I decided that the best way to occupy this first day was to start finding my way about the town. Such knowledge might be useful later. It seemed a confusing maze of twisting streets and unexpected waterways, but Berden had learned to find his way about it and so could I.
For the rest of the day I made forays out from the square in which the Prins Willem stood, building up a map of the town in my head. I went on foot, not on horseback, partly because I found that an easier way to memorise the streets and partly because, mingling in with those on foot, I was less likely to draw attention to myself. Indeed I found that there were fewer horsemen than in London. Even most of the carts were either pushed by men or hauled by large dogs, something I had not seen either in Portugal or England. A few coaches and heavier carts were drawn by horses, and the occasional nobleman or official rode past, but few ordinary men went mounted. As I did when in London, I walked everywhere, though I decided that in a day or two, when Hector had rested from the journey, I would ride out into the countryside, perhaps to the English camp, where most of the troops were billeted.
Amsterdam seemed a clean and tidy small town. The people were well though not richly clothed and I saw only one beggar, a man who had lost both legs, so I took him for a former soldier. He sat on a little wheeled platform beside the steps up to one of the severely plain Dutch churches, with one of those large dogs at his side, occasionally playing simple melodies on a pipe. Berden had explained the Dutch coins to me before he left, so I picked out a small one from my purse and dropped it into the man’s upturned cap, where there were few others. He nodded his thanks, still playing.
‘You shouldn’t encourage him.’
The voice, an English voice, came from behind me and I spun quickly on my heel.
It was a fat man, in rude good health, who shook his head disparagingly.
‘We don’t like beggars in Amsterdam.’
‘But you are English.’
‘English father, Dutch mother. I bestride the Channel, and have lived in both countries.’ He laughed heartily at his own image, spreading his arms wide. Then his face darkened. ‘And as I say, we do not like beggars in Amsterdam.’
‘And how is that poor fellow to live, having lost both legs?’ I was furious, thinking of William Baker and his great good fortune in having a family and an occupation. ‘I assume he lost them fighting the Spanish.’
‘Aye, I did that.’ The beggar spoke in English, though with a noticeable accent. ‘Blown off by a cannon ball at Zutphen.’
‘A year ago?’ I said. ‘Where Sir Philip Sidney died?’
‘Aye. He was a good man.’
‘You see.’ I turned back to the fat man who had accosted me. ‘An old soldier. We should be grateful to him and his kind.’
The fat man shrugged, which brought his chest up to meet his cascading chins. ‘You have no proof. He may be lying.’
The beggar’s dog gave a low growl and the hairs stood up on his neck, but the beggar smoothed them down and whispered some words in Dutch.
‘I think not. I am a physician and I have seen such injuries before, some from Sluys.’
Why should he assume the beggar was lying? There must be many maimed soldiers in the Low Countries after the long years of fighting. Something stirred in my memory. I was sure I had seen the fat man before. Then I remembered. The previous evening in the Prins Willem, he had been at the far side of the parlour when Berden and I had been arranging our room with the inn keeper. He had been with a group of similar men, all large and well fed, drinking heartily and, I was sure, speaking Dutch. I had not noticed him this morning, when Berden and I had been breaking our fast in that same parlour, but it had been early and not many people were about.
As if he caught some sign of recognition in my eyes, the fat man held out his hand.
‘Cornelius Parker, at your service.’ He bowed.
I shook his hand and returned the bow.
‘You are here with the army?’ he said. ‘One of our young officers?’
‘No, no. Merely a messenger, and here in Amsterdam for a short time only, before I return to England.’
‘Well, if I can be of any service to you while you are here, Master . . .?’
‘Alvarez,’ I said, trapped by the habit of courtesy into giving my name.
His eyes widened. ‘Spanish?’
‘No.’ I would not elaborate to this importunate stranger.
‘I am a merchant here in Amsterdam. Fine fabrics, many imported from the east, Constantinople, Ragusa, even silk from China. I would be happy to oblige you in any way I can. I have the entrée to many fine houses, and amusements of every sort.’ He leered and winked at this, which distorted his superficially amiable features and made it plain exactly what kind of entertainments he had in mind.
I simply bowed, and since it was clear I would say no more, he bowed yet again and walked off, surprisingly briskly for a man of his bulk. I realised that the maimed soldier had been listening to every word of this exchange. Exasperated, I looked down at him, smiled and shrugged.
‘He will not get any custom from me.’ I dropped another coin into the hat, a larger one.
The soldier did not return my smile but looked at me seriously, then reached up and laid a hand on my arm.
‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘That is a bad man.’
Chapter Nine
I was oddly disturbed by this encounter. What did the maimed soldier mean, that Cornelius Parker was a bad man? I had caught a flash of something between them. In view of Parker’s condemnation of beggars and his imputation that the man might be lying about being an ex soldier, it would be understandable if it was an indication of anger and resentment on the beggar’s part, yet it had seemed like something else. As if the two men knew each other and an old hostility existed between them. Clearly the soldier spoke only limited English, so his warning had contained just those few simple words, yet as I continued my exploration of Amsterdam, I could not forget them.
I retraced my steps to the square with the public well, where a group of women were now drawing water, and turned along the street we had taken yesterday to the Earl’s house. Berden had told me to follow the street along the canal until it met another, and then turn left on Reiger Straat. It proved to be further than I expected, but I found it at last. The houses overlooking this canal, like those near the Earl’s lodging, were large and prosperous, though there was much more activity here. The cranes jutting out from the top storeys were in use at several of the houses, lowering goods on to barges on the canal or lifting other goods from the boats into the houses. This must be the heart of the merchants’ quarter of the town. I found the sign of the Leaping Gazelle, where Sara’s cousin Ettore Añez lived, but there were many men coming and going through the front door, so I hesitated to intrude. I would return when the business of the day was over, or the following morning.
Unable to shake off the memory of the beggar’s warning, I decided to return to the church and ask him to explain just what he had meant, but by the time I had found my way back – and I managed to lose myself twice – there was no sign of him or his dog. A woman was selling hot sweet pastries from a tray hanging from her neck and I bought one. As I ate it, I asked her if she knew where I could find the beggar I had seen there that morning.