The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

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      ‘The order of St George and the Holy Grail. The Courtneys have worn it for more generations than I can count. Now it belongs to you.’

      ‘But …’ He struggled to take it in, like a starving man confronted with a banquet. ‘This must be worth a fortune. The diamonds alone … If we sold it, we could keep High Weald.’

      ‘No.’ She held his gaze. ‘This is the honour of the Courtneys. Wherever you go, whatever you do, never lose it.’

      Shouts sounded nearer, around the side of the house. She folded his hands around the bag and kissed him.

      ‘Go. The man to see in London is Sir Nicholas Childs. He was a friend of your grandfather’s, and he is still a powerful man in the East India Company. If there is any man alive who can help you, it is he.’

      Francis had been to London many times as a boy, but always with his parents, travelling in a well-sprung carriage with a coachman to clear their way with a crack of his whip, and footmen to fetch and carry at every stop. Now, the journey took almost a week, long slow days struggling against boggy roads and relentless autumn weather. He slept in ditches, tethering Hyperion out of sight behind hedgerows, terrified lest anyone should come across him and find the red velvet bag under his shirt. One morning, near Salisbury, he was woken by a gang of Sheriff’s men, who called him a vagabond and a horse-stealer, and chased him across several fields until he finally escaped. At Richmond, he spent his last few coins on a bag of oats for Hyperion, and a mug of small beer for himself. By the time they reached London, the horse was almost lame and Francis was caked with mud.

      The city terrified the horse: the crowds and noise, the carts and carriages rattling over the stones. He had to dismount and lead Hyperion by his bridle, whispering comfort in his ears. In the busy streets, most people ignored him, but he saw the way others looked at him, a shabby boy with such a fine horse. His cheeks flushed as he read the suspicion on their faces; he had never felt so alone.

      At last he found a livery stable. The ostler gave Francis one look and declared he must pay in advance. The fee would be five shillings.

      Francis patted his pockets. ‘I have nothing.’

      ‘Then I’ve got nothing for you.’

      ‘Please.’ Night was falling, and the thought of trudging around this hostile city any longer was too much to bear. ‘I can find the money tomorrow.’

      A sly look came over the ostler’s face as he took the measure of Francis’ desperation. ‘You could sell the horse.’

      Francis started in horror. He opened his mouth to reject the offer, but the words wouldn’t come. What had he expected? If he were going to make a new life in India, he would never be able to take Hyperion with him.

      Tears pricked his eyes, but he refused to cry.

      ‘How much?’

      ‘Not for myself. I’ll find a buyer. He can stay here, until I do.’

      Francis wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, and pressed his face against its mane. Hyperion whinnied, glad to have the familiar smells and sounds of the stable yard around him again.

      ‘Can I at least have a bed for the night?’

      The ostler looked him up and down. ‘You can sleep in the stables.’

      Francis slept badly and woke early. He washed himself as well as he could in water from the trough, and brushed the mud off his clothes with a horse brush. It didn’t help much. Walking down Cheapside, he caught his reflection in the shop windows and grimaced. His dark hair stuck out at all angles, his eyes were rimmed with purple bags like bruises, and he had a week’s adolescent stubble darkening his cheeks. His clothes were tattered, and though the horse brush had taken off the worst of the muck, the mud had left deep stains all over the fabric. His big toe poked through a hole in his right shoe.

      He was going to call on one of the richest men in London. Sir Nicholas Childs was the man who had built the East India Company from a small company of merchant adventurers into a behemoth that governed half the world’s trade. Francis had known the name for as long as he could remember – though if ever he or his stepfather mentioned it, his mother always changed the subject.

      It seemed half of London knew the house on Leadenhall Street, and he obtained directions to it readily. At ground level, there was nothing very remarkable about it. Wooden shutters and a pair of heavy, studded doors hid the interior from casual passers-by; the only ornament was a pair of ornately carved oriental columns flanking the doorway, and a liveried porter. But if you raised your eyes, you would begin to notice details that suggested something grander. On the first floor, a wooden balcony fronted the street, with glass galleries behind; above it, a royal crest stood large and proud on the second-storey woodwork. Above that, so far up you had to crane your neck, the cornice had been painted with a gaudy mural, ships under full sail on a bright wave-flecked sea, flanked by dolphins and crowned with the statue of an honest Elizabethan sailor, scanning the spires and chimney pots of London.

      Anyone who didn’t know might have mistaken it for a chandler’s yard that had misplaced itself in the city. In fact, it was the headquarters of some of the most powerful men on earth.

      Francis hesitated, screwing up his courage. He approached the porter.

      ‘Please inform Sir Nicholas Childs that Francis Courtney wishes to see him on urgent business.’ Anxiety made the words come out higher than usual. He wished he didn’t sound so childish.

      The porter stared down his nose at him. ‘Sir Nicholas Childs is busy today. And Sir Francis Courtney died in the reign of good King Charles.’

      ‘I am his great-grandson. And please, I must speak with Sir Nicholas.’ He tried to push past, through the great studded door. A stout arm blocked his way and pushed him back into the street.

      ‘Sir Nicholas is not receiving visitors.’ The porter emphasised every syllable with a jab of his finger on Francis’ chest. ‘And if you keep obstructing this door, I will have you charged with vagrancy.’

      Francis retreated across the street, into the shadow of a coffee house. Through the windows, he could see men sat around tables in earnest debate, studying newspapers and sipping steaming cups of coffee. Nothing but glass between them, but it felt like another world.

      A wave of powerless rage rushed through him, shaking him to his bones. There had been times, in the past few years, where he had felt as if he had nothing. He had never realized how much he had. Now he saw, with the bitter clarity of despair, how hopeless he had become. Nothing was possible without money. Lack of it had killed his stepfather, parted him from his mother, and cost him his home, his horse – everything except the clothes on his back and the emblem around his neck.

      He looked at the men inside the coffee house again and imagined himself among them, regaling his fellow merchants with tales of investments recouped, profits taken and vast fortunes made in the Indies. Whatever was required to join their company, he would do it. He would sail to the far side of the world, suffer any hardship and risk any hazard. Even kill a man or many men, if he had to do that to succeed, though the thought made him tremble. He swore that he would win his fortune, or die in the attempt.

      He settled down to wait. Every time the door to the coffee shop opened, the smells from inside made his mouth water. As the morning wore on, people began to walk past carrying steaming meat pies and hot pastries. СКАЧАТЬ