waiting to fall on us, I thought, reinforced by thousands of French troops. Hardly surprising since the King had been chivalrously waging war on their infant Queen Mary for three years. Looking at the group, I saw an older man among them, and recognized the scarred face and eyepatch of my steward. Coldiron, his face flushed, was singing along lustily. I remembered it was his night off.
'Go to the hatch and get me a beer and a pie,' I told Barak. 'I'm going to sit there.' I nodded to a table screened from the body of the tavern by a partition.
Barak returned with two mugs of beer and two mutton pies. He sat down heavily, and looked at me apologetically. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
'Tamasin is in a great chafe.'
'She's right, I know. I shouldn't have given that arsehole a flea in his ear. Soldiers are touchy. Did you hear - a band of German mercenaries made a riot up at Islington this morning? Wanted more pay to go to Scotland.'
'The English troops are going quietly enough.'
'Can you get me out of it?' he asked seriously.
'I hope so. You know I'll do what I can.' I shook my head. 'I saw a hundred men from the Trained Bands setting out from Westminster Stairs earlier. And at Lincoln's Inn I heard there are twelve thousand men in the navy. Sixty thousand militia on the Channel coast, thirty thousand in Essex. Twenty thousand on the Scottish border. Dear God.'
Beyond the partition, one of the carousing youngsters shouted, 'We'll find every last damned French spy in London! Slimy gamecock swine, they're no match for plain Englishmen!'
'He'd feel different if he had a wife and child.' Barak took a bite of his pie and a long swig of beer.
'If you were their age again and single, would you not be singing along with them?'
'No. I've never run with the crowd, particularly if it's heading over a cliff.' Barak wiped his mouth, took another swig.
I looked at his near-empty tankard. 'Slow down.'
'I don't drink much now. You know that. It was that which parted me from Tamasin. Not that it's always easy. It's all right for you to lecture that never drinks enough to drown a mouse.'
I smiled sadly. It was true I drank little. Even now I remembered my father, after my mother died, spending his evenings in the tavern. I would be in bed and would hear him being helped upstairs by the servants, stumbling on the steps, mumbling nonsense. I had sworn never to end like that. I shook my head. 'What did you find out today?'
'I think there's something odd about Michael Calfhill's death,' he said in a low voice. 'I talked to Michael's neighbours, saw the local constable. He's an old gabblemouth, so I took him for a drink. He said Michael had a spot of trouble with some local apprentices. Corner boys, standing around looking tough, with eyes peeled for French spies.'
'What sort of trouble?'
'The constable heard them shouting after Michael as he passed. Apparently the lads didn't like the way Michael looked at them.'
'What way?'
'As though he'd have liked to get into their codpieces.'
My eyes widened. 'There mustn't be a word of that at the hearing. What did the neighbours say?'
'There's a young couple in the room below Michael's. They didn't see him much, just heard him on the stairs, sometimes pacing in his room. The night he died they were woken by a crash. The husband went upstairs but couldn't get an answer, so he called the constable. He barged the door open and found Michael swinging from the roof-beam. Michael had cut a strip from the bedsheet and made a noose, then stood on a chair and kicked it away. That was what made the bang.' Barak leaned forward, animated now. 'I asked the young couple if they heard any footsteps going up or down the stairs. They didn't, but the room's only one storey up. And the constable said the window was open.'
'It's summer, that's no surprise.'
'I'm just saying someone could have got in while Michael was asleep, strangled him, then strung him up.' Barak smiled, his old conspiratorial smile. 'We can get
'Go to the hatch and get me a beer and a pie,' I told Barak. 'I'm going to sit there.' I nodded to a table screened from the body of the tavern by a partition.
Barak returned with two mugs of beer and two mutton pies. He sat down heavily, and looked at me apologetically. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
'Tamasin is in a great chafe.'
'She's right, I know. I shouldn't have given that arsehole a flea in his ear. Soldiers are touchy. Did you hear - a band of German mercenaries made a riot up at Islington this morning? Wanted more pay to go to Scotland.'
'The English troops are going quietly enough.'
'Can you get me out of it?' he asked seriously.
'I hope so. You know I'll do what I can.' I shook my head. 'I saw a hundred men from the Trained Bands setting out from Westminster Stairs earlier. And at Lincoln's Inn I heard there are twelve thousand men in the navy. Sixty thousand militia on the Channel coast, thirty thousand in Essex. Twenty thousand on the Scottish border. Dear God.'
Beyond the partition, one of the carousing youngsters shouted, 'We'll find every last damned French spy in London! Slimy gamecock swine, they're no match for plain Englishmen!'
'He'd feel different if he had a wife and child.' Barak took a bite of his pie and a long swig of beer.
'If you were their age again and single, would you not be singing along with them?'
'No. I've never run with the crowd, particularly if it's heading over a cliff.' Barak wiped his mouth, took another swig.
I looked at his near-empty tankard. 'Slow down.'
'I don't drink much now. You know that. It was that which parted me from Tamasin. Not that it's always easy. It's all right for you to lecture that never drinks enough to drown a mouse.'
I smiled sadly. It was true I drank little. Even now I remembered my father, after my mother died, spending his evenings in the tavern. I would be in bed and would hear him being helped upstairs by the servants, stumbling on the steps, mumbling nonsense. I had sworn never to end like that. I shook my head. 'What did you find out today?'
'I think there's something odd about Michael Calfhill's death,' he said in a low voice. 'I talked to Michael's neighbours, saw the local constable. He's an old gabblemouth, so I took him for a drink. He said Michael had a spot of trouble with some local apprentices. Corner boys, standing around looking tough, with eyes peeled for French spies.'
'What sort of trouble?'
'The constable heard them shouting after Michael as he passed. Apparently the lads didn't like the way Michael looked at them.'
'What way?'
'As though he'd have liked to get into their codpieces.'
My eyes widened. 'There mustn't be a word of that at the hearing. What did the neighbours say?'
'There's a young couple in the room below Michael's. They didn't see him much, just heard him on the stairs, sometimes pacing in his room. The night he died they were woken by a crash. The husband went upstairs but couldn't get an answer, so he called the constable. He barged the door open and found Michael swinging from the roof-beam. Michael had cut a strip from the bedsheet and made a noose, then stood on a chair and kicked it away. That was what made the bang.' Barak leaned forward, animated now. 'I asked the young couple if they heard any footsteps going up or down the stairs. They didn't, but the room's only one storey up. And the constable said the window was open.'
'It's summer, that's no surprise.'
'I'm just saying someone could have got in while Michael was asleep, strangled him, then strung him up.' Barak smiled, his old conspiratorial smile. 'We can get
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