Blood Ties (23 page)

‘I wondered why me animals was awake.’ The voice was harsh. ‘Now I know – they smelled breakfast!’

Jackson’s cry of fear met the laugh that came, but there was no wriggling free from the grip. Instead, he was dragged through an archway, past rows of benches, out into a roofless space with straw scattered over the ground. The dogs howled again, as he was thrown onto the ground, a shape looming above him, a fist silhouetted against the sky.

‘Lemme get a look at ya. Move, and by my whore’s crotch, I’ll kill ya where ya lie.’

Jackson gazed on a nightmare. Such light as there was gleamed off a bald pate, four scars that ran in parallel lines the length of one side of the face, an eye whose lid was torn and puckered, a beard that grizzled the chin. Rolls of flesh encased the neck, spreading into the huge body below, the bare chest traced in other scars, some faded, some fresh. Jackson would have done anything to be able to escape from this vision. But he found that no part of his body answered his urgings. All he could do was lie back on the straw.

‘Shuddup!’ The face turned away toward the dogs who, on the instant, ceased their yelping. He bent again to the prone boy.

‘Thief, are ya? Scout for a mob come to rob me? Which one ya with, then? Dempseys? The Flems?’

The toe of a boot accompanied the last words, jabbed hard into thin ribs. Jackson squirmed away, scrabbling legs finally working, propelling him back toward the centre of the arena.

‘No, no no no. No one. I’ve come … I’ve come …’

The huge man followed, toe prodding. ‘Yes? Why? Why? On your own, to steal? Think the old man sleeps, do ya? I never sleep!’

With a thump, Jackson hit the wooden barrier. ‘Please, no. I’ve come to see Uriah.’

The boot that was raised, now slowly lowered to the ground. ‘And what makes ya think Uriah would want to see a little rat like you?’

‘’Cos …’ Jackson wiped the snot away that had mingled with his tears. ‘’Cos I got information for him, that’s why!’

‘Information!’ The big man laughed, then bent his twisted face till it nearly touched the boy’s shaking knees. ‘And you think that Uriah doesn’t know everything you could possibly know – and more? That ’e doesn’t have men out on the street – men, not snot-nosed boys – in every tavern, every whore ’ouse, every stall, who tell ’im everything that’s worth knowing?’

‘’E couldn’t know this, ’cos they just arrived.’

‘Who did?’

‘The Frog and ’is daughter. They give me a groat.’

‘A groat?’ It was a large sum for a boy like this and it made the man pause. ‘Show it me.’

‘I’ve ’idden it, sir, back on the street.’

‘Wise lad. Or a liar. Shall I turn you upside down and see which?’

A huge hand reached for him and Jackson leaned as far back as the wooden wall allowed. ‘A groat’s nothing, sir,’ he said desperately. ‘Froggies got gold. Lots of gold.’

The fat fingers halted an inch from his face. ‘Gold, is it?’ The eye appraised him. ‘So why do you want to tell Uriah this?’

Jackson’s breath had evened a little. He could see he had this man’s attention. ‘Because I wants to work for ’im. Even a groat won’t last me long. But a share of Froggie gold …’ He even tried a smile. ‘That could be the beginning of an apprenticeship.’

‘Well, well,’ the big man said, ‘you’ve just begun to interest me, boy.’

Jackson rose slowly, scraping straw and shit from his rags. ‘So, uh, will ya take me to meet Uriah, like?’

‘Y’already have.’ The big man lowered his face. ‘I’m Uriah Makepeace.’

Six of the noon-hour bells had tolled when the door flew inwards.

Jean had no moment to pause, to fear, to wonder if it was still a dream. A man was leaping at him, so he took the attacker on both feet, brought his legs to his chest, turned his face out of the path of the blade that skittered down the plaster wall, kicked out, sailing the first man back into the second in the low doorway.

Now the terror came, but his cry was lost in the yelling from the attackers, in the shriek of defiance from his daughter. Anne seized the wine jug on the floor, hurled it at a third man leaping over his sprawled fellows, catching him in the face, smashing there. He fell over the first assailant trying to get up.

‘Father!’ Anne screamed, in one movement grabbing the sheathed sword and throwing it across to Jean. He caught it, by hilt and end, parrying the thrust that came at him, deflecting the man’s lunge to the side. The man fell onto the bed and Jean struck down with the pommel, missing the first two times, blows glancing off wriggling shoulder and back. Then it connected with the man’s skull, once, twice, again and the body went still, a dead weight pinning Jean’s legs to the bed. Anne was on her feet, swinging a knife that she’d pulled from her sack as the next man came off the ground and opposed her blade with his, crouching to attack.

‘No!’ Jean screamed, raising his sword back over his head, hurling it forward so that the stiff leathern sheath shot from the steel, striking the man on the side of his head. The square-tipped sword was bare now and the odds in the cramped room had changed in their favour, even if no one saw how much the weapon shook in the Frenchman’s hand.

A rough voice broke the silence, coming from the figure that was making the doorway look small.

‘Send boys to do the work of a man!’

The figure stepped through, moving the other two assailants out of the way with the short barrel of the arquebus he carried.

‘Now, do I ’ave to use this, Froggie?’ The barrel’s end tipped toward Jean and he could see the glowing cord poised above the pan beyond it. ‘Or do ya want to put down that …’ The voice broke off with an oath. ‘Where d’ya get an executioner’s sword? Eh?’ A heavily scarred face leaned into the light from the window hole. ‘Only man I know who ’ad one like that … by all that’s … can’t be!’ The barrel wavered, lowered. ‘Rombaud?’

Jean could hardly take his eyes off the death that threatened from the metal hole ahead of him. The use of his name seemed to come as if from a far off place, unconnected with the world he knew now, this world of terror. Blankly, he sought within the tracery of scars, above his wavering blade.

‘It’s me … I don’t believe this! Oy, lower your blades, you scum.’ He turned back. ‘Rombaud. It’s Uriah. Uriah Makepeace.’

The name brought a flash of memory, of a city in flames. ‘Uriah?’

‘The very same.’ There was a hint of a bow, then the scarred head turned to his two men, who were regarding him with wonder. ‘Out. And take this fool with ya.’ As they rushed to comply, to pick up the prone body of Jean’s victim and drag him to the door, he added, ‘And send us up a flagon of wine. Let the boy bring it. Tell Magonnagal, the good stuff too.’ He turned back, smiling. ‘For this is a special occasion.’

As the men left, Anne lowered her knife, while the two men regarded each other in silent amazement. Bending, she picked up the sword sheath from the floor, slipped it over the end of Jean’s sword lying in his inert hands. Uriah appraised her dark hair, her eyes, her shape.

‘Found yessself a nice little companion, Rombaud. My congratulations. Pretty girl for an old sod like you.’

The lechery in the Englishman’s eyes brought Jean fully back to the room. ‘She’s my daughter. Anne, this is Uriah Makepeace. He’s … an old colleague.’

‘I remember the name.’ She looked unflinchingly into the scarred face. ‘You were the Executioner of Munster. You tried to help my father escape. Gave him an assassin’s knife.’

‘What knife?’ The Englishman’s face crinkled in concentration. ‘Oh, I remember. A Pistoia. Useful little shive that, wished for it many times since. Munster eh?’ He shook his head. ‘’Ow d’you ever survive that? And wait … wait, now I remember! You arrived carting that dead queen’s hand. Anne Boleyn’s fucking six-fingered hand!’ He collapsed onto the bed beside Jean. ‘Rombaud, you have some stories to tell me and no mistake. Not least, what, by the useless balls of a Jesuit, you’re doin’ back ’ere in London?’

Jean looked into the eyes, the one distorted by its scars, the other bright. Everything about the man spoke of old comradeship – except for those eyes. In them, Jean saw calculation, as if his neck was being measured for a noose. He remembered then that though Makepeace had helped him at Munster, it was at no risk to himself. And he had just tried to rob and kill him.

Looking down, beginning to weigh his words – for Makepeace would be useful for information – Jean saw a strange figure on the back of the huge hand.

‘What’s this, Makepeace? An “M” tattooed to help you remember your name?’

‘This?’ Uriah raised the hand so that Anne too could see the letter that covered half the back of it. ‘’S’not a tattoo, ’s a brand.’ He chuckled. ‘This signifies that I am a man of God. A priest, no less.’

‘A priest?’ It was Jean’s turn to laugh. ‘You’ve changed your trade! Did you come tonight to bring us to salvation?’

‘’Ardly. But this shows that I am a priest who, alas, strayed into sinfulness. The “M” does not signify my name. It stands for “Murderer” and tells that I murdered once. If I do so again, I will not be so lightly forgiven.’

‘I think this is something you will have to explain.’

Makepeace sighed. ‘It is not the prettiest of stories. Perhaps your lovely daughter …’

‘I have just spent fifteen months in a siege, caring for men and women who … well, if I ever did, I no longer need stories to be pretty.’

‘I can see the cub is as fierce as the sire! Very well, I’ll tell my tale, maybe still leaving out some of the more, er, grisly, details. Ah wine!’ he said, as the door was pushed open and a shaking Jackson carried in a flagon. ‘And ’ere we ’ave the reason for our reunion, Rombaud. The latest recruit to my enterprises.’

The boy avoided all eyes, placed the tray on the floor, then scuttled out the door.

‘Seems to feel guilty about something. ’Ave to knock that out of him if ’e’s to work for me. Terrible thing, guilt. No use at all, eh Rombaud?’ He poured the wine, passed the goblets around. ‘A pox on guilt, eh? If we was guilty about all the ’eads we’d taken …’ He drank deeply, refilled his cup as the others sipped.

‘You don’t get branded as a murderer for taking a head, Makepeace.’ Jean swirled the wine in his goblet.

‘No. Nor if you don’t get caught. I was unlucky, that’s all. You see, it ’appened like this.’ He looked around, lowered his voice. ‘I ’ad a partner. Samuel Braithewaite. Sam ’ad fingers in lots of pies. Owned the Bear gardens just down from ’ere, very profitable that, a couple of inns beside, two, uh …’ He glanced at Anne. ‘Two ’ouses for ladies of the night. ’E was also supplying for the Tower. Most profitable bit of all. It’s like a little city over there, all the palace servants, the garrison. The prisoners. Need lots of food, beer, wine. Oh yes, ’e ’ad a nice thing going all round. But ’e got greedy, careless. Too much water in the wine, too much sour beer, not enough of the right palms being greased. That’s what really cost us, ’cos there were lots of others who wanted that contract. We lost it. And I wasn’t very ’appy.’

‘So you killed him?’

Uriah returned Anne’s questioning gaze with a sad smile. ‘I did.’ He shrugged. ‘But not in anger, you understand. It was just business.’ He sighed, emptied the flagon into the goblets. ‘Problem was, I didn’t have that little knife I lent you, Rombaud, what would have done the job properly. This dagger was clumsy and it skittered off his bones. Took him two days to die and in the meantime he tells the Watch who done it. First time in their lives those bastards were efficient. They caught me in one of me own brothels and ’auled me before the court. Looked like I was for the Hemp Drop. But then’ – a grin spread across the scarred face – ‘then I remembered a very useful piece of church law – if you can prove you’re a priest, you can escape punishment for your crime.’

Jean smiled. ‘I don’t think anyone would believe you were a priest, Uriah.’

The Englishman leaned down, his fat fingers going round his throat. ‘But that’s just it. I could prove it. I don’t know what it’s like elsewhere but ’ere in England, if you can read, you must be a priest. Then you can claim what they call “benefit of clergy”.’

‘But can you read?’

Uriah guffawed. ‘’Course not! But that’s the beauty of it, Rombaud. You don’t ’ave to! As long as you can remember. Because they always ask you to read the same thing. Psalm Fifty-One, verse one. Recite that with the book open before you and you’re a free man. Well, a little branding to make sure you can’t use it again.’ He waved his hand. ‘A small price, I say. They call it the Neck Verse. You should learn it.’

Uriah stood and declaimed, ‘Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness, according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.’ He lowered his head. ‘Brings tears to me eyes, it is so beautiful.

‘So I was free. And Braithewaite and me ’ad a contract between us, in another of me names, of course. All properly drawn up with a little clause in it what said that if either died first, the other got the lot – stews, inns, bear garden. I was now sole owner. Did very well, apart from this little mishap with a bear when my bearward went sick.’ He rubbed the scars on his face. ‘Still, life’s better without a partner. More profit to me. I even got part of the Tower contract back. I go in and supply all the food and drink for special events. Now I watch executions rather than do ’em. Got a burning tomorrow in fact. More heretics.’

He smiled down at his two listeners, then sat between them, the branded hand moving to Jean’s leg.

‘And now, Rombaud, favour for favour, story for story. ’Ere you are in London, you and your sword. Must be another commission, eh? Though these days they prefer butchery to your artistry. Must be someone royal then?’ He scratched at his beard. ‘You missed Jane Grey by a year, can’t think of anyone worthy of your talents … or your price, unless …’ He leaned into Jean, suddenly excited. ‘Unless you come for the daughter like you did for the mother? Princess Elizabeth’s for the chop, is she? We’ve been expecting that for a while.’

Jean looked beyond the eager face to the one beyond. Anne shook her head just slightly. She did not trust this man any more than he did. Still, he had access to the very place to which they sought entry, where Heinrich von Solingen had declared that Gianni was headed – the Tower. So Jean began a tale of a son gone bad; worse, one lost to the fanaticism of faith. Of how they’d tracked him to London, where they hoped to confront him, kidnap him if necessary, remove the shackles that the Roman Church had placed around his heart.