Speaks the Nightbird

mouth pucker and the throat clench. Matthew's eyes watered and Woodward was sure he felt prickles of sweat under his wig. Even so, they both got a swallow down.

'I get that ale from the Indians.' Shawcombe wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'They call it a word means 'snakebite.''

'I feel soundly bitten,' Woodward said.

'Second swaller's not so bad. Once you get halfway done, you'll be a lion or a lamb.' Shawcombe took another drink and sloshed the liquor around in his mouth. He propped his feet up on the table beside them and leaned back in his chair. 'You don't mind me askin', what business do you have in Fount Royal?'

'It's a legal matter,' Woodward answered. 'I'm a magistrate.'

'Ahhhhhh.' Shawcombe nodded as if he understood perfectly. 'Both of you wear the robes?'

'No, Matthew is my clerk.'

'It's to do with the trouble there, am I right?'

'It is a matter of some concern, yes,' Woodward said, not knowing how much this man knew about the events in Fount Royal, and unwilling to give him any more rope with which to bundle a tale for other travellers.

'Oh, I know the particulars,' Shawcombe said. 'Ain't no secret. Message riders been back and forth through here for the last couple a' months, they gimme the story. Tell me this, then: you gonna hang her, burn her, or cut her head off?'

'Firstly, the accusations against her must be proven. Secondly, execution is not one of my duties.'

'But you'll be passin' the sentence, won't you? C'mon! What'll it be?'

Woodward decided the only way to get him off this route was to run the distance. 'If she's found guilty, the penalty is hanging.'

'Pah!' Shawcombe waved a disapproving hand. 'If it was up to my quirt, I'd cut her head off and burn her to boot! Then I'd take them ashes and throw 'em in the ocean! They can't stand salt water, y'know.' He tilted his head toward the hearth and hollered, 'Hey, there! We're waitin' for our suppers!'

Maude snapped something at him that sprayed an arc of spittle from her mouth, and he yelled, 'Get on with it, then!' Another swig of rum went down his hatch. 'Well,' he said to his guests' silence, 'this here's how I see it: they ought to shut Fount Royal down, set fire to everything there, and call it quits. Once the Devil gets in a place, ain't no remedy but the flames. You can hang her or whatever you please, but the Devil's took root in Fount Royal now, and there ain't no savin' it.'

'I think that's an extreme position,' Woodward said. 'Other towns have had similar problems, and they survived—and have flourished—once the situation was corrected.'

'Well,Iwouldn't want to live in Fount Royal, or any other place where the Devil's been walkin' 'round town like he's made hisself at home! Life's damn hard enough as it is. I don't want conjures bein' put on me while I'm sleepin'!' He grunted to emphasize his point. 'Yessir, you talk pretty, but I'll wager you wouldn't care to turn down an alley and see ol' Scratch waitin' in the dark! So my advice to you, sir—lowly tavern-keeper that I am—is to cut the head off that Devil's whore and order the whole town burnt to the ground.'

'I will not pretend that I know any answers to mysteries—holy or unholy,' the magistrate said evenly, 'but I do know the situation in Fount Royal is precarious.'

'And damn dangerous too.' Shawcombe started to say something else, but his open mouth expelled no words; it was obvious to Woodward and Matthew that his attention, made imprecise by strong drink, had been diverted from the matter of Fount Royal. He was admiring the gold-threaded waistcoat once more. 'I swear, that's a fine piece a' work,' he said, and dared to run his grimy fingers over the material again. 'Where'd you get that? New York?'

'It . . . was a present from my wife. In London.'

'I was married once'st. And once'st was enough.' He gave a gruff, humorless laugh. His fingers continued to caress the fabric, much to Woodward's discomfort. 'Your wife is in Charles Town?'

'No.' Woodward's voice had thickened. 'My wife ... remains in London.'

'Mine's at the bottom of the bloody Atlantic. She died on the passage, shit herself to death. They rolled her up and rolled her over. Y'know, a waistc't like this . . . how much is somethin' like this worth?'

'More than any man should have to pay,' Woodward said, and then he pointedly moved his chair a few inches away from Shawcombe and left the tavern-keeper's fingers groping the air.

'Clear room! Watchyer elbows, there!' Maude slapped two wooden bowls, both filled with a murky brown stew, onto the table in front of Shawcombe and the magistrate. Matthew's bowl was brought by the girl, who set it down and quickly turned away to retreat to the hearth again. As she did, her clothes brushed his arm and the wind of her passage brought a strong scent to Matthew's nostrils: the scent of an unwashed body, yes, but another odor that overpowered the first. It was musky and sweetly sour, a compelling pungency, and it hit him like a fist to the chest that it was the aroma of her private region.

Shawcombe inhaled deeply, with a raucous noise. He looked at Matthew, whose eyes had widened slightly and were still tracking the girl. 'Hey, there!' Shawcombe barked. 'What're you gawkin' at?'

'Nothing.' Matthew averted his gaze to the stew bowl.

'Uh huh.'

The girl returned, bringing with her their wooden spoons. Once more her skirt brushed his arm, and he moved it with a twitch as if his elbow had been hornet-stung. That smell wafted to his nostrils. His heart was beating very hard. He picked up his spoon and realized his palm was damp. Then he realized Shawcombe was staring intensely at him, reading him like a broadsheet.

Shawcombe's eyes glittered in the candlelight. He wet his lips before he spoke. 'She's a fair piece, do y'think?'

'Sir?'

Shawcombe smiled slightly, a mean and mocking smile. 'A fair piece,' he repeated. 'You fancy a look at her oyster basket?'

'Mr. Shawcombe!' Woodward grasped the situation, and it was not acceptable to him. 'If you don't mind —'

'Oh, you both can have a go at her, if you please. Won't cost you but a guinea for the two of you.'

'Certainly not!' Woodward's cheeks had flamed. 'I told you, I'm a married man!'

'Yeah, but she's in London, ain't she? Don't mean to tell me you got her name tattooed on your cock now, do you?'

If the storm had not been raging outside, if the horses had not been in the barn, if there were anywhere else in the world to spend this night, Woodward might've gotten to his feet with all the dignity he could summon and bade farewell to this coarse-minded lout. What he really wanted to do, deep in his soul, was to strike an open- handed blow across Shawcombe's leering face. But he was a gentleman, and gentlemen did no such things. Instead, he forced down his anger and disgust like a bucketful of bile and said tersely, 'Sir, I am faithful to my wife. I would appreciate your understanding of that fact.'

Shawcombe replied by spitting on the floor. He riveted his attention on the younger man again. 'Well, how 'bout you then? You care for a toss? Say ten shillin's?'

'I ... I mean to say—' Matthew looked to Woodward for help, because in truth he didn't know what he meant to say.

'Sir,' Woodward said, 'you force us into a difficult position. The young man . . . has lived in an almshouse for much of his life. That is . . .' He frowned, deciding how to phrase the next thing. 'What you must realize is . . . his experience is very limited. He hasn't yet partaken of-—'

'Great sufferin' mother!' Shawcombe broke in. 'You mean he ain't never been fucked?'

'Well... as I say, his experience hasn't yet led him to—'

'Oh, quit that foamin' at the mouth! He's a fuckin' virgin, is that what you're tellin' me?'

'I believe your way of expressing that is a contradiction of terms, sir, but . . . yes, that's what I'm telling you.'

Shawcombe whistled with amazement, and the way he regarded Matthew made the younger man blush blood-red. 'I ain't never met one of your breed before, sonny! Damn my ears if I ever heard such a thing! How old are you?'