Twisted: The Collected Stories (23 page)

“I pray thee, sir, madam, a minute of thy time.”

A beggar only, Charles assumed. But they often turned dangerous if you did not come forth with coin. Charles drew a long dagger from his belt and stood between his wife and this man.

“Ah, no need for pig-sticking,” the man said, nodding at the dagger. “This pig is not himself armed.” He held up empty hands. “Not armed with a bodkin, that is to say. Only with the truth.”

He was a strange sack of a creature. Eyes sunken in his skull, jaundiced skin hanging upon his body. It was clear that some years ago a whore or loose woman had bestowed upon him the bone-ache, and the disease was about to work its final misery upon
him; the doublet, which Charles had assumed to be stolen from a fatter man, undoubtedly was his own and hung loose because of recent emaciation.

“Who art thou?” Charles demanded.

“I am one of those to whom thou owe this evening’s play-going, to whom thou owe thy profession as a bestower of the grape’s nectar, to whom thou owe thy life in this fine city.” The man inhaled air that was as sulfurous and foul as always in these industrial suburbs, then spat upon the cobblestones.

“Explain thyself and why thou have been dogging me or, faith, sir, I shall levy a hue and cry for the sheriff.”

“No need for that, young Cooper.”

“Thou know me?”

“Indeed, sir. I know thee too well.” The man’s yellow eyes grew troubled. “Let me be forthright and speak no more in riddles. My name is Marr. I have lived a life of a rogue and I would have been content to die a rogue’s death. But a fortnight ago the Lord our God did appear to me in a dream and admonish me to make amends for my sins in life, lest I be denied entrance to the glorious court of Heaven. In truth, sir, I warrant that I should need
two
lifetimes to make such amends, when I have merely a fraction of one left, so I have but chosen the most worrisome deed I have committed and have sought out he whom I have wronged the worst.”

Charles looked over the puny man and put the dagger away. “And how hast thou wronged me?”

“As I said before, it is I—and several of my comrades, now all gone to the plague and infesting hell, I warrant—who be responsible for ending thy idyllic
life in the countryside near Stratford and coming to this mischievous city so many years ago.”

“Howbeit that this is so?”

“I pray thee, sir, tell me what great tragedy befell thy life?”

Charles did not need a moment to reflect. “My loving father taken from us and our lands forfeited.”

Fifteen years ago, it was claimed by the sheriff near Stratford that Richard Cooper was caught poaching deer on the property of Lord Westcott, Baron of Habershire. When the sheriff’s bailiffs tried to arrest him he launched an arrow their way. The bailiffs gave chase and, after a struggle, stabbed and killed him. Richard Cooper was a landed gentleman with no need to poach deer and it was widely believed that the incident was a tragic misunderstanding. Still, a local court—sympathetic to the noble class—decreed that the family’s land be forfeited to Westcott, who sold it for considerable profit. The rogue would not give so much as a tuppence to Charles’s mother, who died soon after from grief. Eighteen-year-old Charles, the only child, had no choice but to walk to London to seek his fortune. He worked labor for some years, then apprenticed to the vintner’s trade, became a member of the guild and over the years turned his thoughts away from the tragedy.

Marr wiped his unpleasant mouth, revealing as few teeth as a puking babe, and said, “I knew well that this would be thy answer.” He looked about and whispered, “Faith, sir, I have intelligence about what truly happened that sad day.”

“Continue,” Charles commanded.

“Westcott was as many nobles then and now,” Marr said. “His life was lived far beyond his means and he found himself increasingly in debt.”

This was well known to anyone who read the Fleet Street pamphlets or listened to gossip in the taverns. Many of the nobles were selling off their goods and portions of their estates to meet the costs of their extravagant lifestyles.

“There came to Westcott an ignoble scoundrel named Robert Murtaugh.”

“I know the name,” Margaret said. “For reasons I cannot recall, there be an unsavory association accompanying it.”

“Faith, good lady, I warrant that is so. Murtaugh is a peer of the realm, but a lowly knight, an office he himself did purchase. He hath made an enterprise of seeking out nobles deep in debt. He then arranges various schemes whereby they come into lands or property through illicit means. He himself takes a generous percentage of their gain.”

Charles whispered in horror, “And my father was a victim of such a scheme?”

“Faith, sir, he was. It was I and those other scoundrels I made mention of who waylaid him on his own land and conveyed him, bound, to Lord Westcott’s fields. There, by prior arrangement, the sheriff’s bailiffs did arrive and kill him. A dead hart and a bow and quiver were set next to his cold body to testify, by appearance, that he had been poaching.”

“Thy father, murdered,” Margaret whispered.

“O merciful Lord in heaven,” Charles said, his eyes burning with hatred. He drew his bodkin once
more and pressed the blade against Marr’s neck. The rogue moved not an inch.

“No, husband, thou cannot. Please.” Margaret took his arm.

The man said, “Verily, sir, I did not know the bailiffs had murder in mind. I thought they be merely intent on extracting a bribe from thy father for his release, as such rustic lawmen are wont to do. No one was more shocked than I by the deadly turn the events that day took. But I am nonetheless as guilty of this heinous crime as they, and I will not beg for mercy. If God moves thy hand to slit my throat in retribution for what I have done, so be it.”

The memory of that terrible night flooded through him—the sheriff’s ignominiously carting the body to the house, his mother’s wailing in grief, then the long days after: his mother’s decline, the poverty, the struggle to start a new life in the unforgiving city of London. And yet Charles found his hand unable to harm this pitiful creature. Slowly he lowered the dagger and replaced it in the scabbard on his girdle. He studied Marr closely. He saw such penitence in the man’s face that it seemed he had spoken truly. Still, he asked, “If Murtaugh be as thou say, then many would have cause to despise him. How know I that thou art not merely one of those aggrieved by him and have spun this tale to—as thy very name suggests—mar his reputation?”

“By God’s body, sir, I speak the truth. Of bitterness against Sir Murtaugh I have none, for it was my choice to corrupt my soul with the foul deed I have revealed to thee. Yet thy jaundiced view of my motives
I do comprehend and can offer unto thee a token of proof.”

Marr took from his pocket a golden ring and placed it in Charles’s hand.

The vintner gasped. “It is my father’s signet ring. See, Margaret, see his reversed initials? I remember I would sit with him some evenings and watch him press this ring into hot wax red as a rose to seal his correspondence.”

“I took this as part recompense for our efforts; my comrades partook of the coinage in thy father’s purse. I oft thought: Had I taken and spent his money, as did they, thus disposing of the mementos of our deed, perhaps then the guilt would not have burned me like smelter’s coals all these years, as hath this tiny piece of gold. But now I am glad I kept it, for I can at least return it to its rightful owner, before I cast away my mortal sheath.”

“My father, not I, be the rightful owner,” Charles muttered darkly. He closed his hand tightly around the ring. He leaned against the stone wall beside him and shook with rage and sorrow. A moment later he felt his wife’s hand upon his. The fierce pressure with which he gripped the ring subsided.

Margaret said to him, “We must to the courts. Westcott and Murtaugh will feel the lash of justice upon them.”

“Faith, madam, that cannot be. Lord Westcott is dead these five years. And his brigand son after him hath spent every pence of the inheritance. The land is gone to the Crown for taxes.”

“What of Murtaugh?” Charles asked. “He lives still?”

“Oh, yes, sir. But though he is well and keeps quarters in London, he is further from the reach of justice than Lord Westcott in heaven. For Sir Murtaugh is much in favor with the duke and others highly placed at Court. Many have availed themselves of the villain’s services to diminish their debt. The judges at Queen’s Bench will not even hear thy claim and, in truth, thou will put thy freedom, indeed thy life, in jeopardy to bring these charges into the open. My desire this night was not to set thy course on a reckless journey of revenge, sir. I intend merely to make amends to one I have wronged.”

He gazed at Marr for a moment and then said, “Thou art an evil man and though I am a good Christian, I cannot find it in my heart to forgive thee. Still, I will pray for thy soul. Perhaps God will be more lenient than I. Now, get thee gone. I swear that should ever thou cross my path again, my bodkin hand will not be stayed from its visit to thy throat and thou shall find thyself pleading thy case in the holy court of heaven far sooner than thou didst intend.”

“Yes, good sir. So shall it be.”

Charles’s attention turned momentarily to the ring so that he might place it on his finger. When he looked up once more, the alleyway was empty; the ruffian had vanished silently into the night.

Near candle-lighting the next day Charles Cooper closed his wares house and repaired to the home of his friend, Hal Pepper, a man near to Charles’s age but of better means, having inherited several apartments
in a pleasant area of the city, which he let out for good profit.

Joining them was a large man of deliberate movement and speech. His true name was lost in the annals of his own history and everyone knew him only as Stout, the words not referring to his girth—significant though that be—but to his affection for black ale. He and Charles had met some years ago because the vintner bought Stout’s wares; the man made and sold barrels and he often joked that he was a cooper by trade while Charles was a Cooper by birth.

The three had become close comrades, held together by common interests—cards and taverns and, particularly, the love of theater; they often ferried south of the Thames to see plays at the Swan, the Rose or the Globe. Pepper also had occasional business dealings with James Burbage, who had built many of the theaters in London. For his part, Charles harbored not-so-secret desires to be a player. Stout had no connection with the theater other than a childlike fascination with plays, which he seemed to believe were his portal to the world outside working-class London. As he would plane the staves of his barrels and pound the red-hot hoops with a smithy’s hammer he would recite lines from the latest works of Shakespeare or Jonson or from the classics of the late Kyd and Marlowe, much in vogue of late. These words he had memorized from the performance, not the printed page; he was a poor reader.

Charles now told them the story that Marr had related to him. The friends reeled at the news of the death of Richard Cooper. They began to question
Charles but he brought all conversing to a halt by saying, “He who committed this terrible deed shall die by my hand, I am determined.”

“But,” Stout said, “if thou kill Murtaugh, suspicion will doubtless fall immediately upon thee, as one aggrieved by his foul deeds against thy father.”

“I think not,” Charles replied. “It was Lord Westcott who stole my father’s land. Murtaugh was merely a facilitator. No, I warrant that this brigand hath connived so much from so many that surely to examine all those with reason to kill him would keep the constable busy for a year. I believe I can have my revenge and escape with my life.”

Hal Pepper, who being of means and thus knowledgeable in the ways of the Court, said, “Thou know not what thou say. Murtaugh hath highly placed friends who will not enjoy his loss. Corruption is a hydra, a many-headed creature. Thou may cut off one head, but another will poison thee before the first grow back—as it surely will.”

“I care not.”

Stout said, “But doth thy
wife
care? I warrant thee, friend, she doth very truly. Would thy
children
care if their father be drawn and quartered?”

Charles nodded at a fencing foil above Hal’s fireplace. “I could meet Murtaugh in a duel.”

Hal replied, “He is an expert swordsman.”

“I may still win. I am younger, perchance stronger.”

“Even if thou best him, what then? A hobnob with the jury at the Queen’s Bench and, after, a visit to the executioner.” Hal waved his arm in disgust. “Pox . . . at best thou would end up like Jonson.”

Ben Jonson, the actor and playwright, had killed
a man in a duel several years ago and barely escaped execution. He saved himself only by reciting the neck verse—Psalm 50, verse 1—and pleading the benefit of clergy. But his punishment was hard: to be branded with a hot iron.

“I will find some way to kill Murtaugh.”

Hal persisted in his dissuasion. “But what advantage can his death gain thee?”

“It can gain me justice.”

Hal’s face curled into an ironic smile. “Justice in London town? That be like the fabled unicorn, of which everyone speaks but no one can find.”