‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured the boy, ‘I was doing your job down in London before you was born. Now, as soon as you see him go in after me, you follow and put your knife against his back first opportunity you get.’
‘I canna...’ began Young Hutchin indignantly. The large man was standing by another shop, staring elaborately at the sky. Barnabus hid a grin.
‘I’m not asking you to knife the bugger, did I say that? No, so don’t jump to conclusions, I want you to prick him enough to let him know you’re there and tell him to stop what he’s doing.’
‘But...’
‘Listen, son. If you don’t want to do it, just say so now and you can hop along up the castle and we’ll say no more about it. But if you want to learn something from a real craftsman, you do as I say and I’ll pay you for it too out of my dice winnings.’
Hutchin’s mouth dropped open. ‘You won the dice game?’ he gasped.
‘’Course I did, I told you, I’m a craftsman. Well, what do you say?’
‘I’ll help ye,’ said Young Hutchin.
‘Just one thing to bear in mind, my son. I don’t want to kill this man, but I will if I have to, and the thing that’ll make me have to kill him is you buggering me about, you got that? And if you do that, son, I’ll find you and I’ll teach you better manners, you got that?’
‘Yes, master,’ said Young Hutchin in a subdued tone.
‘Never mind,’ said Barnabus kindly, ‘you’re doing your best, don’t worry, it gets easier as you know more.’
Arthur Musgrave saw his quarry disappearing down a wynd that was almost blocked out by the heavy buildings straining towards each other overhead. He’d had the all clear from Young Hutchin. He hurried after the plump ferret-faced southerner, taking out his cudgel as he went, hoping this would square it with Madam Hetherington who was enraged at him and Danny losing the bawdy house stake. He paused to take his bearings, wondered where the bastard Londoner had got to and felt a heavy weight thump down on his shoulders from above. The lights went out.
Fighting his way clear of the cloak, he got his head free only to find somebody’s knee crunching into his nose. He lost his temper and managed to grab the Londoner by the doublet front and bash him against the wattle and daub wall of one of the houses, making a man-shaped dent in the plaster. Suddenly he felt the cold prickle of a knife at his back and stopped still.
Somebody’s fist smashed into his gut three or four times and he toppled onto his face, mewing and fighting to breathe. The cloak went over his head again, his belt was undone with unbelievable speed and then wrapped around his body and arms at the bend of the elbow and buckled tight, all before he’d even managed to breathe once. So he lay there, choked with muddy cloak, waiting for the worst and found himself being lifted upright.
It was the bastard bloody southerner again, with that mangling of consonants and dropping of aitches which made him impossible to understand.
‘I don’t want your purse because I know there’s nothing in it and I don’t want your life yet,’ repeated Barnabus patiently, ‘I want to know who’s the King of Carlisle.’
‘What?’
The would-be footpad tangled up in Barnabus’s cloak couldn’t show the bewilderment he felt, but Young Hutchin’s face said it all.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Barnabus, ‘are you telling me there isn’t one? Isn’t there anybody collecting rent off the thieves here to keep them safe from the law?’
Young Hutchin snorted with laughter. ‘No, master, generally it’s the thieves that collect the rent from the lawful folk.’
‘If ye mean surnames, mine’s Musgrave, and my father’s cousin to Captain Musgrave, so if ye...’
‘Shut up,’ said Barnabus, kicking him. ‘Young Hutchin, are you saying that none of the thieves and beggars in Carlisle are properly organised?’
Young Hutchin nodded. ‘There’s never been enough of them in the city,’ he explained. ‘Outside, well, I suppose every man takes a hand in a bit of cattle-lifting and horse-thieving now and again, even the Warden or the Captain of Bewcastle.’
‘Especially the Captain of Bewcastle,’ muttered Arthur Musgrave, who hated all Carletons.
‘Who do you work for then?’ demanded Barnabus of Arthur. ‘Your father?’
Arthur Musgrave’s father was humiliated by Arthur’s inability to get on with horses and had kicked him out of the house five years before. ‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it’s Madam Hetherington’s stake you’ve got there.’
‘The madam?’
‘Ay.’
Barnabus nodded. It stood to reason, of course, seeing she was a southerner. Well, that changed his plans a bit.
‘All right, on yer feet,’ he said, giving Arthur Musgrave a heft and leading back into Scotch Street. A few people glanced at them but didn’t feel inclined to interfere. It gave Barnabus great satisfaction to navigate his way back to the Rainbow without Hutchin’s help, and yell for Madam Hetherington.
A moment later she appeared on the top step with a primed caliver and lit slowmatch in her hand. Barnabus grinned at her and toed Arthur forwards until he landed on the bottom step, and lay there, feebly struggling.
‘I’ve got no argument with you, Madam,’ he said cheerily. ‘And just to show what a generous sort of man I am, here’s half of your stake back.’ He took out the twenty shillings he’d earned and tossed the half-full leather purse onto the step at her feet.
Madam Hetherington’s eyes narrowed and the gun did not move. ‘Why?’ she demanded.
‘Well, I’ve charged you the money for the useful lesson in diceplay I gave your lads...’
‘No, why did you come back?’
Barnabus’s smile went from ear to ear of his narrow face. ‘I want to be a friend, not a coney,’ he said, ‘I know you won’t try this on me again, but I’d like to be welcome here to join the girls if I want.’
Madam Hetherington finally smiled. ‘I welcome anyone with the money to pay me.’
‘Seriously,’ said Barnabus.
‘And I would be willing to pay for more lessons in diceplay.’
Barnabus twinkled his fingers together. ‘Delighted to oblige, I’m sure, mistress.’
