The Relic Murders(15)

'What is this?' Old Greybeard intoned. 'Wife, what goes on here?'



The young man quickly sheathed sword and dagger. I lowered the bedpan. Beatrice winked at me, then threw herself on her knees before her husband, clasping his legs.



'Oh, husband!' she wailed.



Now, you young people, listen - for even I, with all my skill in lying, couldn't better this.



'Oh, husband!' she wailed, eyes rolling heavenwards, 'Oh, light of my life!'



'Yes, yes, yes,' Old Greybeard replied testily. 'Who are these young men?'



I breathed a sigh of relief: at least the silly, old dodderer hadn't recognised me as one of his household.



Burning Beatrice realised this as well.



'Oh, husband,' she intoned again, stretching one hand out to me. 'This young man came here seeking sanctuary from this one,' she pointed to the 'young kinsman', 'who followed in hot pursuit intent on has blood.' She breathed in. 'I was at my orisons when this young man,' again, pointing to me, 'burst in and sought my protection from this young blood bent on vengeance.'



Well, I couldn't believe it! For sheer brevity of wit, for skilful subtleness of mind, she could not be bettered! Both I and the



'young kinsman' just looked at each other open-mouthed. 'Is that true?' Old Greybeard demanded. We both nodded.



'Then get you gone!' he declared, pointing dramatically to the door. 'Go different ways or I'll call the watch. Settle your quarrels elsewhere.'



We fled like two rabbits freed from a trap and, by late afternoon, I was back, leaning against Duke Humphrey's tomb in St Paul's, waiting to be hired.



I had no luck that day and Boscombe's generosity was wearing thin when, late the following morning, Dame Fortune gave her wheel another twirl. (Although, in retrospect, she was given some assistance this time.) I was leaning against a tomb making lascivious eyes at a young serving maid when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I glanced up: the man standing over me was tall, noble-faced, strong-jawed with an aquiline nose; his grey eyes were gentle, the brow under the balding head furrowed and concerned. He was dressed soberly but his fur robe was of good-quality cloth whilst the gold rings on his fingers were not gewgaws from some tinker's tray.



'Master Shallot.' He extended a hand, I scrambled to my feet and shook it. He introduced himself. 'Sir Hubert Berkeley, goldsmith. I've a shop in Goldsmith Row between Bread Street and Friday Street.'



'My congratulations,' I replied.



He smiled, took his gold-topped cane, which had been resting against a pillar, and leaned on it.



'I know you, sir: you're servant and equerry to Benjamin Daunbey, nephew of the great cardinal. I'm his banker.'



My face split into a broad smile.



'Sir Hubert, of course!'



In fact I hardly knew the fellow though my nimble mind was turning like a Catherine wheel. I kept my money banked with the goldsmiths in Ipswich and it didn't stay there for very long, but Benjamin was a cautious soul. I also remembered that Berkeley was a royal goldsmith, a powerful man.



'I heard you were here, what is the matter?' he asked, head cocked slightly to one side.



(Do you know, I liked the man: he had nobility of character. In my secret chapel, because I am still of the Catholic faith, I have his name listed in my Book of the Dead because, in the end, I failed him, or I think I did, and brought about his dreadful death . . . but that was all in the future. After all, if hindsight was wisdom, we'd all be Masters of Philosophy.)



'You are not in trouble, are you?' he insisted.



'Well!' I jumped from foot to foot and stared round at the other men and women waiting to be hired. 'A little dispute in Ipswich whilst my master's abroad in Italy ... !'



'And you are too proud to beg?'

'Yes, Sir Hubert, I am too proud to beg.'



'You are a rascal, Shallot.' Berkeley came closer: he pressed a silver piece into my hand. 'You are a rascal born and bred but, so Master Daunbey has told me, a good man in a fight and you are of the court. I've been searching for an honest bullyboy like you!'



I swallowed hard. I wished my master wouldn't boast about me. (You know old Shallot! Oh, I'll fight all right but so will a mouse when it's cornered!)



'I'm a bachelor,' Berkeley continued. 'I live with my maids and servants, apprentices and journeymen.'76



'Why do you need a bullyboy?'



Berkeley's eyes slid away. I felt a faint tingle along my spine. 'Secret business.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'King's business, Shallot: that's why I'm hiring you.' He pointed to my hand. 'You can keep that coin for friendship's sake. I'll need you for a month. You'll receive two of those every week.'



An hour later, having sent a message to Boscombe, I was in Sir Hubert Berkeley's house. There is nothing like silver to calm the fears in my cowardly soul. I've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth and, at the time, I thought Berkeley was the nearest thing to divine intervention. (I only wish I had listened to him more carefully when he hired me.) The goldsmith had a truly spacious house and shop which stood in its own grounds. The base was of red brick, the other three storeys a mixture of white-and-red plaster and black-oaked timbers with a tiled roof and new-fangled chimney pots. Every window had paned, mullioned glass. The floor of each room was covered in red tiles whilst dark wooden wainscoting, the panels carved in the linen fashion, covered two-thirds of every wall. Soft carpets deadened the sound, and gaily coloured tapestries from the looms of the Low Countries gladdened the eye. Window sills and ledges were filled with baskets of flowers whilst the furniture had obviously been fashioned by the best carpenters in London.