Free An Honourable Murderer by Philip Gooden Page B

Without even knowing that I’d fallen I found myself sprawling on my back on the ground. The evening sky gaped above me, criss-crossed by flashes of light like meteors. The whizzing meteors continued but suddenly the sky was blocked by the cloaked figure who seemed to have grown to the height of several buildings. He moved halfway out of my dizzy vision. I heard someone grunting and a woman’s voice shrieking “Kick ’im! Kick ’im!”, before experiencing a stabbing pain in my ribs. Then another grunt and another stab, followed by more of both. The bastard was kicking me, as ordered!
    It may sound odd, but what I felt most acutely at this instant – over and above the ringing numbness in my head and the sense that all the breath had been knocked violently out of my body – what I felt most was relief. At least my assailant did not intend to murder me, merely to give me a good kicking. If you’re going to kill someone then you don’t do the deed in a public place, not even in lawless Southwark. Although I couldn’t have articulated these comforting notions at the time, they were running through some part of my battered head even while I curled up against the foot thudding into my side. Instinctively I kept my eyes shut but was aware of shadows moving across the lids.
    Then there was an indistinct blur of shouting and scuffling feet. The kicking stopped. Moments later I felt someone’s hot breath on my face.
    I opened one eye, then the other. A trimly bearded male head hovered above me.
    â€œHow are you, sir?”
    I opened my mouth but nothing more detailed came out of it than a groan.
    I made to sit up and fell back on the ground. I tried again, fell back again. Sitting up would take a bit of doing. My new friend squatted down on his hams. He put his arm behind my shoulders for support. It was odd to see the river bank so peaceful and undisturbed, the water still slipping by. The whole episode had probaby taken less than a minute. A handful of other people had stopped to watch the scene.
    Eventually I clambered to my feet, clinging to my rescuer. He was plump but solid as a little pillar. I noticed that he was wearing a red doublet which he filled comfortably.
    â€œDid – did you –”
    I struggled to regain my breath. My sides were starting to hurt. There was a cloudiness over my right eye, near where I’d been struck at the beginning of the attack.
    â€œThey ran off,” said the other, answering one of the questions which I hadn’t been able to ask. “They ran off when I came near.”
    â€œDid – did –”
    â€œNo more now, sir. Let us get you to some comfort. Here is the Pure Waterman close at hand.”
    Still holding tight to the stranger, I limped across towards the tavern. The few bystanders strolled on. We entered the tavern. The Pure Waterman, which stands four-square on Bankside, was named either in irony (since watermen are almost always impure, at least in their speech) or in propitiation of its customers, most of whom are ferrymen and don’t care for outsiders. Nevertheless it was welcome as a place to get my breath and wits back. Tactfully, the Samaritan in a red doublet, steered me towards an obscure, smoky corner. I stared about, still slightly dazed. The tavern was crowded. Instead of waiting for a drawer to notice us, my rescuer went off in search of refreshment.
    Quite soon the plump man returned. He placed a little pewter mug in front of me and I gulped from it straightaway, then wished I hadn’t. I coughed and gasped for air. He looked concerned.
    â€œBe careful, take it slowly. I have the landlord’s word for it. That’s his best aqua vitae.”
    The fiery liquid prickled in my throat before it began to glow lower down in my guts.
    â€œI asked him for something restorative,” said the other man, sitting down and taking a more modest swallow from his own mug.
    â€œI feel – ah