Martyr

I recall. Not one of Cogg’s easier undertakings. A long-muzzled gun with a barrel exactly two feet eight inches, using a strange firing mechanism: a snaphaunce lock, I think… Is that a Hollandish word, sir? You do sound a little Hollandish, if I might say so. I believe there is a bit of common or garden flint in the gun’s cock, which sounds strange to me, but if that’s what you want. Most clients want wheel-lock pistols, sir, gold-damascened and small as you like to proudly display at the waist

… or to conceal up a sleeve.

So you have it?

Cogg doesn’t fail, sir. You said you wanted the barrel rifled, fine rifled. And provision of a fine powder, using good willow coals, the best I could discover in all of England. There were to be twenty-four balls so crafted that they would be a perfect fit for the barrel. Would that be the sum of your requirements, Mr. Herrick?

Let me see it.

Cogg raised a hand, a bulbous white thing with five protuberances like outsized maggots. Mr. Herrick. I have, indeed, had the gun made. By a gentleman called Mr. Opel, a Germanic living here in England. He told me he had never made such a fine weapon. Reckoned it could kill at a hundred and fifty yards. Said he had never heard of a gun that could find its target at more than fifty yards. So this gun, Mr. Herrick, what would it be for killing? A deer? A man? It is a very curious shape, to be sure, and sadly lacking in ornamentation.

Herrick’s eyes pierced Cogg’s. His voice lowered but did not soften. I was told you didn’t ask questions.

Cogg raised his hand again, this time defensively. My apologies, Mr. Herrick. I meant no offense. The use of the gun is entirely your concern. But it is such a remarkable piece, sir, that I would like to know about it. Maybe there is a market for such articles? Would gentlemen want such a weapon for hunting? Tarry, Mr. Herrick, sir. Take some Spanish wine so we can talk a while and drink to the Spanish King’s death.

In a movement of elegance and speed, Herrick went forward and his hand was at Cogg’s fat neck, crushing his windpipe. Cogg writhed but the grip was like an iron vise. Then, as suddenly as the assault began, Herrick released Cogg.

I do not want your wine, I do not want to talk with you. Bring me the gun, for which a price has been agreed.

Cogg sat down heavily on a low crate and fought to regain his breath. For a moment he had thought he would die, so powerful was the hand that held him. Gilbert Cogg retained much of the strength he had as a young man, but this stranger’s power was of a different order. His common sense told him that Herrick could kill him with casual ease and that he would do well to hand over the gun at the price agreed. But his instinct told him never to pass up an opportunity to make ready money. And now in this game of cards with Herrick, he held the kings, because he had the gun still, and Herrick would be pressed to find it without him.

Remind me, Mr. Herrick, he said, his voice rasping from the assault on his throat. What was the agreed price?

Nine marks, Cogg, as well you know.

In gold?

In gold. Four sovereign coins.

Cogg knew he should stop now, take the money offered. There was a good profit in it already: three marks for him, six for Opel. And yet he could not stop. He knew this weapon was worth far more to Herrick than nine marks. It was one of a kind.

Mr. Herrick, this weapon has cost me far more than anticipated. My man Opel has worked long hours to a standard never before seen in the gunmaker’s art, using new methods to meet your requirements. I have had to pay him more than double the fee we did agree.

Herrick smiled then. How much, Cogg? How much will it take for you to be silent and for me to walk out of this room with no more cheapening?

Cogg’s mouth wrinkled, his shoulders wobbled. At last he spoke, in his most reasonable voice. Can we say thirty marks, sir?

And that is your last demand?

Cogg rubbed his pudgy hands together. My very last.

Without another word, Herrick took the purse from his belt and counted out thirteen gold sovereigns and two crowns. Cogg took the coins. The gold glinted at him from his white palm. He looked up at Herrick. And now, if you will excuse me, sir, I require privacy while I retrieve your piece for you. I’m sure you understand.

Herrick shook his head. No. Get it now.

Cogg hesitated a moment too long. Herrick’s hand shot forward and slammed the fat man’s head down hard onto the top of a large cask, then, with his right hand clasped on the nape of his neck, he pulled Cogg’s left arm up by the wrist. Where is it?

Cogg grunted as if he were trying to speak. But the words, if there were any, were too indistinct for Herrick to make out. In a single motion, Herrick snapped back Cogg’s wrist. There was an audible crack as the bone shattered. Cogg screamed.

Herrick pulled his head off the cask and rammed his gloved fist into the screaming mouth to silence it. Blood spattered from Cogg’s loosened teeth down his unkempt beard. Herrick had his dagger out now, clasped in his left hand. Blood from Cogg’s mouth dripped over its black bone handle. The dagger was thin with a point like a needle. He held it to Cogg’s right eye, the tip touching the black center. Another sound, except for the words I want to hear, and I will prick out this eye, Mr. Cogg.

Cogg knew now that he was going to die, but the thought of his eye being pricked and the fluids therein bursting forth was too much to bear. I’ll get it, right away, Mr. Herrick.

Herrick released him. Cogg’s hand hung loose from his arm, the bone protruding through the skin and flesh at the wrist at an unspeakable angle. Like a bullock at the slaughter, he stumbled through the boxes and barrels, falling over them in his haste.

The weapon was concealed beneath floorboards near the back of the house by a door that gave out onto a small courtyard where chickens clucked and pecked. With his one working hand and a jimmy, Cogg prized up the loose boards and brought the weapon out. It was in two parts, a plain thing, wrapped in jute sackcloth that did no credit to its fine craftsmanship. His fingers trembled as he lifted the gun. It was heavy and difficult to balance with just one hand. He turned. Herrick stood infront of him, the thin dagger loose in his right hand. He slid it into its sheath and gently took the gun from Cogg. The sacking was tied at both ends with coarse string, which he quickly slipped off.

The gun did not look much like a gun. One part was a bare wooden stock, triangular but curved on the shortest of the three sides. The stock had two joiners’ hooks to attach it to the front of the weapon, a dark metal barrel, and the snaphaunce mechanism. Herrick clicked the two pieces together, then examined it closely, turning it this way and that, peering down the muzzle, testing the lock and pan cover, cocking the hammer and letting it fall against the frizzen. The action was smooth. At last he looked up. Where are the balls and powder?

Cogg saw his last chance. I kept them separate, Mr. Herrick. They are at the front in an old cabinet where I keep smaller things.

Remember your eyes. Nor will I stop with the pricking out of your eyes. I will slice off your pizzle and stones and you will go to your death a girl if you make just one little error.

Cogg shuddered, but there was one thing he had to try. Herrick dismantled the gun and replaced it in its sacking. He followed Cogg through to the front room. It had a ware-bench, like a shop, and behind it a tall wooden dresser with cupboard doors at the top and little drawers below. The pain in Cogg’s broken left wrist was almost beyond enduring. As he pulled open one of the cabinet doors with his good hand, the packages were revealed on a shelf: the black powder wrapped in a large purse of leather, the balls in a bag of jute cloth. As he picked up the balls and powder he turned and threw them into Herrick’s face, then launched himself at him in a last desperate effort to survive, as hopeless as a chicken running from the farmwife’s blade.

Starling Day stopped halfway down Cow Lane. She knew now that Cogg would take her on as one of his whores, so why did she have to wait another night to hear it? Why couldn’t she do a deal with him today and start work immediately? She needed the money badly, for she wanted clothes and food. She also had debts, for which she would suffer if she did not repay them by the week’s end. She had learned about Cogg from her cousin Alice, who was already whoring at his bawdy house by the Bel Savage.

At first Alice had not been pleased to see Starling; she was less than a year older and they had played together as children, swimming in the stream in the summer and stealing coal from the slack tip when winter froze