Standard Inn, built almost connecting to the front wall of the house, and loaded his pipe to study the palace – for palace it surely was.
He counted from basement to attic four floors, and glass that outdid every other house in the square. Five hundred pounds a year was the prince’s rent, and it showed.
There were two entrances. One for trade and servants with a single wooden gate and one of iron with Tuscany square pillars, lanterns atop, almost as tall as a man, which would not have looked out of place on the stern of a Spanish hundred-gunner. Devlin halted a passer-by for a light he did not need just to spy over the fellow’s shoulder on the two manned sentry-boxes athwart the gate. Shako-wearing lobsters stood scratching themselves. He thanked the Samaritan for his tinder box. The man tipped his hat at the clean shaven young man who, although he did not wear wig or queue to keep his black hair from about his shoulders, had some manner to him judging by his silken black coat, damask waistcoat and fifty-guinea sword – chosen by Devlin as more elegant than the face-cutter he normally wore. The man’s brown leather boots had seen better days, however, and his face was bruised in a way that only comes from drunken fighting; thus observed, the gentleman sniffed hautily and went on his way.
Almost two o’clock now. Devlin rapped out his pipe against the wall of the inn. He had agreed to come alone and so took off his hat, fanning his face in the August sun. His three watchful companions, Peter Sam, Hugh Harris and Dan Teague, keeping their distance, saw the signal and manned their posts at every other entrance of the square, watching Devlin approach the sentries.
The lobsters’ buckles and brass rattled as he came towards them but they relaxed when they saw no pistol hanging from the tall man’s belt. They gave him the dead eye as Devlin passed his letter to the one who at least looked like he might be able to read. Their manner changed at the sight of the royal seal and they let him through immediately.
Patrick Devlin. Butcher’s boy, poacher, sailor, servant and pirate, declined to hand over his hat and was escorted to the staterooms on the first floor. He had to pull down with one hand his spreading smirk and entered looking as serious as he could manage.
Chapter Ten
The prince and the pirate.
Of everything in the room the first thing Devlin noticed was the gigantic fireplace in black and white marble. Large enough for four men to stand in its hearth, it dominated the spacious first-floor hall. Four ceiling-high casement windows drew down the afternoon sun as if those needed it to bask like reptiles, and its heat was such that Devlin could not help but remove his hat, required or not. The circular oak dining table in the centre of the room, and the five men seated around it who turned their heads to him, stopped his reckoning of the room. Cards in hand, their game froze as if posing for a portrait, while they took in the figure of the pirate.
One was corpulent and flushed, even beneath his white-powdered cheeks. His colourful clothes accentuated his shoulders, padded to give him a warrior’s profile, but his drawn-in doublet could not hide his paunch. His hair, without a wig, was grey and tufted like a squirrel’s brush. Still, Devlin put him at under forty. That man, Devlin thought, is the prince.
Two others were as corpulent but wore subtle natural wigs and more muted clothes. They weighed Devlin with their eyes. A brief wince at his freshly beaten face was noticed by the pirate. The last two, were lean and handsome, their clothes as neat as pins. One Devlin knew, but did not betray his recognition. The man hid his own expression behind a thoughtful palm and studied the new arrival.
Devlin waited for an introduction but the servant who had led him upstairs had already backed, bowing, out of the room, and locked the door behind him.
Five pairs of eyes held him rooted to the spot where he stood.
He counted from basement to attic four floors, and glass that outdid every other house in the square. Five hundred pounds a year was the prince’s rent, and it showed.
There were two entrances. One for trade and servants with a single wooden gate and one of iron with Tuscany square pillars, lanterns atop, almost as tall as a man, which would not have looked out of place on the stern of a Spanish hundred-gunner. Devlin halted a passer-by for a light he did not need just to spy over the fellow’s shoulder on the two manned sentry-boxes athwart the gate. Shako-wearing lobsters stood scratching themselves. He thanked the Samaritan for his tinder box. The man tipped his hat at the clean shaven young man who, although he did not wear wig or queue to keep his black hair from about his shoulders, had some manner to him judging by his silken black coat, damask waistcoat and fifty-guinea sword – chosen by Devlin as more elegant than the face-cutter he normally wore. The man’s brown leather boots had seen better days, however, and his face was bruised in a way that only comes from drunken fighting; thus observed, the gentleman sniffed hautily and went on his way.
Almost two o’clock now. Devlin rapped out his pipe against the wall of the inn. He had agreed to come alone and so took off his hat, fanning his face in the August sun. His three watchful companions, Peter Sam, Hugh Harris and Dan Teague, keeping their distance, saw the signal and manned their posts at every other entrance of the square, watching Devlin approach the sentries.
The lobsters’ buckles and brass rattled as he came towards them but they relaxed when they saw no pistol hanging from the tall man’s belt. They gave him the dead eye as Devlin passed his letter to the one who at least looked like he might be able to read. Their manner changed at the sight of the royal seal and they let him through immediately.
Patrick Devlin. Butcher’s boy, poacher, sailor, servant and pirate, declined to hand over his hat and was escorted to the staterooms on the first floor. He had to pull down with one hand his spreading smirk and entered looking as serious as he could manage.
Chapter Ten
The prince and the pirate.
Of everything in the room the first thing Devlin noticed was the gigantic fireplace in black and white marble. Large enough for four men to stand in its hearth, it dominated the spacious first-floor hall. Four ceiling-high casement windows drew down the afternoon sun as if those needed it to bask like reptiles, and its heat was such that Devlin could not help but remove his hat, required or not. The circular oak dining table in the centre of the room, and the five men seated around it who turned their heads to him, stopped his reckoning of the room. Cards in hand, their game froze as if posing for a portrait, while they took in the figure of the pirate.
One was corpulent and flushed, even beneath his white-powdered cheeks. His colourful clothes accentuated his shoulders, padded to give him a warrior’s profile, but his drawn-in doublet could not hide his paunch. His hair, without a wig, was grey and tufted like a squirrel’s brush. Still, Devlin put him at under forty. That man, Devlin thought, is the prince.
Two others were as corpulent but wore subtle natural wigs and more muted clothes. They weighed Devlin with their eyes. A brief wince at his freshly beaten face was noticed by the pirate. The last two, were lean and handsome, their clothes as neat as pins. One Devlin knew, but did not betray his recognition. The man hid his own expression behind a thoughtful palm and studied the new arrival.
Devlin waited for an introduction but the servant who had led him upstairs had already backed, bowing, out of the room, and locked the door behind him.
Five pairs of eyes held him rooted to the spot where he stood.
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