“Somewhat.”
“Ah? Yes, I suppose so. I am myself from Stratford. I often watched the gypsies there, and the peddlers.” He tapped my manuscript. “This rings true.”
“You will buy it then?”
“A moment! Do not hasten too swiftly. You need money?”
I shrugged. “I do not need money, not at the moment. I do want money. Much money.”
He smiled. “There is not much in this. Writers about London are a starveling lot. A good playwright such as Master Robert Greene, whom you mentioned, he will get but five or six pounds for a good play. And he, along with Kyd, is at the top of them.”
“I was not thinking of continuing a writer, yet I have some other things. Do you know Rafe Leckenbie?”
He sat back and stared hard at me. “Aye, and who does not who knows aught of the streets? I know him not, but of him … yes.”
“I know him. What would you say to a complete revelation of his activities? All the plots and machinations of the man.”
“You know whom you deal with? Leckenbie is no catch-penny rogue but a thoroughgoing rascal. He’s into river piracy and the lot.”
“And a devil of a fine swordsman, too.”
“Ah? I have heard of that, but doubted it. There is a rumor that he killed a gentleman in a duel shortly after he first appeared in London, and another one in Kent.”
“I know nothing of that, but he is a superlative swordsman.”
“You speak from experience?”
“I do.”
“Yet you live?”
“That was long ago, and in another place than this. I was not as skillful then as I now am … yet I narrowly escaped.”
“I see … yet you would dare this? He would set his men upon you. Not upon me, for I am of the company and no man would be such a fool. Yet I fear for you.”
“Let that be my worry.”
Field tapped his fingers on the manuscript. “Very well then. Two pounds for this, four pounds for the Leckenbie story—if it is true or nearly so. But do not think I shall pay so much again, for there are not many stories of the likes of Rafe Leckenbie.”
“I understand.”
He paid me two pounds and I took it gratefully. It was a goodly sum for the time, and evidence that he thought well of what I had written. Yet I was not misled, for the stories I had written down had been told and retold by generations of Irishmen and belonged to all who heard them. They had stood the test of time. Yet never had they been in print, for the Irish were not permitted to publish. They were tales told in taverns. I might do another as well, for there were many such stories, but that would probably be the end of it unless I could enrich my knowledge by talking to road people and gypsies.
Where was Kory, I wondered. I could use him now, and could pay him, too.
Tucking away the two pounds with my small store, I went back to the inn, loitering along the way. I saw nothing of anyone I knew, yet I did see a rogue or two who seemed to be following me.
Were they Cutting Ball’s men? Those of Leckenbie? Or both?
For a week I loitered about the White Hart, the Red Lion, the Mermaid, the Three Tuns, the Golden Lion, King Harry Head, as well as the Bear and the Ragged Staff. I went from one tavern to the next, buying a glass here, or just sitting and watching, sharing a drink with some wandering rascal. But I was listening all the while.
Usually, I just listened. If the soil seemed fertile I might drop the seed of Leckenbie’s name, and then sit back to hear what might be said. It was a way to learn, and I learned much.
Soon I learned that Leckenbie directed the affairs of three stalling kens, or places where stolen goods might be sold, each in a different quarter of London. He also had several stables where horses might be let to pads, as highwaymen were called. He had a fist into everything, and he was making enemies all over London. Cutting Ball was not alone in disliking Leckenbie or his ways. It was simple to see that he was a master scoundrel.
Swiftly then, I wrote. It was not the whole story, certainly, but it was enough. I entitled it Rafe Leckenbie, Thieves’ Master And Master Thief. Then I hastened to Blackfriar’s and put it into the hands of Master Field.
He looked at it, swore a little, and pressed on to read further. “I will take it,” he said at last, “but do you look to yourself, Tatton Chantry. Once this is on the street your life will be worth next to nothing.” He snapped his fingers. “Not that!”
“Four pounds,” I said, “and I’ll wear a loose blade.”
“You will have it,” he said, “but I fear for you.”
And in truth, I feared for myself.
20
Now that I had come upon a means of earning a bit I did not neglect the pen, but my next two attempts failed of acceptance. These had neither the wit nor the novelty of my first successes. Yet it was about this time that the Leckenbie piece was published abroad. In a day it became the talk of the town. When I went to the tavern below, the place was abuzz with it, and not knowing who might be the author, they were of one mind: that he had but a short life left to him, once Leckenbie saw the piece.
Cutting Ball came hurriedly to the tavern. “What, Tatton Chantry! Is it you who has done this thing? You have destroyed him!”
“That was my purpose, but we do not know yet what may happen. We can but wait and see.”
“All London will be about his ears,” Ball insisted. “And to think that you have done this! A mere lad! And with a pen, too, and with no sword or mob or soldiers!”
Yet that day went slowly by and nothing happened, nor were any of Leckenbie’s men seen about, nor on the second day. There was no move against him by the Queen’s men: there was only talk. On the third day, well armed and with Ball’s men about, I ventured into the street.
This time I was bound for Blackfriar’s with another tale of the Merry Damber, which had proved successful. I sold the piece to Masterfield for a pound, and turned about, planning to go at once to my own tavern.
Suddenly I found myself face to face with Leckenbie!
He stopped upon the street before me. My hand went to my sword. “If it is to be, let it be here,” I said.
He laughed. “You mean then to fight me?” he roared, laughing the while. “Do not be a fool! You have done me only the greatest service! Why, had I ordered the piece written it could not have been better!”
He was chuckling and cheerful. I stared at him incredulously. “Take your hand from your sword!” he said. “I shall certainly kill you one day, be sure of that. But not today, when you have just done for me what I could not do for myself!”
“What do you mean?”
He chuckled again. “Come! I’ll split a bottle with you, and a haunch of beef as well! Don’t you see? You have made me sound so powerful, so evil, so revengeful that my enemies are trembling! A dozen thieves have come to my stalling kens whom I never laid eyes on before, although I knew them well by reputation. Suddenly I have gained respect in quarters where there was little before! At one fell swoop you have made me the strongest man in London! And to think that was all it needed! I am a fool, Chantry, a double-dyed fool! Now I have no need to destroy enemies who believed themselves o’ermatched and have come to me, pleading the wish to join me! What I could not have done in months, you have done in an instant! It is magic!”
We sat down across the table from each other. The confusion in my thoughts cleared. In believing I was destroying a monster, I had created a worse one. In speaking of his strength, I had made him seem more fearful than he was, and frightened all who would oppose him.
He bought good wine and filled a glass for me, and the beef we had was the best, the tenderest cut of all. He served me from his own blade and laughed, his face flushed from wine and laughter.
“Oh, you have done it, Chantry! There’s a string of bawdy houses that I’ve long wanted. Ill-kept places, but fat with profits. Now they have asked my protection, and they shall have it. Oh, they’ll have it, all right, and a fat payment through the nose for it, too!