‘Well.’ Barnabus patted his belly as he finished. ‘Now what shall we do?’
‘I could show you round about the town, Mr Cooke,’ said Young Hutchin, ‘so ye can find your way.’
‘Lead on.’
No one who knew his way around London town could be in the least confused by Carlisle which was barely a village by comparison. They wandered down Castle Street and looked at the cathedral, which was in a little better condition than St Paul’s, and examined what was left of the abbey. English Street was where the best shops were and Barnabus had been there before to buy paper and ink for his master with Richard Bell and also to visit the goldsmith’s. Young Hutchin’s eyes shone as he peered through the thick bars of the goldsmith’s grille and counted the rather poor silver plate and gold jewellery displayed there. Barnabus wondered if the goldsmith also dealt in receiving stolen goods, as some of his London colleagues did, but Young Hutchin, when asked, explained virtuously that he knew nothing of such sinfulness.
They examined the glowering two towers of the citadel, with their cannon, defending the road called Botchergate which led to Newcastle and ultimately to London. Then they retraced their steps and bore right up Scotch Street which was a poorer place altogether, though well-supplied with ale houses, horse dealers and smiths.
All about them flowed the townsfolk, greatly thinned in their numbers by the men who had gone out to work the fields round about. The women kept many of the shops, particularly the fish and butcher’s shops, and some of the fish they were selling actually looked and smelled quite fresh. Barnabus remembered they were only a few miles from Solway and no doubt there were fishermen who went out to harvest the Irish sea. Perhaps Wednesdays and Fridays would not be such a trial here as they were in London, where the trotting trains from Tilbury and East Anglia could not bring in the fish any quicker than two days old.
They were passing by a wynd with the strong smell of herring saltworks coming from it when Barnabus said to Young Hutchin, ‘Where would I go to... er... find a woman?’
Young Hutchin grinned cynically. ‘Depends on the woman, master,’ he said. ‘What kind of woman was ye thinking of?’
Barnabus coughed. Well, Devil take it, he’d just been paid and what else was there to spend his money on? There was no bear- or bull-baiting in this backwater and there certainly wasn’t a theatre. ‘I was thinking of a... helpful sort of woman,’ he said. ‘The kind that might take pity on a poor southerner far from home.’
Young Hutchin nodded in perfect comprehension. ‘Ay, well there’s two bawdy houses, ye ken, but neither of them have lassies that are much in the way of beauty if ye’re used to London ways...’
‘Are they poxed?’ asked Barnabus.
Young Hutchin raised his eyebrows and for a second he looked astonishingly like Carey, who could be no relation.
‘Now, master, how would I know such a thing, being only a poor lad meself.’
‘You might have heard where the nearest of them is, so I can go and inspect them myself,’ said Barnabus, gravely.
‘Nay, master, I’m too innocent for...’
Barnabus sighed and produced a groat. ‘I could likely find the place myself,’ he said, ‘or ask someone else?’
Young Hutchin took the groat smoothly and led the way down the nearest wynd.
Barnabus liked the boy’s technique. For instance, he was perfectly well aware that he was being led on a deliberately twisting and complex route so he would have difficulty finding the place again and that Young Hutchin had tipped the wink to one of the lads sitting in the street minding his family’s pigs that he was bringing in custom. He didn’t mind in the least, it made him feel nicely at home, though every time he looked up he saw a nasty unsmoky sky and almost every wynd off Scotch Street eventually ended in red brick wall.
Down one of the culs-de-sac they came on a brightly painted house with red lattices, a painted wooden sign of a rainbow and a girl sitting on the step. She stood up and smiled at him, leaned over so her large breasts could press enticingly over the top of her stays, and in a reek of cheap perfume, said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’
His breath coming short, on account of being away from the stews of Southwark for so long, Barnabus nodded. To Young Hutchin he said, ‘You stay here, my son, we wouldn’t want your innocence being corrupted, would we?’
‘What, wait here in the street?’ asked Young Hutchin with dismay.
‘I’d never shirk my responsibilities to you, my son,’ he added preachily, ‘and you’re not getting corrupted on my money today. Besides, if you stay outside and give me a list of everyone who comes in and goes out while I’m there, you could earn yourself enough for two women in the one bed.’
That caused Young Hutchin to brighten considerably and he settled down on the step as Barnabus went in. He was met by a grey-haired woman of formidable expression, dressed in a tawny velvet kirtle with a damask forepart and embroidery on her stomacher, her hair covered by a cap and a long-crowned hat in the Scottish fashion, with a pheasant’s feather. Her ruff was edged with lace and starched with yellow starch and altogether she was as magnificent a woman as complete flouting of the sumptuary laws could make her. London work, as well, Barnabus estimated, his eyes narrowing, it seemed Hutchin had brought him to the most expensive place in town. No matter. Barnabus regarded money invested on good whores as money well spent. No doubt the Scots went to the other bawdy house, wherever that was, since he could hear none of their accents which he was just beginning to be able to tell from an English Borders accent.
‘Welcome to this house,’ said the woman in a clear southern voice, somewhere in London, Barnabus judged in surprise. ‘How may I serve you, sir?’
The common room where the whores paraded was nicely floored with fresh rushes and had a fireplace, though no fire since the weather had turned warm and muggy. There was a man there, no doubt acting as security against anyone who tried to leave without paying, a young, clever-faced man, with a weather-beaten face, black ringlets and long fingers. There was something familiar about him but Barnabus couldn’t place the resemblance. He was throwing dice idly and Barnabus watched how he scooped up the ivories and tossed them and hid a smile to himself. It seemed coney-catchers were another universal thing. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
‘Shall we have a game, sir?’ asked the man in friendly fashion. ‘To pass the time until the whores are ready?’
Barnabus swallowed a laugh. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve only a little bit more than the price of a woman here, but I’ll keep you company.’
He sat down, took the wine he was brought and sipped it cautiously, and waited for the other man to make the first throw.
‘I’m Barnabus Cooke,’ he explained, ‘servant to Sir Robert Carey, the new Deputy.’ Since they almost certainly knew that already, he didn’t see any reason not to confirm it.
‘I’m Daniel Swanders,’ said the man, ‘pedlar by trade, but I’m waiting about here for a while until whatever’s happening in Scotland has finished happening.’
Barnabus nodded pleasantly, betraying no interest at all. He calculated they’d give him about twenty minutes to win some money before the whores arrived and then after he’d finished with a woman, Daniel Swanders would have a friend arrive, and he’d be brought into some plot to cheat the friend at dice since he was such a good player. Barnabus felt a warm pleasant feeling lift his heart nearly as much as the prospect of seeing to some womanflesh; it was almost like being back in London again.
Two hours later, comfortable and easy in his skin with only a tiny niggling doubt chewing in the hole at the back of his mind where he’d locked up his conscience, Barnabus Cooke walked out of the Carlisle bawdy house, known as the Rainbow, about two pounds richer than when he came in. Daniel Swanders was still inside, examining his four identical dice with great puzzlement, since they seemed to have betrayed him for the first time in his life, and his friend was trying to be jovial with Barnabus and offering to see him home. Barnabus, who had last fallen for that game when he was twelve years old, loosened his knife and explained to the importunate friend that he already had a guide to see him back to the castle and his master was expecting him to wait at dinner.
As they walked back up the wynd, past the courtyards redolent with herring and mackerel drying on the racks, Barnabus said quietly to Young Hutchin, ‘Can you use a knife?’
Young Hutchin looked insulted. ‘Ay, master, of course I can.’
‘Good,’ said Barnabus. ‘Now, we’re being followed by a large co from near the bawdy house, ain’t we?’
Hutchin stopped to kick a stone, dribbled it round a post in the street and back again. Good, Barnabus thought, liking the boy’s style.
‘You know ’im, don’t you,’ said Barnabus, as usual losing his careful Court voice in the excitement.
‘I might. I dinna ken his name, but,’ said Hutchin.
My eye, thought Barnabus, it’s probably your own brother.
‘Now then,’ said Barnabus as he stopped to examine a cooking pot hanging on an awning for sale, ‘I don’t want to ’urt ’im, I just want to ’ave a little talk wiv ’im, see?’ Young Hutchin looked bewildered and Barnabus got a grip on his tongue and repeated himself more clearly. Young Hutchin nodded nervously. ‘This is what’s going to ’appen. I’m going down that alley there to take a piss, and you carry on and give ’im whatever signal you’ve arranged between yourselves.’ Young Hutchin’s mouth opened to protest his utter innocence but he wasn’t able to stop his fair skin colouring up. Barnabus had often given thanks that he wasn’t liable to blushing with his sallow complexion. The pockmarks helped as well.
