A Dead Man in Deptford by Anthony Burgess Page B

introductions but offered Kit bread,
a highly stinking cheese, and a decanter maculated by greasy
fingers. Then he said:
    - There are troubles coming here. St Bartholomew will
be nothing to it. They talk of the war of the trois Henris,
you know enough French, good. That is the Henry that is the
Third, him of Navarre and him of Guise. And behind the King
is Medical Kate as we call her, bitch and woman devil. Him of
Navarre is out of the succession because the Pope has damned
him to hell for ever, and Guise, who is a duke, is going to kill
all the Huguenots. He is to get the crown, they say, and help put
Scottish Mary, who is another French bitch and harlot, on the
Catholic throne of England. He is a cousin or some such thing.
So you see what we are in the midst of. Beware of the streets.
Eh, friends, eh?

    That was to the two carcase-chewers. They chewed and
nodded. Kit asked to hear more of Guise.
    - Guise? They call him already King of Paris. You know the
rue St Honore? No, not yet, you will not. There is what they call
the Hotel de Guise and when he emerges in his finery they all bow
down to him and beg to kiss his arse and the women to lick his
poxed prick and there he is waving his hat of many feathers and
crying to kill the Huguenots, rob their shops, knock out their
teeth with crowbars and much the same, rape the women and
roast the babies on spits. And then off the blackguardly rogues
go to do as they are bid, it is all great sport for them, eh, bullies,
eh?
    Kit left the straw-filled garret that danced with fleas early the
next morning. He had half-slept with his fist round the pommel
of the borrowed sword. Rogues snored or lay awake or sat awake,
sucking their teeth and scratching, looking at him. At dawn he
saw an act of buggery proceeding, a double act, turn and turn
about with the straw flying and a sneeze timed with a final thrust,
irrumabo. The look of the act of what could be love or lust did not
please him. The beauty was all within, behind the locked doors of
the eyes. He had, back in Cambridge, taken one of Jem Follett’s
boys for a penny, an envisioned Tom Walsingham in his head
like a god and the motion towards irrumation like a prayer. He
rubbed his face and hands with rose water, a mother’s gift, before
seeking a shop where hot possets might be sold. But they did not
know of hot possets in the tavern where workmen downed harsh
red as a breakfast, eyes on him the sworded stranger. He drank
a mug. He was given the morning’s bread.
    - Anglais?
    - Anglais. Et bon catholique comme vous. Exile.
    They spat before leaving. A French flea jumped from his
hand to his shoulder. And with this weight I’ll counterpoise a
crown or with seditions weary all the world. Words often came
to him thus, they were dealt by a ghost called the Muse. Since
all cards are within your hands to shuffle or to cut. A clinching
rhyme needed. Surest thing. Deal yourself a king. Fill in the
lines. He went out into a street enlemoned by a weak sun. The wind had dropped to sleep. He caught and crushed another flea,
or perhaps the same, on the sleeve of his doublet. I’ll either rend
it with my nails to naught or something something. How high
could a flea leap? Scale the high pyramides. It was a long walk
to the rue St Honor&. In a tavern where he took a second cup
he heard men talking in French he could barely follow. Come
from Chalons-sur-Marne where the League was (what league?)
to meet les seize. The arrondissements were planning their final
coup under him. Vive le duc. He thought he understood. He did
not wish to see the duke at his street levee. He could fashion a
better duke in his brain. He saw this duke enstaged, ranting in
rhythm. Heroes were in a sense lining up for his inspection. All
of the age, however set far back in the mists. Was then that a
mission, to give the times their images of pure power, an alembication of Machiavelli (himself no mean playmaker), pure in