Black Wreath (7 page)

Eleven

Dunmain's Man

T
he ‘cruds and whey' woman moved slowly along the quay with her pannier on her head. A chimney sweep and his boy emerged from a side street, the boy weighed down with brushes and rods, both faces black even at this hour, and the shops and taverns were bustling into life as James walked slowly westward along the river, not sure where he was going. Everyone he saw was driven by a definite purpose, with a sure knowledge of where they were going and how, and where, their day was likely to end. Even the beggars assuming their positions along the quayside were working according to a plan as they stood or sprawled on the ground and whined for alms. And the seagulls crying above the ships knew what they were
about and could, James felt, give a good account of themselves if they were asked. Only he had no clear destination in mind, and no notion of how or where his day might end.

He was woken from these gloomy thoughts when he noticed a man standing at the corner, a broad, hulking figure, leaning against the wall and scanning the quays like some beast of prey. Everything about him proclaimed malevolence, from the darkness of his eyes and the twist of his mouth to the long arms and pale fleshy hands that looked like they would be very happy squeezing a throat. James shuddered slightly at the sight of him. Something about him seemed strangely familiar, as if James had seen him before somewhere. But where? And then he saw him, in his mind's eye, walking down the aisle of the cathedral and looking over the mourners and onlookers with a glance of unconcealed contempt. He was one of the Uglies that his uncle employed to frighten anyone who might give him trouble, and do who knows what other evil deeds on his behalf. He looked like someone to whom violence came as easily as the leaves to the trees. What was he doing here? James could hardly stop looking at him, even though he knew it was foolish. The man seemed to have a force around him that could suck in the unwary.

Suddenly James felt the man's eyes on his own. James looked away quickly and continued walking along the quays, but he could feel the man's eyes boring into the back of his head. Then he heard the man's voice crash around his ears.

‘You there! Little man, come here you, I want you!'

Whatever he wanted, James decided he was in no hurry to
find out. He kept walking briskly, and when he heard the man shout again and, looking over his shoulder, saw his great bulk begin to shift on the cobbles, he darted up the quay as fast as he could and slipped into a narrow laneway. The laneway was dark and empty, but as James ran he saw no place where he might conceal himself. Maybe the man hadn't seen him enter the laneway but had run past further up the quay. But that hope was dashed when a shadow darkened the lane even more and he heard the man running up the alleyway. For one so big he was surprisingly agile. ‘Come back here, boy, or I'll throttle you!'

As he ran up the lane James saw a narrow gap between two warehouses, and without a second thought, dived into it. He found himself in a courtyard strewn with lumber and barrels, some completed and some still being worked on. There were tools and benches, though no workmen yet. With a surge of panic James realised there was no way out of the courtyard other than by the gap he had entered. He looked around but could see nowhere to hide. He crouched behind a barrel, then opened the lid and, finding the barrel empty, he clambered in and closed the lid after him. He had no sooner done that than he heard footsteps on the cobbles of the courtyard.

‘I know you're here, you little scut. Come out now or it'll be the worse for you!'

Had he really seen him slip into the courtyard or was he bluffing? James was tempted to get out of the barrel and surrender before he was found there. Maybe the man wasn't as bad as he seemed, maybe he just wanted to ask him something
and had been angered by his running away. Better to give up now than be caught and beaten black and blue by the brute. James was about to lift the lid when he heard the sound of barrels being kicked and rolling across the cobbles. If he could subject the barrels to such violence, what was he likely to do to James if he found him?

James crouched deeper into the barrel in the hope that he mightn't be seen should the lid be flung off. The kicking seemed to be nearer. James felt his stomach knot with fear and beads of sweat run down his back. Surely the man could smell him! He felt as if the stink of his fear must reach every corner of the yard. He hoped there were no dogs about, or they would surely sniff him out. He nearly cried out at the next blow, it was so near. It must be the barrel beside him. James braced himself for the blow which must come any second now, but then he heard other voices in the courtyard, angry voices calling out to the man.

‘What's going on? What are you doing to our barrels? Who are you?'

The coopers must have come into their workshop. James's terror subsided a little.

‘Have you seen the boy?' James heard.

‘What boy? There's no boy here! Look at these barrels. A day's work destroyed! Who's going to pay for that?'

The man seemed to have calmed down, and was now trying to placate the angry coopers. James didn't dare move. He put his ear against the wood of the barrel as he strained to hear what was being said.

‘A boy, fair-haired, maybe fourteen years or more …'

‘And what is he to you, this boy, whoever he might be?'

‘Oh he's just a friend of a friend. I have some business with him.'

‘A kicking business, a breaking business, to judge by the violence done here.'

‘I'll pay for it. Compliments of Lord Dunmain.'

After another few moments, James didn't hear his voice any more, but still didn't dare move. He would stay here all day if he had to; he had no intention of moving until he was satisfied the brute was no longer in the courtyard.

Suddenly the lid was swept off the barrel, and James cowered, waiting for the blow.

But all that came was a voice, rough but kindly. ‘It's alright, he's gone, you can come out now,' it said.

James looked up and saw a grinning face looking down at him.

‘How did you know I was here?' James couldn't help asking.

‘Because I know my own barrels,' the cooper said, helping him out. ‘And I can tell a full one from an empty one.'

‘You can?' James wasn't entirely convinced.

‘And I can tell when a lid isn't down properly. I finished this barrel yesterday before knocking off. So what did your friend want you for?'

The other coopers gathered round him, wanting to hear his story. James was afraid one of them might take it into his head to run after the Ugly and fetch him back, but no one moved.

‘Did you rob him?' asked one, eyeing James suspiciously. 

‘No,' James said. ‘The robbing is all the other way. The brute belongs to my uncle, the man who calls himself Lord Dunmain.'

‘What do you mean, calls hisself?'

‘Because,' James said, surprising himself, ‘I am Lord Dunmain.'

His words produced first a stunned silence, then a clamour of questioning.

‘Wait, quiet everyone, let him speak,' said the cooper who had rescued him.

‘Alright,' he said, turning to James, ‘you'd better explain yourself. And it'd better be good. We don't take kindly to blather around here.'

‘My father was William Lovett, Lord Dunmain. He died this year and my uncle assumed the title–'

‘Where were you if you were the son?' The questioner sounded sceptical.

That didn't surprise James. He sometimes had trouble believing his story himself. ‘My father abandoned me, he and Miss Deakin, whom he married though my mother is still alive. It was something to do with money; they couldn't have an heir in the way. So they farmed me out with a relative, who was no relative. And they gave out that I was dead.'

‘Why didn't they just kill you, wouldn't that have been simpler?' It was the sceptical cooper again.

‘I don't know,' James said. ‘Maybe it's not so easy to kill a son. I don't think he was all bad.'

‘Bad enough, from what I heard,' said another of the coopers.

‘If it's hard to kill a son, I'll warrant it's a deal easier to kill a nephew,' said the kindly cooper. ‘A man who surrounds himself with the likes of that bowsy wouldn't think twice about murder.'

‘He was offering money,' the sceptical one reminded him. ‘Maybe we should let the family work out their own business.'

‘I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to give me up,' James said. ‘And I can't offer you any money.'

‘There'll be no talk of giving anyone up, or of money either. Not while Matt Brady is in this yard.'

James' stomach unknotted slightly at the man's words. The other coopers muttered their assent, even the sceptical one.

‘Your father was a foolish and quarrelsome man,' Matt Brady said. ‘He owed money all over the city, and if he hadn't got himself killed for his own pride, he might have got it some other way from someone with good reason. But your uncle is more than foolish, he's a dark-souled thug who they say has killed for the pleasure of it. What kind of man will you be, if you ever get that far?'

‘I hope an honourable one,' James said. ‘I mean to fight my uncle when the time is right.'

This statement was met with sniggers.

‘Well, lad, you'll need to keep alive for that,' Brady said, and James remembered McAllister's words of only hours before. Staying alive was, he saw now, an even bigger challenge than he thought. How much did his uncle know? Had that brute really recognised him, and were they hunting for him throughout the city? He had been foolish to reveal his identity here.
What good could it possibly do him? It would take very little for word to get back to his uncle – a tale in a tavern, a casual mention to a friend. He was angry at the pride that tempted him to take an unnecessary risk, and silently swore that he wouldn't be so quick to reveal himself in future, but he was glad he had chosen Matt Brady's yard to hide himself in. For every evil he encountered there seemed to be an answering good. If only things could continue like that, he might be safe.

Matt Brady gave him some bread and a coin, and again told him to be careful. James thanked him, took his leave, and made his way cautiously to the top of the lane until he emerged into the bright light of Fleet Street. He had completed a large circle, and was now just around the corner from the front gate of Trinity College. He hurried in the opposite direction, scanning the streets for anyone who might be observing him, whether sheriff's men or his uncle's thugs. He hurried until he gained Essex Street and spied Harry at his station near the Custom House. Only then did he breathe easily again.

Twelve

The Darcy Gang

‘I
t could be worse,’ Harry said as they leaned against the wall of a shop in the piazzas. ‘He could have caught you.’

They chewed their bread silently.

‘You’ll have to lie low for a while,’ he continued thoughtfully.

‘What else have I been doing?’ James said as he stared at the pavement. ‘I’ve been lying low ever since I left my father’s house. But where can I go now?’

Harry had no answer for that. His own life was hard, and he had no shelter to offer James. In this city, those who had position could do as they wished; the rest had to spend their days in labour or take to the ways of vagabonding or crime. There were no inbetween places, and the problem for James was that he didn’t belong to any class. His father had thrown him out of his house, but also out of the world he was born into. And
now here he was, with no money, no trade, no foothold in the city. And the city didn’t take kindly to that. You had to be someone, you had to stay in the place it gave you.

‘I’ll keep my ears open, in case anything turns up. Maybe I’ll hear of a position somewhere.’

‘As what, though?’ James wondered. ‘As stray, as dispossessed heir … or maybe I should go for a chimney sweep.’

‘No, you’re too big for that,’ Harry laughed. ‘You’d just get stuck up a chimney.’ James’s friend thought for a minute. ‘Where will you sleep?’ he asked.

‘Phoenix Park,’ James said. He hadn’t thought about it until Harry asked, but the park seemed like the obvious refuge now. He knew his way around it and he would be able to find somewhere to rest.

‘There is one thing I can do for you,’ Harry said.

‘What?’

‘Meet me here in an hour or so,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve some more boots to shine, and then I’ll see what I can get.’

After he had left Harry, James whiled away some time in the bookshop at the sign of the Bible, and then he hung about in a corner of Custom House Quay, watching the boats land and the men unload their cargos, or simply staring down at the dark river. He wasn’t sure how much time had gone by before Harry tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Don’t fall in,’ his friend said with a grin.

Harry was carrying a closely wrapped bundle. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he said. ‘A blanket, a cap to keep the cold off, a bit of bread and cheese.’

James looked at Harry with emotion; he hardly knew what to say. He knew Harry had very little, and these gifts represented a fortune. James touched Harry’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, old friend,’ he said. ‘One day I’ll repay you, you’ll see.’

Harry smiled. ‘Don’t you worry about repaying me, you just worry about yourself.’

James took the little bundle and took his leave of his friend. Then he crossed the river and made his way westward until he reached the Phoenix Park. A little way in he came to the thickly wooded area he had stayed in before. At this hour in the afternoon the woods were quiet except for birdsong and the rustlings of small animals in the undergrowth. He walked a good way further in, until eventually he came to a small and, as far as James could see, unoccupied clearing. He began gathering branches and brushwood to elevate himself a little from the ground. He knew from his previous stay in these woods how quickly the earth sucked out the body’s heat. When he had made a rough mattress, he unrolled his blanket. He broke off a piece of the cheese and ate some bread. Harry had even included a wine bottle with a little milk in it, with which he washed down his meal.

By now it was dark, and James wrapped the blanket around him as tightly as he could and lay down. It took him some time to adjust his senses to the noises of the woods, and he kept leaping up every time he heard a twig snapping or an unfamiliar rustling in the trees. Eventually, tiredness overcame his fears and he drifted into sleep.

Even though his sleep was light, he heard nothing. He
dreamed that the clearing was filled with sudden noise and that he was swept up from his makeshift bed by large and unfriendly arms which pressed him against a tree trunk while several blades hovered within inches of his throat.

‘And who might you be?’ a dream voice demanded harshly.

‘Run away from the law, have you?’ another shouted.

‘Or come to spy on us and report us,’ the first dream voice said.

‘And we know what happens to spies, don’t we lads?’

There was a cacophony of voices, all shouting together, vying with each other. James stared out of his sleep at the dream figures. They looked terrifying in the moonlight, like demons, wild-eyed and raucous and spoiling for a fight. As the noise went on and James tried to answer their queries as civilly as he could, explaining where he had come from and how he had got there, it began to dawn on him that this was no dream, and these were no dream-demons. They were real men with real voices and real daggers and he was in real danger from which there was no waking up. He tried blinking, just in case, but each time he opened his eyes the men were still there.

‘I think we should hang him,’ one was saying now. He couldn’t have been any older than James, a skinny, half-nourished boy with big eyes and a baby face.

‘Not a bad idea, Kitty, not a bad idea, if we had a bit of rope, but we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to steal some.’

‘We could just knife him. We have our hangers,’ the one they called Kitty offered helpfully. ‘Lovely blood,’ he added
with a leer. He drew close to James and touched his neck with the point of his short sword.

‘Put your hanger away,’ the first one barked. ‘I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night. Help Kelly and Hare to put the stuff in the hide.’

James saw the two men and the boy make off into the darkness with a large sack.

The man who seemed to be the leader turned to James. ‘The name is Jack Darcy.’ He waited for this revelation to take its effect on James.

James obliged him by gasping. ‘The highwayman?’

Darcy smiled, gratified. ‘The very same. Best there ever was, highwayman, footpad, and … murderer when I have to be.’ He looked hard at James, studying the lad.

He doesn’t look much like a murderer, James was thinking. Or even a highwayman. His face was sinister up close in the weak moonlight, but it was fine featured and handsome, and his clothes were respectable, even foppish, with a good coat and fine boots, so far as James could judge by the light.

‘So you worked in the college, did you? A boy of education. Let’s hear you speak,’ Darcy commanded. ‘Say something for me!’

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Anything you want. A rhyme or a recimitation, anything that shows us the cut of your voice.’

James flailed around in his mind, in search of something he might say. He remembered some lines McAllister was fond of reciting. James closed his eyes and let the words find their way
out into the cold night air, shivering a little as he spoke.

‘I can’t remember the rest,’ James said.

‘Oh that will do nicely,’ Darcy said.

The others, who had re-emerged from the darkness, added shouts of mock appreciation and grandiose applause.

‘Quiet, can’t you,’ Darcy said. ‘What we have here is an employable asset.’

‘A wha’?’ said Kitty.

‘Every business has to put its best foot forward,’ Darcy said. ‘To introduce itself to the public, if you get my meaning. And speaking of introductions, I’m nearly forgetting my manners. James, what did you say your second name was?’

‘Brown,’ James said. He was going to take no chances with his name here.

Darcy gave him his long stare again, as if he thought James Brown was a likely story indeed. But he let it pass.

‘James Brown,’ he placed sly emphasis on the surname. ‘Meet Tom Kitt, known as Kitty, assistant to the company; Mr Joseph Hare, footpad, assistant highwayman; Mr Jonah Kelly, footpad, associate highwayman, swordsman first class.’

Kitty, Hare and Kelly all bowed elaborately, sweeping their hats through the air. James didn’t like the look of any of the
three. Kitty, he guessed, would slit his throat in the middle of the night with a squeal of pleasure and then think no more about it. Kelly and Hare looked exactly like what they were – common criminals with scaffold faces, pocked and unwashed.

‘And now that you have found us,’ Darcy continued, ‘or rather, now that we have found you, you’ll have to join us. Then we won’t be obliged to kill you.’

James noted the look of disappointment on Kitty’s face.

‘How do you mean exactly, join you?’ James asked, though he felt the foolishness of the question even as he asked it.

‘We’ll have to train you in, of course,’ Darcy said, ignoring the question. ‘Can’t have a day’s work spoiled by ignorance. You can help us with a bit of footpadding first, and then we’ll see what else you’re good for.’

James wanted to protest that he was no thief, but now did not seem to be the time to make his protest. He felt a wave of tiredness hit him like a blow and it was with great relief that he heard Darcy announce that they might as well get some sleep now. He would see what tomorrow brought before deciding anything. Who knows, he thought, as he fell down onto his bedding again and wrapped Harry’s blanket around him, maybe this will all prove to have been a dream, and when I wake up there will be no one here.