Part 12 (1/2)

”You know what is convenient,” he returned in a voice of keen approval, as he brought it. ”Now, I was once a serving man in Berkeley Inn, called so of my lord Berkeley that lodgeth there. But whether he were at home or absent, I was ever there. And where I was, you understand, there must needs be necessaries bought, and such things as were, as I say, convenient.”

He leered upon me very sly as he spoke these mysteries; by which I perceived I was already deep in his favour, as he was (like enough) deep in villainies.

”I marvel how from a lord's mansion you came to serve in a common tavern,” said I, to check him.

”Oh, rest you easy, sir,” he laughed, ”for the difference is less than one might suppose. There be pickings and leavings there as in an hostelry, a nimble wit needed in both places indifferently, and for the rest, work to be scanted and lies to be told. Hey! and lives to be lived, master, and purses filled, and nought had, here nor there, but must be paid for or else stolen.”

Such light-hearted roguery I owed it to my conscience to condemn, but for the life of me I could not, so that I fell into a great laughter that no shame might control. I hope it was weakness of my body, and not of virtue, pushed me to this length, but however come by, I could not help it, and think moreover it did me good.

”Come, that is the note I like,” said my tapster, whose name I learnt was Jocelin; and, setting his lips close to my ear, he added, ”London town is but a lump of fat dough, master, till you set the yeast of wit to work therein; but after, look you! there be fair risings, and a handsome great loaf to share.” His eyes sparkled. ”I have the wit, man, I am the yeast, and so...”

He had not finished his period, or if he did I marked him not, for just at that season the gate of a great house over the way opening, a party of hors.e.m.e.n rode forth into the street with a clatter of hoofs. They wheeled off at a smart pace to the right-hand, laughing and calling out to each other as they went, and sending the children a-skelter this way and that before them. Yet, notwithstanding they were gone by so speedily, I had yet espied the device upon their harness and cloaks, which was the green dragon and Pembroke cognizance. I flung back my chair.

”Is yon house Baynards Castle?” I cried.

”None other,” he replied, nodding while he grinned. ”I have certain good friends there, too.”

”Is Mr. Malpas of the number?” I demanded.

”Oh, he!” he answered with a shrug. ”A bitter secret man! If 'a has plots he keeps them close. He flies alone, though 'tis whispered he flies boldly. But we be honest men,” quoth he, and held his chin 'twixt finger and thumb. ”We live and let live, and meet fortune with a smile. But I hate them that squint upon the world sidelong, as he doth.” From which I drew inference that they twain had formerly thieved together, and that Malpas had retained the spoil.

But I soon tossed these thoughts aside for another, which, as it came without premeditation, so did I put it into practice immediately.

Having satisfied my charges at the inn, therefore, and without a word to Jocelin, I ran across the street and into the gate-house of the castle, before the porter had time to close the gate of it behind the hors.e.m.e.n.

”Is Mr. Malpas within?” I accosted him eagerly.

The porter regarded me awhile from beneath raised brows.

”Have you any business with him, young master?” said he.

”Grave business,” I replied, ”knowing, as I do, who it was gave him that hurt he lies sick withal.”

The old man pushed the gate to with more dispatch than I had thought him capable of using. ”Ay, you know that?” he muttered, looking upon me with extraordinary interest. ”That should be comfortable news to Signor Guido; that should be honey and oil to his wound;” and I saw by that he understood his Malpas pretty well.

He led me aside into his lodge, and there, being set in his deep, leathern chair, spread himself to listen.

”Who is he, now?” he asked, in that rich, low voice a man drops into that antic.i.p.ates the savour of scandal.

I looked him up and down as though to a.s.sure myself of his secrecy, and then--

”'Twas Master Cleeve,” said I.

Heavy man as he was, he yet near leapt from his chair.

”Is't come to that?” he cried. ”Master Botolph Cleeve! Now the saints bless us, young man, that it should be so, and they once so close to hold as wind and the weather-c.o.c.k!”

I saw his error and meant to profit by it, but not yet. If, indeed, my uncle Botolph were hand-in-glove with Malpas, why, then, I was saved the pains to deal with them singly. Having smelled out the smoke, it should go hard but I would soon tread out the fire. Howbeit, I judged that to question the old man further at that season would be to spoil all; since by manifesting the least curiosity of my uncle, I should deny my news (as he understood it) that my uncle, and not I, had near robbed Malpas of his life. Noting the porter, then, for a man to be considered later, I returned to my politic resolution to get speech of Malpas himself, and to tell him, moreover, that Mistress Avenon abhorred his addresses, which I was therefore determined should cease.

Perhaps I counted upon his sick condition in this, and upon a correspondent meekness of behaviour, but regard it as you will, I was a mere fool and deserved my rival should rise from his bed and beat the folly out of me. Nevertheless, I take pride that my folly ran no further, so that when the porter inquired who I might be that desired to carry this message to the wounded man, I had sufficient wit to answer frankly that I was Mr. Cleeve's nephew; which reply seemed to set the seal of truth to that had preceded.

”Ma.s.s!” swore the porter, lying back in his chair, ”then methinks your news will doubly astonish Mr. Malpas, seeing who you be that bring it.”