want to think about it. Then, last night, I realized I would have to appear in public today and I had nothing that was suitable. My father is dead. He was murdered, and I have nothing to wear except lavender…”
Rodrigo lowered his head. Blinking his eyes rapidly and walking very fast, he blundered into a costermonger, who threw down his cap and doubled his fists and challenged the “gentlemun who thinks he’s better’n the likes of us” to a fight. Stephano hailed a passing cab, and bundled Rodrigo into it before the wheels had stopped rolling. He gave the address of the tailor shop, which was on Threadneedle Street. Rodrigo sank into a corner and sat with hand over his face.
Stephano knew that no words of his could help ease Rodrigo’s pain, but he also knew that the words didn’t matter. What mattered was the warmth of a friend’s voice, the touch of a friend’s hand. By the time the cab rolled to a stop, Rodrigo had recovered his composure. He hastened into the tailor shop. Stephano paid the driver and, as was his habit, cast a routine glance up and down the street.
Rodrigo was a longtime customer of this particular tailor’s shop, which happened to deal in fine-quality silks at prices much lower than anything he could buy in Evreux; mainly due to the fact that the silks entering Westfirth entered the city through unconventional means. Stephano, who detested going to the tailor’s and did so only when forced, had always managed to avoid accompanying his friend on these trips. He had never been to this shop or even to this part of Westfirth.
There had been a time in the city’s history when streets had been named after the nature of the shop owners’ occupations. Thus there was Market Street, Butcher’s Row, Smith Street, and so forth. The needs of a burgeoning population, especially a growing upper middle class (or lower upper class as they liked to think of themselves), had brought about changes. Threadneedle Street was still known as a place where one could find tailors, milliners, and dressmakers. Now one could find lodging on Threadneedle Street, as well. An inn, newly built, had opened across the street from the tailor’s shop. A cafe known as the Four Clovers was next door.
Stephano, loath to go into the tailor’s, where he was certain to be accosted by the tailor trying to sell him new trousers or the latest fashion in waistcoats, remained outside, observing the people. His mother, the Countess de Marjolaine, would have never been seen on Threadneedle Street. Her dressmaker came to her in the palace. The wife of the wealthy ironmonger who had recently been knighted for his ironmongering services to the country came to Threadneedle Street. “Lady Ironmonger” was shown pen-and-ink drawings of the dresses worn by the Countess de Marjolaine and she would then instruct her dressmaker to make a dress exactly like that worn by the countess only “it was so plain” and to add a few more feathers and a lot more ribbons and perhaps plunge the bosom and raise the hem.
Stephano also saw what were termed “men of affairs” hastening along the street, engrossed in their own business which was all about money and the making of it. Meeting other men of affairs, these gentlemen would stop to talk in urgent voices for the making of money always demands urgency.
A group of priests passed him, hands in the sleeves of their robes. Stephano gave them a sharp glance, prepared to bolt, but none wore the black cassock. He did bolt when he saw several naval officers from one of the navy ships patrolling the harbor near the Old Fort. One of those ships was the Royal Lion, commanded by Stephano’s old enemy, Captain Hastind. None of these men were Hastind, but Stephano might know them from his days in the Dragon Brigade, which had been part of the navy, or they might know him from his notorious duel with Hastind. Either way, a meeting would be awkward. He ducked into the tailor’s shop.
The “Sew On and Sew Forth” as the shop was named, was a large establishment employing many workers, some engaged in cutting the cloth, others in creating the patterns used for the apparel, and others doing actual sewing. Many of the workers sat at tables placed in front of the windows to take advantage of the daylight.
Rodrigo had been an excellent customer over the years, and the owner of the Sew On and Sew Forth came out personally to greet him. The tailor was deeply saddened to hear of Rodrigo’s loss and immediately drew him over to view the somber-colored cloth worn by gentlemen in mourning.
After selecting the fabric, Rodrigo next had to decide upon the pattern for the coat, and he and the tailor were soon absorbed in leafing through the pattern book, talking of the styles being worn in court, determining the proper trimmings, and then taking measurements.
Stephano sat on a tall stool, watching his friend, glad to see Rodrigo finding comfort in the familiar routine and remembering with a pang when Benoit had brought Stephano his own suit of mourning clothes. He had flown into a rage, slicing up the black coat with his sword until he fell onto his knees sobbing-painful gasps of grief and rage. He remembered Benoit putting his arms around his shaking shoulders and saying, “I can’t take his place, lad, but I will always be here.”
Stephano stood up and walked over to one of the windows where he stared out, unseeing, into the street. He was forced to turn back to assist Rodrigo in deciding whether to add velvet trim to the collar or stay with satin. When all was finally concluded and the suit had been ordered and paid for, with strict instructions to have it completed as swiftly as possible, Rodrigo pronounced himself ready to leave.
“Feel better?” Stephano asked, as they emerged into the bright sunlight and began to walk down the street.
“I do,” said Rodrigo. “I have only to write to my mother with an explanation. God knows what I’m going to say to her.”
“There’s a cafe across the way,” said Stephano. “Let’s discuss it over a bottle of wine.”
“And they make an excellent roast capon served with new spring potatoes and the first crop of asparagus,” said Rodrigo.
The two walked across the street.
The cafe, known as the Four Clovers, was near the inn that was called, unimaginatively, Threadneedle Inn. The cafe catered to the patrons of the inn, as well as to the tailors, the wives of ironmongers, and men of affairs. On fine days, the owner placed tables and chairs on a patio in a garden that separated the inn from the cafe. Trees provided shade. Flowers scented the air. The small wooden tables were crowded close together to provide room for as many customers as possible, which meant that diners were seated so close they sometimes knocked elbows with their neighbors.
The cafe was crowded, for it was dinnertime. Many of the shops and businesses in Westfirth closed at noon, allowing owners and employees to dine at their leisure and then refresh themselves with a nap. The shops would reopen in the late afternoon and remained open until the lamps were lighted.
Dubois sat in the park beneath a linden tree. His bench faced the street and the entrance to the inn where Harrington was staying. He was astonished beyond measure to see Stephano de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve enter the tailor shop, the Sew On and Sew Forth, which was directly across the street from the inn.
Far from being glad to see them, Dubois swore beneath his breath and consigned Stephano de Guichen and his friend to the bottomless pits of Hell. James Harrington, alias Sir Richard Piefer, lodged in the inn.
At that moment, James Harrington, wearing the fashionable clothing of a man-about-town, left the inn. Dubois prayed to God and every saint in the calendar that the captain and his friend would not look out the window. Dubois’ prayers were answered, apparently, for Harrington entered the Four Clovers cafe without attracting any notice.
Four Clovers cafe. Dubois shifted his thoughts from Captain de Guichen as the report of one of his agents came to mind-Harrington had purchased a bouquet of clover from a street vendor and left them on a gravesite.
The clovers were a message for Sir Henry! This cafe was the meeting place!
Feeling a thrill of anticipation, Dubois watched until Harrington had found a seat, then he had hurried to the cafe and entered and asked for a table. He located James Harrington, sitting by himself. Dubois cast a glance around the people in the cafe and recognized the elderly priest with a hunched back seated at the table next to Harrington as Sir Henry Wallace.
Sir Henry had deliberately selected a table in the back near the garden wall with few other tables around it, which meant that Dubois could not acquire a table near enough to the two to eavesdrop on their conversation.
He found a table as close as possible and gazed with envy at the sparrow pecking at crumbs beneath Wallace’s chair, wishing he could change places with the bird. That being impossible, Dubois ordered a plate of cold meat and a flagon of wine and settled himself to wait for Sir Henry to leave, at which point Dubois would track his quarry to his lair.
Dubois had not forgotten about Captain de Guichen and his friend. He saw them leave the tailor shop with relief that was short-lived, soon replaced by horror.
Captain de Guichen and Rodrigo de Villeneuve were coming to the cafe.
