Roseblood by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

coins, which he threw over the bailiffs’ heads. ‘For your pains. Withdraw your men. Wet your throats or,’ he smiled, ‘you can have them sliced.’
    Skulkin and his men retreated. Roseblood helped the priests with the wounded fugitive, now jerking in and out of consciousness, his belly wound spluttering blood. They laid him on the cold paving stones of the nave and Roseblood pulled back the man’s cowl. His heart skipped a beat. Bolt-Head! He recognised that bony face, the head shaved as smooth as a pigeon’s. Whatever his baptismal name, the wounded man had acquired his title from his protruding skull, used in many a street fight.
    ‘You recognise him?’ Father Roger whispered.
    ‘Bolt-Head is a raker from Cripplegate ward, often seen in the company of Candlemas. He has been lying hidden for some days.’
    The wounded man abruptly stirred. Arching in pain, he stared bulbous-eyed up at Roseblood.
    ‘Master Simon,’ he gasped, ‘thanks be to God. I was coming here when Skulkin’s men recognised me. I thought I was safe. I stopped…’
    Roseblood leaned down; the smell of ale was rich on Bolt-Head’s blood-bubbling breath.
    ‘You stopped at some alehouse, where you would stand out like a friar amongst nuns! Come, let’s lift him into the sanctuary.’
    They carried him up into the recess for fugitives. Father Benedict fetched some wine from the sacristy. Roseblood coaxed the wounded man to drink.
    ‘A physician?’ Father Roger murmured.
    ‘Not for me,’ Bolt-Head murmured. ‘I know belly wounds. The knife ripped deep and harsh; soon it will get worse.’
    Roseblood pulled back the man’s tattered jerkin to reveal a savage black-red rent across the stomach. He shook his head.
    ‘Absolution?’ Father Benedict, nervous as ever, pulled a set of Ave beads through his fingers. ‘He must be absolved.’
    ‘Not yet, Father.’ Bolt-Head gagged at the pain. ‘Just you and me, master, for a while.’
    The priests withdrew. Outside, the agitation and tumult had subsided. Simon knew that Ignacio had left, speeding like a lurcher to take care of certain matters, but others of his guard would be assembling.
    ‘What is it?’ Simon knelt down, his face almost touching that of the dying man.
    ‘Master, I went into hiding. You know I had to. I told you what I knew. Rumours milled about how there was no silver. How Candlemas and his company were either killed or taken up. People now smell trickery.’ He clutched Simon’s hand. ‘Master, who was behind that robbery? Who persuaded Candlemas?’ He coughed on his blood. ‘Was the silver replaced with sacks of rubbish? They are saying that Candlemas is going to blame you for the robbery.’
    ‘Hush now,’ Simon soothed.
    ‘I feel so cold,’ the dying man groaned. ‘So very cold. I had to come. I am your sworn man, aren’t I?’
    ‘You are a comrade,’ Simon assured him, ‘but why did you creep out of hiding now?’
    ‘Strange tales are told. Candlemas has turned King’s Approver.’ Bolt-Head shivered; the bloody froth between his lips had thickened. ‘They – I don’t know who; perhaps your enemies at the Guildhall – are sending all kinds of rumours to run like ferrets in a warren.’ He gasped noisily. ‘Last night, in the Palm of Jerusalem, three Essex wolfsheads – you might know them, Blackshanks, Gull-Groper and Scalding-Boy – announced that they would be taking over all the raking and scavenging in Cripplegate ward. They would hold an indenture from the city council.’ He coughed blood and gratefully sipped at the wine, only to jerk at another searing jab of pain that convulsed his entire body. ‘That is all I have to tell you, master. They say you will be indicted.’ His eyes pleaded with Roseblood. ‘Do what you have to do. Jesu miserere! Master, are men like us redeemed?’
    ‘We are sinners,’ Simon was already distracted by Bolt-Head’s news, ‘and we do what we are good at: sinning.’
    He called across, and Father Benedict