Page 6 of Lord of Mistrust

Robert had tired of waiting for Claude to leave Mistress Riviere’s bawdy house. Instead, he’d set one of his paid team of urchins to watch over the place and taken himself off to the Red Lion to eavesdrop on the mariners’ chatter. It was essential he stayed abreast of the local gossip.

Staring at the murky liquid in his tankard, he realized he should have dressed down today—a fellow with a fancy cloak and feather-trimmed hat looked out of place in this tavern. Even though he’d removed them on entering, he feared his ruff was too stiff and clean, and his sword hilt too polished.

On the other hand, it might play into his hands to appear well-to-do. Many criminals were as smartly dressed as he. He might pass as a cony-catcher or a confidence trickster, eager to befriend the unwary traveler—just the kind of fellow who’d prey on the clientele of the Red Lion.

What a superb trickster young Claude had turned out to be! It showed considerable presence of mind to steal a jewel like his locket, after having suffered such a shock. He almost admired the boy for it. Ah, well—he’d learned his lesson. Kindness was considered a weakness by most people, alas.

Swilling the dregs around the bottom of his tankard, Robert stood, ready now to return to his watch on the stews.

“Sir! Sir!”

“Hush, lad.” He put a finger to his lips. One of the main problems with employing youngsters like Dickon as spies, was how it made them feel so self-important that they forgot to be clandestine. “What news?”

“He’s just left,” puffed the boy in a stage whisper. “Hurry now, sir!”

Grabbing up his cloak and hat, Robert bowed to the landlord and whispered to Dickon, “Do you remember what to say as we leave the tavern?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye. I’d not forgotten.” In a loud voice, he proclaimed, “The mistress says your supper’s ready, and she’ll give it to the dog if you’re not home afore sunset.”

There was a rumble of laughter from behind them, and Robert leaned against the doorpost a moment, then stumbled deliberately before setting forth, leaning heavily on Dickon’s shoulder.

As soon as they were out of earshot, he asked, “Are you sure it was him? Deep tan breeches, light green nether hose, and a russet cap?

“The hose were white, but the rest was the same.”

“Very well. Here’s your penny. Now, where did the lad go?”

“He’s heading right down here, sir.”

“A pox on it!” Robert waved Dickon away and stepped into a shadowy doorway. At least it was now dusk, so there was less chance of him being noticed, especially as Claude had no reason to think he was being hunted. He prayed the lad still had the locket on his person—if he’d traded it in a shady corner of Mistress Riviere’s whorehouse, it would be far harder to retrieve. He didn’t want to have to buy the jewel back if he could avoid it. He already owed Sir Mortimer Fowler a large sum in gambling debts. Such activities were not in his nature, but he’d been desperate to repay the money that he’d borrowed to insure Townley married Meg.

Claude suddenly appeared at the junction with the High Street and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned up toward the Bargate and the center of town.

Robert rapidly replaced his hat, lowered his chin, and strolled after the retreating figure, his feigned drunkenness and stagger now gone. He paused occasionally, pretending an interest in a peddler’s basket or a butcher’s stall.

Claude glanced from side to side but, luckily, never behind him. Was the boy lost? A quick visualization of the street layout prompted Robert to head up a side street and get ahead of his prey. If he remembered correctly, Claude would have to walk past a dead-end passage between two houses, so overgrown with ivy that a whole ox cart could be concealed there. The perfect spot for some serious private conversation.

His blood drummed loudly in his ears as he pushed in amongst the rank-smelling foliage. He was quite enjoying outwitting this pickpocket. Far less dangerous than Spanish spies and Catholic plotters.

Stepping straight into Claude’s path, he said, “I don’t suppose you’re too pleased to see me, are you, boy?”

Claude gasped. Then a bright smile of recognition lit his face.

“Sir Robert? Is that you? My eyes aren’t so good in this gloom.”

“Aye. I trust you’re none the worse for your accident?” Robert hid his grin. The boy feigned pleasure at seeing him. What a consummate actor!

He moved closer, taking the lad’s arm, surprised to feel how little sinew was there. This pickpocket had none of the wiry muscles of the street urchins he’d bribed to do errands for him. A puzzle.

“Let’s talk privately.” He pulled the boy below the trailing ivy, well away from any curious eyes. He must be speedy in his interrogation, before the Town Watch began marching around to impose the nightly curfew. Standing between Claude and his only means of escape, he folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m not known for ill-humor, but you’ve tried my patience sorely, you wicked little whelp. However, I’ve had a dull day, and you’ve provided some distraction, so I’ll be merciful. Return my locket and I’ll forget the incident.” He tilted his head and waited.

Claude gripped the bag he was carrying. “What do you mean?” He sounded anxious, his voice lighter and higher than before.

“Is this the lay of the land then? Playing the innocent? Pretending you don’t know? My locket, whelp. Now.” He held out a hand.

“What locket? I have no locket. Are you run mad, sir?”