I did him a good turn once. The bears don’t take to himself or his lads much, yet he’s the one keeps them alive and healthy, for isn’t a bear a terrible expensive thing to come by? Anyhow, I reasoned with a bear whose wounds he was salving, and the bear stopped trying to smack him. So he owed me a favor for a couple of years now. This turned out to be useful.
Les Holgate believed the Constable would leap spurs-first at the opportunity to intimidate Pym, the Tearsheet brewer. He did not take into account that the Constable was less inclined to upbraid brewers than bears, for an upbraided brewer is less likely to pass you a pint. It’s a good thing the Constable was under a compliment to me, for he only agreed to Les’s scheme as a kindness to myself. So in the end, he did agree to put on his constabulary cap and go inspecting the “tavern” the next afternoon.
Les Holgate next wished me to go with him to find this Simon Beresford and induce him to come along with us, but ’twould take more of my time than I’d a wish to give it. So I declined, but (believing I was still abetting a scheme that Tristan was a part of) I did offer to find out Simon Beresford’s location, so that Les might go and fetch the fellow his own self.
This I did, the next day (Les Holgate having slept on a tavern bench overnight and whinging all the next morning). Simon Beresford was on London Bridge seeking to purchase a new hat.
As soon as Les Holgate had set out for the Bridge, up to my own closet I went, and sought out Tristan by scrying, as I knew he and Rose should be on their way back through the city, headed my way. It seemed to me they were by the Paris Gardens. I sent to Rose as much of this message as I could, which was hard to communicate since she wasn’t expecting me to try to reach her: “Your man Les Holgate has arrived and plans to use extortion to accomplish the task at Tearsheet.” So I hoped Tristan would have at least a notion that mischief might be afoot.
Then I went back into the tavern and sat back with a mug of Tearsheet Best Bitter, the finest ale you can find outside of Ireland, and waited to see who would return first. It was quiet in there for the time of day, perhaps half a dozen drinkers. I had no personal need to see the scheme succeed, and guessed it would be a lark to watch. But I did feel the slightest bit of unease deep in my gut, and I hoped Tristan would return, as he had a gravity to him that put me at ease, while this Holgate fella made me a bit squeaky-bummed.
No surprise it was that Les Holgate returned first, with a confused-looking older fella who had to have been Simon Beresford. He was dressed in the old style, all in elegant black, prudish but not quite Puritan (for then his daughter wouldn’t have been one of Elizabeth’s ladies, of that I’m confident). His ruffle was pretentious—as if his head sat on a fancy platter that just happened to be balanced right on the top of his neck. Hard to imagine a fellow like that shopping for himself on London Bridge, but it takes all sorts. I heard his voice out in the street, old enough for childish treble. He was asking someone for an explanation. Answers were coming both from Les Holgate and from a third voice I recognized as belonging to the Constable.
In the tavern I was, as they approached, and wasn’t the doorway open to let in the glorious autumn day, so they stood in the door backlit. Proprietor Pym recognized the Constable by his silhouette, and cursed under his breath. He went out the door, shooing at them, and made a fuss about letting them in, even as the old fella protested he had no interest in setting foot in such an establishment. I followed Pym out just to keep an eye on things.
So, here we all are standing on the gravel street, just outside the brewery door, with throngs of people pushing by us going to the theatre or from the bear-baiting. We were myself, the Constable, Les Holgate, Simon Beresford, and Proprietor Pym. Inside upstairs, of course, were Morag and Sir Edward, carrying on blissfully unawares.
The Constable shoulders Pym out of the way and strides into the tavern, where right off all the customers make a bit of a fuss, like hens in a coop when the farmer comes in after dark.
“Stay outside, sir,” says Les Holgate to Simon Beresford. “It’s not a proper place for a gentleman like yourself to be seen. Stay here and note who comes out.” And then he rushes in after the Constable. I follow after him. And so leaving Master Pym and Simon Beresford outside on the street (with Simon Beresford so dismayed and perplexed to find himself here at all), the trio of the Constable, Les Holgate, and myself are rushing through the tavern to the steep steps that lead to the rooms. We’re not making noise ourselves, but the tavern regulars are making noise enough to surely alert everyone on the floor above. The wenches in the tavern duck under tables, until they realize the Constable isn’t after them at all, then they either return to their work or scurry out the hidden door, just to be safe.
Now up the steep stairs it is we’re going: Constable, Les Holgate, myself. It isn’t too dark at all on the landing, not on a Harvest-season afternoon with unwonted bright sun outside shining in through a small open window. The upstairs, as perhaps I’ve described to Your Grace, has a narrow corridor with rooms off either side, first a couple of rooms big enough for private conferences, and then beyond them, four wee curtained-off closets for more intimate congress. It’s Morag’s closet we’re wanting, and that’s the first curtain to the right after the meeting rooms. It’s the largest of the lot, some three strides square, with a mattress on the floor, and a curtained window what looks out over the street.
We rush past the two meeting rooms, both with doors ajar letting light through the windows, both empty (it’s day, and these are the sorts of rooms more used to candlelight). Following Les Holgate’s, commands, aren’t I tugging at the Constable’s sleeve and complaining of his being here.
We come to Morag’s curtained doorway. Les Holgate tugs open the curtain. And there’s the unglazed window with the afternoon sunlight tempered only slightly by a linen kerchief, so we can see clear as if we were standing in a market square. The Constable, Les Holgate, and myself fill the cramped doorway, with me cackling like an angry hen—until I see what is happening inside the wee room, and then my voice does fail me.
Your Majesty, I can scarce bring myself to write what we do see there. For it is not Morag there with Sir Edward, but Sir Edward with a third party altogether. From Morag’s tone the day before, I confess I had expected a surprise. But I had assumed it might be another wench.