Chapter 2
Gabriel and Artemas

The sun was now at its zenith. Outside the shelter of the school, the humidity of the day was already stifling, and the heat intense. Within a few minutes of setting off, sweat was trickling down Ben’s face, and so the boy dragged the mortar board off his head and used it as a fan to try and cool himself.

“Will this summer never end?” he said, running a finger around the inside of his collar. Still not content he undid its buttons and pulled open his shirt, revealing a silver pendant hanging from an iron chain. The pendant was engraved with a symbol which looked like a steel gate or a portcullis. As was his habit, the fingers of his right hand moved to the pendant and rubbed the symbol whilst his eyes became distant. After a moment he let go of it in order to wipe a bead of sweat off his brow. He felt as if he was roasting in the day’s heat, so he took off his robes and folded them over his arm, whilst peering guiltily back down the road toward Westminster School, half expecting old Busby to be chasing after him.

The Headmaster insisted that the boys wear collars buttoned up, mortar boards on their heads and black robes at all times when both inside and outside the school and - if he was seen - Ben could expect another thrashing at the very least. Then he shrugged: he was playing truant and the penalty would be far worse if he was caught. The thought made him turn his head again, but the school was out of sight, although the Abbey still loomed in view. He hurried on past White Hall, turning his eyes downwards in case someone in the court saw him. Suddenly he laughed out loud, causing a few passersby to frown at the noise and stare at the thin gangly figure, who appeared to be all elbows and knees. Ben could not help it, for the unlikely image of the King, or his brother James, keeping an eye open for errant schoolboys had popped into his mind.

The spontaneous laughter made his spirits soar, his black mood lifted with each step he took further away from the school and he felt his tensions easing as he enjoyed the unusual freedom. That is why he was skiving off after all: it was dry, sunny and warm as it had been all that long summer and he was going to explore the city and try to take his mind off other thoughts.

Westminster had its own shops and in Westminster Hall there was a market. The boys at his school would go there, and spend pennies on books, sweets, trinkets and toys. By now Ben had already been there many times and even the decapitated head of Oliver Cromwell, mounted high up on its roof, did not interest him anymore. Although it had been a curiosity of morbid fascination when he had first arrived at the school, he had seen it so often that he barely glanced at it now. Ben had a more distant destination in mind in his search for something distracting.

The heart of London, at least as far as the shops and merchants went, was the great Royal Exchange to the east on Cornhill. It was a couple of miles away, the other side of St Paul’s, so Ben swept back his black hair, bent his back and, stretching his legs, picked up the pace. He had missed lunch and, with a few coins jangling in his pocket, planned to have one on Cornhill.
Ben reached the Royal Exchange a little past noon and he stopped for a moment to take in the sights. The huge building loomed over him, dominated as it was by a tower over the front entrance, on the pinnacle of which sunlight reflected off an iron statue of a green grasshopper.

He passed through the arched gateway and on into the central courtyard. This was occupied by statues of kings and queens of England glaring, almost disapprovingly, at the chaotic scene in front of them. Ignoring the decorum and solemnity the statues were originally intended to create, the yard was full of hundreds of people bustling back and forth about their business. Some he heard gossiping about the Duke of York and his latest mistress, whilst others were speculating on the war with the Dutch from where any day news was expected of a naval battle. Others cared nothing for all that and perhaps, like Ben, had minds set on no more than buying pastries, bread and fruit for lunch from carts dotted here and there.

He was standing at a cart deciding what to buy for his own lunch, when he was distracted by a loud voice booming across the courtyard. It came from a man standing outside a bookseller’s stall.

“I say to you that the time of judgement is at hand. Yea, even soon it comes to this city of sin: this city of greed and corruption. This Sodom and Gomorrah will suffer at the hand of the Angel of Judgement and he shall not stay his hand from the unworthy. I know this, for he has spoken to me and I hear the voice speaking for the Lord of Hosts. Yet, it is not too late: there is still time to repent.”

Ben glanced over at him. He was a wild looking man in his late forties, with slightly bulging eyes that did not seem to focus quite right, a plethoric complexion, yellow teeth that leaned this way and that and balding black hair dotted with grey steaks. He was dressed in plain puritanical dress - rather out of fashion these days since the return of King Charles and his court had swept away the dreary years of the Commonwealth and brought colour back to the city. The merchants and their customers frowned at him and hurried on by.

Ben, feeling uncomfortable with what the man was saying, also turned back to the cart owner, handed over some coins, and then taking his lunch moved away from the preacher. He stood munching on his food and looked about. On either side of the courtyard there were covered walkways on two floors wherein the merchants set up their stalls: well over one hundred of them.

If it could be bought or sold - is seemed - then it was here. Ben walked along the stalls, peering into each one in turn. One was selling swords and firearms for hunting and was next to a stall from which an exotic mix of aromas exuded off a hundred spices from the far-east and India. Beyond that was a goldsmith with candlesticks, plates and goblets reflecting the sunlight and further along still an apothecary advertising cures from all illnesses sold in small glass bottles at a penny each.

He paused at the next stall: the booksellers. Above the door there was a painted blue sign upon which the name of the shop’s owner was written in black letters: G. Barlow. Underneath the name were two symbols. One was an open book, which was no surprise, but it was the other which caught Ben’s attention. It appeared to be a gate or perhaps a portcullis. The boy’s hand went to the pendant hanging on its chain and his fingers found the engraving on it and rubbed across it, feeling the lines. Curious about the apparent coincidence, he approached the shop.

The shop had shelves outside lined with newssheets. Most told of the latest naval engagements between Prince Rupert’s fleet and the Dutch, and others of atrocities that – the sheet said - the enemy had inflicted on a Suffolk fishing village. A few discussed the recent expedition against the Barbary pirates, news from North American colonies and a witch trial in Northumberland. Mixed in with these were religious tracts and pamphlets as well as some copies of the London Gazette. Venturing inside the door he saw more shelves, this time occupied with books - rather a lot more than he had ever seen on offer from the book hawkers of Cheapside or Westminster - and still further back rolled up parchments and stacked manuscripts. He scanned the spines of a few volumes and saw they were mainly the writings of the same type of ancient poets Busby had recently questioned him about. Bored with those, he moved deeper into the shop in an effort to find something new, different and exciting to read.
**********

Standing at the gateway into the Exchange, the Thief was suddenly spun round by a pair of hands placed heavily on both shoulders. The Thief’s head swam for a moment before being able to focus on two boots which were planted firmly on the dusty road outside the Exchange. The boots belonged to a captain of one of the trained bands - the local militia that could be called out to defend London and acted as the City Watch as well.

The expression on the Captain’s face was not anger, but frustration.

“I thought you promised me to stay away from trouble?”

All that got was a non committal shrug from the thief.

“I warned you before, if you carry on the way you are going and all you will get for your trouble is a couple of feet of rope, a dangle on Tyburn triple tree and an unmarked grave. You are what fourteen, maybe fifteen?”

Silence again.

The Captain sighed.

“Look, when your mother was dying last year I promised to look after you. You go and get hung how does that make me feel eh? You want me to feel guilty.”

The Thief did not care one way or the other. At fifteen you don’t remember much of a father who left your mother when you were only three but it certainly gave you little reason to trust people. As for mother, well dying of the plague last year left an orphan with no skills or hope other than wits and guile to live on.

The Captain seemed to read some of these thoughts and his face softened a little.

“Look: go home and later tonight I will bring some bread and ale for you. Is that all right?

Not wishing to upset the only regular source of food and drink in this harsh city the thief nodded and turned away back down Cornhill, watched by the Captain until out of his line of sight. What the Captain did not see was the small figure sneaking back a few minutes later and then pass behind him into the courtyard.
**********
Ben was leafing through a book he had picked up, when he became aware that he was not alone in the shop. Looking up, he saw a man studying him suspiciously. He carried a bit too much weight than was healthy for a man in his early forties, the result perhaps of too much wine judging from the red glow to his cheeks, or too many pastries as evidenced by the cake he was even now munching on. His already thinning hair was streaked with a little grey amongst the black. The academic style robes the man was wearing were worn and dusty, but so similar to those Busby dressed in that - for a moment - Ben feared a tutor he did not know had followed him from the school.

“Can I help you lad? Are you sure you know what you have there?” he asked. Ben relaxed now, realising that it was only the shopkeeper, and he nodded in response, lifting the book in one hand.

“The account by Scipio Africanus of the final defeat of Hannibal in the Punic Wars – it makes interesting reading don’t you think?”

The shopkeeper’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and then smiled.

“Impressive. Where have you studied the ancient writings?”

Ben hesitated a moment before answering and the man spotted this.

“Ah, perhaps you should still be there then?” He laughed. “Don’t worry boy I won’t be telling tales on a potential customer.”

Ben nodded and told the shopkeeper about his school.

“Westminster eh? Imagine that – I went there you know. Tell me, who is the Headmaster now?”

“Dr Busby.”

“Hah!” the laugh came out like an explosion, “Busby? Good lord old Rusty is still the head. Mind you he was pretty new when I was there. Bit of a terror back then. How is he now?”

“Not much better. But...Rusty? Why do you call him that?”

“Oh I don’t know, I think it was because he seemed ancient: like a rusty old gate.”

“In which case, I would say he is even rustier now!” Ben replied and the shopkeeper chuckled. Despite his usual gloom Ben smiled too.

The shopkeeper reached out a hand for Ben to shake.

“The name is Gabriel by the way.”

“Benjamin.”

“Well then Benjamin, what are you after today?” Gabriel said smiling and moving forward to help the boy. Ben found three titles he would like, but he had little money, and books were expensive. He said this.

The shopkeeper’s smile dropped and he appeared to be about to argue, but then Ben saw his eyes fix on the pendant, visible at Ben’s neck, and his eyes narrowed. He seemed to study the boy for a few moments before his face broke into a smile again.

“Tell you what boy: pay me for that one book,” the man said pointing at the book on the Punic wars, “and you can owe me for the other two later. I think I can trust you, and if you don’t turn up I can always tell old Rusty!” he added with a wink. Suddenly his smile vanished and was replaced by an expression of fear and even perhaps shock. Now though Gabriel was not looking at Ben, but at another man that had come into the shop.

The new man had pale, even pasty skin, disguised partially by a finely trimmed goatee beard and a luxurious moustache which, like his hair, was a hazelnut brown colour. The hair on his head was long and curled, on the top of which perched a wide brimmed hat decorated with a peacock’s feather. He wore an expensive green tunic - decorated by silver patterns - and matching trousers. The outfit was finished off by enormous brown leather boots, which reached above his knees, and a sword hanging from his belt. To Ben there seemed an excessive amount of lace, even in comparison to courtiers he had seen around Westminster.

“Gabriel......old friend,” the man said, with a languid voice that came slowly from his mouth, rather like the way like honey dripped off a spoon, “you don’t look um...pleased to see me.”

This was certainly true; Gabriel in fact looked very alarmed, which made Ben wonder who this new stranger was.

“Artemas...I thought,” he stammered.

“You thought you had run so fast we would never find you? You should know better than that. I knew you had to be here in the city somewhere. The Praesidum - or what is left of you - would hardly leave it undefended.”

“What do you want? Am I to die to make your triumph complete?”

Ben started to feel uncomfortable. There was energy in the air between these two men you could sense and it was not a good feeling, nor was the look in the eyes of this Artemas. His words were spoken softly and quite pleasantly, but there was a threat hanging there that made the heat of the lingering summer vanish, as if a cold wind rolling down from the frozen northern seas had then blasted through the Exchange. The new man shook his head.

“Not yet...and perhaps not at all. Rumour has it that you have been searching for something,” he glanced around the shop taking in the books, maps and prints, “the Scroll: do you have it?”

He stepped into the shop, his boots tapping noisily on the tiles under foot and his eyes flicking across the shelves.

“Is it...here perhaps?”

“Artemas, I don’t know what you are talking about,” Gabriel replied.

Ben had no idea what either of them was talking about, but something in Gabriel’s voice did not quite ring true. It seemed that Artemas noticed it too for he pointed at the shopkeeper and then shook his hand back and forth.

“Tut, tut old chap. Somehow I don’t believe you, but let’s change the subject a moment. Nice shop you have here. You have done well for yourself,” he picked up a book and flicked through it.

“Fascinating things books: you can learn so much from them. Still, there are risks in your choice of business. Books are so expensive and so ah...flammable.” He added with a nasty smile. Then for the first time he noticed Ben.

“Hello young man. That’s an interesting selection of volumes you have there. Perhaps it would be best if you made your purchase and left. Gabriel here and I have some ah...matters to discuss.”

Ben nodded, passed Gabriel the pile of books and his coins and then held his satchel open as the shopkeeper dropped the books into it. Then glancing at Gabriel, he was about to say something, but Gabriel shook his head.

“You run along Benjamin. As the gentleman says we have some things to discuss. You can come back another day and pay me for the others.”

**********
The goldsmith almost missed the robbery, occupied as he was selling a fine silver platter to a court flunkey. The Thief always waited for just such an opportunity and moved in quietly - just out of the eye line of the goldsmith - picked up a stunning gold goblet and noiselessly moved away. It was the height of misfortune that the weaponsmith happened to enter the stall at this moment, looking to borrow some coins from his neighbour to give a customer change.

“Julian, you have a thief!” he bellowed and the goldsmith, the flunkey and half the crowd in the courtyard turned at the noise. The thief ran towards the weaponsmith, dodging an outstretched arm, leapt over a basket of fruit, rolled head first between the legs of a tall man who was eating a cake and sprinted on towards the booksellers.

Ben emerged from Gabriel’s shop, with his satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a new volume of Caesar’s Gallic Wars open in the other hand. He did not notice the Thief running towards him and the two collided then fell over in a tangle of arms and legs. The Thief was up first, span around and then bounced away to the pillars that lined the colonnaded walkways. Ben watched in amazement as the figure, moving with the ease of a spider, used the pillar to climb past the windows of first floor and then carried on up, before finally disappearing over the roof top.

Suddenly Ben felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned round quickly to see the goldsmith and the weaponsmith - the later now armed with a cutlass and pistol - glaring at him.

“Got you, you thieving rat!” the goldsmith said with an unpleasant grin, which revealed badly cracked black teeth.

“What?” Ben asked.

“You boy: you’re a thief. Very clever you thought yourself no doubt. That vagabond up there stole my goblet and planned to pass it to you.”

“Goblet, I...” the boy looked down and saw that he was holding a goblet and that his satchel had fallen off his shoulder and spilled its contents, “but I...” he stammered again not sure what to say.

The weaponsmith cut him off with a snort.

“I bet you figured we would not search a young gentleman and the pair of you could sell it later.”

Ben shook his head and dropped the goblet; then he crouched and picked up the books. Amongst them he saw a parchment like an old scroll, although this one had a gold ring keeping it rolled up. ‘That’s odd’, he thought, ‘I didn’t buy that’. Then, seeing the grim faces around him, he decided it was best not to comment. He scooped up his books and thrust them and the scroll inside his satchel, to look at later.

“No, it’s all wrong. I just bought these books. That thief...crashed into me and we fell. I...” he trailed off as he realised that they were not believing him.

“Well, we will catch the other soon enough. As for you its Newgate lock up and then a noose in the morning my lad!”

Ben’s eyes widened in panic and his throat went dry. Turning he stumbled towards the pillar and heaved himself up.

“Stop him!” a dozen voices called. The weaponsmith took aim and fired his pistol. The bullet hit the pillar just next to Ben’s head. He swallowed hard but carried on climbing. Breathing quickly now, he reached the first floor and then screamed in shock as a hand shot out and grasped his wrist.

“Got ‘im!” A triumphant voice cried from inside the window, but Ben just bit hard down onto the hand, then spat as he tasted stale beer and tobacco on it. With a yelp the hand’s owner pulled it back bleeding, and the boy carried on up. There was another sharp crack of gunfire: this one deeper sounding than the first and coming from a musket. Ben felt a sudden pain in the shoulder as a bullet grazed him, but he managed to hold on. Two more shots came towards him, but he was moving again now and they sailed wide.

Following the same route the Thief had taken, Ben crested the roof and now slid down the other side. From over the roof he could hear angry voices shouting orders to find him and he knew he had to keep moving. Below him was a long drop into Castle Alley, which ran alongside the Exchange, but he spotted some sacks of grain piled up against the wall of the building and slid off the roof onto one. The fall winded him and he sat on the sack for a moment forcing the breath down into his lungs.

“There he is!”

The voice came from the direction of Cornhill at the end of the alley so, jumping down onto the ground, Ben ran the other way out onto Threadneedle street. He crossed it between two hackney carriages, one of whose drivers swore at him to get out of the way, and dashed into the graveyard behind St Christopher’s Church, his shoes clattering hard on the path. Then, he could run no more and, wheezing slightly, he collapsed behind a gravestone.

A moment later, he heard footsteps scuttling past on the other side of the headstone and he froze in renewed terror at the sound. Then, there was silence again and he lay still for a full five minutes, anxiously listening for the noise of pursuit. None came, but he suddenly became aware of soft, slow breathing beyond the grave stone.

Goose pimples appeared on his skin and it felt as if his heart gave a sudden jump of fright. Was it the weaponsmith, or the goldsmith toying with him, letting him think he had escaped, before jumping over to seize him? Well if so he would have none of it. He leapt up.

“Just what are you playing at I...oh!” he trailed off as he saw not the black teeth of the goldsmith, or the pistol and blade of his neighbour but the short squatting figure of the Thief.

“Oh it’s you! Look you caused me a lot of trouble. Just look at this coat: it’s torn and filthy from crawling across that roof. I might have been caught and hanged,” he shuddered at the thought, “all because of a scruffy little thief from the gutter.”

The Thief jumped up at the sound of Ben’s voice and for the first time he got a close look at the cause of all this woe. The face was dirty and smeared with mud, the clothes untidy and the cap pulled down firmly, but now that the Thief was staring at Ben from only a foot away the schoolboy could see from the look in those deep, green, intensely fierce eyes, the curve of the face and indeed the shape of the body that the thief was...well it had to be...

“But, you are just a girl!” Ben said with surprise and indignation.

The green eyes glanced downwards and, as Ben felt a sharp point at his throat, his eyes followed her gaze.

“No, not just a girl,” the thief answered softly, “...but a girl with a knife!”