“It seemed the least I could do for the time you’ve donated to my cause today.”
We squeezed round a tight corner into a larger street. He might more easily have dropped back and let me go ahead of him. If he had, things might have come out differently. But intent as he was on the conversation, he was desirous of remaining abreast of me, his eyes upon mine. He tried to pass through a space too narrow for the both of us. In doing so he brushed—I don’t say banged into, or jostled, but merely brushed—the shoulder of a tosser in fancy dress and a long face, leaning against a wall sucking on a long-stemmed pipe, and sulking. He probably hadn’t managed to get an audience with old Elizabeth like his ma told him to expect he would. Tristan didn’t even notice; but in the corner of my eye I saw this tosser giving my man a sharp look.
“I would be happy to strike up a working relationship with you, Tristan Lyons, so I would,” I said. “I can imagine all manner of ways we might be of mutual benefit. So if you’re ever in Southwark again, stop in.”
He paused a moment and regarded me. And I regarded him back, as it pleased me to do so. But at the same time I threw a glance back at the tosser in the fancy dress, who had dislodged himself from the wall, and was now giving Tristan a thorough inspection from hat to shoes and back up again.
I took Tristan’s arm firmly and pulled him along.
“What’s troubling you?” he asked, with a glance back over his shoulder.
After we had put a bit more distance between ourselves and that unsavory fop who seemed to have taken such an interest in my companion, I said, “Farthing for your thoughts.” As you’ll have collected, milady, I was after learning whether Tristan knew of Strands and the like.
“Did I seem at all familiar to you, when I first met your eye?” he asked.
So yes. He knew something of it. “Let’s not bandy words,” I said. “Whoever Sent you—whoever you cooked up this plan with—knows perfectly well that it’ll never suffice to do this on one Strand only. Hence all of your preparations. Learning to pronounce my name. Looking at paintings and noticing the colors of dyestuffs and such.”
“It would be idle to deny it,” he said with a nod of his fine chin.
“It’s in many another Strand that I’m even now meeting you again in like manner, walking these streets, having this conversation.”
“As I understand it, yes.”
“You understand it well enough, ’tis plain,” I said, “and it’s little trouble for me to Wend my way to those Strands—or snáithe as we say at home—and meet with you there and then and further enjoy the pleasure of your company.”
“I would like that very much,” he said. “Are there others like you I might work with as well?”
“Don’t get cheeky, lad,” I said. “Let’s see how you can make things worth my while first, and then I’ll decide if I want to cut anyone else in.”
“If you make yourself my ally, it’s quite possible. So think about what I might be able to offer you.”
“Oh, I will,” I assured him. “I already am. Now, if you’ve a good witch to Send you,” I continued, “have her Send you to arrive yesterday.”
“Why?”
“This is Monday. Had you arrived yesterday, everyone would have been at Sunday services. Not that I mind finding you naked in my closet each time you return, but it will be simpler if you arrive when things are quiet.”
“Will you skip Sunday services to meet me?”
“If you want to pay the fine I’d be receiving for failure to appear.” And since he seemed to be considering this, I said, “No, I cannot, lad. I cannot afford to be seen as shirking my religious duties, it’s suspicious enough that I’m Irish and over here, while there’s an armed uprising against the English back at home. But you’re not on the rolls anywhere, so your absence won’t be noted. Come on Sunday and dress yourself, now that you know where I keep the shirts and breeches, and just wait for me.”
We were having this conversation as we came down King Street to the Whitehall Stairs, where I planned to find us a ferryman. There were plenty of wherries out there since the tide was heading out, and traffic’s easier eastward. I slowed my pace as I surveyed the scene.
Then someone barreled into me from behind, knocking me off balance.
I stumble and my shoe gets caught in a tear in my petticoat, and I’m falling to my knees when, faster than I can think, there’s Tristan catching me and helping me to right myself. But in doing so he jostles the rude bastard who’s almost knocked me down. By the time I’ve got my balance and my wits back, that bastard has spun on his heel to confront Tristan. They’re standing arm’s length apart. I recognize him as the tosser who followed us.
This fop—who doesn’t look like much, hardly any manlier than Sir Edward—instantly draws back to a distance, puts his right hand on his rapier and draws it out, no more than the width of two fingers, but enough to send a message. Other people coming and going on the steps give him a wider berth, but otherwise continue their business on and off the wherries.
“Stand off, villain!” says the fella with the rapier, pompous and angry. “What business have you touching me so rudely?”
Tristan catches himself. “Good morrow, my lord, pray excuse my abruptness.”
“Once you have explained yourself, I might.”
Tristan blinks, then says, “’Tis my sister you just knocked to her knees there. I’ll let it be if you will.”
The fellow looks utterly astounded, and then laughs in Tristan’s face. “What, that common whore? That slattern? She’s not your sister, you lying knave. ’Tis she owes me an apology, for being in my way.” He turns to me and commands me: “Apologize!”
“She owes you no apology, sir,” says Tristan, very calm.
“Let it be, Tristan,” I say sharply, and I’m using my best London accent, which Tristan notices with surprise. He’s sharp enough to understand I’ve a reason for it. “Pray pardon me, m’lord,” I say to the fellow. “I did not hear you coming.”
Tristan says nothing. But the set of his mouth shows a kind of annoyance and the tosser with the rapier notices. He draws the rapier a little farther.
“Do you take offense at my behavior toward this whore?” he demands of Tristan.
“He doesn’t,” I say.
“Shut up, whore,” he says. “Tell me yourself, sirrah, assure me you understand this bawd is in the wrong here, and for even thinking of defending her, you are too. Say so and beg apology.”
I recognize the tosser now—he’s been a customer at the Tearsheet of my mate Morag, the Caledonian wench. He’s a terrible mean streak and he loves his violence. It’s not apologizing he wants from Tristan—it’s a fight.