Deryn Lake - Death at the Wedding Feast

He had always loved Exeter, loved its back streets and alleyways and now he found his feet heading towards the river, bustling with life and activity. But as he went towards the West Gate he saw the tavern The Blackamore’s Head and felt that he had to go in there and have a jug of ale for old time’s sake.

He sat at a table, feet stuck out in front of him, listening to the voices with their soft Devon burr speaking all around him. And then one voice rose above all the others, strident and compelling, a voice that had his full attention, though his negligent position at the table altered not at all.

‘I demand that you repeat that,’ it said.

The other person gave a laugh and answered, ‘Indeed I won’t, Sir. I insist that you forget and forgive.’

There was the sudden sound of a chair scraping back and the louder voice shouted, ‘Damn you, Sir, you said something I cannot forgive. You insulted my sister and you’ll take it back or pay for it.’

This was followed by the noise of a hearty punch and then a groan, then the sound of someone else rising and a fist crunching. John rose to get a better view.

Two handsome young bucks were going at each other hell-for-leather. The taller of the pair was dressed in the very latest fashion with a short, high waistcoat and tight trousers which left very little to the imagination. His coat he had cast to one side. The other fighter was smaller and more genial-looking. He was not so fashionably dressed, wearing a longer waistcoat which had seen better days and a somewhat tired coat which was hampering his return blows.

A circle of men had formed round them shouting encouragement and remarks like ‘Hit him, George’ and ‘That’s the spirit, Freddy’. They were clearly known to one and all and the Apothecary stood by fascinated, watching them punching the lights out of one another. And then the landlord stepped in. He had changed since John had last visited the tavern and this new licensee was a massive chap, built like a bull and with a neck that emphasized the point. He came round majestically from his side of the bar and stepped in-between the two scrappers, seizing each by the collar and raising them off their feet.

‘Enough!’ he roared. He even sounded like a bull. He shook them both violently and then banged their heads together. ‘You’ll have to continue this in the street. I’ll have no more fisticuffs in this establishment.’

And with that he threw the couple out, single-handedly, and so hard that they both landed on their backs on the cobbles. John, convinced that they were going to need his services, followed them. The jollier fellow was scrambling to his feet, bleeding profusely from his eye and lip.

‘Please allow me,’ said John, ‘but I think you will need a stitch or two in that. Let me escort you to the apothecary’s shop.’

‘Thank you but no,’ replied the other, giving a small bow. ‘My father is a physician and I live only a step from here. I’ll make my own way — but thanks for your kindness.’

‘No, you won’t,’ growled the taller man, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll finish this here and now, Freddy Warwick.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ the Apothecary interceded. ‘Brawling in a public street is highly frowned upon these days.’

‘I wouldn’t agree with you at all about that,’ drawled the other man, ‘Exeter on a Saturday night is no place for those of a delicate constitution.’

‘None the less,’ John answered, ‘I think you two should stop. You are both wounded badly, and in my opinion as an apothecary both of you require medical attention. Urgently.’

The taller man looked belligerent, despite the fact that his nose was pouring blood. ‘Apologize, you cur,’ he said to Freddy.

‘I apologize for everything,’ the young man replied with a certain cold dignity, and turning on his heel walked quickly away, applying a handkerchief to his bloody eye.

‘Well, you have your apology,’ John remarked, ‘and now I think it would be best if you sought some help.’

‘That man is an absolute dandiprat,’ growled the other, staring at Freddy’s departing back. ‘But you can escort me to an apothecary’s if you wish. By the way, my name is George Beauvoir.’

Suddenly everything made sense. He had to be the brother of Lady Imogen who had been so upset in the very shop to which they were now making their way. And Freddy — whom John rather liked — had perhaps hinted that she was pregnant and got a damaged eye for his pains.

‘Lord George?’ asked the Apothecary.

‘The very same. And what’s your name, Sir?’

‘John Rawlings of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’

‘Should I be impressed?’ asked George.

‘Very,’ John replied succinctly.

They made their way along towards High Street, but his lordship was bleeding so badly that John decided they should go to the first apothecary they came across. Sure enough, after they had proceeded just a very few yards, they saw a small shop with the familiar jars in the window and John hurried his patient inside.

The apothecary’s apprentice came out to see them and immediately called his master from the compounding room.

‘Now what have you been doing, Lord George?’ the elderly man asked him. ‘I shall have to tell your brother of you.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said George, and his voice was semi-serious.

‘I was merely being jocular. I am hardly likely to see him,’ the apothecary answered with a hint of acerbity. ‘I do not move in such exalted circles. The new apothecary on High Street has taken most of my custom and I fear that nowadays I am called upon for little except mopping up after fights and handing out the pills which are in much demand.’

‘What would they be?’ asked John, interested.

‘Oh, the usual thing: tablets for gout — they are a favourite — a cure for the clap, my best seller. And, of course, boiled Pennyroyal for helping young women who…’

‘Quite, quite,’ interrupted John, ‘I am an apothecary myself. And, believe me, the demands for physics are exactly the same in London as they are here. Now, what’s to do with this poor fellow?’

‘Get him lying flat for a start. Then apply bruised leaves of Fluellein to that nose of his.’

Together they got George down to the floor and put the application on to his nostrils. Throughout this procedure his lordship kept complaining loudly and uttering vague threats but the two apothecaries ignored him and started a counter conversation about the use and effectiveness of various plants.

During all this John was able to whisper, ‘Who is this brother that you spoke of earlier?’

‘Viscount Falmouth. Their grandfather is the Earl of St Austell. He’s about to remarry — since when every young woman in the place has been throwing herself at the Viscount, the Earl being off the market, so to speak.’

‘With any success?’

‘None at all. He’s a bookish chap and seems in no hurry to tie himself down.’

‘Wise man.’

There was a squeal from the floor. ‘What are you two muttering about? I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes that my nose has stopped bleeding.’

‘Remain where you are for another five. Then I will give you an infusion of Blueberries to take home and apply frequently. You’d best keep your nose under a bandage for the rest of this night.’

‘Dammit, man. I wanted to go out this evening.’

The older apothecary looked down at the figure on the floor. ‘It is entirely up to you, of course, but I would suggest a quiet few hours of complete rest. You have no wish to start the flow of blood once more.’

From his place on the floor George muttered evilly. ‘Curse that little wretch Freddy Warwick. I’ll have it out with him, I swear it.’