Edward Marston - The Queen's Head

'We hope so. It wants but an invitation.'

'It must be inspiring to play before Her Majesty.'

'Oh, it is. I was transported, Dick.'

'Did you dance your jig, Master Gill?'

'Twice. The Queen insisted that I repeat it.' He took a step closer to the boy. 'I would teach you the steps one day if we could find time together.'

'I would appreciate that, sir.'

'Swordplay, too,' continued Gill. 'I was instructed by a Master of Fence. I know far more about it than Nicholas Bracewell. You would do well to seek my help with a sword in future.'

'Nicholas has taught me so much, though.'

'I will teach you a lot more, Dick. Would you like that?'

The boy hesitated. The avuncular smile was worrying him again. Besides, his first loyalty was to Nicholas. He tried to speak but the actor stopped him with a raised palm.

'Come to me this evening,' he wooed. 'We'll have a bout then.'

'That will not be possible, Master Gill,' said a voice.

'Who asked you, sir?' rejoined the actor.

'Dick will be with me this evening. I am to instruct him in the use of the rapier.'

Richard was surprised to hear this but grateful for the interruption. Samuel Ruff had come to his aid once again. The boy's relief was not shared by Barnaby Gill.

'Why must you meddle, sir?' he snapped.

'The boy and I have an arrangement.'

'Is this true, Dick?'

'Yes, I think so...'

'Well, I do not think so.' He rounded on the hired man. 'And I do not believe that you have ever carried a rapier.'

'You do me wrong, Master Gill.'

'Ah!' mocked the other. 'Have you been hiding your light under a bushel all this time? Are you a Master of Fence?'

'No, sir. But I have borne a sword.'

'Let us see how much you remember.'

Ruffs intercession had annoyed Gill intensely and he wanted to teach the man a lesson. There would be the additional bond? of being able to show off in front of Richard. Crossing to a table, Gill snatched up two rehearsal foils and offered one of the bell-like handles to Ruff.

'Not a rapier, sir, but it will serve.'

'I do not wish to have a bout with you, Master Gill.'

'Are you afeard, then?'

'No, sir. But it would not be wise.'

'Who asks for wisdom out of swordplay?'

'Somebody might get hurt,' explained Ruff. 'Even with a button on, a foil can cause injury.'

'Oh, I forgot,' teased Gill. 'You have wounds enough already.'

'My arm is mended, sir. That is not the reason.'

'Then what is?'

'Common sense.'

'Common sense or cowardice?'

Samuel Ruff was stung by the gibe. He had no wish to fence with Gill but the insult could not be ignored. Slipping off his jerkin, he handed it to Richard and accepted the foil from his adversary. The latter gave him an oily grin. He was going to enjoy humiliating this troublesome hired man and would not even bother to remove his doublet to do so.

Others in the room quickly came over to watch the bout. Benjamin Creech shouted words of encouragement to Ruff but the general feeling was that he had little chance. The three older apprentices lent their support to Barnaby Gill. They wanted to see Richard Honeydew's friend humbled.

'Instruct him, Master Gill,' urged Martin Yeo.

'I'll wager a penny you have the first hit,' said Stephen Judd. 'Tuppence. Will you back your man, Dick?'

'I have no money, Stephen.'

'Owe it to me. The wager stands.'

Barnaby Gill held the light, slender foil and swished it through the air a few times before taking up his stance. His opponent held his weapon ready. The hired man was bigger and sturdier but Gill was much lighter on his feet.

'Come, Samuel,' he invited. 'Let me trim your ruff!'

The three apprentices sniggered but Richard was frightened, sensing that his friend was in real danger. Gill had been involved in a sword fight on stage during the play about Richard the Lionheart and had shown himself to be an expert. The boy quailed. Anxious for the duel to be prevented, his spirits rose when the book holder came striding into the room.

'Stop them, Master Bracewell!' he begged.

'What is going on?' asked Nicholas.

'Keep out of this!' ordered Gill.

'Is this a quarrel?'

'Stand off, Nick,' said Ruff. 'It is only in play.'

Before Nicholas could make any move, the duel had been The foils clashed in a brief passage of thrust, parry and count thrust. They started again. Barnaby Gill forced the pace of the bout, keeping his opponent under constant attack, lunging with vicious intent and using all his tricks to entertain the audience Ruff could do little but defend and he went through all eight parries time and again. Gill circled him, first one way and then the other, baiting him like a dog with a bull.

Yet somehow he could not score a hit to appease his burning resentment of the man. Remise, reprise and flanconade were used but Ruff somehow held him at bay. Gill speeded up his attack and found an opening to slash at his opponent's left arm. The hired man was quick enough to elude injury but the button opened up the sleeve of his shirt and a bandage showed through.

'A hit!' cried Stephen. 'You owe me tuppence, Dick!'

'No hit,' insisted Ruff. 'A touch.'

Gill cackled. 'Here comes your wager, Stephen.'

He attacked again with his wrist flashing, thrusting in quarte and tierce, setting up another opening for himself. Crouching low as he lunged towards his adversary's stomach, he was astonished when his foil was deftly twisted out of his hand and sent spinning through the air. Unable to save himself, Barnaby Gill ended up flat on his back with the point of Ruff's weapon under his chin. It was the hired man's turn to use the well-tried pun.

'You have a Ruff at your throat now, sir.'

A tense silence ensued. The apprentices were non-plussed, Creech and his fellows were astounded, and Nicholas Bracewell was delighted. Barnaby Gill was seething. Instead of humiliating Samuel Ruff, he had been chastened in public himself and his pride had taken a powerful blow. He would not forget or forgive.

It was left to Richard Honeydew to speak first.

'I will claim my wager now, Stephen.'

*

The cardinal's hat presented a sorry sight to the morning sun. Long splinters of wood had been hacked away and much of the paint had been scored. On one side of the tavern sign at least, the hat was very much the worse for wear. No wind disturbed

Bankside. The cardinal's hat hung limp and forlorn. Nicholas Bracewell looked up to assess the damage that Redbeard had caused. There was a window adjacent to the sign and he supposed that it was in the room belonging to Alice. He was soon given confirmation of this. 'She is upstairs now, sir.'

'May I see her?'

The landlord looked even more like a polecat in daylight. His arrowed eyes went to his visitor's purse. Nicholas produced a few coins and tossed them on to the counter. 'Follow me, sir.'

'Is the girl fully recovered now?' said Nicholas, as he went up the winding staircase with the man.

'Alice? No, sir. Not yet.'

'What are her injuries?'

'Nothing much,' replied the landlord callously. 'One of her arms must stay bound up for a week or more and she still limps badly.'

They reached the first landing and walked along a dingy passageway. Nicholas glanced around with misgivings. 'Will the girl get proper rest here?'

'Rest!' The polecat drew back his teeth in a harsh laugh. 'Alice came back to work, sir, not to rest. She was as busy as ever in the service last night.'

The sleeping figure of an old man now blocked their way. Kicking him awake with the toe of his shoe, the landlord stepped over him and went on to a door. He banged hard on it. 'Alice!'

There was no sound from within so he peered through the keyhole. He used his fist to beat a tattoo on the timber. Are you alone in there, Alice?'