Fair Blows the Wind (1978) (23 page)

"You are younger than I expected," he ventured, frowning a little. "You're little more than a boy."

"Age is ever an indefinite thing," I said, "and perhaps the poorest way to estimate or judge ... except in wine, and even there one finds exceptions."

He had done me a favor once, and I was disposed to do one now for him--if the situation permitted. I could not forget that moment at the inn when he had spoken for me and prevented my being cheated. Yet he would have no reason to remember a tired, lonely, and rather untidy boy.

"Yes," he mused, "much younger than I expected."

"I have never been older," I commented. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips, a wry smile. He tasted the Madeira and I did likewise. It was excellent. My father would have approved.

"You have written some pieces," he said. "You seem to know much of cheating."

My expression did not change. "I observe," I replied. "I do not participate."

"I see. And where does one acquire such knowledge? Much of what you wrote in theDamber piece was strange to me."

"There is always something to be learned," I said, and waited. What did he want? Why was I here? The man was obviously a gentleman, a man of means.

"You have lately written a piece about a kind of ringleader of thieves."

"I have."

"How did you secure that information?"

"It is quite commonly known about London," 1 replied, "and I listen well."

He stared at me for a moment, not liking my reply. "Yet you seemed to have some personal knowledge of this ... man."

"We had a brief encounter."

"And you are still alive ..."

"It was an indecisive battle. However, as you suggest, Iam alive."

He frowned and seemed to be wondering just how to proceed. My obvious youth had surprised him, also the fact that I was of gentle birth. He had not yet succeeded in placing me and I had a feeling he was one who liked to put things--and people--into their proper niches.

"Having written such a piece, I am surprised you are alive, if this man has the power you suggest."

There seemed no appropriate comment for that, and I let it pass, yet I was puzzled. Who was this man? What did he want with me? Was he a friend of Leckenbie? An enemy? Or did he think my writing might be used in composing a broadside of some kind for him? Many such were written and passed out in the streets to advance one cause or another, for there was no other means of getting information about except by gossip.

He sipped his wine and after a bit, he said, "This is your means to a living?"

"It contributes," I replied.

"I do not seem to place you," he muttered. "You are not from London, nor Lancashire nor Yorkshire..."

"I am from the Hebrides," I replied, not wishing him to get around to thinking of Ireland.

"The Hebrides?" He spoke as if it were the end of the earth, which no doubt it seemed to him. "I did not think there were gentry there."

"The MacLeods and the MacDonalds would not like to hear you say so."

"Ah, yes, of course."

He finished his glass and put it down. I retained at least half of mine, for even Madeira can be heady, and I wished to be thinking clearly.

He was puzzled by me. A man accustomed to command, he was now uncertain of how to proceed. I was enjoying myself. The atmosphere was pleasant, the room warm, and I liked the candlelight on the backs of the books.

Suddenly he said, "You would like a bit of supper? It grows late and I have not dined."

"I should, indeed."

Some unseen signal brought John again, and when he departed, my host seemed to relax somewhat. He had not offered a name nor had anything been said of mine, although obviously he knew it.

"I would assume," he said after a moment, "that Leckenbie was irritated by your piece?"

Did he know that I had encountered Leckenbie since? I decided he did not, and merely shrugged.

"If I were you," he continued, "I would avoid him in the future. You seem an intelligent young man, obviously an able one. There is no reason to run such risks."

I sipped my wine, and made no reply
. W
hat did he want?

"Such stories could destroy the man."

"Or make him even larger."

He glanced at me sharply. "Did he pay you to write the piece? Was that his intention?"

"He did not pay me, and I do not know his intentions, except ..."

"Except?"

"Does not every man wish to grow larger? To improve his lot? I have heard rumors that since the piece was published some of his enemies have yielded and come over to his side."

He changed the subject and began to talk casually about troubles with Spain. I listened, offering no comment. He seemed to be merely thinking aloud but I had a suspicion he was trying to lead me into some comment that would give him a hint or two about me. For some reason I disturbed him and offended his sense of order.

Why was he interested? How had I disturbed him?

And then, like a sudden shaft of light into a darkened room, it came to me.

He--this man here--must be Rafe Leckenbie's protector!

Many men in high places, or climbing to high places, had utilized the services of such. It would be very convenient to have thieves at one's beck and call, to steal papers, to frighten, to murder.

Now, at least, I had a theory, an inkling of whatmight be the truth. He needed Leckenbie, and I therefore represented a threat. Or perhaps he felt Leckenbie was growing too independent and he wished to know more...

John entered with a tray bearing two plates of cold meat, cheese, and bread, and two glasses of wine. One plate, one glass, were placed before me, the others before my host.

Suddenly of one thing I was sure. I was not going to drink that wine.

My host lifted his glass. "Your health!" he said, cheerfully enough. I picked up the remnants of my malmsey and drank, then put the glass down. There was some irritation in his glance as he watched me but he said nothing. I made up my mind to leave as soon as chance offered.

This man I did not like, despite the fact that he had befriended me long since. What was on his mind I did not know but I suspected he wanted to see what might be among my clothes, and if I had any message that would tell him more of me or what I was about.

"I have come at your summons," I said at last. "I do not know what you wish. I thank you for the food, but I shall be going now."

"Sit," he spoke sharply, commanding me. "You have written a piece about Rafe Leckenbie. I believe that you conspire with him, but whatever you do, I wish no more of this."

At a stir behind me, I arose so that none could come at my back. "I have nothing to do with Leckenbie or any other. I am my own man," said I. Then I thought to warn him off. "Although I have friends enough who wish me well. I shall write what I please."

"He will see you dead!"

I laughed. "Once he has tried to kill me, and several times he has promised it. Think you that another warning will matter?"

My hand rested on my sword. "I bear you no ill will, whoever you are, or whatever you do. I shall go now. Do not send for me again."

"You do not trust me?" he asked, smiling.

"I will trust you," I said, "if you will drink that wine."

His eyes were not pleasant to see. "That wine? I drank my wine. I want no more. What has wine to do with it?"

"Then let your man drink it."

"There is no need for that," my host protested.

"Very well then. I shall go." Then I spoke to John, who barred the door. "Do you stand aside."

John made no move. "He seems a good, trusting man, this John of yours." I spoke quietly. "If you wish not to lose him, have him stand aside."

"Bother him," said John. "Let him come at me."

"I do not wish to kill your man," I said, "but I fought more than half an hour with Leckenbie."

John looked at his master.

"Stand aside then, John," said the man. "This can be done another time."

John stood aside, and I walked past him, ready to turn upon them if need be, but neither moved. When I was outside upon the dark street I ran a dozen steps quickly and dodged into a lane. Within minutes I was far away, still puzzling over it all but sure of one thing. The man was somehow allied to Leckenbie, and probably his protector.

If I had enemies I wished to know them and from what corner they might strike. So it behooved me well that I find out this man, and know his name and strength.

Tosti Padget was nowhere about when I entered the inn, but Jacob Binns was. I went to him at once and recounted my experiences. Binns himself had changed. He had filled out somewhat, his eyes were clearer, and for all his years, he was much more agile. He was rested now, of course, and eating with more regularity.

He listened without question until my story was complete, then asked several questions. Finally he said, "I know the man."

"There is always," he began, "a struggle for power, for a place close to the center. In England Queen Elizabeth is the power, make no mistake about it. There are some who believe it is this minister or that, or some favorite or would-be favorite, but such is not the case. The good Queen Bess has things very much in hand. Any who wish to use her had best examine their position with care.

"There is much pulling and pushing for power. There are some who believe that no woman can be strong, that if close enough they could manage her. They delude themselves. She is an uncommonly shrewd woman.

"The man we speak of is one of those reaching for power. Leckenbie is a convenient tool. Four persons who would have blocked that man's reach for the throne have had accidents. One, a woman, was struck by a horse racing through a lane and killed. A man fell into the Thames and drowned. At least two others have been killed in duels."

"Duels?"

"Aye, this man of whom we speak has several swordsmen who are in his pay or who owe him service. One of these is a Captain Charles Tankard. He has killed five men in duels in England, another one or two in France and Italy. He is a skilled swordsman."

"Better than Leckenbie?"

"Who knows? They have not fought, nor met each other, I think, although they serve the same master."

He changed the subject suddenly. "You spoke once of wishing to make a small venture in trade. Are you still of such a mind?"

"I am."

"There is a vessel being prepared for a trading voyage to the north coast of America. They are not looking for gold but for something more simple. They seek to trade for furs and will bring back a few ship's timbers, also. The master is a solid man, the vessel a good one."

"I have only a few pounds."

"It is a start."

"Very well. Whom do I see?"

He wrote a name on a slip of paper. "This woman."

"Woman?"

"Aye, lad, and a shrewd one she is. Her husband was a ship's captain who set himself up in trade, and when he passed on, becoming ill after a surfeit of pickled herring and Rhenish wine, she took up the trade herself. Go to her. She has a number of small ventures and will take yours. I have spoken to her."

"Her name?"

"Delahay. Emma Delahay."

It was not until after I left that I realized I had not learned the name of the white-haired man.

Emma Delahay lived in Southwark and had a place of business there. She was a handsome woman of perhaps forty years, with large dark eyes and a lovely skin.

At a desk near her sat a man whom she presented as Mr. Digby, who was her keeper of accounts, runner, and general helper. He was a small man with a dry, wrinkled skin and bright, birdlike eyes.

She gave me a receipt for my money, and when I commented that two pounds was very little, she shrugged. "I know some who are now rich who began with less." She looked at me thoughtfully. "You are young. Would you consider going upon a venture yourself?"

"Not at present, but I have given thought to it."

"Give more," she said. She was studying me as we talked. "You did the piece on Leckenbie, did you not?"

"And some others."

"It was good. We have had no trouble of him yet, but it will come."

"Delahay," I said. "It is an uncommon name."

Her features bore no expression, but her eyes were cool. "So is Chantry." She frowned suddenly. "I have heard the name but once ... it was something told me by my husband." She continued to frown, trying to remember. "Ah, yes! I do recall! It was something about a man lost at sea, some inquiries about him. But," she gestured, "that was long ago."

When I returned to the inn, I learned that Jacob Binns had gone. In the months that followed I saw no more of him, nor of Rafe Leckenbie, although his name was spoken abroad now and again. All went quietly with me. I wrote several small pieces and attempted a play, which came to nothing.