Rebellion's Message. Michael Jecks

me before I could get to the front door, but what if he went out, then came at me along the alley? Someone came in from outside. I was knocked down, and I didn’t come to – not until your fellow came after me. Whoever it was who came through the gate must have hit me on the head and then killed the gull. That other fellow murdered him, and would have killed me, too, but for the speed of your man coming out, I suppose. I’ll bet it was the man with the hat. Your fellow surprised him, I think, and he fled. Leaving me lying injured and unconscious to take the blame.’

      I thought I struck the right tone there. Not arrogant, but with just a hint of professional appreciation, as though I was experienced in such crimes. After all, I was the only man who could describe the scene.

      ‘Where?’ she said.

      ‘Where what?’

      ‘Show me where you were hit.’

      I bent my head and indicated the lump. She felt it without sympathy, with a grudging respect and a fair amount of ungentle roughness.

      ‘Ow!’

      ‘Very well. I can see you have been knocked down.’

      ‘So you believe me?’

      ‘Let’s say I’m less inclined to disbelieve you,’ she said.

      ‘But I didn’t do anything!’

      ‘So you say,’ she said with scorn. ‘If someone else was there, no one else saw him. Everyone in the tavern did see you go out there, and the other fellow following immediately after you; when you disappeared, he was dead. It’s no surprise everyone thinks it must be you.’

      ‘You could have told them I wouldn’t kill a man!’

      ‘And how would I know that?’ she spat. I could feel the spittle hit my face, and I closed my eyes and lifted a hand to wipe it away, but as I did so, she thrust me from her and I tripped over a piece or two of trash and fell heavily on my rump. She turned to leave me, wiping her hand on her skirts as though to clean them of my filth.

      ‘Who is he, anyway?’ I said.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Your companion. The man who was with you in the tavern? The man who came out and found me?’

      ‘He called himself Henry, but I don’t know more than that.’

      ‘Where did you meet him?’

      ‘He found me on the street. Where else? But I can tell you this: I saw him once at a house in Paternoster Row, near St Michael-le-Querne. I think he lived there.’

      ‘Could you show me?’

      ‘Why? What does it matter?’

      ‘He might know something. He was trying to rob the fellow. Perhaps there was more than money involved.’

      ‘Look! You killed that poor gull, and that is all that weighs in the balance.’ She began to walk away. ‘You are dangerous. I don’t trust you, and nor does anyone else. You’re marked as a murderer.’

      ‘Ann!’ I called, and she paused.

      ‘What now?’

      ‘You have to believe me! I didn’t do anything!’

      She curled her lip, but this time more in amusement than contempt. It was oddly irritating to be looked down upon by her. I felt like an urchin viewed by a knight’s lady. ‘Looking at you now, I hardly think you have it in you to stuff a man full of steel,’ she said, ‘but there was no one else there that I saw!’ and she was gone.

      SEVEN

      For a long time I remained there deep in thought.

      Her words had shocked me. It never would have occurred to me that anyone could think me guilty of committing a murder, and yet Ann thought exactly that, if her face and actions were anything to go by. If she believed me capable of killing a man, who would believe me? Especially since I had bolted as soon as the first man appeared. Not that it was my fault: whoever it was who had knocked me down was surely the guilty man. And yet that man had come in from outside the tavern. No one would have seen him arrive.

      Panic set in. What was I, other than a rascal who had run to London at the first opportunity, leaving his home and father alone, to try to make his own way in the world by living on his wits? I was quick with my hands, and competent enough at word-play when it was necessary, but I was not capable of killing in cold blood. How could anyone think I would plunge a dagger into a man’s belly?

      The answer to that was easily. This was London. The city was full of men who would draw a knife or sword at the slightest provocation. If a man felt insulted, if a man felt his honour was impugned, if a man felt he was being made to look a fool, let alone if he thought he was robbed, he would be more than capable of killing another. In God’s name, I’d seen it often enough.

      I had to get back to the house and speak to Bill. He would know what to do.

      Yes. Back to see Bill. That was the main thing. I clambered to my feet and set off back the way I’d come. I peeped out into the roadway and sauntered out among the passers-by, making my way back towards the river, treading carefully amid the horse, dog, cattle and donkey dung that liberally covered the whole of the way. It was a way to distract myself – not that it worked. I was deep in thought as I went. The young gull was dead, I was blamed, and I had no idea who was responsible. I didn’t know who the fellow was, nor why I had been knocked unconscious before he had been killed.

      The only thing that made sense was that someone struck me down to rob me and … and robbed him, too. The man with the broad-brimmed hat.

      I stopped.

      No one would have come through that gate knowing that I was there. Someone appearing behind me would not have known I was there before they opened the gate. Whoever it was didn’t want me dead. They were looking for better prey. And the lad had a well-filled purse. Surely it was a man who saw him in the tavern, guessed he would be in need of a piss after a while, and decided to lie in wait. For him and his money.

      Except … I took out the parchment I’d found in the bottom of the stolen purse. It made no sense to me. Just a jumble of letters and occasional strange symbols, and I peered at it with confusion. No one could make sense of a thing like that, surely. Which was the point, of course. A man who had need of such a code had something to conceal.

      And the rebels were approaching London just at the time that this fellow appeared and died.

      Somehow this reflection was not reassuring.

      When I reached Trig Lane, I climbed the rickety steps to the loft and was surprised to see Bill already there. He was over at the paillasse where Ham and I slept, and he sprang up with a face that turned a deep red as I entered.

      ‘What are you doing back here so soon?’ he growled. ‘If you’re thinking you can have an early night because of one purse, you can think again!’

      His aggressive manner drove all thoughts about why he was at Ham’s and my bedrolls. I hastened to explain my predicament.

      ‘I can’t stay in the streets. I have to talk, Bill. I need help.’

      He was mollified by that. He looked at me askance and persuaded me to sit on a stool while he fetched us both wine from a leather flagon. ‘Well?’ he said when we were both seated.

      ‘Today a man was killed behind the tavern near Ludgate, and people are saying it was me killed him!’

      ‘Why would they do that?’

      ‘I was there. That purse I took?’ I explained all about Ann and her companion, then about bolting to the yard and what happened. Bill listened with a frown on his face. I ended, ‘I don’t know what to do!’

      ‘It was Ann’s friend found this man?’

      ‘Yes.’