The “Sew On and Sew Forth” as the shop was named, was a large establishment employing many workers, some engaged in cutting the cloth, others in creating the patterns used for the apparel, and others doing actual sewing. Many of the workers sat at tables placed in front of the windows to take advantage of the daylight.
Rodrigo had been an excellent customer over the years, and the owner of the Sew On and Sew Forth came out personally to greet him. The tailor was deeply saddened to hear of Rodrigo’s loss and immediately drew him over to view the somber-colored cloth worn by gentlemen in mourning.
After selecting the fabric, Rodrigo next had to decide upon the pattern for the coat, and he and the tailor were soon absorbed in leafing through the pattern book, talking of the styles being worn in court, determining the proper trimmings, and then taking measurements.
Stephano sat on a tall stool, watching his friend, glad to see Rodrigo finding comfort in the familiar routine and remembering with a pang when Benoit had brought Stephano his own suit of mourning clothes. He had flown into a rage, slicing up the black coat with his sword until he fell onto his knees sobbing-painful gasps of grief and rage. He remembered Benoit putting his arms around his shaking shoulders and saying, “I can’t take his place, lad, but I will always be here.”
Stephano stood up and walked over to one of the windows where he stared out, unseeing, into the street. He was forced to turn back to assist Rodrigo in deciding whether to add velvet trim to the collar or stay with satin. When all was finally concluded and the suit had been ordered and paid for, with strict instructions to have it completed as swiftly as possible, Rodrigo pronounced himself ready to leave.
“Feel better?” Stephano asked, as they emerged into the bright sunlight and began to walk down the street.
“I do,” said Rodrigo. “I have only to write to my mother with an explanation. God knows what I’m going to say to her.”
“There’s a cafe across the way,” said Stephano. “Let’s discuss it over a bottle of wine.”
“And they make an excellent roast capon served with new spring potatoes and the first crop of asparagus,” said Rodrigo.
The two walked across the street.
The cafe, known as the Four Clovers, was near the inn that was called, unimaginatively, Threadneedle Inn. The cafe catered to the patrons of the inn, as well as to the tailors, the wives of ironmongers, and men of affairs. On fine days, the owner placed tables and chairs on a patio in a garden that separated the inn from the cafe. Trees provided shade. Flowers scented the air. The small wooden tables were crowded close together to provide room for as many customers as possible, which meant that diners were seated so close they sometimes knocked elbows with their neighbors.
The cafe was crowded, for it was dinnertime. Many of the shops and businesses in Westfirth closed at noon, allowing owners and employees to dine at their leisure and then refresh themselves with a nap. The shops would reopen in the late afternoon and remained open until the lamps were lighted.
Dubois sat in the park beneath a linden tree. His bench faced the street and the entrance to the inn where Harrington was staying. He was astonished beyond measure to see Stephano de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve enter the tailor shop, the Sew On and Sew Forth, which was directly across the street from the inn.
Far from being glad to see them, Dubois swore beneath his breath and consigned Stephano de Guichen and his friend to the bottomless pits of Hell. James Harrington, alias Sir Richard Piefer, lodged in the inn.
At that moment, James Harrington, wearing the fashionable clothing of a man-about-town, left the inn. Dubois prayed to God and every saint in the calendar that the captain and his friend would not look out the window. Dubois’ prayers were answered, apparently, for Harrington entered the Four Clovers cafe without attracting any notice.
Four Clovers cafe. Dubois shifted his thoughts from Captain de Guichen as the report of one of his agents came to mind-Harrington had purchased a bouquet of clover from a street vendor and left them on a gravesite.
The clovers were a message for Sir Henry! This cafe was the meeting place!
Feeling a thrill of anticipation, Dubois watched until Harrington had found a seat, then he had hurried to the cafe and entered and asked for a table. He located James Harrington, sitting by himself. Dubois cast a glance around the people in the cafe and recognized the elderly priest with a hunched back seated at the table next to Harrington as Sir Henry Wallace.
Sir Henry had deliberately selected a table in the back near the garden wall with few other tables around it, which meant that Dubois could not acquire a table near enough to the two to eavesdrop on their conversation.
He found a table as close as possible and gazed with envy at the sparrow pecking at crumbs beneath Wallace’s chair, wishing he could change places with the bird. That being impossible, Dubois ordered a plate of cold meat and a flagon of wine and settled himself to wait for Sir Henry to leave, at which point Dubois would track his quarry to his lair.
Dubois had not forgotten about Captain de Guichen and his friend. He saw them leave the tailor shop with relief that was short-lived, soon replaced by horror.
Captain de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve were coming to the cafe.
Dubois had once witnessed a runaway wagon crash into a carriage containing a wedding party. He had seen the wagon rattling down the street; he had watched the carriage driving straight into its path. He had known a disastrous wreck was imminent, and he had been helpless to prevent it.
He felt the same way now as he had felt then.
Captain Stephano de Guichen was going to walk into this cafe and the first thing he would see was the man who had tried to kill him and his friend.
And all Dubois could do was sit there and watch.
Chapter Thirty
Rule 23. If the cause of the meeting be of such a nature that no apology or explanation can or will be received, the challenged takes his ground, and calls on the challenger to proceed as he chooses; in such cases, firing at pleasure is the usual practice, but may be varied by agreement.
– Codes Duello
SIR HENRY SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFE in his guise as a benign old priest and dunked bread into his beef-and-barley soup with a palsied hand. He liked the disguise mainly because the fake infirmity of a bent spine allowed him to take inches off his height, while his mild and gentle demeanor earned “Father Alfonso” much goodwill from customers and wait staff. Sir Henry had already established the character of the elderly priest in the Four Clovers. He had dined there several times before in this guise, telling the owner in his best Rosian accent that he had traveled to Westfirth from Caltreau to observe the building of the new cathedral.
“I won’t live to see it finished,” he said cheerfully. “But I wanted to see it started.”
The elderly priest had immediately become a favorite. He was given his usual table and a glass of dandelion wine, compliments of the house. At his feet was the worn leather satchel he always carried everywhere with him. He said the satchel contained notes on a biography of Saint Stanislaus, notes he would drag out and read during his meal, offering gladly to expound upon the life of the saint if anyone made the mistake of asking. Concealed in the satchel, beneath the pages and pages of documents, was the pewter tankard. Sir Henry carried the tankard with him wherever he went by day and slept with it beneath his mattress at night.
The Four Clovers was known among Sir Henry’s agents as a place where they could meet with him if an emergency arose. The sign was a bunch of clover left at any one of several locations throughout the city. Every agent had his own color of ribbon. A black ribbon around the clover indicated the request for a meeting came from James Harrington, who was supposed to be in Evreux, but who was at this moment now in Westfirth.