A Game of Sorrows (20 page)

Blackstone clapped him on the shoulder, looking not displeased that Andrew would be leaving us. ‘Aye, quite right. Very good, very good.’

Andrew had warned me that he might have to leave me with Blackstone a while, and had counselled me not to leave the public view in the docks until he had returned. I wondered for a moment why he felt the need to give my grandfather’s agent his instructions again, for amongst what little I had caught of their conversation earlier in the morning were instructions regarding the Madeira. I knew enough not to question him on it in front of Blackstone, and so said nothing as he left us to make in the direction not of the agent’s house, but of the brickworks. Blackstone did not notice, so engrossed was he in the attempts of the ship to negotiate the bar and ease herself triumphantly into Coleraine harbour.

Two great cheers went up, one from the crowd on the quayside, one from the ship. Scrawny men scampered like boys down the riggings, and others made ready the ropes, huge heavy coils waiting to be flung out to shore. Another cheer went up as the anchor was dropped, and then the ropes were caught on the quayside and tied fast to iron bollards. A gangplank was thrown down and soon a straggling troupe of weary and exhausted passengers was making its uncertain way on to dry land. Blackstone found his way to this group and detached from it his carpenters: he would have had two apprentices too, had not a tanner, in his apron and still reeking of the noxious fumes of his trade, claimed them as his own.

The passengers safely disgorged, the business of unloading the merchant cargo began. The customs officers, even I could see, kept a close eye on some loads but turned their backs resolutely to others, their palms no doubt already profitably greased by some merchant’s coin. It took well into the afternoon before all the cargo was ashore, its contents and provenance verified, and allocated to its rightful owners. Amongst those checking and marking receipt of their goods was my grandfather’s agent; of Andrew there was still no sign. The agent counted out three bolts of silk, two barrels of oil, and the cask of Madeira. It seemed a small enough item to warrant such special instruction, but then I knew little more of trade than did Sean, and I did not ponder it long.

Blackstone oversaw the landing of his goods with a degree of satisfaction and an eye that missed nothing. He took particular care over the loading on to carts of some cases of slates. ‘For my own new house. The slates produced here are not of a quality I would happily use. I advise my wealthier clients also to spend the extra coin now to save them expensive repairs in the future. But do they listen to me? Ha! Not many. But when I come to the end of my labours, I’m damned if I’ll sit under a leaking roof. Welsh slate, FitzGarrett. Welsh slate.’ He glanced uneasily at the customs officers, but they fortuitously, it seemed, had turned their attention elsewhere, and showed no interest in the contents of the heavy cases loaded on to his carts. It appeared Matthew Blackstone was not above bribery when it came to his own interests.

There was a degree of relief in his face as the second of his carts was drawn away from the docks in the direction of his brickworks, and his good humour was such that he offered me a very favourable price on a sack of dates he had that morning bargained his way to, but I laughed and told him it would not be worth the wrath of my steward to make purchases without him.

‘He is a good man, that one, but you will not keep him long I think: he does not wait upon his opportunities. I will not beat about the bush, FitzGarrett. You need someone you can trust to manage your business, or you will not see one penny in two that belongs to you. To add an alliance in business to the one in marriage between our two families would do neither of us any harm. It would give me, and my son, greater trust amongst the Irish, and strengthen your support for the plantation in the eyes of the king. Neither of our families would lose by the arrangement.’

‘And if I do not support the plantation?’

‘Then the day will come when you will lose everything that was ever dear to you.’ Blackstone then left me, urging me to consider his words.

Remembering Andrew’s warnings, I would have lingered longer by the quay, had it not been for the young man I caught sight of, emerging from the abbey grounds and coming towards the river. He was dressed in the robes of a Franciscan friar and walking towards me with a purpose that left no doubt that he thought he knew me. I had not been prepared for this, for recognition as Sean by someone who might have been a mere acquaintance, a close friend, or a sworn enemy. The set of his face suggested the latter. Whatever this man was to Sean, it would soon become clear to him that I was nothing but a fraud.

As a paralysing panic worked through me, good fortune, in the shape of a recalcitrant donkey, came to my aid. The creature, a few feet in front of me and between me and the oncoming stranger, objected greatly to the attempts of its handler to encourage it away from the quayside with its load. The more he pulled and cursed, the firmer the beast stood, until at last, at the end of his patience, the man kicked it in its hind quarters. The thing let out a terrible screech and took off at a speed neither I nor the carter had thought it capable of, sending barrels of apples and fish rolling and sliding all over the quay, with merchants and shore porters alike running after them. I heard one barrel crash into the river, and that was enough to bring me out of my own stasis: I ran and I did not look back. I went through yards and behind walls, anywhere that I thought might shield me from the sight of my pursuer. When I was at last satisfied that I had lost him, I went in search of Andrew. It was almost half an hour afterwards that I found him, in a tavern close to the brickworks. It was a desperate place, where poor ale was served to poor men, and women of no attraction or hope sought to entice what remained from the pockets of those men. He was drinking alone, a jug of beer before him, and ignoring the efforts of a young but pockmarked woman to engage him with her charms. I thought of Margaret, in the inn we had eaten at two days ago, clean and lovely and unsullied, and still unable to interest Andrew, and I pitied this poor and hopeless creature.

He seemed startled by my voice. ‘You have been dreaming, I think.’

‘Dreaming? No, not dreaming.’ He moved along on the bench and I sat down. ‘Did you find much entertainment at the shore? How was Blackstone?’

‘Eager for my grandfather’s business, but he is a man who favours a direct approach. I think the subtlety of destabilising my family’s position through an Irish curse would hold little attraction.’

‘You are probably right,’ he said, still somewhat distracted.

‘What did you learn from the brickmaker?’

‘The brickmaker?’

‘That is where you went, is it not?’

‘What? Yes, yes. He told me very little that I did not already know.’ He pushed the jug towards me and beckoned to the girl for another tankard.

‘Enough of them though. Did you see the priest?’

‘What priest?’

‘The Franciscan. From the Bawn. I thought I saw him this morning, in the abbey grounds, as we were waiting for the ferry to dock. And then there was another one, a young brother I think, that I am sure thought he recognised me. He was coming straight for me down at the harbour. It was only by the intransigence of a donkey in his path that I got away.’

Andrew pushed aside his tankard and gave me his full attention for the first time since I had entered the tavern. ‘Are you sure of this?’

‘I am certain.’

He stood up. ‘Damn! I knew I should not have left you by yourself. I think we had better leave this place as soon as we can. I do not trust Mac Cuarta, and only something of great import would have brought him within the ramparts of Coleraine. As to who the other is, who knows what Sean might be to him? I am not inclined at the moment to find out.’ He threw down some coins, more than were needed for his beer and bread, and ushered me out into the street.

Andrew strode determinedly through the marketplace, in no mood to browse the stalls and booths. What did take his notice, and dishearten him greatly, was the platform being positioned towards the far end of the square. He swore softly to himself: ‘The play.’

A troupe of players had come into town, and were to perform that night in a work of the English playwright Shakespeare. It was to be the great event of the year, and Blackstone had made clear it was not to be countenanced that any guest in his house should miss it.

‘I had forgotten about the play,’ said Andrew.

‘Would our absence be noted?’

‘Oh, I think Blackstone notices more than he would tell you, or has it brought to his notice. We had better show ourselves here this evening, and first thing in the morning we will make our farewells and go.’

‘To Bushmills?’

‘We will have to discuss that tonight. Your sighting of the priest makes me anxious on that score.’

‘Whatever might befall us afterwards, I will not be sorry to leave this town.’

‘Nor I. It is a Godforsaken place.’

The falling of night found us again in the marketplace, but it was a place transformed. Torches had been lit around the platform, a strange half-hexagon jutting into the open space, and also at intervals in a ring around the marketplace itself, so that the playgoers could see enough to put one foot in front of another without coming to grief in the mud. A canopy had been erected, so that the more exalted citizens amongst the audience might have some shelter from whatever of the elements might play upon Coleraine that night. Andrew and I preferred to stand in the open with the commons, the better to observe without ourselves being observed.

The platform was decorated with ribbons and streamers of many colours, and at its back was painted a scene that conjured up dreams of a far country, of warm winds, olive groves and vineyards, things I had heard of but would never see. Images of bright pink blossoms tumbling over balustrades of the whitest marble told us there was a place where mud and dirt and grime were not the constant lot of those who lived there. A brazier burned at the front of the stage, casting strange shadows on the picture. Other braziers had been lit where the greater dignitaries amongst the audience were to sit, but warmth found its way into the crowd in other forms, too. One vendor sold warm spiced wine from the frontage of his tavern, another hawked roasted chestnuts amongst the crowd come for the spectacle. A stand near to us sent out aromas of apples baked with figs, and hot plum tarts. The dancing anticipation in the eyes of the people as they began to fill the marketplace told its own story of how long they had waited for some entertainment, some festivity, to take them for a few hours from their endless endeavour.

Sounds of fiddles and flutes, not in any great effort at harmony, issued from taverns and the streets leading to the square as the populace streamed to their entertainment. There had been great commotions in the Blackstone house that evening as the women prepared themselves for this very public occasion. Andrew and I had happily taken our supper in the kitchen, as well out of the way as we could make ourselves, and left the house before the party of our host was ready to do so. We could stand, now, and watch as they arrived. Blackstone himself was the epitome of a sober and respectable English gentleman, but his wife and daughters had attired themselves as if for a ball at court.

‘They sparkle somewhat amongst the dirt and mud, do they not?’

‘Their finery only serves to render them all the plainer,’ Andrew answered. I saw that the Blackstone women’s treatment of Deirdre was something he would not forgive them. The family took its place amongst others of the officers of the London Companies. Lack of practice had left them doubtful as to the matter of precedence, and there was something of an unseemly scramble for what were evidently regarded as the best places.

Andrew settled himself, disgruntled, against a wall. ‘I saw such a play once, in Carrickfergus, when a troupe come to entertain the Governor performed for the townsfolk too. The thing was lewd and ridiculous, and I have never bothered since.’

‘You could still return to the Blackstone house. I doubt if it would be noticed now.’

‘And leave you alone to get into an O’Neill’s mischief? With a loose Franciscan on the prowl? I think not, my friend.’

A trio of musicians, with a singer at their head, entered the marketplace from behind us and led the players to the stage, to wild cheering and stamping from the gathered citizens, eager for the coming performance, announced by the leader of the troupe to be
Much Ado About Nothing.

‘I suspect it will be,’ said Andrew, as we settled ourselves to watch. I made no sense whatsoever of what was going on before me for some time, so strange in my ear was the language and the frequent exiting and entering of characters. Andrew understood it little better than I did, and his impatience increased as the crowd laughed uproariously, and booed and hissed at those they did not like. I found in time that I began to know the characters and decipher their words for myself, but it put me in some discomfort to be a witness to so much practised deceit and, impostor that I was, to see the damage done when a man or woman makes claim to be what they are not.

As the air grew colder, Andrew and I found ourselves returning more than once to the vendor of warmed wine. As the honeyed liquid began to loosen his tongue he stepped off his guard a little and allowed, at last, that he might enjoy the play.

‘A woman the like of Beatrice, though? Could a man find happiness with one who speaks her mind so freely?’

‘Much more than with one who does not, I think.’

‘And your Sarah? Does she speak her mind?’

‘Only when she has finished blazing it at me through her eyes.’

He laughed. ‘You do not fear that another will entice her away from you?’

‘I fear it every night. I close my eyes and play out in my mind a parade of men I know would want her, and each night their attraction, the likelihood of her succumbing, seems to increase. In the light of day I tell myself it is nonsense: she will wait for me this one last time. But then, why should she? Why should she wait to know passion from one who has sometimes been almost unable to speak to her? Two years, Andrew. I have been a fool two years.’