Not that Flynn had any choice in being here and having to learn the language. He was doing everything he could just in order to survive.
From what he had been able to piece together, after attacking him, the earl had paid someone to dump Flynn on board the first available ship sailing out of London. It had been his good fortune that the captain of the vessel had had a change of heart and decided that he and the crew would try to save their captive’s life. With Earl Bramshaw having missed vital nerves and organs in his attack, loss of blood was the major problem that Flynn had been forced to overcome.
He had spent weeks in the tiny cabin of the ship fighting for survival, and was still weak when the ship finally docked in Pisa, northern Italy. A local monastery had taken him in and seen him restored to health.
But charity could only last so long, and Flynn had eventually found himself living on the streets and surviving purely by his wits. It had taken him close to eight months to make his way the two hundred and twenty odd miles south to the city of Rome. His wounds and the lack of money had made the journey long and, at times, precarious.
While in Florence, his attempts to borrow money through a major international trading bank had been met with a polite but firm no. No one wanted to believe that the ragged beggar was, in fact, a penniless English noble. He couldn’t blame them. The whole story sounded preposterous.
He took a bite of the apple, and his empty belly gave thanks. He was still chewing the first bite when a hand landed on his shoulder. Flynn whirled round. In one swift move, he had shoved the apple back into his pocket while at the same time dropping the sharp blade he kept hidden in his coat sleeve into his fingers. He readied himself for a fight.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His gaze landed on a well-dressed gentleman. Flynn quickly sized the man up.
Decently cut suit—not the finest tailor but still not bad. If his rounded cheeks are anything to go by, he eats both regular and hearty meals.
Good clothes. A stout form. Those two things meant that the gentleman who spoke perfect English had money.
Better not slash him with my knife.
The blade joined the apple as Flynn painted a smile on his lips. “Good morning to you, sir. May I be of assistance?”
One of the first lessons he had learned on the street was that manners went a long way. As did having a concealed weapon.
The man shyly offered Flynn his hand, but Flynn shook his head, refusing to take it. Just because the gentleman appeared harmless, didn’t mean he could be trusted. Another lesson he had learned the hard way on the road to Rome.
“I mean you no harm, my friend.”
There was a degree of nervousness about this stranger, and Flynn guessed that he wasn’t used to approaching strangers in the street.
“What do you want?”
“Forgive me for intruding, but I have noticed you wandering about the market place most mornings. At first, I thought you were a local, but earlier I overheard you speaking to some of the English tourists who are staying at the Albergo del Sole.” He pointed toward the hotel at the other end of the square. “From your voice and mannerisms, I would suggest you are a well-bred gentleman, one possibly down on his luck.”
Soon after arriving in Rome, Flynn had picked up on the fact that many English visitors stayed in accommodation close to the Piazza della Rotonda. Having been away from home for so long, there were times he simply hung around the entrance to the Pantheon just to hear a familiar accent.
Loneliness was a cold friend.
Flynn’s senses remained on edge. If this man thought he was going to turn Flynn into the local authorities, he was in for the devil of a fight. He hadn’t survived the agony of a knife wound, kidnapping, and weeks at death’s door only to succumb to the hangman’s noose far from home.
Flynn’s hand dipped into his pocket, and he made ready to use the knife. If push did come to shove, he was ready to defend himself. The other man’s gaze followed to where Flynn’s hand sat out of sight, and he took a wary half-step back. “My name is Michael Cooper. I work with the local Anglican church mission here in Rome. There is no need to be afraid, my good chap. I thought, and pardon me if it is not the case, that you looked like a fellow who might be in need of some Christian charity. As I said, down on your luck.”
Flynn’s head tilted forward as he let out a dry laugh. Down on his luck. From where he stood, he didn’t have any luck. He had used it all up in surviving his father’s attempt to kill him, and then making it to Rome. “Yes, one could say that I am living a hard life. One which I have only recently become accustomed to, but one which I intend to put behind me some day.”
Please offer me some money. I could do with a plate of hot food. Did he say he was with the Church of England?
“I didn’t know there was an Anglican church here in Rome,” said Flynn, more than a little perplexed.
Rome was the center of the Catholic faith, so a protestant church being situated here was a touch odd.
Michael shifted on his feet.
Bless you. You really aren’t good at accosting strangers in the street, are you?
Flynn found it refreshing and a touch sweet to encounter someone so open and naïve like Michael Cooper after all this time. Apart from the priests at the monastery in Pisa, it was rare for him to meet people in the street who regarded him as nothing more than a likely beggar.
“We don’t have a church building per se, but we have a meeting room. Sundays, we hold services, and when we are able to find a visiting minister, we invite them to conduct a full mass,” explained Michael.
