The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins (25 page)

‘My thanks for your help, sir,’ I said, nodding at the bulge of his pistol beneath his coat. ‘You must permit me to buy another bottle or two . . .’ A debauch would be a good way to extract useful information from Howard – if I could remain sober myself.

‘Put a guinea on the Irish bitch when she comes on and we’re even,’ he said, grabbing my shoulder and giving it a mighty squeeze. I buckled a little, and let out a silent whimper. I still ached from the morning’s torture. I smiled and nodded through the pain, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. He welcomed Kitty with a surprisingly charming bow, while I settled down upon the bench, marvelling at my good fortune. He truly didn’t remember me from the fight in the park. Well – it had been dark and he had been fearsome drunk. And I
had
knocked him senseless. There was still a cut upon his brow even now, scabbed and bruised. With luck I’d knocked the memory clean out of him.

He took another swig, studying me closely. ‘I feel I know you from somewhere, Hawkins . . .’

The blood drained to my toes. ‘The gaming tables, perhaps . . .?’

He scratched his jaw. ‘Perhaps.’ He took Kitty’s arm and escorted her to the bench, settling her beside him. I gritted my teeth as he patted her hand, forcing myself to hide my revulsion. And yet there was some ghost of gallantry in his behaviour – some echo of a younger man more able to dissemble and present a gentlemanly appearance.
There
was the actor who had fooled Henrietta into marriage – the dashing captain wooing a sheltered young girl half his age. An orphan from a noble family with a fair fortune. He must have been licking his chops behind his hand. How long had he waited to reveal his true nature? A few days after the wedding at most, I wagered. A few days before the beast ripped its way into the open. Poor Henrietta. Only sixteen. She must have been terrified.

‘D’you know, it’s strange,’ Howard frowned. ‘You
both
seem familiar. Are you an actress, madam?’

‘No, sir,’ Kitty smiled. ‘We own a bookshop, on Russell Street . . .’

He swayed, thinking. ‘Hah! Cocked Pistol! Best damned shop in London!’ Howard punched one of his companions in the arm. ‘D’ye hear that, Drummond?’ And soon the entire company fell to discussing the shop and what a great, civic service it performed. I could scarce believe my luck. Not only did Howard not remember our fight, it transpired he was one of our best customers. He sent a boy for most of his purchases, but was sure he had met us both on his own brief visits. I confess I did not remember him, but then I spent most of my time upstairs at my desk.

‘Was there not a murder on Russell Street last night?’ Howard asked. ‘Some old bore was talking of it at White’s . . .’

‘Joseph Burden. Carpenter. He lived next door.’

Howard gave a jolt of surprise, then began to laugh, clapping a hand to his knee. ‘Joseph
Burden
 . . .’ he chuckled. ‘Haven’t heard that name for a while. Now there was a vicious, godless rogue. He’ll be roasting in hell tonight, on my word.’

Kitty stared at him. ‘Godless?’

‘He was a brothel bully when I knew him,’ Howard said. ‘Bawdy house off Seven Dials. Twenty years back, now . . . Blackest, meanest place in the city. Not for simpering boys, you understand. Rooms for every vice.’ His eyes glinted. ‘Whipping. Pissing. Dogs if you fancied.’ He laughed and the rest of the company laughed with him. ‘Burden was paid to stop the worst of it. If a man took a knife to a girl, or beat her too hard. But he had debts. One could always pay him to look the other way.’ He laughed again. ‘My God. The things Joseph Burden
didn
’
t
see . . .’

Fresh cheering brought our attention back to the ring. Someone had entered the pit – in a state of near undress. ‘Neala!’ Kitty gasped. I leaned forward. My God, so it was – the Irish girl we’d met outside. She had removed her long riding cloak to reveal a tightly laced bodice and a short petticoat of white linen, her solid legs bare. She was holding a two-handed sword, the blade a good three inches broad. She raised it high, drawing another roar from the crowd. A second girl joined her in the ring dressed in the same uniform, though she wore red ribbons on her sleeve where Neala wore blue. Her blonde hair was tightly plaited close to her head, to keep it from her eyes.

‘A guinea on the blue,’ Howard ordered, pushing me towards the pit. ‘First to draw blood.’

‘And a pie!’ Kitty called after me.

I found a man near the front of the tumult willing to take my bet – the same waterman who had traded insults with Kitty. Neala was striding about the ring, calling out the many fights she had won. She spoke of her eight brothers back in Ennistymon, who’d taught her how to use a sword like a warrior. I was near enough to catch her eye as she passed. She gave a curt nod before turning to shake her opponent’s hand.

I had never seen a female gladiatorial battle before. I’d heard of them being used to entertain the crowds before the men came out to fight – a little sport with no real danger. This was different. The point of Neala’s sword was blunt, but the edge was sharp as a razor. I tapped the waterman’s shoulder. ‘How many rounds?’

He shrugged. ‘They’re fighting for coin. Depends how desperate they are.’

Neala was down on one knee, praying with her head bowed. As she rose she crossed herself, then bounced on the balls of her feet.

‘Papish bitch,’ someone muttered beside me.

I suppressed a frown. My mother had been raised in the Catholic faith. I bet him a crown the
bitch
would win. Touched the gold crucifix hidden beneath my shirt for luck.

The fighters circled one another slowly as the men shouted encouragement. They both held daggers in their left hand to ward off blows, keeping the swords away from their bodies. The English girl was taller than Neala and moved fast. She was the first to attack, her sword crashing down hard enough to ring out through the tavern. Neala bowed her legs beneath the blow and sprang back.

It was a hard, brutal fight, and the packed room was hot as the centre of hell. The girls were soon drenched in sweat, their skin glistening and their white petticoats clinging to their thighs. As I glanced over the seething crowd of men, I understood why Kitty had been so unwelcome tonight. It was not just a lust for blood that had them baying at the girls. Several spectators had shoved a furtive hand in their breeches.

I leaned over to the waterman, pointed to a gang of apprentices across the ring rubbing themselves with vigour. ‘Side bet on who spends first?’

The waterman snorted. ‘Young puppies. They’ll be spent before I’m done speak—’ He stopped. Pulled a face. ‘Told you.’

Howard squeezed in next to me and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Some sport, eh?’

I had to admit it was a great spectacle. The other girl was a pretty creature and knew how to play to her audience, flashing them smiles as she hacked hard and fast with her blade. With a quick dart she sliced open Neala’s arm, blood spurting from the wound. First blood to England. The crowd cheered. Howard had lost his bet.

‘Bad luck,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to care. But then, it wasn’t his guinea.

He leaned closer and pointed at Neala’s blood, spattered on to the sawdust. ‘Nothing better, eh, Hawkins?’

A hundred thousand things
.

‘I’d like to see your scarlet whore in the ring. She’s a wild slut, no doubt. How d’you keep her to heel?’ I shook my head, not able to trust my tongue. He laughed. ‘You’re not sick for her, are you? Damned fool.’ He pushed back into the crowds to talk with the landlord.

There was a pause as Neala’s wound was stitched and a bandage applied. She took a large glass of spirits to steady her nerves and returned to the ring, blade high.

‘Game girl,’ the waterman said at my side.

The fight continued. After half an hour Neala had suffered another cut across her chest and was bleeding heavily, but her opponent was staggering with exhaustion now, barely able to raise her sword to protect herself. Neala could have moved in ten minutes before and chanced an attack, but she took her time, prodding and thrusting and falling back until the crowd grew restless.

‘
Finish her off for fuck
’
s sake!
’

‘
Use your blade, damn it!
’

She ignored them, parrying a final, weak attack. Her opponent crashed to the floor and dropped her sword, hands raised in defeat as Neala approached. Neala threw her fist in the air and grinned as the few of us who had bet on her to win shouted our approval. Hah! I was up one crown! And down a guinea, but there was no need to think of that.

The loser was now walking through the crowds selling herself for the night to the highest bidder. No one seemed interested in buying Neala and she did not seem interested in selling, either. She took her winnings from the fight and crossed the ring to greet me. I congratulated her and invited her to join us for supper. Her eyes flickered up to Howard’s bench where he was seated again, talking with Kitty. A guarded look crossed Neala’s face. ‘That’s your woman up there? I would take better care of her, if I were you.’

I watched with a sinking heart as Howard laughed and smiled, the mask back in place. Neala was right to scold me – but I could not send Kitty home on her own. The dark streets were just as dangerous as Howard – and at least I could keep my eye upon him. I sighed to myself. So much for my pretty dream of my first full night with Kitty. So much for a blazing fire, a warm bed, and the finest wine I could afford. I bought her a wretched-looking pie and returned to the bench. The first pair of cocks were out in the ring now, parading in their silver spurs once more as the landlord called out their pedigrees. Kitty broke off her conversation with Howard to take the pie.

‘We should bet on that one, on the left,’ she said, taking a huge bite. ‘Saw his grandfather fight like a fucking demon in Clerkenwell.’ She nudged her shoulder against mine. ‘Is this not fun, Tom? We should come here every week.’

I knocked back some claret, grimacing as the fight began and the cocks tore at each other. The truth was, I hated cockfighting. I know I am alone with the Quakers, but I can’t bear to watch two innocent animals ripping each other apart for sport. It’s a shame, as there is good money to be made if one knows the birds’ pedigrees and fighting history – but I cannot help my squeamish nature. I tried to explain this to Kitty as her favourite gouged a wide hole in its rival’s neck then stood on its lifeless body, crowing in triumph.

She wiped the grease from her fingers. ‘You wish me to feel pity for a chicken?’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Dear Tom.’

The night drew on and Howard grew restless. He had won a few bets in the first matches, but was now down almost three pounds – all of it borrowed from the pockets of the young sot under the bench, who had barely stirred all evening. I asked the most sober companion left standing who the boy was – a nobleman, I thought, judging from his clothes.

‘That he is, Hawkins,’ Howard interrupted. He dragged the boy to a seated position, leaning him against the bench. The boy’s head rolled back. ‘He’s my son. Henry – wake up, damn you.’

Henry Howard. Henrietta’s son – her only child. I stared at the young rake sprawled in a drunken heap, a sloppy string of drool sliding down his chin. Then thought of his mother, gracious and composed, her face cool and still as a portrait. And yet the resemblance was there, beneath the debauchery. He shared Henrietta’s high forehead and clear complexion, and the contours of his face were remarkably similar. I saw little of Howard in him, save for the drunkenness, of course.

Henry hiccoughed, then spewed a thin stream of vomit at our feet.

‘
Gah
 . . .’ Howard cursed. At his signal, one of the chairmen threw the boy over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowds. Hopefully the fresh air would revive him. ‘Can’t take his liquor,’ Howard scowled after them both. ‘It’s his mother’s fault, damn her.’

I smiled, playing my part. I couldn’t risk the night ending here, although I wanted it to with all my heart. Howard could tell a good story at the start of an evening, before the liquor scoured away the thin veneer of charm. There were old war stories, and wicked court scandals from his years attending the old king. He had lived a free, rakish life, and there must have been a time, long ago, when he had been entertaining company. But now he was an old, ruined man, on the turn like spoiled milk, sour and sickening.