Read Online The Wolves of Andover by Kathleen Kent - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kathleen Kent
Tags: FIC014000
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laughed and turned to his companion standing nearby. “He’ll look even sourer when my bitch chews his dog’s balls clean off.”
“God, what a stink,” the man said. He smiled approvingly, taking in another deep breath.
Crouch tugged at his sleeve, leading him away from the ring, and signaled for more drink. “Come, Brudloe,” he said loudly over the din. “We have a few moments yet before they let slip the dogs.”
A serving man brought two heated ales and they drank deeply, their eyes like twin beacons searching the room for newcomers. Crouch noted the hulking shape of Brudloe’s bodyguard, Cornwall, at the far side of the room, leaning against the wall as though propping it up. Brudloe himself was a demon in a fight, fast with a knife and tireless. But one look at Cornwall’s bulk gave even the most obstinate aggressor pause for thought. Cornwall’s first loyalty, however, was to the master spy Tiernan Blood, and he would most likely report everyone’s actions directly to him. It was through Blood’s directives that Crouch had called for a meeting with Brudloe and his associates after the match.
Crouch leaned closer to Brudloe’s ear, saying, “I have all that we require: maps, our contact in Salem, the captain for transport.”
“Guns?” Brudloe asked.
“Aye, that, too. Blood has seen to that.” Crouch tipped the mug up to his mouth again, draining the last of the froth. He’dnever actually seen Tiernan Blood eye to eye, always dealing through an intermediary. And he doubted whether Brudloe would know the man by sight either. The Irishman could well be in the room at that moment, in one of his many disguises. The only one who would know him for certain would be Cornwall, who’d been with Blood from the early days.
Crouch saw a group of men and women tumble into the smoky room, dressed in heavy velvets and brocades. They were all masked as though, he mused, every ripe son of a whore in the room wouldn’t know it was the Duke of Buckingham with his cronies and their mistresses. He saw one of the duke’s men pay out the wager, a sizable stack of coins, and Crouch grinned. Tonight’s wagers would make him a handsome profit. This, along with Blood’s pay and his bounty for passing English secrets on to Spain, would see him comfortably through the next few years.
The crowd’s sudden deafening cries signaled the release of the dogs, and he pushed his way forward to the circular pit wall. He could hear the frenzied snarling, and when he had elbowed away the last man blocking his view, he saw the dogs locked muzzle to muzzle, the vicious twisting of their heads spraying blood and saliva over the walls in oozing ribbons. A fine mist spattered the face of one finely dressed woman, her satin bodice stained red, and she screamed in outrage over her ruined dress.
The brute had latched onto Whistler’s ear, ripping it away from her pelt, and she locked her teeth into the back of his neck, worrying it like a rat. He staggered under the attack but managed to twist out from under her, clamping his jaws crushingly onto one of her forelegs. A sound like the breaking of ice was followed by a screaming howl as the bitch tore her leg away, pieces of herhide shredding like braided rope. She staggered, and the brute rammed her onto her back, leaving her belly exposed. He began to flay open the hollow beneath her ribs, her legs scrabbling at the air frantically, but he had left his neck exposed, and Whistler’s fangs found the killing spot at his throat, and until he bled out, she would never let go.
When the brute had finally collapsed, Whistler clinging fast to him like a monstrous tick at his neck, she staggered to her feet, holding her shattered foreleg aloft, her belly bleeding heavily onto the sand and sawdust of the ring. The riotous shouting and whistling swelled, filling the space like a tidal rush, and Crouch acknowledged the approbations and cheers from Buckingham’s corner.
Whistler’s handler
“God, what a stink,” the man said. He smiled approvingly, taking in another deep breath.
Crouch tugged at his sleeve, leading him away from the ring, and signaled for more drink. “Come, Brudloe,” he said loudly over the din. “We have a few moments yet before they let slip the dogs.”
A serving man brought two heated ales and they drank deeply, their eyes like twin beacons searching the room for newcomers. Crouch noted the hulking shape of Brudloe’s bodyguard, Cornwall, at the far side of the room, leaning against the wall as though propping it up. Brudloe himself was a demon in a fight, fast with a knife and tireless. But one look at Cornwall’s bulk gave even the most obstinate aggressor pause for thought. Cornwall’s first loyalty, however, was to the master spy Tiernan Blood, and he would most likely report everyone’s actions directly to him. It was through Blood’s directives that Crouch had called for a meeting with Brudloe and his associates after the match.
Crouch leaned closer to Brudloe’s ear, saying, “I have all that we require: maps, our contact in Salem, the captain for transport.”
“Guns?” Brudloe asked.
“Aye, that, too. Blood has seen to that.” Crouch tipped the mug up to his mouth again, draining the last of the froth. He’dnever actually seen Tiernan Blood eye to eye, always dealing through an intermediary. And he doubted whether Brudloe would know the man by sight either. The Irishman could well be in the room at that moment, in one of his many disguises. The only one who would know him for certain would be Cornwall, who’d been with Blood from the early days.
Crouch saw a group of men and women tumble into the smoky room, dressed in heavy velvets and brocades. They were all masked as though, he mused, every ripe son of a whore in the room wouldn’t know it was the Duke of Buckingham with his cronies and their mistresses. He saw one of the duke’s men pay out the wager, a sizable stack of coins, and Crouch grinned. Tonight’s wagers would make him a handsome profit. This, along with Blood’s pay and his bounty for passing English secrets on to Spain, would see him comfortably through the next few years.
The crowd’s sudden deafening cries signaled the release of the dogs, and he pushed his way forward to the circular pit wall. He could hear the frenzied snarling, and when he had elbowed away the last man blocking his view, he saw the dogs locked muzzle to muzzle, the vicious twisting of their heads spraying blood and saliva over the walls in oozing ribbons. A fine mist spattered the face of one finely dressed woman, her satin bodice stained red, and she screamed in outrage over her ruined dress.
The brute had latched onto Whistler’s ear, ripping it away from her pelt, and she locked her teeth into the back of his neck, worrying it like a rat. He staggered under the attack but managed to twist out from under her, clamping his jaws crushingly onto one of her forelegs. A sound like the breaking of ice was followed by a screaming howl as the bitch tore her leg away, pieces of herhide shredding like braided rope. She staggered, and the brute rammed her onto her back, leaving her belly exposed. He began to flay open the hollow beneath her ribs, her legs scrabbling at the air frantically, but he had left his neck exposed, and Whistler’s fangs found the killing spot at his throat, and until he bled out, she would never let go.
When the brute had finally collapsed, Whistler clinging fast to him like a monstrous tick at his neck, she staggered to her feet, holding her shattered foreleg aloft, her belly bleeding heavily onto the sand and sawdust of the ring. The riotous shouting and whistling swelled, filling the space like a tidal rush, and Crouch acknowledged the approbations and cheers from Buckingham’s corner.
Whistler’s handler
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