Kathleen Kent - The Wolves of Andover

A serving man brought two heated ales and they drank deeply, their eyes like twin beacons searching the room for newcomers. Crouch noted the hulking shape of Brudloe’s bodyguard, Cornwall, at the far side of the room, leaning against the wall as though propping it up. Brudloe himself was a demon in a fight, fast with a knife and tireless. But one look at Cornwall’s bulk gave even the most obstinate aggressor pause for thought. Cornwall’s first loyalty, however, was to the master spy Tiernan Blood, and he would most likely report everyone’s actions directly to him. It was through Blood’s directives that Crouch had called for a meeting with Brudloe and his associates after the match.

Crouch leaned closer to Brudloe’s ear, saying, “I have all that we require: maps, our contact in Salem, the captain for transport.”

“Guns?” Brudloe asked.

“Aye, that, too. Blood has seen to that.” Crouch tipped the mug up to his mouth again, draining the last of the froth. He’d never actually seen Tiernan Blood eye to eye, always dealing through an intermediary. And he doubted whether Brudloe would know the man by sight either. The Irishman could well be in the room at that moment, in one of his many disguises. The only one who would know him for certain would be Cornwall, who’d been with Blood from the early days.

Crouch saw a group of men and women tumble into the smoky room, dressed in heavy velvets and brocades. They were all masked as though, he mused, every ripe son of a whore in the room wouldn’t know it was the Duke of Buckingham with his cronies and their mistresses. He saw one of the duke’s men pay out the wager, a sizable stack of coins, and Crouch grinned. Tonight’s wagers would make him a handsome profit. This, along with Blood’s pay and his bounty for passing English secrets on to Spain, would see him comfortably through the next few years.

The crowd’s sudden deafening cries signaled the release of the dogs, and he pushed his way forward to the circular pit wall. He could hear the frenzied snarling, and when he had elbowed away the last man blocking his view, he saw the dogs locked muzzle to muzzle, the vicious twisting of their heads spraying blood and saliva over the walls in oozing ribbons. A fine mist spattered the face of one finely dressed woman, her satin bodice stained red, and she screamed in outrage over her ruined dress.

The brute had latched onto Whistler’s ear, ripping it away from her pelt, and she locked her teeth into the back of his neck, worrying it like a rat. He staggered under the attack but managed to twist out from under her, clamping his jaws crushingly onto one of her forelegs. A sound like the breaking of ice was followed by a screaming howl as the bitch tore her leg away, pieces of her hide shredding like braided rope. She staggered, and the brute rammed her onto her back, leaving her belly exposed. He began to flay open the hollow beneath her ribs, her legs scrabbling at the air frantically, but he had left his neck exposed, and Whistler’s fangs found the killing spot at his throat, and until he bled out, she would never let go.

When the brute had finally collapsed, Whistler clinging fast to him like a monstrous tick at his neck, she staggered to her feet, holding her shattered foreleg aloft, her belly bleeding heavily onto the sand and sawdust of the ring. The riotous shouting and whistling swelled, filling the space like a tidal rush, and Crouch acknowledged the approbations and cheers from Buckingham’s corner.

Whistler’s handler cautiously slipped the lead around her head and quickly examined her wounds. Looking up, he shook his head, and Crouch exhaled resignedly.

He heard Brudloe’s voice at his ear. “You can buy a dozen prized bitches now with your winnings.”

Crouch gave the signal to the handler to dispatch her, thinking, were he to have a hundred more dogs, none would be as sporting as Whistler; and, truth be known, he had grown to love the dog and would have retired her soon to breed. To him, it did not bode well that she should die before his taking on a dangerous new venture.

He gathered his earnings into a pouch at his belt and left the ring with Brudloe, Cornwall lumbering after them like a baker’s kiln with legs. They walked out of the gaming house, behind the Royal Exchange, and the three of them stood taking in the damp, cold air, the street a well of silence after the din of the baiting pit. Crouch had a mind to go to a private room at an inn at Aldgate within a few minutes’ walking of Cornhill Road, but Brudloe beckoned him in another direction, saying, “We need quiet; too many eyes and ears. I know a house that will serve.”

He led Crouch south on St. Botolph’s towards the wharves next to London Bridge, his scarred and closely shaven head turning this way and that for signs of alley cutthroats, Cornwall close behind them with his hand on the hilt of a large dagger. At the head of Lyon’s Key, a form slipped out of the shadows, wrapped in a heavy cloak, and approached them on the pier. Crouch tensed, looking for Cornwall to move defensively, but Brudloe placed a hand on his arm, saying, “Be at ease, Samuel. This here is our new partner.”

The hooded figure nodded and Crouch took his hand away from the pistol hidden under his greatcoat. In a loud whisper Brudloe said to Crouch, “He’s titled, is young Master Thornton.” Brudloe snorted unpleasantly and Thornton responded with a tight exhalation of air that could have been laughter.

They followed Brudloe into a shoddily built house perched on the docks, newly built since the fire. The door was opened by an old bawd who signaled them in, and at a large table set with food and drink sat Baker, a placid, cadaver-faced man known widely as an artist in the application of torture. It was said he could make the pope give up the names of his own bastards. For a moment, Crouch paused at the door. He found Baker at all times abhorrent, but of late, it seemed, where there was Brudloe, there, too, was Baker.

Shoving aside a large trencher of meat, Crouch pulled from his coat pockets maps and documents that he spread on the table. The others moved to the opposite side of the table to be seated, and Crouch regarded them silently. Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, he thought, each with his own talent for destruction. His eyes returned to the youngest man’s face, studying the refined features, certain he had seen him before. He was dressed expensively, much too richly to be a deserter from the army or a common street bravo.

Crouch pulled off his wig, scratching at the thinning halo of rust-colored hair, and pointed to the pile of papers. “Here are the Letters of Transport, signed by the office of Sir Williamson himself. The voyage to New England will take at least three weeks, maybe four. The ship is The Swallow. Captain’s name is Koogin. Our passage is already paid, supplies on board. Do not,” Crouch said, holding up a finger for emphasis, “do not underestimate the discomfort of the passing. March storms are fierce.”

Brudloe sniggered. “The only discomfort for us will be the lack of women. Except for Baker, here, who may make time with the cabin boy.”

Baker smiled benignly, scratching casually at his brow.

Crouch picked up a map out of the pile and turned it around for the four men to better see. He jabbed at the point of entry. “This is Boston Harbor. The captain will see us to a reliable boardinghouse. We will gather food and water and, as soon as we are able, leave Boston for Salem.” His finger traced inland on the map. “We can walk it in a day. In Salem we’ll contact a man named Rogers. Goodman Rogers.”

“Oh, Christ. A Puritan,” Brudloe muttered.

“They’re all Puritans,” Baker said under his breath, fingering through the documents.