‘I have no need of them – I have Apostles to bless me.’
The ruby nestled in the warm down of Ada’s bosom like a blood egg, shining with soft hope as she hurried through the night.
CHAPTER SIX
Holebourn Bridge, London
The Invention of John the Baptist’s Head, February, 1305
The rain came across the Fleet like a curtain, a thin, stinking mist of tar, salt, pickle and fish. It collided with the rich odour of meat and dung, pie shop and bakery, hissing on the smithy fire, rattling the flapping canopies of the stalls along the river.
Folk fled it, grey shapes scampering, looming out of it with faces soft as clay, baggy-cheeked and scowling, the women barrel-bottomed and harsh-voiced. Hal didn’t understand them, didn’t like the place, not even the comfort of the Earl of Lincoln’s Inn which they had just left, and thought the best of London lay back with the unseen St Andrew’s church where they had paused for word of Lamprecht.
Kirkpatrick, squinting from under a loop of cloak, grinned at Hal’s expression; the wee lord had never been in London before – Christ’s Blood, he had never been south of York – and the sights and sounds and stink of it were as stunning to his sense as a forge hammer on the temple.
Even to Kirkpatrick, who had been here twice before, it was hard to take. Tinkers, furriers, goldsmiths, hemp-sellers, all with the crudely-daubed bar over their stall to show what they were, bellowed against the calls of butcher and, above all, the horse copers, for this was the southern edge of Smoothfield, main market for livestock and the sale of prime horseflesh.
The frenetic throng was thinning as folk huddled in shelters from the rain, leaving the muddy, shit-clogged roadway to carts, barrows, litters. And the doggedly foolish like us, Hal thought bitterly as the rain wormed down his back.
‘Sty Lane,’ Kirkpatrick declared, pointing the fetid entrance to an alleyway. Hal wanted to know how he knew that, but did not bother to ask; Kirkpatrick’s skill at finding places and people had long since earned respect from Hal. Still, he did not like the look of the place, where the houses leaned in and blocked the sky, making it a dark and dangerous cave.
Two men came out of it, carrying the split carcass of a large pig, leaking rain-watered blood on to the sacking of their shoulders – which at least proves Kirkpatrick is right, Hal thought. Right, too, about Lamprecht making for here like a dog back to its own sick, though that had made no sense at first, even as they trailed him down to St Andrew’s and then the Purpure Lyon.
‘The little by-blow will offer this Mabs back the half-cross he has,’ Kirkpatrick had growled in answer. ‘In return, he will want passage to France, or Flanders or even Leon if he dares the crossing.’
‘Because that’s what you would do?’ Hal had queried, speaking in a soft hiss so as not to be heard by the muttering growlers and drinkers in the inn. They spoke French for the same reason and Kirkpatrick had laughed.
‘Because it is what I would not do. But I am clever and Lamprecht is not only afraid, he is as idiot as a moonstruck calf.’
‘He may have gone to Dover,’ Hal pointed out, not so convinced of Lamprecht’s stupidity. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Without coin he can squat on the shingle and try to wish up a ship until we come on him, then.’
The more Hal looked at the rain-misted cleft of Sty Lane, the more the Lyon’s now-distant fug-warmth called to him. The Earl of Lincoln’s Inn had been the last haven for Lamprecht, two nights before; no-one called it anything other than the Purpure Lyon thanks to the sign, the arms of the Earl of Lincoln, nailed over the door. Lincoln owned it as he owned a deal of the land round it, but Hal doubted if the Earl had ever been in it. Which was a pity for him, since the roast goose had been a joy, with raisins, figs and pears in it. A barnacle goose, for it had been a fish day and that was aquatic, as any priest would tell you …
Kirkpatrick was on the move and Hal, flustered, shredded his dreams of food and followed on, hoping the rest of the plans made in the Lyon moved as smoothly.
The rain was flushing filth out of Sty Lane like a privy hole drain; Hal’s boots sloshed through a gurgling brown mess and the place stank, so that pushing into it made him open his mouth so as not to have to breathe through his nose.
Kirkpatrick stopped and Hal almost walked up his heels. There was silence save for the hiss and gurgle of rain and the squeal and honk of unseen pigs; sweat started to soak Hal from the inside at the sight of the grey shapes looming up in front of them.
Six he counted, their faces blurred by rain and beards and grease. Three wore broad-brimmed hats, turned up at the front and pinned so that the soaked droop of them would not blind them. Two wore coif hoods of rough wool, one a hat trimmed with ratty fur, all had the sacking tunics of slaughtermen, dark with old blood. Every one had a naked, long, knife.