The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [55]

‘Bad luck,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to care. But then, it wasn’t his guinea.

He leaned closer and pointed at Neala’s blood, spattered on to the sawdust. ‘Nothing better, eh, Hawkins?’

A hundred thousand things.

‘I’d like to see your scarlet whore in the ring. She’s a wild slut, no doubt. How d’you keep her to heel?’ I shook my head, not able to trust my tongue. He laughed. ‘You’re not sick for her, are you? Damned fool.’ He pushed back into the crowds to talk with the landlord.

There was a pause as Neala’s wound was stitched and a bandage applied. She took a large glass of spirits to steady her nerves and returned to the ring, blade high.

‘Game girl,’ the waterman said at my side.

The fight continued. After half an hour Neala had suffered another cut across her chest and was bleeding heavily, but her opponent was staggering with exhaustion now, barely able to raise her sword to protect herself. Neala could have moved in ten minutes before and chanced an attack, but she took her time, prodding and thrusting and falling back until the crowd grew restless.

‘Finish her off for fuck’s sake!’

‘Use your blade, damn it!’

She ignored them, parrying a final, weak attack. Her opponent crashed to the floor and dropped her sword, hands raised in defeat as Neala approached. Neala threw her fist in the air and grinned as the few of us who had bet on her to win shouted our approval. Hah! I was up one crown! And down a guinea, but there was no need to think of that.

The loser was now walking through the crowds selling herself for the night to the highest bidder. No one seemed interested in buying Neala and she did not seem interested in selling, either. She took her winnings from the fight and crossed the ring to greet me. I congratulated her and invited her to join us for supper. Her eyes flickered up to Howard’s bench where he was seated again, talking with Kitty. A guarded look crossed Neala’s face. ‘That’s your woman up there? I would take better care of her, if I were you.’

I watched with a sinking heart as Howard laughed and smiled, the mask back in place. Neala was right to scold me – but I could not send Kitty home on her own. The dark streets were just as dangerous as Howard – and at least I could keep my eye upon him. I sighed to myself. So much for my pretty dream of my first full night with Kitty. So much for a blazing fire, a warm bed, and the finest wine I could afford. I bought her a wretched-looking pie and returned to the bench. The first pair of cocks were out in the ring now, parading in their silver spurs once more as the landlord called out their pedigrees. Kitty broke off her conversation with Howard to take the pie.

‘We should bet on that one, on the left,’ she said, taking a huge bite. ‘Saw his grandfather fight like a fucking demon in Clerkenwell.’ She nudged her shoulder against mine. ‘Is this not fun, Tom? We should come here every week.’

I knocked back some claret, grimacing as the fight began and the cocks tore at each other. The truth was, I hated cockfighting. I know I am alone with the Quakers, but I can’t bear to watch two innocent animals ripping each other apart for sport. It’s a shame, as there is good money to be made if one knows the birds’ pedigrees and fighting history – but I cannot help my squeamish nature. I tried to explain this to Kitty as her favourite gouged a wide hole in its rival’s neck then stood on its lifeless body, crowing in triumph.

She wiped the grease from her fingers. ‘You wish me to feel pity for a chicken?’ She kissed my cheek. ‘Dear Tom.’

The night drew on and Howard grew restless. He had won a few bets in the first matches, but was now down almost three pounds – all of it borrowed from the pockets of the young sot under the bench, who had barely stirred all evening. I asked the most sober companion left standing who the boy was – a nobleman, I thought, judging from his clothes.

‘That he is, Hawkins,’ Howard interrupted. He dragged the boy to a seated position, leaning him against the bench. The boy’s head rolled back. ‘He’s my son. Henry – wake up, damn you.’

Henry Howard. Henrietta’s son – her only child. I stared at the young rake sprawled in a drunken heap, a sloppy string of drool sliding down his chin. Then thought of his mother, gracious and composed, her face cool and still as a portrait. And yet the resemblance was there, beneath the debauchery. He shared Henrietta’s high forehead and clear complexion, and the contours of his face were remarkably similar. I saw little of Howard in him, save for the drunkenness, of course.

Henry hiccoughed, then spewed a thin stream of vomit at our feet.

‘Gah…’ Howard cursed. At his signal, one of the chairmen threw the boy over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowds. Hopefully the fresh air would revive him. ‘Can’t take his liquor,’ Howard scowled after them both. ‘It’s his mother’s fault, damn her.’

I smiled, playing my part. I couldn’t risk the night ending here, although I wanted it to with all my heart. Howard could tell a good story at the start of an evening, before the liquor scoured away the thin veneer of charm. There were old war stories, and wicked court scandals from his years attending the old king. He had lived a free, rakish life, and there must have been a time, long ago, when he had been entertaining company. But now he was an old, ruined man, on the turn like spoiled milk, sour and sickening.