As I stepped between the houses, towering five stories high on either side of me, I was aware of a man leaving the chapel of the Virgin, which bisected the bridge, mounting his horse, which had been tethered outside, and riding towards me. It was the by now familiar figure of Sir George Marvell who had, presumably, been offering up prayers for the soul of his dead friend. I felt a sudden and unexpected stab of sympathy for him and, drawing to one side, was about to accord him the courtesy of a respectful bow when someone rushed past me, pushing me out of his way with such force that I lost my balance and fell heavily on my left side. By the time that, swearing and cursing, I had picked myself up, my assailant had reached his real target and was dragging George Marvell from his horse with obvious murderous intent. The knight had plainly been taken completely by surprise and, apart from the whinnying of his frightened animal, there was no sound except a great grunt as he fell awkwardly on to the cobbles.
I saw the flash of a knife blade as an arm was raised. Yelling at the top of my voice, I ran forward, swinging the weighted end of my cudgel in a lethal arc, and the would-be assassin turned a startled face in my direction just as a wall cresset flared into brightness above his head. It was apparent that he had been unaware of my presence, or of having barged into me until he heard me shout, so intent had he been on his fell purpose. As our eyes met his face was clearly visible in the light from the cresset, then, with a snarl of desperation, he turned to finish what he had started before I could reach and prevent him.
Unfortunately for him, the brief pause had enabled Sir George to recover his wits and strength and, with an enormous effort, he heaved himself free of his attacker just as I hit the man’s right hand with the knob of my cudgel. The latter gave a screech of pain and dropped his knife, but his sense of self-preservation was sufficiently strong to get him up and running before I could make any attempt to lay him by the heels. He had flashed past me and reached the end of the bridge, turning right along the Backs, before I had time to realize what was happening.
‘Where is the bastard? Did you get him?’ Sir George panted, struggling to his feet.
I held out a hand to assist him, but this was impatiently spurned. ‘I’m afraid not …’ I was beginning, but a roar of frustration was let loose about my ears.
‘You stupid dolt! You dunderhead! Don’t tell me you’ve let him escape!’
In spite of my anger, I had to admire the man. He was old, well past his three score years and ten, and he must be badly shaken. But there he was, as aggressive as ever, taking me to task for sins of omission instead of gratefully thanking me for saving his life.
I said coldly, ‘There is no need for me to run after him, Sir George. I not only know who your assailant is, but I also know where he can be found when he’s in Bristol.’
The knight glowered at me. ‘You do, do you? So who is the murdering rogue? Out with it! We don’t want to be standing here all night. Master sheriff and his sergeants have work to do. Who was it, eh?’
I waited for him to finish ranting, then answered quietly, ‘I don’t know what you’ve done to incur his enmity, Sir George, but the man who just tried to kill you is an Irish slave trader by the name of Briant of Dungarvon.’
SIX
There was a long silence; long enough at least for me to be conscious of rats scrabbling in the central drain, scavenging for food. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and nearer at hand an owl hooted.
After my revelation, I had expected Sir George to demand immediate action; to send me at once for the sheriff or command that I lead him without delay to Marsh Street and indicate the ale-houses where the Irish slave trader lodged. Instead, he said nothing for several seconds, but stood staring at me while he soothed his frightened horse, which was still trembling in every limb.
Finally, he spoke. ‘A slave trader, eh? Probably mistook me for someone else. One of his “marks”. Must have realized his mistake when the torchlight showed him how old I am.’ He gave an uncertain laugh, not at all like his customary confident bellow. (Not that I had heard him laugh much, I had to admit.) ‘Nothing to be done about it, then. The lord sheriff won’t thank me for turning his men out to raid “Little Ireland”, especially not after dark. Somebody’s sure to get hurt. Those rogues will resist any form of authority. So it will be just as well for you to keep your mouth shut about this, Master Chapman.’ His new-found politeness slipped a little as he added menacingly, ‘I don’t want to hear this story being bandied around the town. If I do, I shall deny it completely and imply that you are only wishful of drawing attention to yourself. There are no witnesses.’
He was right. Even my yells had provoked no response. No one had opened a door or a casement or called out to know what the matter was. Such incidents were all too frequent in the Bristol streets after dark, and last night’s murder had made everyone doubly wary of getting involved. A killer was abroad; and if an alderman, with his short sword and dagger at his belt, was not safe, then why should a common man with nothing more than his meat knife and stick to protect him, fare any better? It was wiser to stay indoors and shut one’s ears.
I answered coldly, ‘If you wish me to say nothing about this affair, Sir George, then naturally I shall keep quiet. But I must point out to you that no slave trader worth his salt tries to kill his “mark”, as you call it, only to kidnap him. Or her. I have heard it said that the slavers’ code of honour’ — the knight snorted derisively — ‘forbids murder for money and that anyone of them breaking this unwritten law is summarily dealt with in the same fashion.’
The knight’s explosion of fury was so sudden and so violent that I took a hurried step backwards and almost fell again. In the light of the overhead cresset I could see that his face had turned purple and was contorted with an almost animal-like rage. He was fairly slobbering with anger and the spittle ran out of his mouth and down his chin as he gibbered, ‘Th-Those s-scum have no honour. They d-don’t know the meaning of the word.’ He took a deep breath to steady himself, but even so, he found it difficult to speak coherently. I caught the words ‘mad’, ‘arrant rubbish’ and ‘dangerous theories’ before he jerked his horse’s reins and pushed past me, mounting at the Redcliffe end of the bridge and vanishing in the direction of Redcliffe Wharf.
I stared after his retreating form, leaning against the wall of one of the houses, waiting for the beating of my heart to steady and trying to make sense of what had happened. My overriding impression was that George Marvell had been badly frightened, not simply by the murderous attack on his person, but also by my remark concerning the slavers’ code of honour and the retribution exacted for its flouting. The name Briant of Dungarvon had meant something to him — that was obvious. He was acquainted with the man, but their association was to remain a secret and so he had threatened to make me look a fool if I should make the incident public.
But something else occurred to me as I stood there in the darkness of the bridge; an explanation of the little drama which I had witnessed between Lady Marvell and the Irishman played out the previous morning. She had solicited his services for some purpose of her own and he had been perfectly willing to comply until … Until what? Until he learned her name, of course. Until he realized that she was the wife of a man he had marked down as his enemy and whom he intended to kill. Perhaps he had not previously known that Sir George moved from Clifton Manor and was now living in the heart of the city, so close to ‘Little Ireland’.
I heaved myself away from the wall and continued my journey home, suddenly confident that my reading of the situation was the right one. All that remained now was to try to discover, if I could, what the connection between the knight and the slave trader might have been.