“My lord, pardon me,” David said, taking up the broom again. “But I, more than most, know full well how involved in politics you have been in the past, but always in secret and never for profit. Surely your great family wealth, the property and lands, and the power of your esteemed father, are already –”
“Enough for any sane man, but not for me,” Nicholas interrupted. “Since I have never been sane, as you’re very well aware, David. But the marital status changes a good deal, and my virtuous wife is not the woman I once thought her. She deserves better than me, but since she can’t have it, deserves a better me than I have attempted to be so far. So although staring death in the face yet again, and through my own fault as usual, it now occurs to me that since I have hopes of becoming a family man after all, duty looms.”
David’s mouth twitched slightly. “A dastardly prospect I presume, my lord?”
Nicholas smiled, once again peering into the cauldron. “I’m a changed man, David. That is – either a reformed one – or a dead one. Either way, the change will presumably be noticeable. His highness, being a man of honour and justice, will supply what I’m after. He knows exactly what I’ve done for him in the past, though always incognito. This time I need the recognition. And dearest Papa will either be invited to my funeral – or to celebrate my knighthood.”
“You don’t seem particularly fearful of death, my lord,” David said, sweeping the dirt and ashes out through the crack beneath the door. “Nor for the first time. Yet most men fear death above all else.”
Nicholas looked around at his squire, and his smile faded. “I should fear facing hell’s fires, or Purgatory for eternity, perhaps? No – I’ve never much valued life before and therefore saw no point in fearing death. Now – perhaps – that’s changing too.” He sighed. “She should have a husband to respect, not despise,” he murmured, although more to himself than to his squire. “And for once I should like to live, and earn that respect.”
As twilight thickened, the narrow window slit, sealed in old parchment, remained unshuttered, but a rag, hooked to the protruding nails of the frame, kept out the threat of moonlight. The darkness was complete once past sundown, and not wasting their candles, both men slept before evening was through. Curled tight to the straw, Nicholas scratched vaguely, turned, sighed, heard the faint snores from his squire’s pallet, turned again and slept.
They were both awakened, not by dawn, but by a violent vibration against the door, the rattling thump of bodies hurtling, falling and finally kicking. Someone called, “By thunder and blight, won’t no bugger have pity?”
Nicholas rolled over, found himself on the cold floor, and sat up wearily. “Are you awake, David?” he demanded.
“How could I not be, my lord?”
“Then go and murder the neighbours,” muttered Nicholas.
His companion crawled to the door, reached up and removed the bolt. Before the door was fully open, two men tumbled through, each with his hands around the other’s neck. Both then stumbled to their feet and one stuffed his knife back into his belt and regarded his hosts. “This place is always kept empty,” he remarked with conversational interest. “Didn’t reckon on finding folks. You rent, or just squatting?”
David said, “I own it, as my father did before me. But I don’t normally choose to live here, for obvious reasons.”
“Had a choice, nor would we,” agreed the second man. “So why come back?”
“None of your business,” Nicholas said, unmoving. “So get the hell out.”
The second man sat down beside him on the floor. “That’s a mighty fine shirt, mister, for a gent has to sleep on the ground,” he said, squinting through the shadows. “Fine linen, by the looks of it, and well bleached. Stole it, did you?”
“I did,” Nicholas sighed, moving a little further from the smell of unwashed toil. “I also stole a good steel sword, and with which I’m very well practised.”
“Now, now,” said the first man, also sitting since a small circle was all the space available. “We quarrels together right enough, being brothers, which is normal. But we don’t have no quarrel with you.”
“And,” said the other, stretching an appreciative finger, “them hose is the best I reckon I’ve ever seen. Silk, is they? And tight knitted?” His own legs, fat, squat and spread out before him, appeared swathed in a matted bulk of ill-fitting buckram. The man shook his head, accepting the three pairs of eyes now concentrated on his plump thighs. “I only got the old sort,” he acknowledged, “like me Pa afore me. Cut whole from a piece, shaped to a longer leg than mine and a larger foot into the bargain. Sewed up one side each leg, and neither stretch nor comfort to be had. Tis a fashion long gone for those with the coin to escape it. Now yours, my friend, being the new stretchy knitting, and worth a fair penny –”
Nicholas leaned back against the wall. “I have a headache,” he said, “and a sore need to sleep. Take the remains of our pottage if you want, and go and eat it elsewhere. I don’t intend relinquishing either my shirt or my hose, and I feel an urgent need to be left alone.”
David looked up suddenly. “A headache, my lord? How bad is it?”
The first intruder blinked and recoiled. “A lord, is it then? So what sort of lord comes here to live in the slums?”
“A sick one,” said Nicholas quietly. “So I advise you both to leave.” He turned, resting back onto the rough straw mattress.
David had crawled over, staring down at him. “Could it be, do you know?”
“I doubt it,” Nicholas answered. “But get those two idiots out, David, and let me sleep.”
But David frowned. “I’ve known you ten years since you were bare sixteen years, my lord, and you’ve had two headaches in all that time.” He turned to the intrigued intruders. “There’s a candle on that shelf, and an oil lamp beside my bed. Light them both from the fire, there should be spark enough left. I need light, and I need quiet.”
On his knees by the mattress, the first man held the oil lamp high. “Well now,” he said. “Seems you’ve been in the wars, my friend, with a scar on your face fit to break bones. Reckon it ain’t no wonder you’ve a headache. But I’m pleased to meet a real lord,” he announced cheerfully, “what I never have afore. The pox, is it? Influenza? Or the dysentery? My old Ma died of the yellow pox some years back. Stank terrible, she did.”
David ignored both men, but was frowning, bent over his master. “My lord, you cannot sleep yet. I must know.”
Nicholas turned his head from the light and closed his eyes. “The headache is worsening,” he admitted softly. “And I am hot, and sweating I think. The flame hurts my eyes. Leave me, David, and let me sleep. I shall know the truth by morning.”
“The morning will be too late. I will search out a doctor now, if you need one.”
“At midnight? Go to bed, my friend. No doctor can cure the pestilence.”
The man holding the oil lamp recoiled. “Pestilence, you say?”
His brother came forwards, holding the candle and its pale flame. “Now then,” he said. “I’m Rob, and this is Harry, and there’s been no pestilence round here for a good few years. Don’t reckon there’s no cause to fear it now. Aches of the head now, that’s common enough, be it from too much brewed ale or wine, and being woke in the night by two ruffians from the next hole along, well, that’ll do it every time.”
“Throw the buggers out,” groaned Nicholas. “Let me die in peace.”
Rob thrust David aside. “No point arguing the cock’s spur on it,” he said at once. “If it’s the pestilence, I shall recognise it, for I had it once, and came through safe. Most doesn’t, but I did, and can tell the signs. So, Harry, get that lamp up higher and stop quivering like the flea bitten tadpole you is, whilst I examines our new friend.”