The Frost Fair

    'That's good to hear.'

    'Christopher tells me that your friends are standing by you as well.'

    'Some of them.' Henry became worried. 'What else has Christopher told you?'

    'Far too little. I had a distinct feeling that he might be concealing certain facts from me out of consideration for you. I want nothing hidden. In order to make a proper judgement, I need to hear all the relevant information. Do you understand?'

    'Yes, Father.'

    'Then tell me what happened, in your own words.'

    Henry had looked forward to his father's visit with trepidation. Now that the old man had actually arrived, however, it was not as bad as he had feared. Life in prison had stripped him of his sensibilities and habituated him to pain. What helped him was the fact that he felt sorry for his father. He could see the anguish in his eyes and the awkwardness with which he held himself. On this occasion, the Dean of Gloucester was too fatigued to carry his pulpit with him. Henry would be spared a full homily. With that thought in mind, he told his story with more honesty than he had ever used in front of his father before.

    In the intimacy of the cell, Algernon Redmayne listened with the watchful attentiveness of a priest receiving confession from a sinful parishioner. Though he said nothing, his eyebrows were eloquent. When the recital came to an end, he let out a long sigh and searched Henry's face.

    'Is that all?' he asked.

    'It's all that I can remember.'

    'I'm surprised that you remember anything after so much drink.'

    'I was led astray, Father. It's unusual of me to imbibe so much.'

    'At least, you now know what horrors can ensure. A sober man would not have behaved the way that you did, my son. He would not be under threat of death in a prison.'

    'I know that,' said Henry. 'I rue the day when I picked up that first glass of wine.'

    'You are too weak-willed.'

    'It was an unaccustomed lapse, Father. I hope that you believe that.'

    'I trust the evidence of my own eyes and they tell me that you are much too fond of the fruit of the vine. You look haggard and dissipated.'

    'Even you would look like that after a few days in here.'

    'No, Henry. I might pine and grow thin but I would not be so unwholesome.'

    'If you saw me in my periwig, you'd think me the healthiest of men.'

    'Never,' said the other. 'I've seen too much decadence to mistake the signs. If and when you are delivered from this hellish place, you and I must have a long talk, Henry. The time has come to mend your ways.' His son gave a penitential nod. 'Thank you for what you told me. You spoke with a degree of sincerity that I had not anticipated and it was a consolation. But there is one point on which you were not entirely clear.'

    'What was that, Father?'

    'Your reason for hating this Italian fencing master so much.'

    'I told you,' said Henry. 'I heard that he cheated at cards.'

    'Heard? Or did you sit opposite him at the card table and witness the act?'

    'Drink, I admit to, Father, but gambling has never had much appeal for me.'

    'So why were you so outraged that this fellow should cheat?'

    'Because it's a dishonourable act.'

    'It was not your place to correct him for it.'

    'There was more to it than that,' conceded Henry. 'Jeronimo Maldini was not merely a cheat and a villain. He exposed me to ridicule at the fencing school by demonstrating his superiority with a sword.'

    'That might anger you,' said his father, 'but it was surely not enough to implant murderous thoughts in your mind. And you did say that, in the middle of an argument, you threatened to kill the man.'

    'I did, I did - to my eternal shame!'

    'So what really made you despise this man?'

    Henry blenched beneath his father's gaze. The cell suddenly seemed much smaller. In spite of the cold, sweat broke out on Henry's brow and his collar felt impossibly tight. There was no way that he could tell his father about the woman who had been stolen from him by his rival. The Dean of Gloucester would neither understand nor countenance the idea of sexual passion. It was something that he appeared never to have experienced and Henry had come to believe that he and Christopher had been conceived in random moments of religious ecstasy that had long been buried under years of monkish chastity. To explain to his father that he had loved and courted a married woman would be to show contempt for the bonds of holy matrimony. The name of Lady Patience Holcroft had to be kept out of the conversation altogether.

    'Well,' pressed his father. 'I'm waiting for an answer.'

    'I've already given it,' replied Henry. 'I was goaded by Jeronimo Maldini.'

    'But why did he pick on you? There must have been a reason.'

    'He took it with him to the grave, Father.'

    The old man stepped back and nodded sagely. Henry had been let off the hook.

    'I hope that you realise how much you have to thank your brother for,' said the Dean with solemnity. 'Christopher has dedicated himself to your cause.'

    'I do not know what I would have done without him.'

    'You came perilously close to finding out.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'An attempt was made on Christopher's life yesterday.'

    'Where?'

    'On the riverbank. He was pushed into the water.'

    'Did he survive?' asked Henry, becoming agitated. 'What happened? Was he hurt? This is terrible news, Father. Who was responsible?'

    'Christopher believes the attack was linked to the crime for which you were arrested. He was drenched by the incident but is otherwise unharmed. I'm telling you this so that you'll not give way to feelings of self-pity. You at least are safe in here, Henry,' he pointed out. 'But in trying to help you, your brother has put his life in danger.'

        The man watched the house in Fetter Lane from the safety of a doorway farther down the street. He had been reassured when he saw an old man in clerical garb come out of the property with a servant who then hailed a carriage for him. It suggested that a priest had come to offer condolences. Shortly afterwards, three people went into the house. The young man was the first to leave and the two ladies followed some time afterwards. Too far away to see the expressions on their faces, he hoped that the visitors were also there out of sympathy for a bereavement. After an hour in the chill wind, he decided that he would leave but the front door of the house opened again and a sprightly figure stepped out. The man cursed under his breath. Christopher Redmayne was still alive.

    Captain Harvest arrived on horseback at the tavern in Whitefriars. Before he could dismount, however, he saw that Jonathan Bale was approaching him. He gave a cheery wave with a gloved hand.

    'Good day to you, my friend!'

    'Good morning, Captain Harvest.'

    'You are getting to know my habits. That worries me.'

    'There are a few things that worry me as well, sir,' said Jonathan. 'I wonder if I might take up a little of your time?'

    'By all means, my friend.'

    The soldier dismounted and held the bridle of his horse. Jonathan noticed the beautiful leather saddle. Harvest looked even more shabby and disreputable than before. There was mud on his boots, a tear in his waistcoat and the vestiges of his breakfast were lodged in his red beard. He gave the constable a mock bow.

    'I'm always ready to assist an officer of the law,' he said.

    'Your landlord seemed to think you would run from the sight of me.'

    'Which landlord?'

    'The one you fled because you owed him rent.'

    Harvest laughed. 'More than one landlord could make that claim,' he admitted. 'But I do not only pay in