John McPake and the Sea Beggars Page 7

  Johannes looked up at the red watery sky. That strange bird was still circling. He too was hungry. When as a boy he had first laboured, repairing dykes, he would enjoy the same meals as his seniors, soup and wine in the fields when dawn broke. At intervals they would stop chewing and listen for the ominous trickle of water from the walls. Then warm spicy beer, black cabbage and rabbit or beef at midday when the sun would warm their backs. There would be more vegetables and wine when they returned to the barn to sing together before they were felled by sleep.

  Despite her difficult nature, and no matter what particular grudge she was nursing, Antonia always cooked as if Mary Magdalene herself had knocked at their door and politely asked if she might eat with them as she had changed her ways. Apples, prunes and stronnen all on the same dish.

  Johannes wondered if Michel was hungry. He always was. Only last month he had snatched the last piece of rye bread from his father’s plate and been beaten for his pains.

  A light wind was shaking the sculpted snow from the otherwise skeletal branches overhead. A clump of snow landed on Johannes’ neck and found the only gap between flesh and overcoat. He shivered as the unwanted parcel of coldness slithered and dissolved into the warmth of his back.

  The white landscape was gradually resolving into discernible shapes which, as they approached, refined themselves further into the outline of dwelling houses smothered in snow, steep white roofs almost touching the ground. Red brick chimneystacks reassumed their identity as the men approached.

  The hamlet was completely unfamiliar to the travellers. ‘How far do you think we have come?’ asked Balthasar.

  ‘Perhaps twenty leagues, perhaps more, from the village,’ suggested Johannes.

  It was still early morning and there were few signs of life. Several hens stamped their twig feet on a patch of wet ground that had been protected from the snow by the eave. An icicle, as long as an invader’s sword, thawed slowly above a water barrel, the drops bouncing off the surface ice. On a flat stretch of whiteness that may or may not have been the village pond, a small dark figure was attacking the surface with a hammer; each dull strike rang out like a church bell. Several carts lay abandoned in the square, their thin spokes caked in mud and snow, the twin shafts pointing upwards like muskets. A lone woman tugged at a cart lying on its side, its axle clearly broken, its wheel turning in response to the wind that cut through the clothes of the weavers. She strained helplessly against the immovability of the frozen cart, a tug of war long lost.

  The dogs, sensing the possibility of food, showed enthusiasm for their new surroundings. Balthasar whistled softly and they moved back into position, one each side of the three men. There were no signs that the Inquisition had passed this way: no gibbet in the square, no corpses propped up against the church doors with tracts stuffed into their mouths. Perhaps the village was too remote to matter; perhaps its turn was still to come.

  As they rounded a corner, noise and light spilled from a tavern opposite. Balthasar motioned to the others to stay back while he peered through the window etched with crescent drifts of snow. By looking sideways into the room it was clear that a wedding celebration had endured throughout the night. Johannes and Cornelius wiped their gloves over the glass and looked in at the locals some of whom still had sufficient stamina to dance and carouse. An old man was asleep in the corner, the table in front of him still loaded with untouched food.

  ‘Come on,’ said Balthasar who led the way through the half open door.

  ‘Will you welcome strangers who wish only good to the bride and groom, who bring no gifts but their friendship?’

  The company froze as the newcomers were appraised.

  ‘Balthasar,’ said a wispy-haired skeleton of a man extending a talon in the direction of the second cousin he had not seen in ages. ‘Most welcome.’

  Several of the guests echoed the gesture. A fat man, unsteady on his feet, embraced them each in turn and made an expansive, inclusive gesture towards the table. Cornelius accepted a pitcher of beer from a young boy relieved to part with the jug which he was about to drop. ‘Bless you,’ he said, raising two fingers on his left hand in a gesture of insincere benediction while he drained the vessel into his throat with the other.

  The two dogs shook their coats sending a fine spray over a young couple who had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Their faces moved towards the unexpected but welcome wet mist and they smiled in their dreams.

  Cornelius moved aside to let pass two lads in aprons who were manoeuvring an improvised table made from a gate. It was loaded with bowls of broth. He counted the guests: nineteen in all, not including the late arrivals whose sodden clothes distinguished them from their invited peers.

  Johannes noticed a small boy licking a plate, oblivious to his surroundings. Michel had an identical flat brown hat the brim of which almost obscured his entire face. It was his ‘hiding hat,’ he had once declared to his surprised parents. ‘Enjoy your food, son,’ he muttered.

  ‘Can I butt in here, Narrator?’

  Academic, what is it? I’m in full flow. You’re spoiling the story.

  ‘I just wanted to point out the interesting similarity between the scene you describe and Bruegel’s Peasant Wedding which was mentioned in the inventory carried out in 1659 at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. I would also like to comment on the oblique reference to Charles V who passed a proclamation, aimed specifically at wedding feasts, on May 22nd, 1546. He stipulated that no gathering was to exceed twenty for fear of insurrection and plotting. The party you describe was clearly keeping within the letter of the law … Again, the real question is how did these facts got into John’s head in the first place? Where does this level of detail come from?’

  Well, if you are determined to distract me, we all know that John studied Dutch history as one of his options, isn’t that right, John? Who knows what the unconscious mind tucks away?

  ‘True but … ’

  Not now, Academic. Let me get on.

  Cornelius abandoned his conversation with one of the senior guests as a bagpiper embarked on a drunken serenade inches from his ear. The peasant pumped the leather bladder under his arm as if he were single-handedly emptying an irrigation canal, his swollen cheeks made him look like a fat child. The noise reminded Cornelius of the pig he had inexpertly

  slaughtered on St Nicholas’ day. Geertje had rushed into the yard at the very moment when the knife had become stuck in

  the animal’s windpipe. She had refused to eat the pig

  thereafter.

  Balthasar’s cold bones responded slowly as he tried to keep time with the jig. The words came back to him in snatches and he hummed to fill the gaps. ‘The drunken bees of summer … the dark face of my love … the red moon of harvest … ’

  ‘You dance well for an old man,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘YOU DANCE WELL FOR … forget it.’ They both grinned and accepted that conversation was simply not an option.

  Johannes looked at the guests seated in the centre of the table. ‘Which one is the bride?’ he discreetly asked his companions.

  ‘The ugly one staring into the middle distance with a wreath in her hair,’ suggested Balthasar. The woman in question did look immeasurably sad, as if she was staring into an unwelcoming future. Johannes had frequently seen the same look on Antonia’s face. Three stillborn children, the endless arguments over religion, the problem with her brother and, if he were honest, problems with himself.

  The dogs were salivating over the remains of a chicken on a Majolica plate decorated with a seascape.

  Balthasar was surprised to see a Franciscan monk with heavy brown beard and sword in deep conversation with a young woman, her face largely hidden by a gray cowl …

  ‘Seen as allies of Luther most of the order had abandoned their cassocks and debauched lifestyles before merging with the general population to avoid persecution by the Spanish Catholics. This man must be either brave or foolish
to flaunt his affiliation at such a time.’

  Thank you, Academic.

  ‘I don’t trust that priest,’ said Cornelius. He was soon distracted from a growing sense of unease by a black-toothed wedding guest who jostled him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Incoherent with drink, the intruder tried in vain to persuade his words to form themselves in even a semblance of order. As he swayed he spilt his beer on Cornelius who thought it best to hide his annoyance. After all, they had invited themselves. The man was desperate to communicate some important truth and kept glancing towards the Franciscan. He staggered like a novice sailor in his first storm. He clutched Cornelius’ sleeve ever tighter but still struggled to tame his words sufficiently.

  Eventually Cornelius extricated himself and moved

  towards a young woman dancing on her own. ‘Do you bide nearby?’ he asked, but got no reply. The man failed to notice that his companion had left and continued to frame his

  mouth in odd shapes, still hopeful that they would eventually enable him to convey meaning. The young woman was so completely oblivious of Cornelius’ presence he wondered if he had drunk some potion that rendered him invisible. Eventually, still staring at a point in the middle distance, she took his hands and steered him though a slow motion dance he failed to recognise. She then held him to her breast and hummed a tune close to his ear. She was comely, firm and

  warm.

  Cornelius was gnawed by loss. He just wanted to be home.

  Now becoming something of an expert at extricating himself from barely conscious wedding guests, he stepped aside. The woman continued to move with her arms outstretched as if he were still contained within them.

  At a sudden sound the drinkers stopped drinking, the dancers were still and the barely conscious opened their eyes. Balthasar’s first thought was that the thick snow had avalanched off the roof now warmed by the heat of celebration inside. The double doors of the inn splintered apart, the planks lurched into the room like falling drunks, the bagpipe tune resolved into a consumptive wheeze. A horse and helmeted rider stood in the doorway, the animal reared onto its hind legs, its fore hooves pummelling the air, a pugilist spoiling for a fight. The rider having lowered his lance to clear the lintel now thrust it towards the startled company who slid away from the table as if swept by an invisible arm. Pitchers broke as they met the stone flagstones.

  A girl screamed and beat her small fists against the invader’s brocaded saddle. ‘Spanish whoremasters!’ shouted another of the guests, and was promptly kicked in the face by a spurred boot.

  Other horses appeared to either side of the first intruder, pushing their heads into the space, nostrils flared, eyes bulging. At the precise moment of the eruption Balthasar and Cornelius were crouching at the back of the room giving food and water to the two dogs. They stayed on their knees and watched events unfold from the edge of the table. ‘Stay still,’ said Balthasar, ‘stay still.’

  The Franciscan stood up and grabbed Johannes who was too stunned to react. The monk wrenched the weaver’s hood over his head trapping his arms and effectively blinding him in one movement. Cornelius made to move but was held back by Balthasar who could see the crowd of soldiers in the yard. Resistance would prove fatal. Johannes was manhandled out of the inn and thrown across the back of a riderless horse. His hands were quickly tied. The Franciscan climbed up behind one of the riders and the party swept out of the square.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Hair of the dog,’ muttered Mick as he steered John though the early morning crowd at the foot of Leith Walk. ‘Trust me,’ he said. The odd couple attracted little attention as they walked beneath the overhead posters on which Tom Farmer, The Proclaimers and Uncle Tom Cobley and all declared their undying loyalty to the neighbourhood. ‘I lent Sean Connery money once,’ said Mick. ‘Skinflinted bastard never paid me back. Mind you, I was offered a part in one of they Bond films. After all, I was doing odd jobs at the time and it made sense.’

  Once more John concentrated on every passing face. Occasionally the inner mantra, ‘Is that him? Is that him?’ became an outer mantra.

  Jester, do you want a shot?

  ‘A Pleasure. “What are you saying?’” asked Mick. ”Oh aye, your brother. Ken that pub?” he said, pointing at the Victorian splendour of the Central Bar. “I sang there once, it’s my voice like, it’s pure Tam White, deep ken. The women all loved it. It’s like pure gravel. I owe a debt of gratitude to the fags, a blessing in disguise. I had offers, ken. One night after the gig, this boy sidles up, ‘Are you free pal?’ he asks. ‘Who’s asking?’ I says ‘Don’t say a word,’ he says, “it’s Princess Anne,” ken, her what watches the Scotland rugby, she’d escaped her chaperals and went in search of a bit of rough. I tells they boys I hate they royals and I don’t want to catch yon King’s evil from shagging a princess. They weren’t happy mind. That’s when it started, the following, the phone calls with nobody at the other end, my mail was gone through. The persecution. My career suffered, but you ken all that. I’ve told you before.”

  ‘With no warning Mick executed a sharp left and disappeared into a charity shop. It was a while before John noticed that Mick was no longer at his side and retraced his steps. As he crossed the threshold he saw Mick saluting an RAF uniform hanging next to a Bakelite kitchen chair. “Heroes against the fasciste,” he declared.

  “Watch your language,” retorted the shop assistant. Mick raked through the assorted contents of an open suitcase and slipped several pairs of spectacles into his pocket. “Against the dying of the light.”

  “Put they glasses back. You lot from the hostel are all the same, minky, thieving weirdos.”

  “Madam,” said Mick, “I assume you are in the pay of the Emir.”

  “A mere what?” snorted the woman. Mick tapped the side of his nose, winked at her and left the shop with John in tow … ’

  Nice one, Jester. I’ll take over again.

  John desperately wanted to go back to the hostel. He must have stared intently at two or three hundred different male faces since they left. All their features had started to merge and he knew it was only a matter of time before the Bastard would start his predictable tirade of wheedling abuse. As if he had accidently rubbed the genie’s lamp by the mere act of articulating his anxiety, his nemesis appeared and swatted aside the Jester who was quietly rehearsing an amusing interpolation.

  ‘Come on, John, stop the self-pitying. “Wanting to lie down!” my arse. What a girly thing to want. What a prima donna, it’s not a bed at the Intercontinental that you crave, it’s that midden at the hostel, or had you forgotten? A second-hand bed. Come to think of it, John, do you ever wonder what happened in that bed before the council bought it? Couples made love in it, spoke fondly to each other, planned the next day, discussed the children, and then fell asleep with their arms round each other. Just what you do in the same bed, eh, John? Saddo. Just you with your picture. Sweet delusions, baby. “Oh Andy, come back to me, I want to talk to you, I want to hear about the missing years.” Wanker! No, I want to be in a Bruegel painting and have adventures. Absolute bollocks. Your punishment today for being the saddest person whose head I have ever been in, is to stay with Mick the lefty loony, stay with your self-obsessed paranoid, schizophrenic fellow hostel lodger. Now get in that pub and devil mend you. Not a bad idea that, I’ll ask around and see if Old Nick can spare an hour or two and join you for the odd beer. He’s all yours, Narrator, I can’t be bothered.’

  The pub was full at ten o’clock in the morning, its licence justified on the grounds that it catered for the folk on night shift, the nonexistent army of exhausted fish filleters and hard-working posties for whom night was day and vice versa. Mick pushed his way in, past the knot of smokers squinting uncertainly at the daylight. John muttered an apology and followed. A dog lapped at a puddle of beer near a table leg. ‘’scuse us ladies,’ said Mick exploiting a small gap left between two middle-aged women on a bench. ‘Come on, John, loads of room. Do you want a drink, ladies?’
They both shook their heads and lowered their eyes.

  ‘A half and a half is it, John?’ He slouched towards the bar managing to look forwards and sideways at the same time, in case he was being followed by the many agents who defined and proscribed his life. He paused at a boxing poster sellotaped to a pillar advertising a fight between Edinburgh and London and raised his fists at the two protagonists. The women glanced at each other across John but said nothing.

  ‘Pair of slags,’ said the Bastard who, along with the other Voices, had been waiting for me to draw breath. ‘They might give your cock a feel, John, they do charitable work you know. They get a tax rebate.’

  ‘Did you hear the one about the horse who went up to the bar?’ asked the Jester.

  ‘Eyes open, old son,’ said the Tempter. ‘He might be here. He probably enjoys a drink just like you; perhaps he works down the docks and pops in here for a wee pint every morning. Is that him reading the Mail over there? Could be, you

  know.’

  John looked at the man lost in the sport pages. He felt nothing. He was sure that he would know when he saw Andy, something in them both would stir. It would be obvious.

  There was a younger man holding on to the jukebox as if the floor was experiencing a seismic shift that only he could feel. No, it wasn’t him. A man wearing army fatigues emerged from the gents, still doing up his fly.

  ‘It’s him, it has to be!’ shouted the Tempter, ‘Right age, looks a bit like you, a bit thinner but he’s in the army, you’d expect that.’

  ‘Anyway, the barman said to the horse … ’

  ‘He’s looking for a rent boy,’ said the Bastard. ‘It must be him, old habits die hard, John.’