Eamon didn't sleep that night. He lay awake, swallowing his own blood, haunted by the way he could feel it trickle into his lungs. No matter how hard he tried to repress the urge, he inevitably had to cough it back up, and the jets of pain this caused cleared away any fugue of sleep he might have built up in the meantime. On several occasions, he was just beginning to doze off, and he would take some deep, sleepy breath. He would then feel his bandages get sucked against some new hole in his throat: a disturbing and alarming sensation, that as often as not prompted another fit of painful coughing. And so, he was trapped in a vicious cycle until dawn, when he finally drifted off.
Eamon's slumber was all too brief. He was woken when the reeve called to take his leave. Jon's business out of town couldn't wait, but he posted two men at the tavern, tried briefly to get Eamon to stay in his own home and then departed, unhappy at his friend's condition and reluctant to leave with such a matter unresolved.
Editha gave Eamon a draught of medicine and he slept again, until a marvelously late hour. He felt almost refreshed until he drew breath and gagged on a ball of congealed blood. Editha and Reed came then, as promptly as if they had been listening outside the door. They tended his injuries as Weevil had instructed, and presented a unified front of resistance against any attempts he made at rising out of bed. Eamon was inclined to argue, but found speech too painful to bear. In the face of his quiet obstinacy, Editha gave him more medicine, and pleaded with him to remain in bed for just a few hours more. He relented to this pressure, and fell back asleep.
“What did you give him?” a voice asked.
“Henbane and poppy,” Editha replied. He was up all night coughing and he still wouldn't stay in bed,” she added defensively.
“No more.”
Eamon recognized Weevil's voice, realized he wasn't dreaming and blinked up at the Welsh moneylender.
“Good to see you alive and well mate,” Weevil said cheerily. He craned his head left and right: performing an insincere, surreptitious inspection of Eamon's wounds. The young knight looked terrible. His face was an ugly blend of bruises in all their various colors, everywhere it wasn't covered in a scabby cut. “You look prettier than ever.”
Eamon said nothing to this. He merely nodded to Editha when Weevil asked her for a bit of privacy: a sudden, thoughtless jerk of assent, which caused him considerable pain. He didn't make the same mistake twice. A few moments later, he used his hand to gesture acquiescence to Reed, and approve his sharing what they learned from Jon fitz William when Weevil asked. All the while Reed spoke, he glared angrily: sometimes at Weevil, sometimes at the wall.
“It's not exactly a treasure trove of secrets,” Weevil finally said. He looked around for a place to sit, but found only the edge of Eamon's bed. He helped himself uninvited, patting Eamon's leg and smiling almost paternally.
“That ain't our fault,” Reed said quickly. “We asked the questions, but the reeve didn't give the answers. He probably didn't even know.”
“Probably,” Weevil agreed.
Reed's dark eyes narrowed with malevolent suspicion, but why he suspected Weevil and of what, he didn't know.
“Well mate, I appreciate you trying for me. You didn't earn a bag of silver, but I think it's only fair that I wipe out your debt.
“I won't charge you for sewing you up last night,” Weevil went on. “Or the purse I gave to Egburt. We'll call all that a favor between friends. Same with the honey, silk thread, turpentine and this bottle of oil here, I brought for your armor. I imagine you'll be wanting it? But I expect you'll be wanting to borrow some more coin. Oats and pudding ain't cheap. I know. I'll give you the family rates: ten points, hey?”
“You sheep-fucking, pox-ridden Welsh shit,” Reed sputtered, slowly and awkwardly in his fury.
“I'm a businessman!” Weevil told him plaintively. “I can only afford so many favors!”
“Well we won't be borrowing any money. Not today.”
“I heard you bet on your master in the combat trial, hey? Good for you. Very smart bet. But it wasn't much I'm told. Even with the odds so wild against him, it won't last. Good times never do, hey?”
“Is there something else you want?” Eamon asked hoarsely, when Weevil lingered.
“I was thinking, why not take the reeve up on his offer? Five hundred shillings is a lot of money. It would solve a lot of problems for you.”
“Not if I die,” Eamon croaked.
“They ain't paying five hundred shillings for knights to sit around in a garrison,” Reed said snidely.
“Are you afraid of dying?” Weevil asked Eamon. He asked him levelly: without malice or mockery. There wasn't a hint of a smirk on his lips or in his eyes.
“I don't much want to,” Eamon replied.
“I could pay you five hundred,” Weevil said, as if he had only just thought of it. “That way you could change your mind any time you wanted to. Well, any time after you found out where you were going and why.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I'm not the kind of man who breaks his word.”
“Don't be such a child,” Weevil said, exasperated. “Men break their oaths all the time! The king spends eleven months out of the year bringing battle to rebels who swore him allegiance.”
“I'm not them, and I'm no spy.”
“So take my cousin with you.”
“What?” Reed asked.
“Take my cousin with you. You said Reed would get fifty shillings if he came along. I assume that would apply to any man you could recruit. Why not my cousin Shank?”
“No,” Eamon said again.
Weevil sighed. He gave Eamon a sad, pleading look. “You do know I like you, right mate? Please don't make me.”
“Make you what?” Reed asked warily: fearfully.
His fear was a dangerous thing. Weevil understood that well. He appraised Reed cautiously before addressing himself to Eamon. “I have two men in the hall,” he said. “And two more outside. I don't mention it to threaten you,” he added quickly. “They're here to keep watch, in case Bairon sends more men to kill you. I have thirty more turning the town upside down, looking for the last bunch he sent. If they're in town, we'll find them, and we'll find them long before the reeve's clods do.
“If you want me to put a stop to all that, you just let me know,” Weevil said, rising. “But you know what comes after that. If Bairon doesn't get to you first, then fitz William will.”
“And you call me the rat,” Reed muttered.
“I'm a businessman, like I said.”
“There can't be much profit in spite,” Eamon rasped.
“You would be surprised,” Weevil said. “I didn't tell you about the reward for the bishop's killer. It's not nearly so much as I'm willing to pay, but it will help cover my losses so far.”
Weevil waited patiently for an answer, but eventually, he sighed in disappointment and turned to go.
“Can he ride?” Eamon asked. “Your cousin.”
“He can learn.”
“He'll need arms and armor. Reed too. And a horse.”
“Done,” Weevil said, smiling and happy.
“No,” Eamon said. He rose up out of bed, and Weevil saw that he had been holding a dagger beneath the covers. “Not yet. I'm not going anywhere until Bairon is dead. So you better find him for me.”
“You want me to kill him for you?” Weevil asked, surprised: surprised and disappointed.
“No. You're going to find him. I'm going to kill him.”
Weevil grinned. “Proper killer you are mate.”
His smile faded as he left the Old Thane's however. He frowned, for he already knew where Bairon was.
It was the lady Jouiae who told Eamon. She came to town several days later, in the company of a large party. Her carriage and escorts came to a stop and pulled into the fallow field where Eamon and Reed were teaching Shank how to ride. The lessons ended at this unexpected intrusion, and the men watched with bemusement as the carriage navigated the rough track leading up to the field and farmer's house. Their humor and confusion turned to surprise when the lady emerged from her conveyance.
Eamon's heart leapt towards that beautiful woman and his feet weren't far behind. He bowed in answer to her curtsy, and took her hand when she offered it. He bowed also to the lady's retinue of young women, and they curtsied back, but this silent acknowledgment of their shared existence was all that passed between them. Eamon had never been introduced to any of them, and could only guess at their names.
Jouiae gazed upon his scabby face with some dread and wonder.
“It's better than it looks lady,” he assured her. Or he tried to be reassuring. His voice was still as weak as it was hoarse, and it brought her no comfort to hear it.
“One of the reeve's men told me about the attack yesterday, when he stopped at Greystone,” she said, naming her castle. “He told me you were well,” she declared, as if it had been a lie.
“I am well, lady,” Eamon replied, and made the mistake of trying to smile reassuringly. The corner of his mouth was still bound by stitches, and was certain to scar badly, for want of some little flesh gone missing in the attack.
“Do you need anything?” she asked. “Medicine, or...?”
“Did Jon's man give you any news of him?”
“Just that he was summoned to London from Coughton,” Jouiae said. “I don't know why.”
They both frowned, and the silence between them soon grew awkward. Jouiae was grateful for the distraction of a lock of pale hair blown across her face. She made to tuck it under a wimple she wasn't wearing, and hooked it awkwardly behind her ear instead.
“I was sorry you left so suddenly after the combat trial,” she said. “You must think me very brittle, behaving so badly in the face of a little impertinence.”
“It was my man who acted badly. And myself. I should have taken leave properly.”
“Why didn't you?”
Eamon looked away in consternation: reluctant for this esteemed woman to know the particulars of his unfortunate affairs.
“It doesn't matter. I'm just glad to find you well,” Jouiae said quickly. With a gesture, she invited Eamon to walk with her. They stepped away from their companions, with only Jouiae's Moorish handmaid trailing behind.
“What brings you here lady?” Eamon finally asked.
“I wanted to speak with you. And I had business in town. I left a good sum of silver in the care of the Church some months ago and I'm come to get it.”
“Why would you do this?” Eamon asked.
“It seemed to be the smart thing to do at the time,” Jouiae said hesitantly: surprised at Eamon's apparent disapproval. “Many freeholders do it you know. Welsh bandits usually don't sack Churches.”
“They don't often sack castles either. Even with just a handful of men, Greystone would have been impregnable to any gang of bandits.”
“I was more concerned about Ogier if I'm being honest. In the months after my husband's death he grew rather ...impertinent. Suna and I,” Jouiae gestured towards her Moorish handmaid, “were concerned about his loyalty: about his intentions. And then Bairon came and tempted him away along with most of my men.
“At first I was relieved. Ogier was a terrible man, whom my retainers all dreaded. There wasn't much I could do to stop him if he chose to play the brigand. Still, his death was a loss. His reputation and men safeguarded the further reaches of my demesne. I was hoping to effect a reconciliation after the wager of battle.”
“And I killed him.”
“He had the rule of a place we call Millfort. It's a small fief of only fifteen hearths, or...
“Hides,” Suna supplied.
“Hides... But it's good land, and the mill sees some little revenue. Not that it would make you rich to have it, but it's yours. That is, if you're willing to have a woman as your liege. And of course, there is the obligation of service to the crown on my behalf.” Jouiae had begun speaking sedately enough, but as she went on, she saw Eamon's lack of enthusiasm, and her mounting nervousness caused her speech to trip gracelessly from her lips. “I don't mean to misrepresent this as some kind of favor to you. I need your service: all the more so since Bairon occupied Millfort sometime after the trial. He will have to be evicted before it could truly be called yours.”
Eamon's footsteps slowed and then halted.
“I thought you might be amenable to the idea when I heard that you challenged Bairon a second time,” Jouiae said. “May I ask why you did it?”
Eamon looked down at his feet and then off to the horizon: somehow convinced that this would help conceal his boyish infatuation for her. “I humiliated him. There's only one way for such a man to respond and I wanted to get our confrontation over and done with.” The lie was a good one he thought, for there was some truth to it, but even as he said it, he regretted it. He knew it was the act of a coward. He should have simply told her the truth: that he wanted her, and his desire had led to a wild, burning hatred for the man who had wronged her. Some instinct told him she would have been repulsed by the admission however, and not just because he was even uglier to look at than he had been a few days ago. Reed hadn't called her frigid without cause; she had never shown him the slightest bit of interest, romantic or otherwise.
“I see my offer has no interest for you.”
“No. Well, I mean yes. It's complicated,” Eamon said miserably. “But I have obligations and...”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Jouiae frowned, and briefly pondered what Eamon might have said, but she had more pressing demands on her attention. “Perhaps you could think of someone else,” she suggested. “Do you know of another knight? A man of honor, who won't be tempted by any promise of Bairon's?”
“There are great many men-at-arms in Cardiff I hear: masterless men from all over Europe, seeking employment in the Marches.”
“A trip to Cardiff might be difficult with Bairon at my door.”
Eamon inclined his head back towards her retinue. “Why not one of them? They're loyal,” he said.
“They're good men,” Jouiae admitted, looking at them. “But they wouldn't have ridden against Ogier.” She caught her handmaid's gaze, which urged her to ply Eamon further. “Are you sure I can't persuade you? I could expand the fief or...”
“No, lady. It's not like that. I really do have other obligations. But I would like to be of service to you if I may. If you come up with a plan in the next week or so, I would like to help.”
“And what would you charge for such services, sir?”
“I hadn't... I hadn't considered it.”
“Would the same amount as before suffice?”
Jouiae couldn't help but turn to frost discussing payment. She was utterly oblivious to the nature of Eamon's heart. If somebody had told her that this young man, who had ridden against Ogier, was too timid to let her know he was in love with her, she would have laughed at the absurdity. She took him for a heartless mercenary instead, and she had no idea how much her coldness could sting: how it could anger, and what that in turn might lead to.
“As you wish,” Eamon said dully.
“Like I said,” Shank declared, as the lady's carriage returned to the road. “No charisma! If you ever want some pointers on how to talk to women, you let me know.”
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“Come on, give me a hand with this Shank,” Reed said, before the Welshman could see the murder in Eamon's eyes.
Reed stood to one side of a barrel, and kicked it towards the Welshman. Shank stopped it with his heel, wearing a quizzical expression, and didn't kick it back until Reed urged him to with a gesture. “Why are we doing this exactly?”
“It's the easiest way to get rust off of chainmail,” Reed explained as they kicked the barrel back and forth. It had been borrowed from the farmer whose field they occupied for an eighth-penny. It contained their “new” chainmail hoods, and a goodly amount of rust and sand. The padded coats Weevil had procured were in better condition; they didn't even smell of mildew. He had also provided two nasal helms, two spears, two shields, and a sword and leather vest for his cousin.
“It doesn't seem all that easy,” Shank complained.
“You can scrub it off by hand if you'd rather,” Reed said dryly. “But you might regret it when it comes time to oil it back up. It's tedious as hell.”
“Oil?”
“Keeps the iron from rusting again. At least for a while. You'll be helping me do his after we finish yours,” Reed inclined his chin towards Eamon.
“The hell I will,” Shank sidestepped the barrel as it rolled towards him, and he stood facing Reed with his hands on his hips. “I'm not your fucking servant.”
“That's the part you'll play if you're going to spy for your cousin,” Eamon said sharply. “If you don't like it, you can go back to Weevil and tell him send somebody else.”
Muscles bulged in Shank's temple as he ground his teeth. “You're a proper cunt, you know that?”
“When you can ride, tilt and fight better than a Welsh peasant, I'll start introducing you as a knight,” Eamon said.
“Get fucked,” Shank retorted, utterly mistaking Eamon's tone and intent. “If you can.”
“I'll teach you if you want,” Eamon said patiently. “So will Reed. He's pretty good with a sword.”
“Lesu! You're not serious,” Shank exclaimed. Reed's alarmed, contrarian look was even more convincing than Eamon's deadpan face however.
“You saved my life,” Eamon said flatly.
Shank's glare slowly faded into a smile. “I thought you forgot.”
“I didn't. And I won't.”
“Well hell, I always wanted to be a knight!”
And so, Eamon took the two wooden swords from Kicker's saddle and gave them to Reed and Shank. For several hours, their faux blades clattered against shield and helm, and the sounds of their practice echoed across the fields, punctuated by Eamon's dry, rasping voice. He frequently stepped in with his own sword and shield, to demonstrate the how and why of footwork and stance. Shank was a quick study: intelligent, sharp eyed and fast. He took real pleasure in the lessons, and didn't mind the hard, angry knocks Reed gave him.
They soon drew an audience. Several of the farmer's children joined them in the field, and began to ape Eamon's lessons with sticks of their own, until their mother discovered their shirking and scattered them to their chores like a hawk among chickens. Her glare told Eamon that they had outstayed their welcome, and so the men picked up their things, and returned to Shrewsbury.
Once their horses were stabled and belongings tucked away in the tavern, Shank suggested they have some ale: a reasonable suggestion, but he preferred to go elsewhere.
“What's wrong with the Old Thane's?” Eamon wanted to know.
“No women,” Shank said disdainfully.
“You mean no whores,” Reed corrected, and a glimmer of the disapproving old priest shined through.
“What's the difference?” Shank asked.
“I'd rather drink the good ale here than meddle with the dockside brutes you have in mind,” Eamon said.
“What? Nah mate. Those apes are for the bargemen and secret sodomites. Come on, I'll take you to Lady Elwyn's.”
“There is no Lady Elwyn's,” Reed said suspiciously.
“There's no Lady Elwyn either,” Eamon agreed. “What are you on about?”
Shank laughed. “Come on, I'll show you. You're going to love this.”
Lady Elwyn's was a brothel: a modest little secret of the town, poorly kept by its natives but unknown to outsiders like Eamon. It was a place of some prestige, and catered to wealthier patrons than would be found drinking in most taverns. Its customers were prosperous tradesmen, merchants, freeholders and the higher ranking retainers of great lords, like guard captains, bailiffs and stewards. Seen from the street, the brothel was merely a dye works. Only the presence of two brutish hulks loitering by the gate suggested it could be anything else. Shank greeted these men by name, and while they weren't terribly friendly towards him, they were respectful: turning quite deferential when Shank passed them each a small coin.
Lady Elwyn was a man: a rather emaciated and homely creature. He wore an expensive green and gold-embroidered dress, its front unusually cleaved down to his sternum, revealing his chest in all its hairy glory, and even occasionally a gold-pierced nipple. He was engrossed in trying samples of cloth upon a tall and manly woman, who stood rigidly before him, like an enormous doll. A handful of young women sat or stood around him in the parlor, offering opinions and advice over his choices. He glanced up at Shank's entrance and turned back to his project.
“No,” he declared flatly. His voice was remarkably deep and masculine for so thin a frame. “Fuck off Shank.”
“Don't be like that Elwyn,” Shank said plaintively. “I'm leaving town soon and I'll be gone a while.”
“Good riddance you cheap shit. I already talked to Weevil. Your credit is all used up for the year.”
Shank grimaced in embarrassment. “What about his credit?” Shank hooked his thumb at Eamon. “You know who he is?”
“He's a friend of yours and that's all I need to know.”
“He's a friend of Weevil's.”
At first, Elwyn merely glanced at Eamon, but seeing his face so badly mauled he looked again and stared. “Jesus what happened to your face?”
“Why? What's wrong with it?” Eamon asked.
“This is the knight who killed Ogier and eight of his men over at the Old Thane's,” Shank said.
“Bullshit!” Elwyn scoffed. “Ogier was twice your size.”
“So?” Eamon replied.
Elwyn tossed his fabric aside in disgust and took three aggressive steps towards his visitors. “You killed Ogier?”
“Yes.”
“Ogier Rufus.”
“He did look a little red,” Eamon said dryly.
“He was my best customer.”
“You must have shit customers,” Eamon said.
The whores in the room cheerfully agreed.
“They pay,” Elwyn replied. “Can you?”
“Weevil will cover it,” Shank assured him.
Elwyn wasn't convinced. He knew nothing of Weevil's business with Eamon and was deeply mistrustful of Shank: a little fish swimming in the shadow of his shark-cousin, whose little bite was all the more infuriating for being backed up by a much larger mouth, full of much sharper teeth.
“Drinks only,” Elwyn eventually agreed.
“Aw, come on mate,” Shank pleaded.
“Drinks. Only. You don't like it, take it up with your cousin. Now are you staying or going?”
“Staying,” Shank said, seething.
“Take them upstairs,will you Sweetie? And make sure everybody knows I'm not paying for anything but booze!”
A cheerful, buxom young woman, bounced from her bench, skipped towards Eamon and took him by the hand. She kept glancing back as she led him upstairs, smiling prettily through a face full of freckles.
“My name is Elswith, but you can call me Sweetie if you like.”
“I'm Eamon.”
“Did you really kill Ogier?”
“Yes.”
“I'm glad,” she said emphatically. “He raped my brother when he was twelve. He works here too. Would you like to meet him? I'm sure he'd like to meet you.”
“Oh, I wouldn't mind, but I prefer women's company.”
“So does he! But he doesn't have a trade, so he takes what work he can. You know how it is.”
“I do,” Eamon agreed.
“Have you worked in a place like this?”
“No, but I've taken work I'd rather not have,” Eamon told her.
Upon reaching the second floor, they stepped into an expansive parlor, full of tables and benches. It was deserted, quiet and dark, until Sweetie threw open the shutters of a few windows. She sat them down at a table and asked them if they preferred wine, ale or spirits.
“Wine,” Shank said quickly. He always drank wine when his cousin was paying for it. “I'm surprised you were willing to come,” he told Eamon after Sweetie had gone.
“Why?”
“I thought you were a prude. And I thought Reed would come for sure.”
“He's still a bit of a priest in his heart.”
“That's what I mean.”
Eamon glanced around the room. “Does Weevil own this place then?” he asked.
“He has a share,” Shank said cheerily. “We do a lot of trade in sin, you could say. Mostly gambling and baiting, but if there's dirty money being made anywhere in a hundred miles, my cousin has a stake in it.”
“How does he get away with it?” Eamon asked. “Everybody seems to know what he does I mean. Why doesn't the law crack down on him?”
“Lots of reasons,” Shank said evasively.
“Such as?”
“Well, like the whores here -they don't just work here. They're sent up to the castle sometimes, or dressed up like nuns and monks and sent off to abbeys and churches for a day or two. There's nothing like having friends in high places,” Shank said with a laugh. He then frowned at Eamon. “You didn't even blink when you saw Lady Elwyn.”
“I grew up in the French court,” Eamon said with a shrug.
“The royal court? Why?”
“You'd have to ask my father.”
Shank glowered at Eamon's unsatisfactory answer, and might have said something confrontational if not for the arrival of their wine. It was carried to them by a handsome young woman: dark haired and dark eyed. She wore only a sheer nightgown and a strategically draped shawl, which she frequently had to catch to keep from falling below her prominent pale nipples. She failed consistently. Even after she she set down the tray with its bottle and clay cups; the slippery nature of the shawl always seemed to escape her notice until it was too late.
“Hello lovely!” Shank greeted her.
“I didn't think I'd see you again this year Sian,” she said. She had a slow and deliberately husky way of speaking: as though she meant to caress her listeners with her voice.
“As if I would stay away! Alys, this is my friend, Eamon of York.”
“I know,” she said with a friendly smile. “Sweetie is bouncing around our rooms telling everyone he's here. How do you do sir?”
Eamon rose, bowed and offered his hand. Alys chuckled deep in her throat as she took it. “Oh, I like you. You're far too good to be in this one's company sir. Maybe you don't know, but he's a bandit, and a knave.”
“That's what you like about me,” Shank, said with a grin. He pulled Alys forcefully down into his lap.
“Hands off pauper,” she said, and pushed away his face as it loomed in for a kiss. She deigned to feign affection as soon as Shank turned irritable however, and she kissed his cheek above his beard after he had turned away.
Soon, every whore in the place had gathered around the brothel's first two guests. There were over a score of women, and besides Lady Elwyn, a dozen men: mostly effete and young, but there were also two strapping fellows, who wore short tunics and nothing else. It was Eamon's first experience with celebrity, and it made him rather uncomfortable, particularly since it soon became clear that it wasn't all pretense and pandering. Sweetie monopolized the space next to Eamon for much of the night. Her large bosom, perpetually pressed against his arm, was as pleasant as her hands, which carelessly roamed his thigh. When Eamon told her that he had no money, she smiled and shrugged and carried on as if he had said nothing at all.
Sweetie's brother was almost comical in his eagerness to be warm and solicitous. He had been at Jouiae's combat trial, he told Eamon. Ogier had brought him from town the night before, because he was a bard. The Norman had wanted him to write a song about his victory, but instead, the song was Eamon's. At his sister's urging, he fetched his lute, but had only just begun to sing his opening verses: “A young knight bold, a lady gold,” when Lady Elwyn interrupted the performance. He came with the abbot of the Shrewsbury abbey.
Embarrassed and flustered at the sight of Eamon and Shank, the abbot apologized for interrupting the song and suggested coming back later. He turned to go.
“Don't be ridiculous,” Lady Elwyn said, halting him in his flight. “You've come here to pray for us poor sinners and we won't be denied our salvation.”
“You can start with me,” the young bard suggested. He came forward to take the abbot by the hand.
“Of course, of course. If you wish,” the abbot said nervously. “God's love and forgiveness is a gift to all, no matter their sin,” he continued loudly, as the young man led him away.
“Shame on you,” Sweetie chided Elwyn. “Embarrassing the abbot like that.”
“I tried to bring him up the back way, but he wouldn't listen,” Elwyn said with an indifferent shrug. He explained to Eamon: “He's used to having the run of the place, this time of day. He's the only customer who comes this early. Usually.
“Let's have more music! The abbot doesn't want us overhearing his prayers.”
A trio of pipers soon assembled and began to play, their playful, bantering notes kept in moderate order by the steady pace of a large drum.
Lady Elwyn seemed inclined to be merry and to dance. Much of the parlor was cleared to make space for him and his disciples in the center, and they twirled and sweated, laughed, clapped, cheered, and gasped breathlessly for much of the night. Wine and ale flowed steadily, and not just past Eamon and Shank's lips. The whores grew loud, and their high spirits bemused the handful of customers who followed the Abbot.
“I'm surprised you're not busier,” Eamon told Elwyn, after refusing his invitation to dance.
“We get more guests around the holidays,” Elwyn explained. “Come Michaelmas, we'll all be drowning in come and silver!”
This declaration was met with a cheer and a toast to Michaelmas, Christmas and all the holidays in the calendar.
Many hours later, Eamon and Shank had stepped out for fresh air. They paused to piss drunkenly into the river Severn. Rather, Shank pissed drunkenly. Eamon was sober; drinking the wine had brought more discomfort to his throat than it had promised to alleviate and so he had been sipping only ale for the whole night.
“You grew up in the French king's court,” Shank mused around the edge of his tunic, which he held up in safety with his teeth.
“I did,” Eamon replied, his voice similarly muffled.
“What are you doing here?”
“I'm pissing in the river.”
“You know what I mean,” Shank said petulantly. He was having a hard time keeping both eyes open, and he glared at Eamon with the one. “Why aren't you still in France? Did the king get tired of you?”
“I killed someone,” Eamon said after a while.
There was something sobering in the knight's tone, and Shank fell silent. “You know how I got my name?” he asked after some blinking and trickling. Eamon shook his head. “The first man I ever killed. I stabbed him in the leg. Weevil was so pissed,” he said with a false laugh. “We were supposed to get money from him, but instead, he died there in his boat. How was I supposed to know about arteries and vital spirits, hey?
“He kept harping on about it for months. At first he just said Shank a lot: even when there was no call to be talking about legs, he found a reason to say it. Then he started calling me Shank, like it meant something... something... shitty.”
Shank stared down at his cock for some time before remembering why it was in his hands. He put it away. “I'm hungry,” he declared. “I want roasted chicken. Do you want to share one with me?”
“Where do we get a roasted chicken this time of night?”
“I'll show you,” Shank said brightly.
Shank led Eamon along the river, down among the docks and warehouses, where the river boats came and went at all hours. Situated among these buildings, and surrounded by river men and whores, a widow ran a brisk trade selling hot food. She mostly served pottage from a large, ancient bronze cauldron, blackened by time, but for the wealthier boatswains and merchants, she also roasted meat.
It cost all the silver Shank and Eamon had with them, but they got themselves their chicken, and cheese and stale bread, and washed it down with cider, taken from a barrel “guarded” by the widow's serious-looking and very young son. People stared enviously as they gingerly ate their steaming bird, and Shank viciously kicked away one of the less sensible, pox-ridden whores.
“That's better,” Shank said with a sigh of supreme satisfaction, once he had finished his half of the platter.
It was less the rich food and more the jealousy of the others that Shank enjoyed, Eamon saw, but he said nothing about it. He brought their platter of bones back to the widow, for she would use them to flavor the next day's pottage.
“Let's go back to Elwyn's,” Shank suggested. “And see if we can't get Sweetie and Alys to sneak out the back with us.”
Eamon considered the ramifications of this for a while. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Are you afraid of a man in a dress?”
“Don't be a cunt.”
“Then let's go.”
At Elwyn's they found Alys and Sweetie sitting at a table with other customers. The returned to their own table, and using some rather abstract hand gestures, Shank successfully communicated his idea to them. Alys was clearly disinterested at first, but Sweetie seemed more amenable. They whispered, came to some agreement and tried to get up and leave. The man who had Alys in his lap would not let her go however. Every time she tried to rise, he pulled her back down, and told her “after this game, after this game. What's your hurry?” There was nothing untoward in his behavior; he wasn't rough with her or even in bad temper. He had every intention of paying for her favors; he just wanted to finish his game of dice first. Shank nevertheless grew angry. He suddenly surged to his feet and stalked across the room.
“Shit or get off the pot,” he said.
“What are you, a bouncer here now?” the man asked with a laugh.
“I'm the man telling you what's what mate,” Shank said with a wicked smile. “Like usual.”
“Oh yeah?” the man replied. He rose to his feet. “Weevil told you to get in my face over a fucking whore? Fuck off Shank.”
It was the last time that man spoke around his front teeth. Shank punched him squarely in the chin, and several more blows chased him down to the floor. He then began stomping him in the face with the heel of his boot.
“Talk to me like that? Talk to me like that?” he said, over and over: sometimes asking, sometimes challenging the man to do it. “You think I ain't shite? Fuck you!”
Elwyn ran for the bouncers as the whores and customers backed away from the violence. Seeing that nobody else would intervene, Eamon crossed the room, took a grip low on Shank's waist and lifted him up and away, even as he continued to kick wildly. He carried Shank all the way down the stairs before setting him down, and held him back when the bouncers arrived.
“What?” Shank challenged the bouncers. “What are you going to do?”
Either one of those flat-nosed bruisers had more fight and strength in him than Shank could ever hope to match, but they looked at each other and Lady Elwyn uncertainly.
“Let's go,” Eamon said, and tried to lead Shank away. The Welshman growled disdainfully and half-slapped, half-pushed Eamon's face away. He drew his knife, and Eamon's fist felled him like a tree. He lay upon the floor, strangely rigid and convulsing, but then he relaxed and went still.
“Is he dead?” Elwyn asked.
Eamon stooped, listened to Shank's chest and shook his head. “He's alive,” he declared with some relief.
“Get him out of here,” Elwyn commanded her brutes.
“Are we just going to dump him in the street?” a bouncer asked.
“In a sty if you can find one,” Elwyn said angrily.
“I'll take him,” Eamon said reluctantly. “Do you have a cart I can borrow?”