Free The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock Page A

walked over the washed cobbles. I was still utterly amazed by the sight of them. The gypsies had taught me a bit about horses. I realised that all eight stalls offered a reasonably airy space where riding horses could be tethered. Three stalls were empty. One at the back held an old sorrel mare who did not look ready to ride, but her coat and eyes were bright. She was in great condition for her age.
    A tall, pink-skinned, lanky youth of about my age, whose long stringy blond hair was tied back with a simple bit of dark blue ribbon, looked up from where he was raking out a stall. He had a handsome, sardonic, friendly face, with startling black eyes, his thin mouth turned up in a look I took for habitual amusement. He wore a long, old-fashioned coat and breeches, a big cotton shirt, black and white. Almost some sort of uniform, with a big leather apron over it. His voice was straight warm cockney of the old, refined kind. There were still pockets of that accent all over the City, hangovers from the fashionable upper class accent of the eighteenth century. ‘Joey Cornwall at your service, young sir.’ He made a deep, comic bow. ‘You look like the devil about to be baptised. Are you lost?’
    â€˜I am a bit.’ For no good reason I trusted Joey Cornwall. ‘I came here a few days ago with Brother Isidore from the abbey. I liked the look of the place. Thought I’d try a drink today.’ Unlike my talented ma, my own blushes probably told him I was offering a half-truth. I was always a poor liar. I found it easier to lie on paper. You got paid for that.
    He was laughing now. ‘Or maybe you’re looking for a job? Or for someone you know or maybe a long-lost relative or a doxy you saw last night?’
    I joined him in his laughter. ‘Honestly, it’s true. I went by with Brother Isidore and thought I’d come back to have another look at the place. He didn’t seem the type to join me at the bar. It looks like the sort of pub where you can get a decent pint.’
    â€˜That you can.’ His grin widened. ‘In about three hours.’
    At that time the pubs were licensed usually from 11 AM to 3 PM around Fleet Street. They opened again at 6 PM and closed at 10 PM . ‘I’ll drop by at lunchtime,’ I told him.
    â€˜You won’t regret it.’ He offered me a broad wink. ‘Come in early for eels and mash and a fresh pie. Steak and kidney, pork, beef and liver, tongue, they’re lovely.’ Pushing his extraordinarily long pale hair from his eyes, he spoke as if he’d never heard of rationing. This was still austerity Britain. Some things were only available through your ration book. At that time you were still lucky to get a decently filled meat pie of any kind.
    That was an outstanding pub! Why, in a fraternity of drinking men, had I never been told of The Swan With Two Necks? Just the name would have sparked the imagination of romantic hacks like us.
    Thanking Mr Cornwall I made to leave, turned and found myself almost knocking over the young woman I had seen before. Her eyes were cloudy with sleep. She smelled warm and sweet. She wore a loose smock on top of what were probably her nightclothes and she apologised huskily at the moment I was doing the same. She brightened in an instant however. ‘By Gad, boy,’ she said—barefoot, she barely reached my shoulder and looked younger than me—‘why up at this hour? Is that the paper?’ She snatched my copy of Claude Duval from my pocket, glanced at it and, disappointed, gave it back to me. Those violet eyes frowned. ‘What are you after? Help? Or are you perhaps an aspiring Runner out for our Claude’s reward?’
    â€˜I’m on my way to work,’ I said, feeling like a fool. ‘I’m a journalist.’
    She smiled, offering me a mock salute. ‘I beg your pardon, then, sir. I’ll not keep you.’ And she stepped aside for me to pass.
    She knew