She glanced about the marketplace and shook her head.
“Listen.” I beckoned her in closer, nodding sideways at the sturdy goodwife who was quite clearly whispering to her customer about me. “You said Mistress Blunt knows all the gossip there is to know in this town. I need to find out if all is well at St. Gregory’s with the old woman. I cannot explain, but it is important. Do you think you can find out somehow? But subtly. I only wish to be assured Meg is all right.”
Rebecca smiled.
“If anyone can find anything out, it is Mistress Blunt. I will see what I can do. Come back in a while.”
“Thank you. I will be forever in your debt.” I winked and the girl blushed violently. As I turned to leave, I caught Mistress Blunt’s eye and executed a deep bow, the bread clutched to my chest. She broke off her conversation with the goodwife and folded her arms across the vast ledge of her bosom.
“
“Do you say that to all your customers?” I indicated the loaves.
She pursed her lips.
“Don’t think I’m not wise to your game. If there’s one blessing to growing old, it’s that you’re no longer taken in by a handsome face. And you, silly chit of a girl,” she said, turning to Rebecca with the same sour expression, “ought to have better sense, making eyes like a calf at the man who’s supposed to have killed your own uncle.”
Pink spots flared in Rebecca’s cheeks.
“Well, I don’t believe he did, and neither will the judge. Signor Savolino has friends at court, is it not so?” She looked up at me, her face flushed and expectant.
“I don’t care if he’s friends with Queen Bess herself, he’s not hanging about my stall trying his luck while you’re supposed to be working for me, girl.”
“Alas, I cannot claim so grand a friendship, though I did see Her Majesty in person once, when I was invited to a concert at one of her royal palaces,” I said, casually looking away across the marketplace. “I am no expert in fashion, but I believe I have never seen a dress like it.”
“No! Did you really? In person? Was it French silk?” Mistress Blunt leaned forward, lips parted, her former severity entirely eclipsed by awe.
“The sleeves, I believe, but the bodice was cloth of gold, all embroidered with tiny seed pearls …”
She whistled, delighted, and I continued to embellish my description, making up details as best I could with Mistress Blunt hanging on my every word, nodding sagely, her hands clasped in delight as I elaborated on buttons, necklaces, lace collars, and anything else that came to mind, silently congratulating myself on having found a way to win her over. When there came a cry from behind me and her attention was distracted by something over my shoulder, I followed the direction of her gaze and saw that a scuffle had broken out in the little crowd around the fire juggler. A group of youths were jostling and shoving, and suddenly broke away to run down a side street. Left behind was another, younger boy, who stood white-faced, his hand clutched to his mouth. Through the bobbing heads I saw that it was the Widow Gray’s son.
I rushed across and pushed through the people gathered around him.
“What happened?”
The boy looked up, visibly distressed. His lip was bleeding and he seemed taken aback by the abruptness of my manner.
“My purse,” he said miserably, holding up his empty hands and nodding to where the gang of older boys had disappeared. I looked around at the rows of blank faces but saw no one stirring themselves to help the boy.
“Hold these,” I said, thrusting my loaves into his arms, and tore off down the alley. The thieves, who were no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, had not run far; I caught up with them at the corner of the next street. When they saw me running towards them they attempted to flee again, but I pursued the biggest of them, who held the purse in his hand. Some of his fellows broke away into the gaps between houses, but I followed him doggedly. Though he was tall, he was a stoutish boy and could not outrun me for long; I threw myself at his legs and brought him down hard on the wet cobbles. He tried to lash out but I fetched him a swift punch to the ribs that knocked the breath out of him and he stopped struggling. I did not want to draw my knife unless it was absolutely necessary; I had acquired enough of a reputation for violence in this town without threatening children.
“You have something there that doesn’t belong to you,” I said, kneeling hard on the small of his back.
“What’s it to you?” he puffed out through clenched teeth, his prize still clutched close beneath him.
I grabbed a handful of his hair and raised his head a little way off the ground.
“You will be glad of your teeth later in life, son—don’t make me smash them out for you one by one. Give me the purse.”
He hesitated, and I pulled his head back farther as if in readiness to thump it against the ground; with a cry of pain and fury he brought out the purse and smacked it into my palm.
“He’s a whey-faced priest’s bastard,” he said belligerently, as he struggled to his feet and brushed his clothes down.
“And you are a fat coward. But we are to believe that even you are made in God’s image.” I held the purse up and chinked it against my hand to see that he had not had time to empty it.
I could see him weighing up whether to lunge at me, so I fixed him with my fiercest stare and allowed my right hand to wander to the knife at my belt. He eyed it warily and appeared to decide his best course was to back slowly away.
“Spanish cunt!” he shouted, when he was safely at the corner of the street and poised to run.
“Half right. Italian,” I called back and made as if to pursue him again; he yelped and fled and I returned to the marketplace, smiling to myself.
The Widow Gray’s son was not smiling. He stood with his thin arms wrapped around my loaves as if his life depended on protecting them, a little apart from the crowd, none of whom seemed inclined to offer him any comfort. A few spots of blood had dripped from his cut lip onto his shirt. I felt a sudden stab of anger at these stolid, gossiping people: Would they hold off from taking care of a bleeding child because of the rumours they had sown about his mother’s virtue? Did they think they would find themselves somehow tainted? No wonder children could be dumped on rubbish heaps here without anyone turning a hair. The whispering intensified as I approached the boy and held out his purse. I allowed a defiant glare to roam around the onlookers; one by one, they lowered their eyes and turned away, murmuring among themselves.
“Come.” I put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and he flinched. “Let me take you home. Is all your money here?”
He opened the purse, scanned its contents and nodded, still without speaking.
“Which way?”
He pointed to the street that led away from the Buttermarket opposite the cathedral gate. I made to move in that direction but he held back, looking at me with the same dumb anxiety.
“Those boys will not bother you again while I am around,” I said gently.
He shook his head. “It’s not that. My mother will kill me.”
I smiled.
“I doubt that. She will be relieved to see that you and your money are safe, will she not?”
“I am not supposed to go out on my own,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “But she was occupied and I took her purse.” He hung his head, contrite. “I only wanted to see the fire-eater and eat a pie, like the other boys are allowed to.”
I glanced sideways at him as we began to walk in the direction he had indicated, the low hum of the marketplace talk following at our back. He was a tall boy for his age, but slight, with prominent cheekbones and solemn grey eyes.
“What is your name?” I asked presently, as he pointed to the turning into another lane.
“Matthias.”
“Well, Matthias, I am Filippo. Was the fire-eater worth the trouble?”
“Oh, yes!” He turned to me then as if seeing me for the first time, his expression alight with pleasure. “He juggles with flaming torches and he never misses once—have you seen? And after, he swallows the flames without burning his tongue—I wish I knew how he did it.”
“It is an old trick and takes years of practice. Don’t try it at home, eh.”
