Not a penny more.’ The butcher wrinkled his nose as he leaned out from the hatch. It was a timber platform, hanging on strained hinges, over which was draped a relatively clean cloth and various cuts of meat. He sucked at his wiry moustache as if mulling over the offer. ‘Five.’ The customer, a chubby soldier in a red coat and wide-brimmed hat, rested one hand on the hilt of his sword and jangled his leather purse in the other. ‘Five, then. You will require the extra shilling for physic.’ The butcher frowned. ‘I do not need phy—’ he began, but his wife, plucking a scrawny bird on one of the tables in the main shop behind him, cleared her throat. The butcher glanced over his shoulder, then at the customer, his face draining of colour. ‘Four it is.’ Captain Lancelot Forrester offered his sweetest smile as he handed over the coins. ‘Pleasure.’ ‘The making of a deal with menaces,’ Forrester’s companion muttered as the captain picked up the limp carcass of the chicken he had purchased, ‘is hardly Christlike.’ Forrester shrugged.
