Ship of Fire (2 page)

The Bear Garden was filling with its usual throng, merry noblemen and even merrier poor folk. Bright-eyed gamesmen accepted bets from every purse. A recent act of Parliament had forbade bear-baiting on the Lord's Day, and it was murmured that such sport might be closed down altogether—some preachers expressed the opinion that the sport encouraged vice. And so the traditional Thursday fight was all the more popular, and even our Queen Elizabeth was rumored to place a bet by proxy, one or two of the silked-and-plumed noblemen among us wagering royal gold.

“I bet my entire purse,” cried my master, raising his voice to get the attention of one of the Bear Garden employees. “My entire fat purse I bet on the bear's victory.”

“And how much, my lord, would your purse weigh?” said Bob Chute, the veteran gamesman not wanting to accept a wager not easily paid off.

My master had schooled in Magdalen College, Oxford, and had earned a name as one of the best medical men. He was now well established in London as a merciful and worthy doctor who lived by his knowledge of phlegm and spleen. He spent effort and silver on teaching me, reciting with me the wisest medical writings under Heaven, from Hippocrates to his own Latin discourses on medicinal roots.

Further, he swore that he would live up to his loyalty to my deceased father by making me, inch by inch, a gentleman. He hired a sword master from Mantua, the famous Giacomo di Angelo, to teach me the art of the rapier, and a scholar from Paris to teach me the history of kings and emperors of the world.

But my worshipful master William had a weakness—recurring and overpowering—for games of chance. This gambling fever gripped him now as he tossed the leather coin sack in his hand. Bob Chute's smile gleamed with professional avarice.

“I wager my entire purse of new silver,” my master asserted in a tone of care-free certainty. “I bet that the bear will outlast the dogs, and more, that every dog will be flayed or gutted and flung to the penny-public.” This was not the reckless wager it seemed. A sailor friend of my master had predicted the bear's fighting prowess at the Hart and Trumpet the night before.

Bob Chute cocked his head, ignoring the general hubbub. “To be doubled, coin for coin, if the bear dies,” said the gamesman. “Or if the bearward judges the brute beyond recovery.” Bearwards were wily men, and could coax a carcass back to life by blowing pepper into its nose.

“Done!” said my master with a laugh.

My heart sank. We could not afford such a heavy wager if we lost. The entire city of London, it seemed, took freshly painted wherries and other hire-craft across the river on such an afternoon, but our meager purses had forced us into a leaking, badly patched vessel, the boat fighting the strong current and nearly capsizing. One more unlucky afternoon, and we would have to pawn our cloaks—or worse, our swords.

Now the dog handlers soothed and kissed their fighters. Bear-dogs are even more fierce than ban-dogs, animals the law requires be tied or caged. The bear-fighting dog is bred and tutored to his craft, and this was a spirited pack, well muscled and trembling with eagerness.

The restless giant padded back and forth on the hard-packed earth, his rope alternately slack and taut as he paced. It was true that the bear did not look drunk on wine, as fighting cocks often were, or drugged with some sleeping philter, as a bear had been not a fortnight before. That creature had been so piebald and sluggish the crowd had howled the bearwards to shame, and a special display of minstrelsy had been added to calm us, players of string instruments and tambours, with merry dancing.

I had liked that music as well as any bear-fight, or even better. I often accompanied my master on his river-crossings to this district of the Rose Theater and taverns and cockpits, and even trugging shops—houses where whores plied their trade, arrayed in finest taffeta and silks. Bear-baiting is lusty sport, but before God I think I prefer a good story and a cup of strong cider.

Now, at a toss of the bearward's cap, the linen screen was whisked away, and the crowd roared as the five dogs gave full vent to their excitement. One particular dog, with livid scars along his flanks, I had seen in victorious battle before. This was the one creature who quietly lowered his body to the earthen floor, wasting little breath on making noise.

The chief bearward held up his hand, poised to signal the release of the fighters. An assistant hurried across the pit, and kicked away a walnut that had rolled from the cheapest seats. Yet another bearward smoothed out the dirt and sawdust, wet from a dogfight that had entertained the crowd before our arrival. The crowd was already hoarse with shouting, but at this delay the outcry was beyond belief, roars and laughter, curses, drunk and sober men alike crying, “Get on with it!”

Still the bearwards delayed, outfitted in one blue stocking and one red like many minstrels and dancers. Perhaps they relished their momentary power over man and beast, and one of them took pains to produce a rake and smooth out some nearly imaginary rough spot in the pit.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and added my voice to the deafening clamor.

The chief bearward's hand swept down in a courtly bow.

In an instant the pack was loose.

Chapter 2

Blood flew.

William cupped his hand over his eyes, as so often before, and beseeched me, “Thomas, tell me when the bear stands alone.”

I myself preferred to play at bowls, and had won a wager on a bright day or two, when some gamesman had not watered the grass so heavily an honest young man could not pitch a ball true. Bear brawls favored the dogs, which, though small in stature, attacked in gangs. Once attached by their teeth a pack of dogs could bleed a bear, if it took an hour. But it was no sure outcome, either way, and many a day at the Bear Garden concluded with a cart of dead dogs creaking down to the river bank.

Scar-flank, the most seasoned dog, attacked quietly, straight for the bear's hind legs. He locked his jaws deep in the fur, and worried and worked, fighting deep and deeper into the sinews and vessels of the bear's limb. Blood started, the scarred dog's muzzle going dark, his forepaws sodden, an increasing flow of scarlet.

The great bear roared and showed his teeth. Four dogs had him by the haunch and forelimbs, a dog to each extremity, each with an iron fang-hold, hanging on. A fifth fighter, a young, yellow bounder, took the bear's roars as a challenge, and seized the bear's snout with his teeth. The bruin lunged one way and another, shaking his huge head sideways, and up and down, but the dog sank his fangs deeper into the bear's upper snout while his legs flailed round and about like boneless rags.

The great carnivore charged ahead, and at once reached the extremity of the hemp cord. The shock was so severe the rope stump, an ancient piling sunk into the earth, shivered as though it would pull right out of its place. Dust rose. The bear rolled suddenly, and in his tumble, trapped two dogs under his bulk. The two dogs screamed, unable to climb to their feet, and as the bear rose to his haunches he seized a white-and-yellow dog in an encircling embrace.

This hug was so fierce, and so long in duration, that the dog's eyes rolled and his tongue hung from the side of his mouth. With a snap, the pit-dog's backbone broke. His hind legs dangled and the crowd let out a shout as the mortally injured fighter was flung away.

Surely, I thought, we are in luck after all.

The congregated vagrants, merchants, and gentlemen all clamored and exchanged late wagers. It was here, among the gentlemen's stalls, that trugs—wandering prostitutes—often found clients. Here was where whore-masters set the price and gave directions to the pick-hatch—the house of venery and sin—down one alley or another beyond the theaters. But no one had eyes now for anything but the torn ground of the bear pit.

I suspected it was a sin to seek Christ Jesus' help in winning a wager.

But even so, I prayed.

The growling of the dogs had ceased, four torn bodies in the pit. It was difficult to credit that moments before these animals had been fighters.

And yet, stubbornly, locked onto the bear's hind leg, Scar-flank was still very much alive, dragging along behind as the bear struggled to turn around. When no other dog remained alive, the scarred brawler stayed right there, jaws locked around the limb.

“Tell me, William,” said my master, shielding his eyes with his hand. “What news?” No dog at all made a sound now, and even the crowd was more quiet. The heavy, phlegmy cough of the bear was loud.

The bruin was in mortal trouble, his blood saturating the pit. But how could I put this cruel tidings into words?

“You have eyes in your head, Thomas Spyre,” my master insisted. “How goes the battle?”

Scar-flank clung hard.

Chapter 3

The evening had turned showery, spits of rain falling from a mottled sky.

We knew it was useless to talk. We were relieved to leave the bear pit and the yelling crowd behind. Maybe, I hoped, this would see the last of William's wagering for a good long while.

My master stepped around stews of human waste in the crooked lanes. Householders were required by law to burn rubbish every few weeks, and the stink of kitchen leavings put to fire, mutton bones, cheese butts, and rank apple cores, did nothing to sweeten the air. The spattering rain dampened the smoldering heaps and made the stink worse.

“Only one little dog,” said my master, in a tone of dismal wonder. “Only one, flea-blistered, unconquerable little pit-scamp.” He sighed and shook his head. “I would not have believed it possible.”

When a dimpled lass stepped before us and lifted her ample skirts my master stopped in his tracks. She was plump and desirable enough, and she held her petticoats up high so we could see the top of her stockings and her bare and very pretty knees.

“A good evening to you, my lords,” said the young woman.

My master gave a polite bow, and returned her greetings with a world-weary air. Even now, though, some of his habitual good cheer was returning. “Madam,” he said, “you see before you two paupers. We are not worth your trouble.”

She hiked her skirts even higher, offering a view of pink thighs. “Surely,” she returned, “my lords have enough coin for a sporting tumble.”

There was the softest whisper behind us—a footstep.

At once William put his hand to his sword. “Quick, Thomas, look around you.”

A wiry male figure darted back from behind me as I spun. I seized him by the padded shoulder of his jerkin, and flung him hard against the tavern wall. The young woman, with a flurry of skirt and lingering scent of rose water, hurried off down the street.

It was a common ploy—distracting a man with a whore's show of leg while the cutpurse darted in, did his work, and ran off.

Now the nip—as street thieves are called—let out a whistle even as I trapped him against the wall. Two hulking assistants, older men armed with truncheons, strode from a smoke-choked alley. They showed their teeth in confident yellow smiles, their loose stockings thrust into muddy shoes.

“Gentlemen footpads,” said my master, addressing these two newcomers, “spare yourselves the sweat. See here, my purse is as thin as the Pope's mercy. I have just lost a mighty wager, and Thomas here has a rapier made in Milan.”

I had released the nip and drawn my blade, a shining length of steel. A few Englishmen still sported broadswords, believing the increasingly popular French and Italian weapons to be unmanly, too quick and subtle. Nevertheless, I liked the feel of my rapier, and had practiced until I could make the blade sing.

I cut a figure with my blade now, the point humming, and both hairy-fisted men stopped where they were, their full attention on the gleaming tip. One of them made a motion with his club, warding off my blade clumsily, and I put the point of my sword up to his chin, parting his beard. I held it steady, my arm and wrist strong from hours of swordplay with my teacher.

The truth was I had never so much as pricked a living man. I always practiced sword-work in the customary over-warm pads and mask. Like many other seventeen-year-olds in London, I could play a fighter but knew little about actual killing. Nevertheless, the two tall men took me for a practiced bladesman.

One truncheon fell onto the wet street, and the other was waved weakly, as though in apology.

The lean little nip, the master of the small gang, was crying out merrily, “I know this fine lord!”

“Yes, and I know you.” My master put a hand to his graying beard, his gaze inward in the act of recall. “It's little Bruce Hollings!” he said at last with a laugh.

“Yes, my lord, whose fever you broke with a cup of mustard water,” said the street thief, looking up at my master with admiration and gratitude. “I didn't recognize you after these seven years. You're the best physician in London, with a young gentleman scholar apprentice now, I see.”

“Thomas is the son of a departed friend of mine, a man who penned Greek as you or I would draw breath.”

“Sir, I am honored,” said Bruce Hollings, giving me a fair bow, one leg forward, his rain-dappled hat removed with a flourish from his head.

I gave a half bow of my own, much relieved that on this night I would not see my blade draw blood. I gave a nod to the two roughs, and, with a smooth flourish I had practiced under my sword-tutor's eye, sheathed my sword.

“I thought you were in the stocks as a whipjack, Bruce,” said my master, hunting through his mantle for a coin. He gave me a hopeful nod, but indeed I had only an old penny, one of debased silver from early in our glorious Queen Elizabeth's reign, before she had improved the coinage.

Although my master was of lofty birth, with a small estate in Devon, his family was as poor as they were long-established. He had many patients, both wealthy and impoverished, attending them in his chambers on Leadenhall Street, just inside the city wall. My master believed as the Scriptures teach us, that if we show charity to the least of folk we show it to Our Lord.