The Fifth Queen (42 page)

‘For sure,’ he affirmed after a pause, ‘that will move ‘ee to ask why I du spit in the dust or for why—the thing being contrary—I’d ha’ cast up my cap.’

The young Poins pulled an onion from his poke.

‘If you are so main sure he have not passed the gate,’ he said, ‘I may take my ease.’ He sat him down against the gate wall where the April sun fell warm through the arch of shadows. He stripped the outer peel from the onion and bit into it.
‘Good, warming eating,’ he said, ‘when your stomach’s astir from the sea.’

‘Young lad,’ the gatewarden said, ‘I’m as fain to swear my mother bore me—though God forbid I should swear who my father was, woman being woman—as that Thomas Culpepper have not passed this way. For why: I’d have cast my hat on high or spat on the ground. And such things done mark other things that have passed in the mind of a man. And I have done no such thing.’

But because the young Poins sat always silent with his eyes on the road to Ardres and slept—being privileged because he was yeoman of the King’s guard—always in the little stone guard cell of the gateway at nights; because, in fact, the young man’s whole faculties were set upon seeing that Thomas Culpepper did not pass unseen through the gate, it was four days before the gatewarden contrived to get himself asked why he would have spat in the dust or cast his hat on high. It was, as it were, a point of honour that he should be asked for all the information that he gave; and he thirsted to tell his tale.

His tale had it that he had been ruined by a wench who had thrown her shoe over the mill and married a horse-smith, after having many times tickled the rough chin of Nicholas Hogben. Therefore, he had it that all women were to be humbled and held down—for all women were traitors, praters, liars, worms and vermin. (He made a great play of words between wermen, meaning worms, and wermin and wummin.) He had been ruined by this woman who had tickled him under the chin—that being an ingratiating act, fit to bewitch and muddle a man, like as if she had promised him marriage. And then she had married a horse-smith! So he was ready and willing, and prayed every night that God would send him the chance, to ruin and hold down every woman who walked the earth or lay in a bed.

But he had been ruined, too, by Thomas Culpepper, who had sold Durford and Maintree and Sallowford—which last
was Hogben’s father’s farm. For why? Selling the farm had let in a Lincoln lawyer, and the Lincoln lawyer had set the farm to sheep, which last had turned old Hogben, the father, out from his furrows to die in a ditch—there being no room for farmers and for sheep upon one land. It had sent old Hogben, the father, to die in a ditch; it had sent his daughters to the stews and his sons to the road for sturdy beggars. So that, but for Wallop’s band passing that way when Hogben was grinning through the rope beneath Lincoln town tree—but for the fact that men were needed for Wallop’s work in Calais, by the holy blood of Hailes! Hogben would have been rating the angel’s head in Paradise.

But there had been great call for men to man the walls there in Calais, so Wallop’s ancient had written his name down on the list, beneath the gallows tree, and had taken him away from the Sheriff of Lincoln’s man.

‘So here a be,’ he drawled, ‘cutting little holes in my pikehead.’

‘ ’Tis a folly,’ the young Poins said.

‘Sir,’ the Lincolnshire man answered, ‘you say ’tis a folly to make small holes in a pikehead. But for me ’tis the greatest of ornaments. Give you, it weakens the pikehead; but ’tis a gradely ornament.’

‘Ornaments be folly,’ the young Poins reiterated.

‘Sir,’ the Lincolnshire man answered again, ‘there is the goodliest folly that ever was. For if I weaken my eyes and tire my wrists with small tappers and little files, and if I weaken the steel with small holes, each hole represents a woman I have known undone and cast down in her pride by a man. Here be sixty-and-four holes round and firm in a pattern. Sixty-and-four women I have known undone.’

He paused and surveyed, winking and moving the scroll that the little holes made in the tough steel of his axehead. Where a perforation was not quite round, he touched it with his file.

‘Hum! ha!’ he gloated. ‘In the centre of the head is the master hole of all, planned out for being cut. But not yet cut! Mark you, ’tis not yet cut. That is for the woman I hate most of all women. She is not yet cast down that I have heard tell on, though some have said “Aye,” some “Nay.” Tell me, have you heard yet of a Kat Howard in the stews?’

‘There is a Kat Howard is like to be—’ the young Poins began. But his slow cunning was aroused before he had the sentence out. Who could tell what trick was this?

‘Like to be what?’ the Lincolnshire man badgered him. ‘Like to be what? To be what?’

‘Nay, I know not,’ Poins answered.

‘Like to be what?’ Hogben persisted.

‘I know no Kat Howard,’ Poins muttered sulkily. For he knew well that the Lady Katharine’s name was up in the taverns along of Thomas Culpepper. And this Lincolnshire cow-dog was a knave too of Thomas’s; therefore the one Kat Howard who was like to be the King’s wench and the other Kat Howard known to Hogben might well be one and the same.

‘Nay; if you will not, neither even will I,’ Hogben said. ‘You shall have no more of my tale.’

Poins kept his blue eyes along the road. Far away, with an odd leap, waving its arms abroad and coming by fits and starts, as a hare gambols along a path—a figure was tiny to see, coming from Ardres way towards Calais. It passed a load of hay on an ox-cart, and Poins could see the peasants beside it scatter, leap the dyke and fly to stand panting in the fields. The figure was clenching its fists; then it fell to kicking the oxen; when they had overset the cart into the dyke, it came dancing along with the same hare’s gait.

‘That is too like the repute of Thomas Culpepper to be other than Thomas Culpepper,’ the young Poins said. ‘I will go meet him.’

He started to his feet, loosed the sword in its scabbard; but the Lincolnshire man had his halberd across the gateway.

‘Pass! Shew thy pass!’ he said vindictively.

‘I go but to meet him,’ Poins snarled.

‘A good lie; thou goest not,’ Hogben answered. ‘No Englishman goes into the French lands without a pass from the lord controller. An thou keepest a shut head I can e’en keep a shut gate.’

None the less he must needs talk or stifle.

‘Thee, with thy Kat Howard,’ he snarled. ‘Would ’ee have me think thy Kat was my kitten whose name stunk in our nostrils?’

He shook his finger in Poins’ face.

‘Here be three of us know Kat Howard,’ he said. ‘For I know her, since for her I must leave home and take the road. And
he
knoweth her over well or over ill, since, to buy her a gown, he sold the three farms, Maintree, Durford and Sallowford—which last was my father’s farm. And
thee
knowest her. Thee knowest her. To no good, I’se awarned. For thou stoppedst in thy speech like a colt before a wood snake. God bring down all women, I pray!’

He went on to tell, as if it had been a rosary, the names of the ruined women that the holes in his pikehead represented. There was one left by the wayside with her child; there was one hung for stealing cloth to cover her; there was one whipped for her naughty ways. He reached the square mark in the centre as the figure on the road reached the gateway.

‘Huzzay, Squahre Tom! Here bay three kennath Kat Howard. Let us three tak part to kick her down.’

Thomas Culpepper like a green cat flew at his throat, clutched him above the steel breastplate, and shook three times, the gatewarden’s uncovered, dun-coloured head swaying back and forward as if it were a loose bundle of clouts on a mop. When they parted company, because he could no longer
keep his fingers clenched, Hogben fell back; he fell back, and they lay with their heels touching each other and their arms stretched out in the dust.

N
ICHOLAS
H
OGBEN
was the first to rise. He felt at his neck, swallowed as though a piece of apple were stuck in his throat, brushed his leather breeches, and picked up his pike.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘you may hold it for main and certain that he have not had Kat Howard down. For, having had her down, a would never have thrown a man by the throat for miscalling of her. Therefore Kat Howard is up for all of he, and I may loosen my feelings.’

He spat gravely at Culpepper’s feet. Culpepper lay in the dust, his arms stretched out to form a cross, his face dead white and his beard of brilliant red pointing at the keystone of the arch of Calais gate. Poins lifted his hand, but the pulse still beat, and he dropped it moodily in the dust.

‘Not dead,’ he muttered.

‘Dead!’ Hogben laughed at him. ‘Hath been in a boosing ken. There they drug the wine with simples, and the women—may pox fall on all women—perfume themselves so that a man goeth stark raving. I warrant he had silver buttons to his Lincoln green, but they be torn off. I warrant he had gold buckles to his shoen, but they be gone. His sword is away, the leather hangers being cut.’

‘Wilt not stick him with thy pike, having, as he hath, so mishandled thee?’

‘O aye,’ the Lincolnshire man shewed his strong teeth. ‘Thee wouldst have Kat Howard from him. But he may live for me, being more like to bring her to dismay than ever thee wilt be!’

He looked into the narrow street of the town that the dawn
pierced into through the gateway. Two skinny men in jerkins drawn tight with belts were yawning in a hovel’s low doorway. Under his eyes, still stretching their arms abroad, they made to slink between the mud walls of the next alley.

‘Oh, hi!
Arrestez. Vesnez!
’ he hailed. ‘
Cestui à comforter!
’ The thin men made to break away, halted, hesitated, and then with dragging feet made through the pools and filth to the gateway.

‘Tombé! Voleurs! Secourez!
’ Hogben pointed at the prostrate figure in green. They rubbed their shins on their thin calves and appeared bewildered and uncertain.

‘Portez à lous maisons!
’ Hogben commanded.

They stood one on each side and bent down, extending skinny arms to lift him. Thomas Culpepper sat up and spat in their faces—they fled like scared wolves, noiselessly, gazing behind them in trepidation.

‘Stay them; thieves ho! Stay them!’ Culpepper panted. He scrambled to his feet, and stood reeling, his face like death, when he tried to make after them.

‘God!’ he said. ‘Give me to drink.’

The young Poins mused under his breath because the man had neither sword nor dagger. Therefore it would be impossible to have sword play with him. He had, the young man, no ferocity—but he was set there to stay Thomas Culpepper’s going on to England; he was to stay him by word or by deed. Deeds came so much easier than words.

‘Squahre Tom!’ the Lincolnshire man grunted. ‘Reckon you have no money. Without groats and more ye shall get nowt to drink in Calais town, save water. Water you may have in plenty.’

With a sigh the young Poins unbuckled his belt to get his papers.

‘Money I have for you,’ he said. ‘A main of money.’ He was engaged now to pass words with this man—and he sighed again.

But Thomas Culpepper disregarded his words and his sigh.
He was more in the mood to talk Lincolnshire than Kent, for his fever had given him a touch of homesickness and the young Poins to him was a very foreigner. He shut his eyes to let the Lincolnshire gatewarden’s words go down to his brain; then with sudden violence he spat out:

‘Give me water! What do ah ask but water! Pig! brood of a sow! gi’e me water and choke!’

Nicholas Hogben fetched a leather bottle as long as his leg, dusty and dinted, but nevertheless bedight with the arms of England, from the stone recess where the guard sheltered at nights. He fitted it on to the crook of his pike by the handle, and, craning over the drawbridge, first smoothed away the leaf-green duck-weed on the moat and then sank the bottle in the black water.

‘I have money: a main of money for ye,’ the young Poins said to Thomas Culpepper; but the man, with his red beard and white face, swayed on his legs and had ears only for the gurgling and gulping of the water as it entered the bottle neck. The black jack swayed and jumped below the bridge like a glistening water-beast.

He had little green spangles of duckweed in his orange beard when he took the bottle away, empty, from his mouth. He drew deep gasps of breath, and suddenly sat down upon a squared block of stone that the masons above were waiting to hoist into place over the archway.

‘Good water!’ he grunted to Hogben—grunting as all the Lincolnshire men did, in those days, like a two-year hog.

‘Bean’t but that good in all Calais town!’ Hogben grunted back to him. ‘Curses on the two wurmen that sent me here.’ And indeed, to Lincolnshire men the water tasted good, since it reminded them of their dyke water, tasting of marshweed and smelling of eggs.

‘Tü wurmen!’ Culpepper said lazily. ‘Hast thou been jigging with
tü
puticotties to wunst? One is enow to undo seven men. Who be ‘hee?’

The young Poins, with a sulky sense of his importance, uttered:

‘I have money for thee—a main of money!’

Culpepper looked at him with sleepy blue eyes.

‘Thrice y’ ha’ told me that,’ he said. ‘And money is a goodly thing in its place—but not to a man with a bellyful of water. Y’ shall feel my fist when I be rested. Meanwhile wait and, being a cub, hear how
men
talk.’ He slapped his chest and repeated to Hogben: ‘Who be ’ee?’

Hogben, delighted to be asked at last a question, shewed his formidable teeth and beneath his familiar contortion of the eyelids brought out the words that one of the women who had brought him down was her that had brought Squahre Culpepper to sit on a squared stone before Calais gate.

‘Why, I am a made man, for all you see me sit here,’ Culpepper answered indolently. ‘I ha’ done a piece of work for which I am to be seised of seven farms in Kent land. See yo’—they send me messengers with money to Calais gate.’ He pointed his thumb at the young Poins.

The boy, to prove that he was no common messenger, drew his right leg up and said: