Smithfield never slept. The legal meat trade started very early in the morning, which meant some butchers began work in the middle of the night. Already, apprentices were cleaning and scrubbing by the flickering light of lamps. And for other businesses, the hours of darkness were their prime time. Taverns, bowling alleys, brothels and gambling dens were in full swing, while prostitutes flaunted their wares and sly men emerged from nowhere to sell blankets, wine, and their sisters — and brothers — at suspiciously low prices.
There was a large canvas-rigged structure near Duck Lane, and Chaloner could tell from the bouncing shadows within that it was full of people. He slipped inside, curious to know what had attracted such a huge audience. It was crammed to the gills with men, all swaggering and cheering. Among them were greasy-headed whores, revealing rotten teeth in boisterous laughter. The atmosphere was moist and warm, thick with the stench of sweat, cheap perfume and tobacco. Money was changing hands around a bloody little arena, and two proud birds were killing each other in a flurry of feathers and claws. Chaloner left in disgust; he had never understood the appeal of cock-fighting. He was almost outside, when he spotted a familiar dark-cloaked figure surrounded by Hectors. Crisp was evidently not so squeamish, and was settling himself down to enjoy the spectacle.
The city gates were always closed at night, but Chaloner needed to go through Aldersgate in order to reach Monkwell Street. He was just debating whether to charm his way past the guards or scale the famously ruinous wall to the north, when two burly figures moved out of the shadows to intercept him. The scene was illuminated by a lamp that hung from the gate itself, a flickering, unsteady light that swayed in the breeze. Of the official guards there was no sign.
‘Friend or foe?’ asked the larger of the pair. Chaloner recognised him immediately, although he hoped it was not mutual. It was Fingerless, the third member of the trio that included Kirby and Ireton. His left hand was still bandaged, and it was tucked inside his coat.
‘They are all friends at this time of night, Treen,’ quipped his crony with a snigger.
Treen, thought Chaloner, coldly dispassionate. Now he had all their names, and they would pay the price for what they had done to Smegergill, no matter how vehemently they denied harming him.
‘Anyone who gives us sixpence is a friend,’ laughed Treen. ‘Of course, anyone who refuses is a foe, but no one is that stupid.’
Chaloner wished he had given Smithfield a wider berth, because he did not want to enjoin a skirmish that would draw attention to himself — especially on an empty stomach and when he was already tired. If he had had sixpence, he would have handed it over, just to be rid of the nuisance Treen represented.
‘You do not want trouble with me,’ he said quietly. ‘Stand aside.’
His voice carried enough conviction that Treen’s friend did as he was told, melting away as though he had never been there. Unfortunately, Treen had been a bully far too long, and could not tell when it was wiser to step away. Fury crossed his face and he drew his sword.
Chaloner sighed and did likewise. ‘You will regret this,’ he warned.
‘No,’ came another voice, this one sibilant and more educated than Treen’s. ‘You will regret it, because I know who you are. You are the villain who murdered Smegergill.’
Ireton’s nose was visible even in the dim light, and so was the sword he carried with the easy grace of the seasoned warrior. Uneasily, Chaloner peered into the shadows, hoping there were not more Hectors lurking there. While he was more than a match for Treen, being outnumbered by skilled swordsmen like Ireton was a different proposition entirely.
Treen turned towards his friend in astonishment. ‘He is the murderer? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Ireton. ‘I recognise his hat. And if you want more proof, look at his chin, at the bruise where my stone struck it. You should learn to be more observant, Treen.’
Treen shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Kirby and I did not waste time inspecting hats, because we were hunting for documents, like we were told. And then he almost severed my finger. He will pay for that — but not tonight. First, the Butcher will want to ask why he killed Smegergill, and then Kirby will want to talk to him about a certain rough interview that was conducted earlier today.’
Ireton shook his head firmly. ‘He dies now, by my hand. I do not approve of men who murder harmless old musicians.’ He began to advance, and Chaloner prepared to defend himself.
‘Wait!’ snapped Treen, rashly making a grab for Ireton’s sword arm. ‘Crisp will be furious if you kill him before he is interrogated. And if you cannot see that annoying the Butcher is unwise, then you should go back to strumming your lute and leave this sort of business to me.’
Ireton’s expression was dangerous. ‘How dare you countermand me! You are just a lout, a hireling Crisp uses for his dirty work. And you cannot even do that properly! If you had killed this man on Sunday, as you were ordered, we would not be in this situation now.’
They began to quarrel, leaving Chaloner somewhat nonplussed. He took a few steps away, aiming to leave while they were preoccupied. But Ireton saw what he was doing and came at him in a rush of flailing steel. The Hector was good, better than Chaloner had anticipated, and he saw they were fairly evenly matched. Then Treen lumbered forward and tried to pull Ireton away. Ireton’s expression was murderous, and Chaloner half expected him to skewer his comrade there and then.
‘Drop your weapons,’ came a voice that was far from steady. A figure stepped out of the shadows by the gate, holding a large, old-fashioned gun. It trembled in his hand. ‘Do it now, or I will kill you.’
Treen needed no second warning. His sword clattered to the ground, and he slunk away quickly, apparently one of those men who appreciated the deadly power of firearms, even ancient ones gripped by hands that shook. Ireton was not so easily intimidated, however, and his temper was up.
‘Go on, then,’ he sneered. ‘Shoot me.’
Chaloner felt Ireton’s assessment of the situation was accurate: the gunman was far too frightened to pull the trigger. Thus, when the still night air was shattered by a booming crack, it took everyone by surprise.
Chaloner leapt forward to disarm the astonished Ireton, who aimed a quick punch that forced the spy to duck, then tore away when he was off balance. Chaloner did not care, and made no attempt to stop him. When the running footsteps had been swallowed by the night, he turned to face his rescuer.
‘Christ!’ breathed Greeting unsteadily. He flopped down on a nearby wall, dag dangling limply from his fingers. ‘All I did was twitch and the damned thing went off. Did I hit anyone?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘You can come out now, Hodgkinson. They have gone.’
The printer emerged cautiously from behind a water butt. He clutched a scarf, and had evidently intended to disguise himself before joining the affray. Greeting held a similar garment, but had forgotten to put it on. Amateurs, thought Chaloner in some disgust.
‘How did you know I was there?’ asked Hodgkinson uncomfortably.
‘I saw you.’ Chaloner pulled the shocked Greeting to his feet. ‘We cannot stay here. They will be back with reinforcements, because they will not appreciate you making fools of them. Come with me.’
He led the way to the crumbling section of the old city wall, although both printer and musician complained that it was too difficult a climb and made heavy work of the exercise. Eventually, he managed to pull, cajole and threaten them over the top, then took them to the churchyard of St Giles Cripplegate, where they hid among the trees until he was sure they were safe.