S.J. Parris - Sacrilege

“Who will take his cards?” The curly-haired youth named Charlie turned expectantly to the little group standing by the table. “Anyone?”

“I’ve better things to do with my money than throw it to the likes of you,” muttered one man, with a broad grin. The other spectators laughed.

The boy looked disappointed; he cast his eyes around the group until finally his gaze came to rest on me.

“I will play, if you like.” I shrugged, unconcerned. The crowd fell silent and I felt their eyes on me, curiosity piqued by my accent. I looked only at the boy who had spoken. He raised an eyebrow, then glanced around at his friends for approval.

“All right, stranger. Join us for one game and we’ll see how you go.”

“You mean, if you take my money, I can stay on.”

He grinned.

“See, he understands. There are men who travel from town to town making a living from cards—we want to be sure you are not one of those. Take Peter’s seat. Nick, shove up, will you, make room for—what’s your name, stranger?”

“Filippo.”

“Where are you from?” The boy called Nick turned his belligerent glare on me as I squeezed onto the bench beside him. He smelled sharply of sweat and drink; I clenched my fists under the table as I thought of him pawing at Sophia. For this could only be Nicholas Kingsley, the son of Sophia’s dead husband.

“Italy.” I pulled a handful of coins from the purse at my belt and tossed them on to the pile before consulting my cards and smiling at my new companions. I may not be much of a gambler, but years of travelling had taught me that no one makes friends quicker than a man known to be a gracious loser at the card table.

And so I proved to be. I let them take money from me on the first game, laughed at my own ill fortune, was duly invited to stay for the second, bought another pitcher of beer for the table, and another—though happily my companions were so far gone in drink themselves that they failed to notice I drank off one pot to every two or three of theirs. By the end of the night my purse was considerably lighter and my head reeling from the strong ale, but I had been pronounced “a good fellow” by the red-haired boy, whose name was Robin Bates and who seemed the self-appointed leader of the group—all sons of minor gentry or gentlemen farmers, in their early twenties, with a small allowance at their disposal and no apparent inclination as yet to apply themselves to any profession.

“You should play with us again tomorrow, friend,” Bates said when the night’s gaming was over, chinking his winnings in his palm with a nod of satisfaction. I was about to reply when I noticed a murmuring among the group of onlookers, which died away to a pregnant silence as they parted to make way for a newcomer. The curly-haired boy elbowed Nicholas Kingsley, who sat up, blearily focusing, before his face set hard.

“Where’s my money, Kingsley, you son of a whoremonger?”

I looked round and saw, with some surprise, that the speaker was the broad-shouldered gatekeeper from the cathedral. He appeared even larger in the low room, and it was clear that, despite their bravado, the man’s size and the grim look on his face were causing Nicholas and his friends to shrink back in their seats. No one spoke. Eventually Nicholas rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“Not this again. I owe you no money, Tom Garth.”

“Your family does.” The gatekeeper stepped closer to the table, jabbing a meaty finger an inch from Nicholas’s nose. His friends slid as far from him on their benches as they could manage. “Your father has owed my family reparation these past nine years, and now his debt passes to you, though you sit here gaming away money that isn’t yours to lose.” His voice shook with a rage he was struggling to master.

Nicholas shrugged, his eyes fixed firmly on the contents of his tankard.

“Take me to law for it, then.”

This seemed to have the effect of poking an angry dog with a stick.

“As if I could!” Spittle flecked Tom Garth’s lips; it was clear that he had taken a drink, though he was just drunk enough to be aggressive without losing control. “Your father was the law in this town—what chance did we have?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The law has no time for the likes of us. Is it any wonder we have to take it into our own hands?”

Nicholas looked up finally, a sneer spread across his face.

“Oh, you are become a lawyer now, are you, Garth?”

This was a mistake; Tom Garth seized Nicholas by the collar of his shirt, bunching it in his fist, and dragged him forward over the table until their noses were touching.

“I know what’s right and what’s wrong, you little shit. Your father was a murderer and you’re no better. Damned lucky for you your stepmother ran off the way she did, eh? Otherwise people might start asking what you were doing there that night.” He tightened his grip; Nicholas gave a little yelp.

“Now then, Tom Garth, let’s not have any trouble here.” The landlord had materialised beside our table, arms folded across his ample belly, his tone a practised mixture of calming and warning.

Garth glared at Nicholas for a long moment, then shoved him forcefully onto his bench; Nicholas hit the wall with a thump and slumped back, rubbing his neck.

“You lying churl bastard!” he managed to croak. “Say that again and I’ll have you in gaol for it. Your mother’s a witch and your sister was a whore, all Canterbury knows it.”

Garth made as if to step forward, but the landlord laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Probably time you all turned in for the night, boys,” he added, turning to us, his tone amiable enough, though it was not a suggestion. “And you be on your way too, Tom.” He clapped the larger man gently on the shoulder in a manner that made clear where his sympathies lay. “If there’s any brawling in the street outside my inn, none of you’ll be coming back tomorrow, or the next day, or in a month of Sundays.” He looked carefully around the group to make sure we had understood.

We all nodded meekly, like chided schoolboys, and for a moment I wanted to laugh. Tom Garth ran a hand through his hair, directed a last scorching look at Nicholas, and strode to the door.

Outside in the street, no one spoke. My companions peered anxiously up and down the lane, as if afraid Tom Garth might leap at them from the shadows.

“That fellow has quite a grudge against you,” I remarked.

“He’s a drunk and a madman. My father should have had him locked up.” Nick Kingsley untied his breeches to piss up the wall, turning over his shoulder to his friend. “I shall stay with you tonight, Robin. I’m not walking home alone with that churl waiting to knock me down.”

“Again? What is the good of inheriting such a fine house if you are always too drunk to sleep in it?” Bates said, slapping his friend on the back.

“Why do you not hold the game at your own house to save you the walk?” I asked.

Nick focused his gaze sufficiently to glare at me. “Because there are no women there, of course.”

I shrugged and gestured around the group. “I don’t see any women here either.”

“Ha! Good point, my friend. It’s because he would have to provide the drink,” Bates said.

“It’s a good thought of the Italian’s,” said Charlie, leaning on Bates’s other shoulder. “Better than giving all our money to that arsehole Hoskyns for the watered-down cat’s piss he serves up.” He jerked his thumb towards the Three Tuns. “And no one to tell us when to leave. We could keep going till dawn, if we wanted. Your father must have left some fine barrels in his cellar, Nick—someone should make use of them.”

Nick rounded on him with a sudden lurch, pointing unsteadily.