Murder by Misrule
CHAPTER 27
The next day was fine; at least, it wasn't raining. Tom penned a short love note to send with his daily offering to Clara. Today, it was a ruff his mother had embroidered that was too small for him but very nice. Then he joined the other lads in the fields behind Gray's to practice shooting and archery. According to Ben's father, it was incumbent upon all gentlemen to maintain the skill. Longbows were well enough for traditionalists, but Tom was a modern man. He preferred his pistols. He liked the bang and the flash and the sharp stink of the smoke.
After dinner, Stephen summoned his court for a short conference. Tom, Trumpet, and Ben were directed to meet with their counterparts at the Inner Temple to plan the procession for the upcoming embassy. Ben grumbled about stealing time from Mr. Bacon, but the others persuaded him.
"The fresh air will revive your mind," Tom argued. "You're no use to him if you're all stale and fusty."
The meeting was entirely successful. They quickly agreed that the Inner Temple embassy would await the delegation from Gray's at the Temple Bar, the traditional point of entry for monarchs into the City of London. This quadrupled the length of the journey from Gray's since in order to arrive on the western side of Temple Bar, they would have to ride up Holborn all the way to Broad St. Giles, then down Drury Lane to the Strand.
Stephen would be immensely pleased. Where is the grandeur in a procession that processes directly from point A to point B? And the open fields along their route would allow ample space for spectators.
Trumpet made a note: round up an impressive number of spectators.
Their labors done, they were able to devote their attention to the drinking of a goodish quantity of a quite superior ale. Tom found the Inner Temple men to be most hospitable. He felt himself truly in his element amongst these sophisticated wits, especially after the fourth pitcher.
"S'wunnerful gennelmun," he declared, as the lads staggered outside. A cool riverine breeze danced out of the Temple gardens and slapped him on both cheeks, dashing off some of the stupor laid upon him by the drink and the overheated chamber.
"Treated me like a gennelmun," he added.
"Why wouldn't they?" Ben asked. He'd had to turn himself around twice to get aimed toward home.
Tom shrugged. "When'm with Stephen, it's always 'Lord this, Lord that, oh, no trouble, Clarady here will pay.' M'a purse wi' legs."
"Stephen's not here," Ben astutely observed.
"People take their people's faces at face value," Trumpet said, almost comprehensibly. He stopped and burped voluptuously. He smoothed his moustache. "Better. Tom. You dress like a gentleman. You talk like a gentleman. Ergo, you are a gentleman."
"It's that simple?"
"Simplicity is often the sign of truth," Ben quoted, raising his right arm for emphasis. The gesture sent him reeling sideways. Tom steered him forward again.
They reached the arch that broached onto Fleet Street and paused to collect their wits before diving into the traffic. Sunset was nearly upon them. Shopkeepers were taking in their wares and pulling up their shutters while shoppers pleaded for one last purchase. Coaches rattled down the center of the thoroughfare, splashing muck with scant regard for people on foot.
"Look there!" Ben cried. "It's Clara's husband!" He pointed across the street at a blocky man with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder.
"He's still got that sack," Trumpet said. "Perhaps he's some sort of porter."
"Whatever he is," Tom said, "by my mother's virtue, I'll speak to him. I want to know what he means, spreading lies about my angel."
Ben grabbed his arm. "Don't even think of it, Tom. You're too drunk."
Tom grinned. "F'weren't drunk, I wouldn't have the stomach to try him."
He dashed across the street, squeaking past an oncoming coach. The driver cracked his whip after him, cursing fluently. Tom twisted in midstep, gave the driver a half bow, then stuck up a finger and jogged on.
"Hoi! You, there! Fleming!"
The man turned and growled at him. "You again! What do you want with me?"
Tom slowed to a stop, barely panting. "I want a word with you. About Clara."
"My wife?" The man squared his jaw, emphasizing the cragginess of that feature.
"She says otherwise."
"Then she lies."
Tom's nostrils flared. He wanted to pulverize the man, but he wasn't cup-shot enough to throw the first punch. Then he spotted something that might change the balance.
Trumpet had sped around the other side of the street and was now creeping up behind the Fleming on tiptoe, grinning so broadly his pixie eyes were nearly closed.
Tom fixed his own eyes on the Fleming's face to hold his attention. He tried to ignore the trio of apprentices who, attracted to law student robes like bluebottle flies to a dung heap, were stalking Trumpet in a scathing imitation of his drunken skulk.
Out of a corner of his eye, Tom saw Ben sauntering toward them, hands behind his back, whistling "Fair Phyllis I Saw Sitting All Alone." The Fleming cast him a distracted glance.
The good citizens of Westminster, smelling trouble, scattered to give them a wide berth.
Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, "I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you're an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?"
The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.
Tom ducked, bounced back up, and popped him on the chin. "God's bollocks!" he wailed as he cradled his injured hand. "What're you made of?"
"Little English," the Fleming sneered. "Perhaps I'll crush you." He set his sack on the ground by his feet and rubbed his hands together. He reared back to give himself plenty of room to swing.
Ben glided in at the critical moment and extended a long leg, causing the Fleming to miss a step, overbalance, and trip over Trumpet, who was crouched behind him with his hands on his knees. He fell flat on his back, where he was pounced upon by three gleeful apprentices and one small gentleman of Gray's.
"Oh, you've dropped your sack." Ben picked it up and hefted it as if trying to guess its weight. He muttered, "Something about this shape . . ."
"Give me that," the Fleming shouted. He reached out a massive arm, plucked one of his diminutive tormentors from his chest, and tossed him aside.
Tom danced around his apprentice-infested adversary, seeking a way to inflict damage on his target without harming any of his allies.
Ben opened the sack and let out a sharp whistle. "Now here's an interesting turn of events." He reached in and pulled out a few sheets of paper.
The Fleming bucked and rolled, scattering boys onto the ground. He surged to his feet and aimed himself toward Ben.
Tom shouted, "Look out!" and leapt in front of his friend. To do what, he had no idea. But this was his fight.
The Fleming thrust him aside with one granite fist to the shoulder. Ben jumped out of reach, dropping the sack. The Fleming scooped it up and plowed past them, nearly trampling Trumpet, who rolled out of his path in the nick of time.
"After him!" Tom yanked Trumpet up and then winced at the pain in his shoulder. He was lucky the man had been off balance.
They pelted after him. "Move!" Tom roared at one of the apprentices, who hopped into a doorway.
The Fleming ran up Chancery Lane. Tom swerved after him, slipped on a heap of horseshit, and caromed into a pieman who was coming the other way. He and the man grabbed each other to keep from going down, but the tray and the pies went flying. Trumpet skidded on his heels behind them, clutching at a signpost and swinging halfway around.
"I'm sorry," Tom said, desperately trying to keep an eye on the Fleming while freeing himself from the pieman's panicky grasp.
The man stared down at
his pies, broken and begrimed in the filthy street, and burst into tears. "I'm ruint!"
"Oh, no. Don't cry." Tom glanced up the street. His quarry was gone. He sighed, recognizing defeat. "Please," he said to the pieman. "Let me pay for what I've damaged." He pulled out his purse.
Trumpet delicately plucked the pie tray from the mire and handed it to the pieman with a small bow. The man took it, but kept his eyes on Tom's purse.
"Can't any of these be saved?" Ben studied the mess on the ground. But then they were jostled from behind by a trio of women so absorbed in their chatter that they failed to notice they were mashing good pork pies beneath their feet.
Tom sighed again and fished out a larger coin.