Fair Blows the Wind Read online

  We finished our glasses, and I saw in him a desire to linger. He struck me as lonely, as one without roots and destination. And I? My roots have been rudely torn up, and I had fled, so though without roots, I did have destination. Where I was going now I did not know, but eventually I would go home again.

  “Do not be misled,” I commented. “This is a new England today. It is not only those who were born to the nobility or the gentry who will rule in England tomorrow, it is also those of the yeomen who have ambition.

  “Look you,” I said, “they farm much land, they are the new merchants, and from them will come our new leaders. There is a place for us if we have ambition and will try for it.”

  “But how?” he said. “Words are easily spoken, deeds are another thing. I have no money, I have no position, I have not even the style of dress to attract a wealthy girl…I have nothing.”

  “You write ballads? Is there nothing in that?”

  He laughed grimly. “Less than nothing. All copyrights are held by the Stationers’ Company, and they pay a pittance. They control all and there is nowhere else to go. A man ekes out an existence only if he can do other things as well. A dramatist does scarcely better, for he must sell his copyright to the theatrical companies, and if he gets as much as six pounds he is fortunate. No, my friend, it is no way to earn a living.”

  He glanced at me again. “You have education, yet I cannot place you. Your voice has a curious inflection.”

  “I am only a fortnight from the Hebrides,” I said.

  “A Scot? Ah, that accounts for it.”

  “My father was a scholar of sorts,” I said. “Not a teacher, except of me, but a scholar in the old way. He knew the old languages, and the old scripts, and could use a dozen alphabets, all from the Gaels or the Irish.”

  “I have heard of Ogam.”

  “Aye, and it was but one. Most of the old Irish books were lost, he told me, and there was much in them of which we now know nothing.”

  It struck me that perhaps he was not eating as often as he would prefer, so I ordered a meat pie for each of us, and another glass.

  True it was that due to Fergus MacAskill and my careful hoarding of the few coins that came my way I was for the moment secure, but already I had learned how slender is the thread that holds one from poverty and despair. Today a man may walk among his fellows esteemed by all, and having about him more than he needs of food and drink, but tomorrow all may be lost. To understand that lesson, I had only to remember my own father, and my own home. If for the moment I had something, I had always to remember how little it was, and must forever be looking about me to find some means of augmenting my fortunes.

  We ate well. My guess that my new friend might be hungered proved true. During the silences I thought much on what he had said of playwrighting and ballads. My father had written a bit here and there, and sometimes as a child I had with him made up verses as we wandered over the hills, amusing ourselves with careless, casual rhymes.

  Why not attempt this myself? At least, it would provide some small returns to hold off for a little longer the moment when I should again be without anything.

  “How then do they live, these poets and playwrights? If their works offer so little, how can they exist?”

  He broke a bit of bread from the loaf. “A patron. The secret is to find a wealthy patron who will, if you dedicate your works to him, provide you with a sum of money, or put you on a retainer. But a thankless thing it is to weave pretty rhymes for some empty-headed dolt who scarce realizes what it is you do.

  “Yet I have tried. God knows, I have tried! None of them deigns to prefer my verses. They either did not reply to my offerings or they reply only with empty thanks and no money. And a poet cannot live on good wishes.”

  That night when I returned to the inn, Jacob Binns was there. With rest and proper food he had recovered his spirits as well as his appearance. He had gained weight and seemed stronger. Yet he was, as I could see, a very old man.

  He listened as I explained my thoughts. “It be a good thing if it can be done,” he said, “and I know of a printer, a young man from Stratford-upon-Avon by the name of Richard Field. He was once apprenticed to a very old friend and I can bring you together.”

  “It would help,” I agreed.

  He studied me thoughtfully. “Is this what you wish to do? It is only a bit better than a beggar’s life, and in the end you will have nothing. For you depend upon the whims of others, and whims change like a weathercock.”

  “Jacob? Have you heard aught of Fergus or the others? Did they make the shore?”

  He shook his head. “Lad, you know there is little news of what takes place in the Hebrides, or even the Highlands, for the matter of that. I have talked with peddlers and traders and such like but have heard nothing. Yet he was a strong swimmer, lad, and if any could have made the shore it was he.”

  “He was like an older brother to me, or a father. He taught me much, and I wish—”

  As we sat talking thus in the common room of the inn, of a sudden the door opened and a man entered. A man? A lad, rather, but a tall, well-made lad, only a bit older than myself.

  He saw me and I saw him, and although each had changed we knew each other at once.

  When Rafe Leckenbie and his men had attacked us, one young man had spoken a word for me and to me. This was that man!

  “You!” he said. “You are here, and he is here, and you are the one thing that has rankled him most, that you escaped him. He meant to kill you.”

  “Rafe Leckenbie is here?”

  “Yes. He’s here. He was in much trouble there, and he ran off, and some of us with him. I too was in trouble—and because of him.”

  “Leave him then. Be your own man.”

  “ ’Tis easy said. He would kill me, as he will kill you. You have only one chance! Fly! Escape before he knows you are here!”

  “Go to him,” I said, “and tell him you saw me. Tell him I shall be glad of a meeting, whenever he wishes.”

  “Do not be a fool! He has one of the largest mobs of rascals in London! Thieves, cutpurses, and outlaws of all kinds!”

  “Then perhaps I shall meet him,” I replied, “for I am often about London and we have an old duel left incomplete.”

  “He is the greatest swordsman in England, perhaps in all Europe! Look you, I meant you no harm then, nor do I now, but Leckenbie is evil, totally evil.”

  “And you yourself? Why do you not leave him?”

  Despite his drawn cheeks and tortured eyes he was a handsome enough lad, I suppose, but he shook his head. “He would only follow and kill me, and I have no wish to die.” He sighed. “Yet even that might be better than this. You do not know him. He lets no one escape him, neither friend nor foe.”

  When he had gone Jacob Binns studied me with his wise old eyes. “You have an enemy, lad, and I have word of him. Do not think you will face him alone.”

  Then he hesitated. “Tatt, do you go to this tavern,” he wrote a name for me on a bit of paper, “and give it to Robin Greene.”

  “The playwright?”

  “He is the one, a bold, handsome man, tall and with a red beard. A dissolute man much given to drink, a very gifted man who has wasted his gifts, but an able one, and shrewd enough. Tell him nothing about yourself before you met me in the Hebrides. It is well that he think the islands your home…but tell him about Leckenbie. Tell him first that you come from me or else he might not talk at all, or might even be rude. He is a very abrupt and sharp-tongued man.”

  He handed me a note on which was written: If there is a fight let it be man to man. Speak to Ball. The note was signed simply, Binns. But after the signature there was a figure set in a triangle.

  “Waste no time,” Binns advised, “and do not try to escape Leckenbie. You cannot.”

  Oddly, at the moment, I was
not thinking of Rafe Leckenbie, nor of any danger for me, for my thoughts were upon this old man with whom I had escaped from the sea.

  Who was Jacob Binns? What was he?

  CHAPTER 18

  WHEN I CAME upon Robin Greene it was in the Belle Savage on Ludgate Hill. He sat alone at a table with an empty glass before him and a half-empty bottle. He wore a green cloak, a flat hat of green velvet, and his face was somewhat flushed from drinking.

  He looked up as I entered and his eyes fastened upon me. He started to speak, but I was already crossing the room toward him.

  At a table a dozen feet away sat four roughs, one of them a lean, savage-looking man who was also watching me.

  I walked directly to Greene’s table and placed the note before him. There was an ugly look in his eyes as I walked up and he seemed in an aggressive, quarrelsome mood. “I come from Jacob Binns,” I said.

  His expression changed as if by magic. I had never seen such a complete transformation in a face. He put a hand over the note and gestured to the bench opposite him. “Sit you,” he said.

  He glanced at the paper, then looked up at me. Carefully, I explained my situation, as Jacob Binns had instructed me. He listened, and I would have wagered all I possessed that he could have repeated my story word for word when I was finished.

  “Leckenbie, is it?” He lifted a finger and a man from the nearby table joined us. Very concisely, Greene explained, “This be Cutting Ball. He is about when needed.”

  “You know Rafe Leckenbie?” Ball demanded. “You have actually met him?”

  “Aye, but far from here. We fought then.”

  “Fought? And you live?”

  “We fought, and I seemed to hold my own for a time, then he had all the better of it. I think he was about to kill me when I stepped back over a steep bank. I fell…very far. We were in the mountains, you see. To reach me was a long way around and I escaped him.”

  “It is said he never failed to kill a man once he began it.”

  “I was fortunate. Soon he will know I am here, and when he does he will come seeking me. We will fight again.”

  “What do you need from me? What can I do?”

  “Keep the others away.”

  “But what of him? You confess he had you bested. What then?”

  “I am older now, and I have learned much. Perhaps he cannot beat me now.”

  “Don’t wager a penny on it,” said Ball. “I have seen him fight. I think I have never seen better, although I hate the man and would gladly see him dead.”

  Greene smiled wryly. “Ball does not like him because he has usurped power that Ball once had, and such a lion leaves little for the jackals.”

  “Nonetheless,” I insisted, “I will fight him if need be. I have learned much since last we met, and I am older and stronger.”

  “So has he, and so is he.” Ball studied me cynically. “Who did you learn from?”

  “Fergus MacAskill.”

  Cutting Ball whistled. “MacAskill, is it? A great fighting man, perhaps the greatest. I do not know how much he can teach, for some of the greatest cannot explain how it is done. You fenced with him?”

  “For months.”

  “You must be good then, but that is not enough. It is not enough to be brave, and to have skill, for you must know what the other man might do. Such a man as I am, for example,” he smiled, revealing broken teeth, “I would not fight as the gentry do. There are foul and evil tricks…I know them all.”

  “Teach me, then.”

  “I am no teacher, but there is another who is. He is skilled in the art of fence, but he knows the other things, too. He is Portuguese, and was twenty years in India, China, and the Indies.”

  My attention returned to Greene. “It is an honor,” I said, “to speak with you. It is said you are the greatest writer in London.”

  He stared at me, his old truculence returning for a moment. “I? No.” There was an edge of bitterness in his tone. “Perhaps once…I do not know. There are others now.” He paused a moment. “Too many others. Writers come from under every rock, from behind every village wall! Bah! Most of them know nothing! Are nothing!”

  I started again to speak, then thought the better of it. Let him have his say. The last thing I should mention was that I, too, thought of writing, although I did not think of myself as a writer.

  He railed at English readers, at the playhouses, the managers, and at the Stationers’ Company and their grip upon publishing.

  Finally, I made my escape and Ball followed me outside. For a few minutes he talked, warning me of places to avoid, and suggesting I make myself small in London until I knew more. It was good advice, and I fully intended to take it.

  The streets were crowded with people, sweaty, struggling people, open-faced innocents from the villages nearby, the wise and the tough from the city, the proud in their velvets and laces. Yet often the laces were not too clean, and the velvets were stained. Many carried burdens on their backs and shoulders. Occasionally a rider came through the streets, scattering the walkers, heedless of their safety. I kept close to the buildings as I went along the street, seeking my way back to the inn.

  Yet even as I was aware of all that went on around me I was wondering about the odd effect of the name of Jacob Binns on Greene. Robin Greene was a bitter, scoffing man, yet the name of Binns had suddenly made him an attentive listener. I wondered why. There were secret societies in Europe, some of them very powerful, and I suspected Binns was a member of such a group.

  Back at the inn all was quiet, yet I was uneasy. Was I afraid of Rafe Leckenbie? I considered that, and decided I was not. I was worried about his followers, men of whom I knew nothing, and the thought of that bitter night upon the mountain returned to taunt me. I had been beaten then, saved by an accident….There would be no cliff to fall over in London! Nor any to save me here. The fight was my own, and by the gods, I must win it myself. Yet if I had become a better swordsman, had not Leckenbie also? And he had fought…I had not. My training was from a master, yet it was training only. A sham fight remains a sham fight, no matter what. It is another thing when men draw the sword for blood.

  Doubts would come. They thronged my mind despite orders I gave them to leave. I told myself I would win, yet I had not won before. And then, too, I had believed myself a skilled swordsman.

  I held to my room. I slept, awakened, read and ate, then slept again. For not only was there thought of Leckenbie and all his dark crew, but of the need to find a place for myself in the world. I had money, but money idle is money soon departed, and I needs must find some way of rebuilding my fortunes.

  When the hour was late I went below to the common room and Tosti Padget was there. He waved a hand and I crossed to his table.

  “Ha! You are here! I was afraid Leckenbie had you spitted on his blade! Have you seen him then?”

  “I have not. Nor do I wish to. I shall fight when the time comes. Until then I have much to do. Know you a printer named Richard Field?”

  “Aye, he is new in the town but lately has set up for himself. He is a good man I think. What is it you plan?”

  “I’ve the need to earn a penny or a pound. Even two. Money does not last forever and it is little enough that I have. I am no writer, no playwright or poet, but I know a few words and my father often wrote and inspired me to try. Perhaps there is a bit of something I could do until I can find a place, somewhere.”

  “A place? Forget that. Unless you have friends who will speak for you there is no chance of preferment. There are too many seeking, and too few places for those who seek.” He shrugged. “You might turn a penny with your pen, God knows there’s little enough of talent in most of the ink spilled around now.

  “Greene had it but wasted it with drinking, and Marlowe also, who has lately come from France. There is whispering that maybe he was a spy. Don’t ac
cuse him of anything, however, for he is quick with a blade, and handles himself well. They’ve lately had to put him under bond to keep the peace, for he has several times beaten a constable on his way home.”

  “I aspire to nothing but something with which to buy bread. I shall go into trade when I can. I have had a bit of that already.”

  “Why not? It was once only the ladies and gentlemen who wore the fine feathers, but now any tradesman’s wife can preen herself about in silks and furs with the best of them. Times are changing, Tatt, but for the better or worse, who can tell?”

  Across the room I saw a man with eyes upon me which he hastily averted when mine met his. He was a sorry, ratlike fellow with yellow cheeks and some lank strings for hair. He looked at me again, and I mentioned it to Tosti.

  “Aye, he is likely one of Leckenbie’s runners! He has them sneaking about everywhere, listening for what he can use or to hear of something to steal.”

  When I looked again the man was gone. Inside me I felt a queer lightness, and an urge to get up and go, yet I would not. Stubbornly I ordered another ale for each, and sat where I was.

  It was not long, either. The door opened suddenly and there he stood. It was Rafe Leckenbie all right, and a broad, big man he was. Larger and stronger even than before, but with a set of expression on his face that had changed. There was no more of the boyishness that had somehow remained when I came upon him first. Now there was arrogance and a brutal power.

  He looked quickly about and his eyes met mine. I stood at once, gesturing to the empty bench at our table.

  He crossed, staring hard at me, to frighten me I think, but I was not frightened. I was a fool, maybe, but not a frightened fool. My toe nudged the chair toward him.

  “Sit you!” I spoke more cheerfully than I felt, yet there was a lightness and a daring in me, too. “This is a far piece from the moors of Galloway! I hear you have become a greater scoundrel than ever, gone from attacking lonely wayfarers to raping and thieving. Is that it?”