Feeling jaw, belly, and breast, Ricard was glad to be unable to discern any apparent harm. The man had been angry, but hadnot started anything. Even so, that was the point at which his memory of the evening became unclear. And now the only damageappeared to be his head. That bastard son of a hog who brewed the ale in the Cardinal’s Hat must have mixed something in withhis hops.
Belching, he watched Janin roll over and lie still again, a beatific smile spreading over his face. ‘Wake me when it’s timeto get up.’
‘It is now, and your vielle is underneath you. You’ll break it.’
‘Shite! Shite! Shite! The strings’ll be buggered!’
Janin’s sudden urgent scrabbling to rise to his feet was enough to make Ricard grin to himself again. He gazed about him,trying to remember how he had come to this closed yard, and where his companions could have got to. The sunlight, grey thoughit was, was enough to make him wince. There was a man who had led them here, wasn’t there? Someone from the tavern?
The woman had been foreign. Not happy talking English, from what he could tell. She’d said she was a cook, hadn’t she? Ah,yes. That was it: she’d been a cook’s maid in a castle, lost her job there when the kitchen staff were all thrown out, andcame over here to London. Bloody foreigners coming over and making all the men regret being already married — she had onehell of a body on her, though. He could remember that! Lips that could suck the sap from an oak tree, thighs that’d crusha walnut, bubbies like bladders … Ah! Yes!
He wondered sadly how his evening had ended. She wasn’t here now, that was for certain. Suddenly his hand clapped over hispurse, but he could breathe easily. It had not been emptied.
‘Where are we?’ Janin asked plaintively.
‘Good question. We were at the Cardinal’s Hat, which is just off Lombard Street, but this doesn’t look like it.’
Janin nodded, gazing about him. ‘When did we leave the place?’
‘If I could remember that, I might remember when we came here,’ Ricard growled.
‘There was that woman,’ Janin remembered. ‘Her husband turned up.’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t hit me,’ Ricard said absently.
‘Only because the other fellow knocked him down.’
‘Which fellow?’
‘The one behind him. He called the man some name or other and felled him.’
‘Hmm. Good. I think.’ Suddenly he felt nervous. ‘Let’s get going, eh? We have a job to do.’
But Janin had the tail of an idea now, and he was refusing to let it go. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? You had that wench on yourlap, her old man tried to hit you, and someone else hit him, so we drank some more until those bravos appeared.’
‘There are times when talking to you gives me a headache,’ Ricard said. He pulled some timber aside from a pile at one wall,glancing behind to see whether the others were hiding.
‘What was the man’s name?’
‘Hmm?’
Hearing a rumbling, Ricard peered up towards a low doorway. The door, like the rest of the yard here, was partially hiddenby trash that had heaped up before it, and he had to clear some of it, sweeping it away with his boot, before he could peerinside.
There, snuggled together, he saw Philip and Adam. A loud snoring seemed to imply that Peter was behind them. As his eyes grew accustomed,he saw that there was a pair of boots near Adam’s head. Carefully cradled in Adam’s arms was his trumpet.
It gave him a pleasing idea. He took hold of his horn, and licked his lips, then drew a deep breath before blowing a blastthat would have served, so he felt, as the last trump.
Adam’s eyes shot wide and he sat up, looking more like a corpse than ever; Philip tried to sit up, but his greater heightcaused his head to slam into the upper lintel of the low door, and his eyes snapped shut with the pain as he bent down torest his bruised forehead in his hands. The boots disappeared from view, and Ricard was pleased to hear a complaining whinefrom the Waferer.
‘Morning, boys!’ he called with satisfaction.
‘The man? What was his name?’
‘Which man?’
‘The one who felled the woman’s old man. Didn’t you know him?’
‘No. Should I have?’
This was less a yard, more a grubby little alleyway, Ricard considered. Sweet Christ, but his head was bad. His belly feltas if he’d been drinking a tanner’s brew of dogshit and piss — faugh, he daren’t fart or belch. Both ends felt equally hazardous,damn his soul if they didn’t.
There was a little mewling cry, and he frowned. It seemed to come from nearby, and he set his head on one side, peering abouthim. Bending, he saw a loose slat in the side of another little building — probably a hutch for a dog or a chicken, he thought,but when he peered inside the figure he could just make out was an entirely different animal.
Church of St Martin-le-Grand, London
Père Pierre Clergue was pleased when the man appeared at last. He had been growing a little anxious.
‘Mon sieur, I am glad to see that you were successful. Please, viens! Viens ici!’
He watched the man halt. ‘How do you know I was …’
‘You have the … the appearance of a man who has done a great thing for the Pope and for his friends. You have done a marvellous thing, mon sieur.’
‘It feels as if I have done a terrible thing.’
‘That is so often the way of things, my friend. Now, no need to tell me more. Let us kneel and pray.’
‘You will hear my confession?’
‘You can tell me anything you wish, but my lips will be sealed, naturally. And I know what I asked of you, so all is well.’
‘Yes. Yes, all is well. Just as you asked.’
House in Lombard Street
A door slammed behind Ricard, and he turned to see a vaguely familiar man striding towards him.
He looked older, perhaps five and forty years, and although Ricard had no idea what his name was, the face was teasingly recognisable.Probably from the night before, he told himself bleakly.
‘Good morrow, friends,’ the man said.
Returning his greeting, Ricard eyed him narrowly. He was dressed well in expensive cloth, with a fine hat and liripipe onhis head. Ricard was certain he’d never seen him before, but the man’s carriage was a little alarming. He looked like a fighter.With a rush of tingling anxiety, Ricard wondered whether his memory of the previous night was even more faulty than he hadrealised; whether this was the man who was married to the wench he’d fondled on his lap the previous night. No, in Christ’s name, this sort of fine fellow wouldn’t want to listen to them playing in a lowly tavern. He’d havecommanded them to go to his house, if anything.
‘Master Ricard, I am glad you are well. The weather has not been very clement, I know. Is there anything you need?’
‘No. We are well, master.’
Inwardly, he was cursing, slowly and very imaginatively. The man had the graces and accent of a high-born lord. They all hadthe same interest in fashionable clothing, the disdainful expression, the contemptuous sneer when they spoke to men like him.And of course, the leetle bit of the French accent. When together, these arses only ever spoke French, as if it was something special. Well, Ricardand the others spoke English like any God-fearing Englishman should.
Still, it only proved that this man thought himself important. He had that snide, devil-take-you look in his eye that saidhe knew he could buy hundreds just like Ricard and his band. Well, devil take you, Ricard thought to himself, and may he bugger you with a thousand demons!