beat him. We were with two Knights of St John of Malta.’
The girl frowned. A hazy memory did come back to her. ‘They were . . .’ She scrutinised Nicholas. ‘You are English?’
‘And you are,’ he said, delighted with himself for having dredged up the name from so wine-hazy a memory, ‘you are Maria de l’Adoracion!’
For the first time she smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Then it went again as she took a hold of herself. ‘Perhaps I am,’ she said.
Darkness was falling, and a small scruffy boy appeared in the doorway. ‘Where are the strangers?’ he said in a piping voice.
‘Out, out!’ she cried, waving her apron.
‘They came off the knights’ ship. They fought at Malta, someone said.’
Maria stared back at the two drunken Englishmen, and then waved the urchin away.
She came back and stood at their table. ‘You really fought at the Siege of Malta? That is where you got your scars?’
Nicholas looked at her dreamily. Women loved a hero. Maybe he was on to something now.
‘We did, señora. And after . . . Algiers, Tripoli, the Greek islands . . . the galleys.’
With her dark hair and dark flashing eyes, he knew he was confusing her with a girl he had known and loved on Malta. ThisMaria was a bar-girl and a widow, though yet only twenty or so, and more radiantly beautiful with every cup of heady wine. Well, let him be confused. Let confusion reign, he thought.
He pulled her to him. ‘Sit on my lap.’
She slapped him again, a considerable blow. He laughed.
‘You think to come swaggering back into my tavern after ten years—’
‘Five years,’ he said. ‘Six at most. How my heart has yearned for you.’
‘—and expect me to fall into your arms? What kind of arrogant swine are you?’
‘Women always insult those they are drawn to.’ He beamed at her.
‘Doh, you are impossible. Impossible . Touch me once more and you will see my stiletto.’
She went to serve another customer, her cheeks flushed red.
‘As lovely as a rose in the gardens of the Alhambra,’ murmured Nicholas, leaning after her and nearly tumbling off the end of the bench.
Hodge poured them both large tumblers of plain water. ‘King Solomon didn’t sweet-talk his one thousand concubines in the Bible any more sweet than you do. ’Tis a Song of Songs to hear you woo her. Here, drink this.’
‘Water?’
‘Water. We need it.’
They drank, and almost immediately Nicholas felt his head become a little cooler and clearer. He sighed. God save us all from beautiful but virtuous widows, he thought.
They drank three more tumblers of water each.
‘Well, Hodge,’ Nicholas said, with a small watery belch. ‘I am not proud to say it, but there’s another appetite must be quelled before I sleep. And this tavern is too virtuous a place for it. But the whorehouses of Cadiz are highly reputed.’
‘Aye, Master Nicholas,’ said Hodge, an address used only sarcastically now. ‘I am equally filled with disgust at myself for saying but. But – my britches cannot lie. Lead on. To the whorehouses of the Street of the Christmas Flowers.’
They staggered out of the door arm in arm, singing ‘Farewell, O You Sweet Spanish Ladies’.
Maria de l’Adoracion watched them go.
Men .
6
They awoke the next morning with burning heads, the daylight making them wince, their eyeballs aching. They lay on straw pallets in an upper room, in an insalubrious house at the end of the Street of the Christmas Flowers. Nicholas tried to speak but his throat was too dry. Water .
He lay naked on top of his own britches, and could feel the necklace still concealed within the belt. His fist clutched his purseful of ducats. He opened it and peered inside, and found the correct number remained. The girls last night – four of them, wasn’t it? Five? – from what he could remember, were hardly the finest Venetian courtesans in looks or in conduct. But they did what whores are paid to do cheerfully enough, and they were
The girl frowned. A hazy memory did come back to her. ‘They were . . .’ She scrutinised Nicholas. ‘You are English?’
‘And you are,’ he said, delighted with himself for having dredged up the name from so wine-hazy a memory, ‘you are Maria de l’Adoracion!’
For the first time she smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Then it went again as she took a hold of herself. ‘Perhaps I am,’ she said.
Darkness was falling, and a small scruffy boy appeared in the doorway. ‘Where are the strangers?’ he said in a piping voice.
‘Out, out!’ she cried, waving her apron.
‘They came off the knights’ ship. They fought at Malta, someone said.’
Maria stared back at the two drunken Englishmen, and then waved the urchin away.
She came back and stood at their table. ‘You really fought at the Siege of Malta? That is where you got your scars?’
Nicholas looked at her dreamily. Women loved a hero. Maybe he was on to something now.
‘We did, señora. And after . . . Algiers, Tripoli, the Greek islands . . . the galleys.’
With her dark hair and dark flashing eyes, he knew he was confusing her with a girl he had known and loved on Malta. ThisMaria was a bar-girl and a widow, though yet only twenty or so, and more radiantly beautiful with every cup of heady wine. Well, let him be confused. Let confusion reign, he thought.
He pulled her to him. ‘Sit on my lap.’
She slapped him again, a considerable blow. He laughed.
‘You think to come swaggering back into my tavern after ten years—’
‘Five years,’ he said. ‘Six at most. How my heart has yearned for you.’
‘—and expect me to fall into your arms? What kind of arrogant swine are you?’
‘Women always insult those they are drawn to.’ He beamed at her.
‘Doh, you are impossible. Impossible . Touch me once more and you will see my stiletto.’
She went to serve another customer, her cheeks flushed red.
‘As lovely as a rose in the gardens of the Alhambra,’ murmured Nicholas, leaning after her and nearly tumbling off the end of the bench.
Hodge poured them both large tumblers of plain water. ‘King Solomon didn’t sweet-talk his one thousand concubines in the Bible any more sweet than you do. ’Tis a Song of Songs to hear you woo her. Here, drink this.’
‘Water?’
‘Water. We need it.’
They drank, and almost immediately Nicholas felt his head become a little cooler and clearer. He sighed. God save us all from beautiful but virtuous widows, he thought.
They drank three more tumblers of water each.
‘Well, Hodge,’ Nicholas said, with a small watery belch. ‘I am not proud to say it, but there’s another appetite must be quelled before I sleep. And this tavern is too virtuous a place for it. But the whorehouses of Cadiz are highly reputed.’
‘Aye, Master Nicholas,’ said Hodge, an address used only sarcastically now. ‘I am equally filled with disgust at myself for saying but. But – my britches cannot lie. Lead on. To the whorehouses of the Street of the Christmas Flowers.’
They staggered out of the door arm in arm, singing ‘Farewell, O You Sweet Spanish Ladies’.
Maria de l’Adoracion watched them go.
Men .
6
They awoke the next morning with burning heads, the daylight making them wince, their eyeballs aching. They lay on straw pallets in an upper room, in an insalubrious house at the end of the Street of the Christmas Flowers. Nicholas tried to speak but his throat was too dry. Water .
He lay naked on top of his own britches, and could feel the necklace still concealed within the belt. His fist clutched his purseful of ducats. He opened it and peered inside, and found the correct number remained. The girls last night – four of them, wasn’t it? Five? – from what he could remember, were hardly the finest Venetian courtesans in looks or in conduct. But they did what whores are paid to do cheerfully enough, and they were
Similar Books
