many have disappeared in that wilderness … We have been very fortunate.”
We discussed much during the long and often stormy nights that followed. We
talked of a trading post, of a place in London, on the docks, a place from which
to sell or ship our goods. With a man in London, Tempany commanding the ships,
and myself in America, we could soon build such a business.
“Who for London?” Tempany said, frowning. “I have been so long away that I know
few men.”
“I know the man,” I said quietly. “He is a rogue, but an honest man withal. I
speak of Peter Tallis.”
“You spoke of him. Is he to be trusted?”
“I believe so. I would trust him if he gave us his word … and he is shrewd. He
knows business, he knows people, he is aware of all that goes on in London. We
should look far for a better man.”
“Talk to him then.”
So I intended, and such plans were made, and the plans for the discharge of my
cargo, and for sharing with Jublain and Corvino. All this was attended to.
We sailed up the Thames, at last, looking at the lights along the shore. It
seemed impossible there could be so many.
Suddenly, Jublain grasped my arm. “Barnabas … look!”
He pointed, and I felt a shock, then a wave of disquiet and fear.
And well I might.
It was the Jolly Jack, come home before us, and by the look of her, here for
several days.
Nick Bardle was ashore then, and he would surely have seen Rupert Genester.
They would be waiting for me.
Chapter 18
River men came alongside, calling up to take us ashore, but Tempany would have
none of them. “They are a hard lot, good men many of them, arrant thieves many
others. We will take no risk. We’ll take our own boat ashore.”
He glanced at me. “Do you take care. I am ashore to speak of my voyage and our
success, as well as to lay plans for our next.”
“Corvino is off to the Walk for Peter Tallis,” I said, “and I shall go to the
Tabard and send word to my friend Hasling. If Tallis does not know the state of
affairs, Hasling will.”
As we descended into our boat some of the river men cursed us for not using
theirs, and then vanished toward their berths. One boat lingered, seeming to
follow us.
“Aye,” Jublain said gloomily, “we be nearing trouble again.”
On English soil again, Tempany and Abigail were off to their home, and I and my
friend to the Tabard. If Genester wanted me, let him come. The arrogance of
success was on me.
We walked into the dark and narrow streets, picking our way over the broken
cobbles, and around refuse thrown into the streets from the buildings along the
way. A rat scurried from underfoot, and the shadows seemed to move.
Jublain moved nearer. “I like it not, Barnabas. I have the stink of death in my
nostrils.”
“Not our death,” I replied quietly. “If there is death tonight it will be
another who dies.”
“Let us hope,” he commented dryly.
My hand was on my sword hilt, and Jublain carried a naked dagger in his left
hand, close down to his side, his right hand on his sword hilt. But nothing
happened. We emerged from a dark street into a lighter one, somewhat wider, and
Jublain sheathed his dagger with a sigh.
Glancing back suddenly my eye was quick enough to see a shadow fade into an
alleyway, yet there were many abroad at such a time who had no wish to be seen,
some of them honest men. Yet I knew what Jublain meant by having the smell of
death in his nostrils. I had it, as well.
The Tabard was lighted and the inn yard itself had light from its windows.
We squeezed in, and found for ourselves a corner. It was not wine I wanted this
night but a tankard of ale, for my throat was dry from walking the shadowed
streets.
The ale was brought us, and at further urging and a coin to grease the wheels,
several thick slices of ham, a loaf, and several large apples. We were hungry,
ravenously so.
There was a square-shouldered, apple-cheeked maid I recalled from before—easily
recalled, because she had eyes for Jublain, for all his sallow manner.
She came near to our table. Well enough she remembered me, and Jublain as well.
“There is a message,” she whispered. “It was left for you but two days past. Sit
you, and I will have it down to you.”
She had scarcely stopped by the table, almost as if held up by the press about
us, and then she was gone. “A likely lass,” I said, grinning at Jublain.
He shrugged his shoulders and stared into his ale. “Aye,” he said, “I have a
fear of such. Those who would rob you or trick you are easy enough to handle,
but such as her … A man has small chance with such as her.”
“I’d best look for a new partner then,” I said, “for certain it is she has set
her cap for you.”
There was a man with a tankard at a table nearby, a red-faced fellow with a
shock of uncombed hair and blond eyebrows. A wide face he had, and thick hands
that needed washing. He was looking everywhere but as us but I had an idea he
was listening, despite the tumult.
“There’s a pitcher near,” I commented, as I lifted my tankard, “with big
handles.”
Jublain’s eyes were cynically amused. His back was to the man. “Would a sweep of
my sword take him?”
“Aye, but it’s a surly rogue we have there, and I think his handles are picking
up nothing. I think we should let the pitcher be until we see whether it stands
alone.”
“I suppose,” Jublain said, “but I would like to slice off enough to bait a fish
and feed it to him.”
Soon the red-cheeked girl came by again, bringing each of us a fresh tankard of
ale. She leaned far over.
“Pay for this,” she said. “I am watched.”
We paid out the money, and she put her hand on the table to pick it up, dropping
a folded bit of paper on the table. I casually covered it with my hand. When she
had gone, we ate for a bit, and drank. The last thing I wished to do was bring
ill to this girl who wished to help.
Then without lifting the paper from the table, I spread open its folds. I knew
the hand in which it was written, and read aloud:
There is an order for your arrest: The one of whom we spoke is dying. You will
be thrown into prison or killed. We are doing what we can. The one who would
help has been taken to the country, and is held there, supposedly to give him
the best of care. No one is permitted to see him.
C.H.
“There’s a pretty kettle of fish!” I said.
“It be that,” said Jublain.
“Come, let’s be away from here,” I got hurriedly to my feet, and at that instant
a hand touched my sleeve.
The red-cheeked maid was there. “This way,” she said. “They are in front who
would harm you.”
We followed quickly, weaving through the tables and the crowd until we reached a
dark, narrow passage that led not to the inn-yard but to an empty field beyond.
She pointed out a dim path. “Go,” she whispered. “There is a path to the river!”
We went, and at a goodly pace. I wanted no lying in prison, for there were those
who had stayed shut away for years for no just cause.
The path was sloping away down a small hill, into a hollow and then to the river
not far hence. We came down to a place among the reeds, and followed along to a
landing place.
It was an old wharf, long disused, its timbers broken in places to where one
could see the gleam of dark water below. No boats were there. Reeds had grown up
about the place, and the river flowed by, dark and mysterious.
From far behind us there was the slam of the inn door, then the door opened
again and we could see a shaft of light. “It is the only way!” Somebody shouted
loudly. “They have gone to the river!”
“Nonsense!” The second voice was more forceful. “There’s no escape that way,
unless they can swim the Thames.”
But he was wrong.
There was a path, and we took it.
Walking up the muddy slope to the embankment, we strolled, arm in arm, talking
of the New World and what we had seen there, of London and the meals at the
Tabard. We were both dry as sin, and would have relished a bit of ale. We walked