‘The little by-blow will offer this Mabs back the half-cross he has,’ Kirkpatrick had growled in answer. ‘In return, he will want passage to France, or Flanders or even Leon if he dares the crossing.’
‘Because that’s what you would do?’ Hal had queried, speaking in a soft hiss so as not to be heard by the muttering growlers and drinkers in the inn. They spoke French for the same reason and Kirkpatrick had laughed.
‘Because it is what I would not do. But I am clever and Lamprecht is not only afraid, he is as idiot as a moonstruck calf.’
‘He may have gone to Dover,’ Hal pointed out, not so convinced of Lamprecht’s stupidity. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Without coin he can squat on the shingle and try to wish up a ship until we come on him, then.’
The more Hal looked at the rain-misted cleft of Sty Lane, the more the Lyon’s now-distant fug-warmth called to him. The Earl of Lincoln’s Inn had been the last haven for Lamprecht, two nights before; no-one called it anything other than the Purpure Lyon thanks to the sign, the arms of the Earl of Lincoln, nailed over the door. Lincoln owned it as he owned a deal of the land round it, but Hal doubted if the Earl had ever been in it. Which was a pity for him, since the roast goose had been a joy, with raisins, figs and pears in it. A barnacle goose, for it had been a fish day and that was aquatic, as any priest would tell you…
Kirkpatrick was on the move and Hal, flustered, shredded his dreams of food and followed on, hoping the rest of the plans made in the Lyon moved as smoothly.
The rain was flushing filth out of Sty Lane like a privy hole drain; Hal’s boots sloshed through a gurgling brown mess and the place stank, so that pushing into it made him open his mouth so as not to have to breathe through his nose.
Kirkpatrick stopped and Hal almost walked up his heels. There was silence save for the hiss and gurgle of rain and the squeal and honk of unseen pigs; sweat started to soak Hal from the inside at the sight of the grey shapes looming up in front of them.
Six he counted, their faces blurred by rain and beards and grease. Three wore broad-brimmed hats, turned up at the front and pinned so that the soaked droop of them would not blind them. Two wore coif hoods of rough wool, one a hat trimmed with ratty fur, all had the sacking tunics of slaughtermen, dark with old blood. Every one had a naked, long, knife.
‘Oo are ye and what d’yer wish in Sty Lane?’
Hal struggled with the thick accent, knowing it was English but unable to make it out without squinting. Kirkpatrick, seemingly easy, offered a smile and a spread of empty hands.
‘Looking fer Mabs,’ he declared. ‘Heard there was work for lads as was not afraid o’ blood.’
Which could mean much or little to slaughtermen, Hal thought, half crouched and silent in his role in the mummery. The rat-furred hat swivelled to take them both in, while the others circled in a ring; used to herding pigs, Hal thought wildly, his mouth dry, his heart thundering in his throat.
‘Sojers,’ Rat-Fur declared and then spat sideways. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
‘Have been, will be again if the shine is right. We knows the way of it, certes.’
Warned, Rat-Fur held his distance while the rain plinked and splashed. Then he nodded at Hal.
‘Tongueless, is he?’
‘From the Italies,’ Kirkpatrick countered smoothly. ‘Knows little of a decent way of speaking.’
Which hid Hal’s Scots accent.
‘Where did you hear about Mabs?’
The question came sudden as a hip-throw, but Kirkpatrick was balanced for it.
‘Old friend,’ he replied and winked. ‘Lamprecht. Ugly bastard of a pardoner. Said there was work in Sty Lane, with Mabs. Izzat yourself?’
Rat-Fur chuckled, glanced swiftly to his left. Oho, Hal thought, there is someone unseen jerking this one’s strings.
‘Not me,’ Rat-Fur said, while the others laughed, though there was little mirth in it. ‘Come and meet the bold Mabs, then.’
Cautious, sweating, Hal followed Kirkpatrick, who followed Rat-Fur, with the others closing in so that the flesh from the nape of Hal’s neck to his heels crawled with the unseen presence of them at his back. They went sideways, into a place of unbelievable stink and squeals from pigs jostling each other, as if they sensed that these men were slaughterers. That or the smell of old porker blood from them, Hal thought…
They halted. Rat-Fur leaned on the enclosure fence, where slurry slopped under a fury of trotters, then turned and grinned his last few ambered teeth at Kirkpatrick.
‘Mabs,’ he said. For a moment Kirkpatrick was confused — then a huge hump of the stinking slurry moved and the biggest sow he had ever seen lumbered forward, making him recoil; the slaughtermen laughed.
‘Mabs,’ said a new voice, ‘smells new blood and wonders if it is tasty.’
Hal and Kirkpatrick whirled and saw a lump of a woman with the biggest set of paps either of them had seen — bigger even, Hal thought, than Alehouse Maggie’s. She had a face like unbaked bread, grey and doughy and shapeless, though the cheeks were red with windchafe and drink. Her eyes were buried raisins.
‘Mabs,’ she repeated, looking fondly at the huge sow, which had now rolled over and was luxuriating in slurry, her line of fat, dangling teats dripping.
‘Queen of the Faerie,’ the woman went on wistfully. ‘Her name and mine.’
‘Ah,’ said Kirkpatrick, struggling. ‘Indeed.’
‘Mistress Maeve,’ Hal interrupted smoothly, giving the woman her full queen’s name and forgetting himself entirely. ‘We come seeking one Lamprecht, whom you ken. D’ye have word for us on his whereaboots?’
Kirkpatrick closed his eyes with the horror of it. The woman’s currants turned from the pig to Hal.
‘Now that is the strangest Italies I have heard spoke,’ she declared. ‘Much similar to Scotch, if me ears are working.’
Her men growled and seemed to loom closer. Kirkpatrick put a hand on the hilt of his dagger.
‘Stand back,’ he warned. ‘My friend has the right of it — we seek only Lamprecht, nothing more.’
‘And the Rood,’ Hal added, so that Kirkpatrick cursed him to silence.
‘Wood?’ queried Mabs.
‘Rood,’ repeated Hal before Kirkpatrick could stop him. ‘That what was in the reliquary ye split between Jop and Lamprecht.’
Christ’s Bones, Kirkpatrick thought, feeling his palm slick on the knife, he has doomed us all.
‘Lamb Prick,’ Mabs said slowly, rolling the name like a gob of greasy spit round her mouth, ‘is not welcome here. Nor that big whoreson dolt Jop, Gog’s malison on him — though I am told he is dead.’
She spat and looked slyly at the pair of them.
‘King’s men took him, or so I was told. Put him to the rack and the iron, or me name is not Queen Maeve. An’’ere yer are,’ she added, gentle as a poisoned kiss, ‘come lookin’ fer me.’
She thinks Jop spilled his all and that we are King’s men, Hal realized and started to deny it. Kirkpatrick, seeing his mouth open and fearing the worst, leaped into the breach of it.
‘Well,’ he managed through clenched teeth. ‘An error. No harm done …’
‘No?’
Kirkpatrick knew, with sick certainty, that there had been a great error and he was the one who had made it. Lamprecht was nowhere near here and Mabs would not want folk walking out of Sty Lane who could chain Jop and Lamprecht, Mabs and Sty Lane and robbery of the King’s Treasury in one shackle.
She leaned against the fetid timbers of the sty and gazed fondly at the giant sow.
‘Yes, yes,’ she crooned. ‘You are a greedy girl…’
Her giggle, strangely young and girlish, was chopped short by a thin, high whistle from Kirkpatrick as he sprang forward and Mabs reeled back. Rat-Fur slithered to put her behind him — but Kirkpatrick’s blow was no slaughterman’s cut, it was the flick of a killer.
Rat-Fur staggered away, choking and holding his throat, a thin jetting of blood forcing itself between the clench of both his hands. Both Mabs were squealing as loudly as each other and men were shouting — one of the big-hatted ones ran at Hal and he slashed the air, forcing the man to a skidding halt. For a few steps Hal danced awkwardly with him, slithering in the clotted mud, then the man bored in, a great slack, foolish grin splitting the tangled hair of his face.
