McTurk and switched to English. "Let's go."

Hawkwood
took the lead. Using the spinney as cover, they moved in a line towards the
trees at the back of the cottage. There was a small outbuilding, which Hawkwood
assumed was a stable. He could smell wood smoke and for a second he was
reminded of his first sighting of Jess Flynn's farm. A twig cracked behind him
and he stopped and stood still. When he looked around he found that McTurk had
drawn his pistol.

The
light was coming from a side window. It guttered as Hawkwood and McTurk moved
forward and Hawkwood had a vague image of a shadow passing between the flame
and the glass, and then the light dimmed further as a curtain was drawn across,
obscuring the view within.

As
they drew closer to the back door, McTurk reached inside his waistcoat. When
his hand emerged it was holding two cloth hoods. He held one out to Hawkwood
and pulled the other one over his head. Even close to, the painted skull was
frightening enough to make the heart lurch. Hawkwood steeled himself and put
the hood on. The sense of claustrophobia as he lowered it over his head was
immediate, as was the familiar tightening of his throat muscles. Then his eyes
found the holes denoting the skull's eye sockets and, as his vision was
restored, the moment of discomfort passed. He adjusted the material over his
face and heard the brittle ratchet sound as McTurk cocked the hammer of his
pistol.