‘What is it you want, bucko?’
‘You are Wormwood?’
‘I am. And who are you?’
‘Someone recommended you!’
‘For what?’ Wormwood’s hands went beneath the table as did those of his three companions.
Ranulf beamed at all of them. They looked what they were: footpads, cut-throats, men who would slit a baby’s throat for a groat. Unshaven faces, sly glittering eyes; Ranulf saw that one of them nursed a wound in his shoulder and knew that he had found his prey.
‘I want to hire you,’ Ranulf announced. ‘But first I’d like to gamble some of my gold.’
Wormwood’s hands, as did those of his companions, came back from under the table. Ranulf noticed the rags tied round their fingers and saw the lime stains. He knew how professional assassins had their own hallmark. Some would use the garrotte, others the crossbow, whilst these beauties used lime to blind their victim before striking with dagger and sword. Wormwood spread his rag-covered hands.
‘So, you wish to hire us but first you want to dice?’ He smirked at his companions. ‘Mother Fortune, my dear brothers, is smiling on us tonight. Landlord!’ he called out. ‘Bring a stool for our friend. A jug of your best wine and five cups! He’ll pay!’
The landlord hurried up but kept his face hidden as if he suspected what was to come. A stool was brought and the wine served. Wormwood shook the dice in the cup.
‘Come, Master, guests first!’
Ranulf shook the dice and threw a ten then passed the cup to the fellow sitting to his left. Each had their throw and, slurping their wine and shouting abuse, they all threw less than Ranulf. The dice cup came round again.
‘The best of three!’ Wormwood announced angrily. ‘And we’ll see the colour of your gold just in case you lose!’
Ranulf slipped a piece on to the table and his companions gazed greedily at it. Ranulf picked up the dice cup.
‘Strange!’ Wormwood exclaimed.
‘What is?’ Ranulf smiled back.
‘We have seen your gold but what are we gambling for?’
Ranulf put the cup back down on the table. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He smiled sweetly. ‘Your lives!’
Wormwood’s hands fell away but, before the rest could regain their wits, Ranulf leapt to his feet, kicking the stool behind him. The small crossbow concealed beneath his cloak was brought up and a barbed-edged quarrel hit Wormwood in the chest even before the footpad’s hand could reach his dagger. His companions were too slow or fuddled with drink. One sprang up and almost fell on Ranulf’s dagger. He backed away, screaming, his hands clutching the blood-spurting split in his belly. The other two fared no better, Ranulf, moving lithely, pushed the table with his boot, wedging one against the wall. He stepped back and drew his sword as another footpad, clutching his dagger and mouthing drunken curses, lurched towards him. Ranulf feinted, the man tottered by him then screamed in pain, crashing to the floor as Ranulf brought his sword back, slashing deep into the small of the man’s back. The fourth assassin, still jammed between table and wall, struggled to free himself. Ranulf picked the small sack from the belt tied to one of the fallen. He opened its neck, poured the lime into his hands then threw it into the seated man’s face. The fellow shot back, screaming, drumming his feet on the floor. Ranulf turned and stared round the now silent taproom.
‘Justice has been done!’ he bellowed. ‘Is there any man here who wishes words with me?’
No one answered. Ranulf plucked his dagger out of the dead assassin and edged towards the door. The only sound was the scraping of stools and the muttered curses of Wormwood’s remaining companion moaning for water. Ranulf slipped into the night and hurried back along the darkened alleyways to the riverside. There he cleaned his weapons, re-sheathed them and walked along the quayside to hire a wherry. He paid his coin and clambered in. As the oarsman pulled away, Ranulf gazed across the fast-flowing river. He felt no scruples about what he had done. Those men had attacked him for no cause except they had been hired by the Fitzwarren bitch. They had almost killed him and his master and caused God knows what damage to poor Maltote’s eyes. Ranulf leaned back in the stern. When the time was right, he would tell Corbett what he had done. Ranulf thought of the Lady Mary Neville and smiled. Perhaps it was time that he told a little more to Master ‘Long Face’? Above him a gull shrieked but Ranulf hardly stirred. He recalled his boast to Corbett: he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, was as good a man as any; he would kneel before the King, be dubbed knight, be given high office and bed the Lady Mary Neville as his wife. And what could Master ‘Long Face’ do about that? Ranulf closed his eyes and dreamed of future glories.
By the time he reached the steps of Fish Wharf, Ranulf was so lost in his reverie that the boatman had to shout and give him a vigorous shake. Absent-mindedly, Ranulf tossed a few coins into the fellow’s hands and stood looking along the quayside, remembering Corbett’s conversation with Puddlicott. The trickster, now lodged in the Fleet, had failed to resolve one small mystery; something Master ‘Long Face’ Corbett had overlooked, a minor detail which had puzzled Ranulf. He recalled his ambitious dreams and wondered if now was the time to take the first step to realise them. Or should he just go home? He looked up the alleyway towards Thames Street. A wet-tailed rat scurried across his boot. Ranulf lashed out angrily but also took it as a sign. He was growing tired of scampering around in the dark on his master’s errands. Yes, he concluded, now it was time Ranulf-atte-Newgate took care of his own future. As he walked briskly up the alleyway, two dark forms slipped out of a doorway. Ranulf threw back his cloak and drew his sword.
‘Piss off!’ he shouted.
The figures slipped away and Ranulf strode on, threading his way along the alleyways until he reached Carter Lane then across Bowyers Row and up Old Deans Lane which ran under the darkened mass of St Paul’s. Ranulf, his curiosity whetted, stopped and edged his way up the cathedral’s high cemetery wall. As usual, the old graveyard beyond was a hive of activity; Ranulf caught the smell of cooking and saw dark figures huddled around the fires and battered stalls selling trinkets and other gewgaws which, even at night, never closed. St Paul’s was the refuge of the sanctuary men, the wolfs-heads, who fled there beyond the jurisdiction of the city officials or the King’s law officers. Ranulf stood, silently staring into the night; if his master had not plucked him from Newgate prison, then this would have been the best his future could have offered him. More determined than ever, he climbed down, cleaned his hands and went up into Newgate. He bribed a sleepy-eyed guard to let him through the postern door and made his way across Smithfield Common to St Bartholomew’s Priory. He stopped near the scaffold; the rotting, dangling cadavers did not concern him.
‘Are you there, Ragwort?’ he called softly.
‘Old Ragwort’s not there and he’s not here either,’ the mad beggar replied angrily.
Ranulf smiled, flicked a penny in the direction of the gibbet and went to hammer on the priory door. A few minutes later a lay-brother ushered him into the hospital. For a while Ranulf stood in a draughty passageway wondering what news awaited him.
‘Ranulf, Ranulf,’ Father Thomas came hurrying towards him. ‘You come about Maltote?’
‘I was passing this way, Father. I hate to bother you.’
‘No trouble, Ranulf. I do my best work at night.’
‘Well,’ Ranulf asked hastily, ‘is Maltote blind?’
Father Thomas took him gently by the arm and guided him to a bench.
‘Maltote will be fine,’ Father Thomas answered, sitting down beside him. ‘His eyes will hurt and smart for some time but the lime was either washed or cleaned out very quickly. The side of his face will be slightly pitted but he is young and his body will mend quickly.’