Page 8 of Rears & Vices
Hey my Kitten, my Kitten… Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross…
To market, to market, to buy a penny bun,
Home again, home again, market is d—
“Ah!”
D’Arcy had pinched him.
“That’s for calling me sod.” He whistled, carrying the nursery rhyme’s melody on—thankfully now wordless—and they ambled round the corner, nearly onto York’s Market Square.
Aptly named, the market was a squarish mud lot near water’s edge, at the corner of King and New streets, all edged by a whitewashed fence. Within this neat delineation, one could buy any manner of things: eggs, white, green, brown, or speckled; chickens, similarly feathered; butter and freshly wrapped cheeses; whiskered catfish, yellow pickerel, and rainbow-scale trout; new spring onions, rhubarb, and last year’s cabbages; apple-blossom honeycomb to layer on fresh bread—
D’Arcy belched softly into a fist. “Anyway, they’d never convict you, Ev, on account you hardly qualify.”
Everard stiffened, produce forgotten, though they were nearly there. “I beg your pardon. Qualify?”
“Un-natch-rul offences,” D’Arcy said, in an accent not his usual. “Too uptight. Never any witnesses. Never any fucking. Therefore.”
Everard couldn’t remember the last time there had been witnesses. Well, that was not strictly true. However… “Preston, how’re you still this drunk?”
“I’d be less drunk,” D’Arcy swayed, “if last night you’d taken proper advantage and proper-ly fu—”
Everard stopped dead. “Don’t.” He looked quickly round, over to the market, to be sure none was close enough to overhear. But he didn’t meet D’Arcy’s eyes. He stared at his nose instead. “We’ve spoken of this,” he said quietly. “At length. Our relations were neither appropriate, nor ethical with me as your captain, nor, dare I say it, legal—”
“Oh.” D’Arcy snorted. “Legal’s the impediment. I see— Oi!”
D’Arcy broke the link of their arms and attempted to shove off a man who had run straight into him. He failed, sputtering, “For fuck’s— Excuse your ar… se…”
D’Arcy trailed off into a sharp breath as their interrupter stepped back. The man was tall, white, blond, in shirtsleeves only, hatless like some disrepute, but he carried himself with the straight spine of a marine at watch, and wore a French musket. He was also—in a word—large. If he wasn’t a sailor, the kind that climbed swaying rigging like it were so much solid-rock cliff, Everard would eat his (second-favourite, undress) hat.
“Sir,” Everard greeted, hoping that the man would go on his way, and that he hadn’t overheard.
But no. The man didn’t move. He slung his hands into his breeches pockets and regarded them: glanced over Everard’s coat with epaulettes, and D’Arcy’s one without.
“Begging pardon,” he said, looking not at all sorry. He had a soft, carefully defined voice, and the vowels of a Russian. He saluted briefly, two hooked fingers, and leaned in. “But I hope we were not serious about buying of pricks.”
The man had heard! Dear God, D’Arcy had finally gone and done it, his loud mouth would get them both hanged—
The man continued quickly. “Because the sale of one’s fellow man I cannot abide, and if that is the case, we will have words.” He smiled again, as mild as you please; Everard sensed that words were not the only thing he would have.
“But if it is companionship only you are wanting…” Vahnt-ing, it came out pronounced. His gaze focused on Everard, and went up and down, frank and fearless.
Everard almost stepped back. Had he just been propositioned? He, Everard? On King Street, York? In broad bloody daylight, on a Saturday?
D’Arcy was faster to recover. He laughed in an airless sort of way.
“Right,” he declared, ruefully. “I’ve definitely not drunk enough for this. Buy me a bird in the market, Ev.” He snickered. “If you make it there.” Then, with a wobbling spin, he walked in the direction of the coffeehouse.
“Preston!” Everard hissed after him.
D’Arcy waved. “Don’t disappoint, Captain!”
Disappoint whom?
Everard stared at his lieutenant’s blue wool superfine, retreating back, waiting for him to turn round.
He did not.
