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 This city tells a story of a man seeking vengeance...

Renzo Marchesi gives me two choices when he walks into my art

gallery:
Help him find his brother's killer or suffer the consequences.

He's a mafia prince...

Heir to the Marchesi throne.

A man consumed by his demons.
Beautiful.
Ruthless.
I don't belong in his world, and he doesn't belong in mine.

Still, I'm not the spoiled politician's daughter he thinks I

am...

This is the City of Thieves, where lies are hard currency and
deception is the real art.
Trust no one.
Love no one.
 Too bad I don't follow my own rules...

They say black arrows make for bleeding hearts.

Now, I'm planning the ultimate heist for a man who never misses.

City of Thieves is an enemies to lovers mafia romance with

no cliffhanger and a guaranteed HEA. For mature readers
only.
 CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue

Corrupt Gods Collection

Catherine’s Acknowledgments
Cora’s Acknowledgments
About Catherine Wiltcher
About Cora Kenborn
Also By Catherine Wiltcher
Also By Cora Kenborn…
Copyright 2021 © by Catherine Wiltcher & Cora Kenborn

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those in the public domain, are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including

information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a

reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. The information in this

book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the

preparation of this work, the author shall not have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss

or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

Cover design by: Yoly Cortez

Photographer: Eric David Battershell

Model: Kevin Hessam

Editing by: Final Polish Proofreading

 FOREWORD

Dear Reader,

City of Thieves is a standalone dark mafia romance in the

Underworld Kings collection. While it can be enjoyed without any
prior knowledge of existing characters, fans of our Corrupt Gods
world will recognize a few familiar faces! Renzo Marchesi is the son
of Gianni Marchesi, Don of New Jersey and ally to the Carrera Cartel,
and Tatiana Sanders is the daughter of Rick Sanders, New York
senator and associate of the Santiago Cartel.

This book is an enemies to lovers, age-gap romance that touches on

subjects that some readers may find offensive or triggering. Those
include: graphic violence, alcohol abuse, non-consensual as well as
dubious consensual situations. Caution is advised.

Thanks so much for reading!

Cora and Catherine xoxo

“We are all broken—that’s how the light gets in.”
Ernest Hemingway
PROLOGUE
 TATIANA

Five Years Ago...

H ow quickly a charmed life can turn to rust .

That’s what I keep thinking as I lie here on the floor of my
father’s office, messing up the chic weave of his Tabriz carpet, my
face half in shadow, and my heart a cheap locket left out in the
rain.
Before tonight, I was living a white lie. My father had a
penthouse apartment in Manhattan with a doorman who granted
wishes like the genie from Aladdin. I went to the best school with
the bitchiest in-crowd, where I never had to straighten my crown
because there were always a million eager hands to do it for me.
The dark side of the moon has a bigger surface area than you
think...
My eighteenth birthday was meant to be fun. My friends and I
were planning to hit up my favorite sushi bar and then party at a
club on Tenth Avenue until our pretty little blisters hurt. I had Dad’s
AmEx Black in my pocket. The future was uncharted waters, but we
were diving in anyway.
Then, I met a monster. A charming, beautiful monster, but I
didn’t see his claws until it was too late. He insisted on driving me
home. My parents were in D.C., and Seb was out getting lit again. It
meant there was no one to hear my screams when he dragged me
into a room where “choice” didn’t exist, and the word “no” wasn’t
heard, no matter how many times I pleaded it. His rough hands held
me down to keep me silent. He crushed my chest until I couldn't
breathe.
Now, there’s nothing left of me.
Worse.
What could be worse than this?
I check off the contenders.
I could be watching my parents take their last breath.
I could be switching off Seb’s life support machine.
I could be dying of some horrible disease that’s eating me from
the inside out.
But pain is all relative, right? Besides, my monster says his
revenge always hurts.
I must have blacked out again. When I come around, the clock
on the wall reads one a.m.
Tick.
Hello, endless night.
Tock.
I know he’s still here. Watching me. Amused by what he’s done
to me. He’s leaning against the far wall, smoking a foreign cigarette
that smells of gasoline and victory.
Don’t move, Tatiana. Play dead. It’s easy because your soul’s
already a tomb. He killed it the moment his touch turned to
violence.
My eyes start to wander. I find myself staring at a piece of
artwork hanging above my father’s desk. A senator’s desk, he called
it on his first day in office, another wave of shame smothering me.
The painting is an abstract depiction of hell, but all I see is a girl
lost in the orange flames—screaming out for someone to hear her…
See her…
Save her.
Time passes, and I think about random stuff. Like the fact that I
haven’t done my history assignment, and it’s due tomorrow.
 I have school tomorrow.
School means questions.
Pointing.
Judging.
Giggling in the hallways and cheap condoms stuffed into my
locker.
I used to be the most popular girl in school. Now, I’m just…used.
I’m staring at Dad’s painting again. My mom owns a private
gallery a couple of blocks from here, and my entire childhood was
spent making sense out of a canvas while other kids were seeing
shapes in the clouds.
I’ve never wanted to crawl inside a piece of art so much.
I want to live in it.
Forget myself in it.
I don’t see a girl lost in the flames anymore. I see a new home.
The only place I want to be—stranded—where no one can hurt me
again.
I must have moved because a dark laugh fills the room.
“Not calling Daddy yet?”
His voice is muddy and cruel. It’s a Russian river that no amount
of orthodox prayer can cleanse.
“I told you I wouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Good, because I am not done with you, kiska.”
My stomach lurches. There can’t be more. Please God, no more.
I try to crawl away, but he’s too fast. I beg and scream, and he
hits my face to keep me quiet. I silently plead for help as he hooks
his hands under my arms and drags me onto the desk my father
loves so much.
He leans over me, murmuring why he’s doing this. How he’ll
never stop doing this, how he’s going to fill up every part of me with
his hate for my family, but I keep my eyes trained on the wall behind
me the whole time.
I wrap the acrylic brush strokes around me like a blanket. I hide
myself in the gilt frame, so I can’t think or feel.
It makes me numb. So gloriously numb.
I am that painting now…
 I’ll be whatever the world wants me to be, but they’ll never see
the real me again.
CHAPTER ONE
 RENZO

Three Months Ago…

P eople say death is the great equalizer .

Not for men like Rainero Marchesi.
All Saints Catholic Church will be standing room only today, but
not because my older brother was an upstanding citizen. When
you’re part of the New Jersey Underground, notoriety and excess
bleed well into the afterlife.
From the dark end of the street, I observe a procession of
stretched limos idling next to the curb, splintered in both directions
like black bullets. Behind them, a swarm of paparazzi and media
reporters line up, salivating for a glimpse of the grieving family.
My family.
Tipping my leather flask back, I let the alcohol slide down my
throat, burning me in all the right places, as the clicks of their
cameras become the soundtrack of my intoxication.
“Great equalizer, my ass,” I slur, my voice sounding like broken
glass dragged along asphalt. Not in my world. Not when I’m a
quarter of a bottle of Macallan down, black tie draped around my
neck like an afterthought, staring at the stone exterior of the church
like an outsider. Like I don’t belong.
Because I don’t belong.
Other documents randomly have
different content
 e e t e pe cept b y s t y g des by,
True friendship and love round my heart shall entwine,
And sympathy start the warm tear in my eye.
Then haply my wild harp will make such sweet notes,
That the traveller climbing the rock’s craggy brow,
May stop and may list, as the music still floats,
And think of the bard in the valley below.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 61·32.

July 6.
Old Midsummer Day.
This day is still marked in our almanacs, on account of its being
adhered to, in a few places, as a “good old day,” of the “good old
times.”

Laying out of Lands

In the Parish of Puxton, Somerset.
The subjoined letter was duly received according to its date, and
is now in due time inserted. The editor has very few omissions of this
kind to apologize for: if he has prematurely, and therefore unduly,
introduced some communications which arrived too late for their
proper days, he may be excused, perhaps, in consideration of the
desire expressed by some correspondents, that their papers should
appear in a “reasonable” time or not at all. Unhappily he has
experienced the mishap of a “reasonable” difference, with one or two
of his contributors. From the plan of this work, certain matters-of-
fact could only range, with propriety, under certain days; while it has
been conceived of, by some, as a magazine wherein any thing could
come, at any time. In this dilemma he has done the best in his
power, and introduced, in a few instances, papers of that nature out
of place. On two or three occasions, indeed, it seemed a courtesy
almost demanded by the value of such articles, that they should not
await the rotation of the year. The following curiously descriptive
account of a remarkable local custom is from a Somersetshire
gentleman, who could be relied on for a patient endurance of nine
months, till this, its due season arrived.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Bristol, October 19, 1825.
Sir,—Having observed in your Every-Day Book, p. 837, vol i.
mention of an ancient custom of dividing lands, which formerly took
place on the Saturday before old midsummer-day, in the parish of
Puxton, in Somersetshire, (taken from Mr. Collinson’s history of that
county,) I now send you a more explicit and enlarged account, with
the marks as they were cut in each person’s allotment.
The two large pieces of common land called Dolemoors, which lie
in the parishes of Congresbury, Week St. Lawrence and Puxton, were
allotted in the following manner. On the Saturday preceding
midsummer-day O. S. the several proprietors (of the estates having
any right in those moors) or their tenants, were summoned at a
certain hour in the morning, by the ringing of one of the bells at
Puxton, to repair to the church, in order to see the chain (kept for
the purpose of laying out Dolemoors) measured. The proper length
of such chain was ascertained by placing one end thereof at the foot
of the arch, dividing the chancel from the body of the church, and
extending it through the middle aisle, to the foot of the arch of the
west door under the tower, at each of which places marks were cut
in the stones for that purpose. The chain used for this purpose was
only eighteen yards in length, consequently four yards shorter than
the regular land-measuring chain. After the chain had been properly
measured, the parties repaired to the commons. Twenty-four apples
were previously prepared, bearing the following marks, viz. Five
marks called “Pole-axes,” four ditto “Crosses,” two ditto “Dung-forks,
or Dung-pikes,” one mark called “Four Oxen and a Mare,” one ditto
“Two Pits,” one ditto “Three Pits,” one ditto “Four Pits,” one ditto
“Five Pits,” one ditto “Seven Pits,” one “Horn,” one “Hare’s-tail,” one
“Duck’s-nest,” one “Oven,” one “Shell,” one “Evil,” and one “Hand-
reel.”
 It is necessary to observe that each of these moors was divided
into several portions called furlongs, which were marked out by
strong oak posts, placed at regular distances from each other; which
posts were constantly kept up. After the apples were properly
prepared, they were put into a hat or bag, and certain persons fixed
on for the purpose, began to measure with the chain before-
mentioned, and proceeded till they had measured off one acre of
ground; at the end of which, the boy who carried the hat or bag
containing the marks took out one of the apples, and the mark which
such apple bore, was immediately cut in the turf with a large knife
kept for that purpose: this knife was somewhat in the shape of a
scimetar with its edge reversed. In this manner they proceeded till
the whole of the commons were laid out, and each proprietor
knowing the mark and furlong which belonged to his estate, he took
possession of his allotment or allotments accordingly, for the ensuing
year. An adjournment then took place to the house of one of the
overseers, where a certain number of acres reserved for the purpose
of paying expenses, and called the “out-let or out-drift,” were let by
inch of candle.
During the time of letting, the whole party were to keep silence,
(except the person who bid,) under the penalty of one shilling. When
any one wished to bid, he named the price he would give, and
immediately deposited a shilling on the table where the candle stood;
the next who bid, also named his price and deposited his shilling in
like manner, and the person who first bid was then to take up his
shilling. The business of letting thus proceeded till the candle was
burnt out, and the last bidder, prior to that event, was declared the
tenant of the out-let, or out-drift, for the ensuing year.
Two overseers were annually elected from the proprietors or their
tenants. A quantity of strong ale or brown-stout was allowed for the
feast, or “revel,” as it was called; also bread, butter and cheese,
together with pipes and tobacco, of which any reputable person,
whose curiosity or casual business led him to Puxton on that day,
was at liberty to partake, but he was expected to deposit at his
departure one shilling with the overseer, by way of forfeit for his
intrusion. The day was generally spent in sociality and mirth,
frequently of a boisterous nature, from the exhilarating effects of the
brown-stout before alluded to; for it rarely happened but that some
of the junior part of the company were desirous of making a trial of
their skill in the sublime art of pugilism, when hard knocks, thumps,
bangs, and kicks, and consequently black eyes, bloody noses, and
sore bones, were distributed with the greatest liberality amongst the
combatants.
“And now the field of Death, the lists
Are enter’d by antagonists.”
In this stage of the business, some venerable yeoman usually
stepped forward and harangued the contending parties, in some
such speech as the following, which I am sorry to say was most
commonly thrown away upon these pot-valiant champions:—
“What rage, O friends! what fury
Doth you to these dire actions hurry?
What towns, what garrisons might you,
With hazard of this blood subdue,
Which now y’are bent to throw away
In vain untriumphable fray?”
Yet after these civil broils, the parties seldom bore each other any
grudge or ill-will, and generally at the conclusion of the contest,
“Tho’ sorely bruis’d, their limbs all o’er
With ruthless bangs still stiff and sore,”
they shook hands, became good friends again, and departed with the
greatest sang-froid to apply
“Fit med’cines to each glorious bruise
They got in fight, reds, blacks, and blues;
To mollify th’ uneasy pang
Of ev’ry honourable bang.”
In the year 1779, an attempt was made to procure an act of
parliament for allotting these moors in perpetuity; but an opposition
having been made by a majority of the proprietors, the plan was
relinquished. I have now by me a printed copy of the bill drawn up
on that occasion. The land, however, was actually enclosed and
allotted in the year 1811, and the ancient mode of dividing it, and
consequently the drunken festival, or revel, from that time
discontinued.
The following marks are correct delineations of those used, being
taken from the originals in the book appropriated for the purpose of
keeping the accounts of this very singular and ancient usage.

The Marks for Allotting Dolmoors.

No.
of
each.

Pole-axe 5

Cross 4

Dung-fork,
2
or pike

Four Oxen
1
& a Mare

Two Pits 1

Three Pits 1
Four Pits 1

Five Pits 1

Seven Pits 1

Horn 1

Hare’s-tail 1

Duck’s-nest 1

Oven 1

Shell 1

Evil 1

Hand-reel 1
A—d B——tt Delt.
 I have from my youth lived within a few miles of the place
mentioned, and have often heard of the “humours of Dolmoor revel,”
and on one occasion attended personally the whole day for the
purpose of observing them, and ascertaining the customs of this
rude, rural festival. As the customs before-mentioned are now
become obsolete, it would be pleasing to many of your readers, to
see them recorded in your very interesting and popular work. These
customs originated in all probability with our Saxon ancestors, and it
would be unpardonable to consign them to total oblivion.
I am, Sir,
Yours respectfully,
G. B.

After this description of the method of “laying out of lands,” at a

period of the year when steam boats are conveying visiters to the
“watering places on the Thames,” it seems prudent and seasonable
to notice another custom—
Laying out of Wives
In the Fens of Essex and Kent.
And, first, as to this “grave” custom on the London side of the
Thames, we have the epistolary testimony of a writer in the year
1773, viz.—
Sir,—Nothing but that unaccountable variety of life, which my
stars have imposed upon me, could have apologised for my taking a
journey to the fens of Essex. Few strangers go into those scenes of
desolation, and fewer still (I find) return from thence—as you shall
hear.
When I was walking one morning between two of the banks
which restrain the waters in their proper bounds, I met one of the
inhabitants, a tall and emaciated figure, with whom I entered into
conversation. We talked concerning the manners and peculiarities of
the place, and I condoled with him very pathetically on his forlorn
and meagre appearance. He gave me to understand, however, that
his case was far from being so desperate as I seemed to apprehend
it, for that he had never looked better since he buried the first of his
last nine wives.
“Nine wives!” rejoined I, eager and astonished, “have you buried
nine wives?”
“Yes,” replied the fen-man, “and I hope to bury nine more.”
“Bravissimo!”—This was so far from allaying my astonishment,
that it increased it. I then begged him to explain the miraculous
matter, which he did in the following words:—
“Lord! master,” said he, “we people in the fens here be such
strange creatures, that there be no creatures like us; we be like fish,
or water-fowl, or others, for we be able to live where other folks
would die sure enough.”
He then informed me, that to reside in the fens was a certain and
quick death to people who had not been bred among them; that
therefore when any of the fen-men wanted a wife, they went into the
upland country for one, and that, after they carried her down among
the fens, she never survived long: that after her death they went to
the uplands for another, who also died; then “another, and another,
and another,” for they all followed each other as regular as the
change of the moon; that by these means some “poor fellows” had
picked up a good living, and collected together from the whole a little
snug fortune; that he himself had made more money this way than
he ever could do by his labour, for that he was now at his tenth wife,
and she could not possibly stand it out above three weeks longer;
that these proceedings were very equitable, for such girls as were
born among themselves they sent into the uplands to get husbands,
and that, in exchange, they took their young women as wives; that
he never knew a better custom in his life, and that the only comfort
he ever found against the ill-nature and caprice of women was the
fens. This woman-killer then concluded with desiring me, if I had a
wife with whom I was not over head and ears in love, to bring her to
his house, and it would kill her as effectually as any doctor in
Christendom could do. This offer I waved; for you know, sir, that
(thank God) I am not married.
This strange conversation of my friend, the fen-man, I could not
pass over without many reflections; and I thought it my duty to give
notice to my countrymen concerning a place which may be converted
in so peculiar a manner to their advantage.[245]

So far is from the narrative of a traveller into Essex, who, be it

observed, “speaks for himself,” and whose account is given “without
note or comment;” it being certain that every rightly affected reader
will form a correct opinion of such a narrator, and of the “fearful
estate” of “upland women” who marry “lowland men.”

As regards the “custom of Kent,” in this matter, we have the

account of a “Steam-boat Companion,” who, turning “to the Kentish
shore,” says thus:—
Yenlet Creek
Divides the isle of Grean from All-hallows, on the main land, and
from the cliff marshes.
Who would believe while beholding these scenes of pleasure
before us, that for six months in the year the shores of this hundred
(Hoo) were only to be explored by the amphibious; that the sun is
seldom seen for the fog, and that every creature in love with life,
flies the swamps of Hoo, preferring any station to its ague dealing
vapours, its fenny filth, and muddy flats; a station, that during the
winter season is destitute of every comfort, but fine eels, luscious
flounders, smuggled brandy, Holland’s gin, and sea-coal fire. We will
here relate a whimsical circumstance that once took place in this
neighbourhood while we were of the party.
It was at that time of the year when nature seems to sicken at
her own infirmities, we think it was in the month of November, we
were bound to Sheerness, but the fog coming on so gloomily that no
man could discover his hand a yard before him, our waterman,
whether by design or accident we cannot pretend to say, mistook the
Thames, and rowed up the Yenlet creek. After a long, cold, and
stubborn pull, protesting at the time he had never (man or boy) seen
any thing so dismal, he landed us near Saint Mary’s, that church
yonder, with the very lofty and white spire, and then led us to an
alehouse, the sign of which he called the Red Cock and Cucumber,
and the aleman he hailed by the merry name of
John Piper,
And a very pleasant fellow John turned out to be; if he was a little
hyperbolical, his manner sufficiently atoned for the transgression.
The gloom of the day was soon forgotten, and the stench arising
from filthy swamps less regarded. At our entrance we complained
heavily of the insupportable cloud with which we had been
enveloped.
“Ha! ha! ha!” sang out the landlord, “to be sure it is too thick to
be eaten with a spoon, and too thin to be cut with a knife, but it is
not so intolerable as a scolding wife, or a hungry lawyer.”
“Curse the fog,” cried our waterman,
“Bless the fog,” answered our landlord, “for it has made a man of
me for life.”
“How do you make that appear?” we requested to know.
“Set you down, sir, by a good sea-coal fire, for we pay no pool
duties here, take your grog merrily, and I’ll tell you all about it
presently,” rejoined the tapster, when drawing a wooden stool
towards us, while his wife was preparing the bowl, John Piper thus
began:—
“You must know, sir, I was born in this fog, and so was my
mother and her relatives for many past generations; therefore you
will see, sir, a fog is as natural to me as a duck-pool to a dab-chick.
When poor dame Piper died, I found myself exceedingly melancholy
to live alone on these marshes, so determined to change my
condition by taking a wife. It was very fortunate for me, sir, I knew a
rich old farmer in the uplands, and he had three blooming daughters,
and that which made the thing more desirable, he had determined to
give each a portion of his honourably acquired property. The farmer
had for many years been acquainted with my good father, gone to
rest, and this gave me courage to lay my case before him. The elder
girl was the bird for me, the farmer gave his consent, and we were
married. Directly after, I quitted the uplands for the fog, with a pretty
wife and five hundred golden guineas in my pocket, as good as ever
bribed a lawyer to sell his client, or a parliament-man to betray his
country. This was a good beginning, sir, but alas! there is no comfort
without a cross; my wife had been used from her infancy to a fine
keen open air, and our lowland vapours so deranged her constitution,
that within nine months, Margaret left me and went to heaven.
“Being so suddenly deprived of the society of one good woman,
where could I apply for another, better than to the sack from whence
I drew the first sample? The death of my dear wife reflected no
disgrace on me, and the old man’s second daughter having no
objection to a good husband, we presently entered into the bonds of
holy matrimony, and after a few days of merriment, I came home
with Susan, from the sweet hills to the fogs of the lowlands, and with
four hundred as good guineas in my purse as ever gave new springs
to the life of poverty. Similar causes, sir, they say produce similar
effects; and this is certainly true, for in somewhere about nine
months more, Susan slept with her sister.
“I ran to the uplands again, to condole with my poor old Nestor,
and some how or other so managed the matter, that his youngest
daughter, Rosetta, conceived a tender affection for Piper. I shall
never forget it, sir, while I have existence; I had been there but a
few days, when the good farmer, with tears in his eyes, thus
addressed me: ‘Piper, you have received about nine hundred pounds
of my money, and I have about the same sum left; now, son, as you
know how to make a good use of it, I think it is a pity it should go
out of the family; therefore, if you have a fancy for Rosetta, I will
give you three hundred pounds more, and the remnant at my
departure.’
“Sir, I had always an aversion to stand shilly shally, ‘make haste
and leave nothing to waste,’ says the old proverb. The kind girl was
consenting, and we finished the contract over a mug of her father’s
best October. From the hills we ran to the fogland, and in less than
two years more, poor Rosetta was carried up the churchway path,
where the three sisters, as they used to do in their infancy, lie by the
side of each other; and the old man dying of grief for the loss of his
favourite, I placed him at their head, and became master of a pretty
property.
 “A short time after, a wealthy widow from Barham, (of the same
family,) came in the summer time to our place. I saw her at church,
and she set her cap at Piper; I soon married her for her Eldorado
metal, but alas! she turned out a shrew. ‘Nil desperandum’ said I,
Piper, to myself, the winter is coming in good time; the winter came,
and stood my friend; for the fog and the ague took her by the hand
and led her to Abraham’s bosom.
“An innkeeper’s relict was the next I ventured on, she had
possessions at Sittingbourne, and they were hardly mine before my
good friend, the fog, laid Arabella ‘at all-fours’ under the turf, in St.
Mary’s churchyard; and now, sir, her sister, the cast-off of a rich Jew,
fell into my trap, and I led her smiling, like a vestal, to the temple of
Hymen; but although the most lively and patient creature on earth,
she could not resist the powers of the fog, and I for the sixth time
became a widower, with an income of three hundred a year, and half
the cottages in this blessed hundred. To be brief, sir, I was now in
want of nothing but a contented mind; thus, sir, through the fog you
treated with such malignity, I became qualified for a country
member. But alas! sir, there is always something unpleasant to
mingle with the best of human affairs, envy is ever skulking behind
us, to squeeze her gall-bag into the cup of our comforts, and when
we think ourselves in safety, and may sing the song of ‘O! be joyful,’
our merriment ends with a ‘miseracordia.’”
After a short pause, “Look, sir,” said Piper, in a loud whisper, “at
that woman in the bar, now making the grog, she is my seventh
wife; with her I had a fortune also, but of a different nature from all
the rest. I married her without proper consideration—the wisest are
sometimes overtaken; Solomon had his disappointments; would you
think it, sir? she was fogborn like myself, and withal, is so tough in
her constitution, that I fear she will hold me a tight tug to the end of
my existence, and become my survivor.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” interjected Mrs. Piper, (who had heard all the long
tale of the tapster,) “there is no fear about that, John, and bury as
many upland husbands, when you lie under the turf, as you, with the
fog, have smothered wives.”
 Our Yorick now became chop-fallen, and a brisk wind springing
up from the north-west, the fog abated, and we took to our
boat.[246]

If there be truth in these narratives, the “lowland lasses” of the

creeks, have good reason for their peculiar liking to “highland
laddies;” and “upland” girls had better “wither on the virgin thorn,”
than marry “lowland” suitors and—
“Fall as the leaves do
And die in October.”
Far be it from the editor, to bring the worthy “neither fish nor
flesh” swains, of the Kent and Essex fens and fogs, into contempt; he
knows nothing about them. What he has set down he found in “the
books,” and, having given his authorities, he wishes them every good
they desire—save wives from the uplands.

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 61·75.

[245] Universal Magazine.

[246] The Steam-boat Companion, by Thomas Nichols, 1823, p. 150.

July 7.
Thomas a Becket.
Strange to say, the name of this saint, so obnoxious to the early
reformers, is still retained in the church of England calendar; the fact
is no less strange that the day of his festival is the anniversary of the
translation of his relics from the undercroft of the cathedral of
Canterbury, in the year 1220, to a sumptuous shrine at the east end
of the church, whither they attracted crowds of pilgrims, and,
according to the legends of the Romish church, worked abundant
miracles.
 St. Thomas a Becket.
This engraving is from a drawing by Mr. Harding, who states that
he made it from a very rare engraving. The drawing belongs to Mr. J.
J. A. F., who favoured the editor by lending it for the present
purpose.

St. Thomas of Canterbury, bishop and martyr, attained the

primacy during the reign of Henry II. He advanced the interests of
the church against the interests of the kingdom, till a parliament
declared his possessions forfeited, and Becket having left the
kingdom, Henry seized the revenues of the see.
It appears from an old tract that this churchman was a
swordsman. He accompanied Henry in one of his campaigns with a
retinue of seven hundred knights and gentlemen, kept twelve
hundred horse in his own pay, and bore his dignity with the carriage
of the proudest baron. “His bridle was of silver, his saddle of velvet,
his stirrups, spurs, and bosses, double gilt. His expenses far
surpassing the expenses of an earl. He fed with the fattest, was clad
with the softest, and kept company with the pleasantest. And the
king made him his chancellor, in which office he passed the pomp
and pride of Thomas [Wolsey] Cardinal, as far as the one’s shrine
passeth the other’s tomb in glory and riches. And, after that, he was
a man of war, and captain of five or six thousand men in full harness,
as bright as St. George, and his spear in his hand; and encountered
whosoever came against him, and overthrew the jollyest rutter that
was in all the host of France. And out of the field, hot from blood-
shedding, was he made bishop of Canterbury, and did put off his
helm, and put on his mitre; put off his harness, and on with his
robes; and laid down his spear, and took his cross, ere his hands
were cold; and so came, with a lusty courage of a man of war, to
fight another while against his prince for the pope; when his prince’s
cause were with the law of God and the pope’s clean contrary.”
After his disgrace by the king he wore a hair shirt, ate meats of
the driest, excommunicated his brother bishops, and “was favoured
with a revelation of his martyrdom,” at Pontigni. Alban Butler says,
“whilst he lay prostrate before the altar in prayers and tears, he
heard a voice, saying distinctly, ‘Thomas, Thomas, my church shall
be glorified in thy blood.’ The saint asked, ‘Who art thou, Lord?’ and
the same voice answered, ‘I am Jesus Christ, the son of the living
God, thy brother.’” He then returned to England, excited rebellious
commotions, and on Christmas-day, 1170, preached his last sermon
to his flock, on the text, “And peace to men of good-will on earth.”
These are the words wherein Alban Butler expresses the “text,”
which, it may be as well to observe, is a garbled passage from the
New Testament, and was altered perhaps to suit the saint’s views
and application. Room cannot be afforded in this place for particulars
of his preceding conduct, or an exact description of his death, which
is well-known to have been accomplished by “four knights,” who,
from attachment to the king, according to the brutal manners of
those days, revenged his quarrel by killing St. Thomas, while at
prayers in Canterbury cathedral.

The following interesting paper relates to one of the knights who

slew Becket—
Sir William de Tracy.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
June, 1826.
Sir,—I beg leave to transmit to you an account of the burial place
of sir William de Tracy, one of the murderers of Thomas à Becket,
archbishop of Canterbury, in the reign of Henry the Second. I regret,
at the same time, that distance from the spot precludes the
possibility of my taking a drawing of the tomb, but I have by me its
measurement, and the inscription, which I copied with as great care
as possible when there.
The parish church of Morthoe, probably built by Tracy himself, is
situated on the bold and rocky coast of the north of Devon. It stands
on an eminence, near the sea-shore, is sheltered by hills on the
north and south, but open towards the west, on which side is the
fine bay of Woolacombe. The interior of the church presents the
humblest appearance; its length is near 80 feet, its breadth 18,
excepting the middle, which, with an aisle, measures 30. On the west
side is a recess, 15 feet by 14, in the centre of which is the vault,
containing the remains of de Tracy. The rustic inhabitants of the
parish can give no other account of the tomb than the traditionary
one, that it contains the remains of a giant, to whom, in the olden
time, all that part of the country belonged.
The vault itself is 2 feet 4 in. high; 7 feet 6 in. long at the base;
three feet and a half broad at one end of ditto, and two feet and a
half, at the other. The large black slab covering the top of the vault is
half a foot in thickness. Engraved on this slab is the figure of a
person in robes, holding a chalice in one hand; and round the border
is an inscription, which is now almost illegible. I had a drawing of the
whole, which I have lost, but with the account I wrote at the time of
visiting the place, I have preserved the inscription, as far as I was
able to make it out.[247]
On the east side of the vault are three armorial bearings, and the
carved figures of two nuns; on the north is the crucifixion; on the
west side, there is nothing but Gothic carving; and the south end is
plain.
An old and respectable farmer, residing at Morthoe, informed me
that about fifty or sixty years ago “a gentleman from London” came
down to take an account of the tomb, and carried away with him the
skull and one of the thigh bones of de Tracy. He opened and
examined the vault with the connivance of a negligent and eccentric
minister, then resident in the parish, who has left behind him a fame
by no means to be envied.
The gentleman alluded to by the worthy yeoman was no doubt
the celebrated antiquary Gough, who, in his “Sepulchral Monuments
in Great Britain,” has given a long account of the life and burialplace
of Tracy. In his introduction to that laborious and very valuable work,
page ciii. he says:—“The instances of figures cut in the slab, and not
inlaid with metal, nor always blacked, are not uncommon.” Among
the instances which he cites to illustrate this remark, he mentions the
slab on the vault of “William de Tracy, Rector of Morthoe, Devon,
1322.”—Here we find the gigantic knight dwindled to a parson; and
the man whose name should be for ever remembered with gratitude
by his countrymen, the hero who happily achieved a far more
arduous enterprise, a work of greater glory than did the renowned
but fabled saint, over the devouring dragon—forgotten beneath the
robe of an obscure village rector! The parish of Morthoe is, however,
not a rectory, but what is called a “perpetual curacy,” and the living is
at present not worth much more than seventy pounds per annum.
Since I have, by the merest accident, got hold of Gough, I will
extract what he records of the forgotten Tracy, as it may not be
unentertaining to the lover of history to peruse a detail of the
ultimate fate of one of the glorious four, who delivered their country
from perhaps the greatest pest that was ever sent to scourge it.
“William de Tracy, one of the murderers of Becket, has been
generally supposed, on the authority of Mr. Risdon, (p. 116.) to have
built an aisle in the church of Morthoe, Devon; and to have therein
an altar-tomb about 2 feet high, with his figure engraven on a grey
slab of Purbeck marble, 7 feet by 3, and 7 inches thick, and this
inscription, [in Saxon capitals,]
“SYRE [Guillau] ME DE TRACY [gist icy, Diu de son al] ME EYT
MERCY.
“On the upper end of this tomb is carved in relief the crucifixion,
with the virgin and St. John, and on the north side some Gothic
arches, and these three coats; I. Az. 3 lions passant guardant, Arg.
2. Arg. 3. two bars, G. Az. a saltire, Or.——The first of these is the
coat of William Camville, formerly patron of this church: the second,
that of the Martins, formerly lords of Barnstaple, who had lands in
this neighbourhood: the third, that of the Saint Albins, who had also
estates in the adjoining parish of Georgeham.
“The figure on the slab is plainly that of a priest in his sacerdotal
habit, holding a chalice between his hands, as if in the act of
consecration.——Bishop Stapledon’s register, though it does not
contain the year of his institution, fixes the date of his death in the
following terms, ‘Anno, 1322, 16 Decr. Thomas Robertus præsentat.
ad eccles. de Morthoe vacantem per mortem Wilhelmi de Traci, die
dominic. primo post nativ. Virginis per mortem Will. de Campvill.’
“The era of the priest is therefore 140 years later than that of the
knight. It does not appear by the episcopal registers that the Tracies
were ever patrons of Morthoe, except in the following instances:—
“Anno, 1257, Cal. Junii, John Allworthy, presented by Henry de
Traci, guardian of the lands and heirs of Ralph de Brag. Anno, 1275.
Thomas Capellanus was presented to this rectory by Philip de
Weston. In 1330, Feb. 5, Henry de la Mace was presented to this
rectory by William de Camville. In 1381, Richard Hopkins was
presented by the dean and chapter of Exeter, who are still patrons.
“It is probable that the stone with the inscription to William de
Tracy did not originally belong to the altar-tomb on which it now lies;
but by the arms seems rather to have been erected for the patron
William de Camville, it being unusual in those days to raise so
handsome a monument for a priest, especially as the altar-tomb and
slab are of very different materials, and the benefice itself is of very
inconsiderable value. It is also probable the monument of Traci lay on
the ground, and that when this monument was broken open,
according to Risdon, in the last century, this purbeck slab was placed
upon the altar-tomb though it did not at first belong to it.
“The Devonshire antiquaries assert that sir William de Tracy
retired to this place after he had murdered Becket. But this tradition
seems to rest on no better authority than the misrepresentation of
the inscription here given, and because the family of Traci possessed
the fourth part of a fee in Woolacombe within this parish, which is
still called after their name. But the Tracies had many possessions in
this country, as Bovey Traci, Nymett Traci, Bedford Traci, &c. William
de Traci held the honor of Barnstaple, in the beginning of Henry the
Second’s reign. King John granted the Barony of Barnstaple to Henry
de Traci, in the 15th of his reign; and the family seem to have been
possessed of it in the reign of Henry III. I am indebted to the
friendship of the present Dean of Exeter for the above observations,
which ascertain the monument in question.
“I shall digress no farther on this subject than to observe of sir
William de Traci, that four years after the murder of Becket he had
the title of Steward, i. e. Justice of Normandy, which he held but two
years. He was in arms against King John in the last year of his reign,
and his estate was confiscated; but on his return to his allegiance, 2
Henry III. it was restored. He was living, 7 Henry III. (Dugd. Bar. i.
622.) consequently died about or after 1223, having survived Becket
upwards of 57 years.”[248]
Another slight mention is made of Tracy in p. 26. In describing
Becket’s shrine he quotes Stowe to this effect,—“The shrine of
Thomas à Becket (says Stowe) was builded about a man’s height, all
of stone, then upward of timber plain, within which was a chest of
iron, containing the bones of Thomas Beckett, skull and all, with the
wound of his death, and the piece cut out of his scull laid in the
same wound.” Gough remarks:—“He should have added the point of
Sir William Traci, the fourth assassin’s sword, which broke off against
the pavement, after cutting off his scull, so that the brains came out.
 ‘In thulke stede the verthe smot, yt the other adde er ydo,
And the point of is suerd brec in the marbreston a tuo,
Zat thulke point at Canterbury the monckes lateth wite,
Vor honor of the holi man yt therewith was ismite.
With thulke strok he smot al of the scolle & eke the crowne
That the brain ron al ebrod in the pauiment ther donne.’”
(Robert of Glouces. p. 476.)
This long extract, Mr. Editor, has, I confess, made me rather
casuistical on the subject of Tracy’s tomb. I shall, however, search
some of the old chroniclers and see if they throw any light upon the
biography of our knight. Hume mentions Tracy, and his three
companions, but is perfectly silent with respect to the cutting off the
top of the churchman’s skull. His words are, “they followed him
thither, attacked him before the altar, and having cloven his head
with many blows, retired without meeting any opposition.” Should
you, in the mean time, insert this, you will shortly hear again from
Your obedient servant,
R. A. R.

Distrusting his own judgment on the subject of the preceding

letter, the editor laid it before a gentleman whose erudition he could
rely on for the accuracy of any opinion he might be pleased to
express, and who obligingly writes as follows:—
The Tomb At Morthoe.
R. A. R.’s letter, submitted to me through the kindness of Mr.
Hone, certainly conveys much interesting miscellaneous information,
although it proves nothing, and leaves the question, of who is
actually the tenant of this tomb, pretty much where he finds it. In my
humble opinion, the circumstance of technical heraldic bearings, and
those moreover quartered, being found upon it, completely negatives
the idea of its being the tomb of Becket’s assassin. It is well known
that the first English subject who ever bore arms quarterly is
Hastings, earl of Pembroke, who died in the reign of Edward III. and
is buried in Westminster abbey.
 Family arms seem not to have been continuedly adopted, till
towards the time of Edward I.
W. P.

The death of Becket appears to have been sincerely deplored by

Henry II., inasmuch as the pope and his adherents visited the sin of
the four knights upon the king, and upbraided him with his subjects
by ecclesiastical fulminations. He endeavoured to make peace with
the church by submitting to a public whipping. A late biographer
records his meanness in the following sentences:
In 1174 king Henry went on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the late
archbishop Becket, with the fame of whose miracles the whole realm
was now filled, and whom the pope, by a bull dated in March the
year before, had declared a saint and a martyr, appointing an
anniversary festival to be kept on the day of his death, in order (says
the bull) that, being continually applied to by the prayers of the
faithful, he should intercede with God for the clergy and people of
England.
Henry, therefore, desiring to obtain for himself this intercession,
or to make others believe that the wrath of an enemy, to whom it
was supposed that such power was given, might be thus averted
from him, thought it necessary to visit the shrine of this new-created
saint; and, as soon as he came within sight of the tower of
Canterbury cathedral, (July 10,) at the distance of three miles,
descended from his horse, and walked thither barefoot, over a road
that was full of rough and sharp stones, which so wounded his feet
that in many places they were stained with his blood.
When he got to the tomb, which was then in the crypt (or under-
croft) of the church, he threw himself prostrate before it, and
remained, for some time, in fervent prayer; during which, by his
orders, the bishop of London, in his name, declared to the people,
that “he had neither commanded, nor advised, nor by any artifice
contrived the death of Becket, for the truth of which, he appealed, in
the most solemn manner, to the testimony of God; but, as the
murderers of that prelate had taken occasion from his words, too
inconsiderately spoken, to commit this offence, he voluntarily thus
submitted himself to the discipline of the church.”
After this he was scourged, at his own request and command, by
all the monks of the convent, assembled for that purpose, from every
one of whom, and from several bishops and abbots there present, he
received three or four stripes.
This sharp penance being done, he returned to his prayers before
the tomb, which he continued all that day, and all the next night, not
even suffering a carpet to be spread beneath him, but kneeling on
the hard pavement.
Early in the morning he went round all the altars of the church,
and paid his devotions to the bodies of the saints there interred;
which having performed, he came back to Becket’s tomb, where he
staid till the hour when mass was said in the church, at which he
assisted.
During all this time he had taken no kind of food; and, except
when he gave his naked body to be whipped, was clad in sackcloth.
Before his departure, (that he might fully complete the expiation of
his sin, according to the notions of the church of Rome,) he assigned
a revenue of forty pounds a year, to keep lights always burning in
honour of Becket about his tomb. The next evening he reached
London, where he found it necessary to be blooded, and rest some
days.[249]

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 62·00.

[247] Unfortunately it was not discovered that some of the letters, in the
inscription referred to, could not be represented by the usual Saxon types,
till it was too late to remedy the accident by having them engraven on
wood; and hence the inscription is, of necessity, omitted.—Editor.
[248] Gough’s Sepul. Mon. vol. i. p. 39, 40.
[249] Lord Lyttleton.

July 8.
 Chronology.
July 8, 1533, Ariosto, the celebrated Italian poet, died at Ferrara:
he was born in 1474, at the castle of Reggio in Lombardy.

The Season.
In high summer, persons accustomed to live “well” should
diminish the usual quantity of their viands and fluids: wine should be
taken very sparingly, and spirituous liquors seldom. Habits of
indulgence at this period of the year fill many graves.

It may not be amiss to cite

A Curious Advertisement,
From the Bahama Gazette, June 30, 1795.

W HEREAS the subscriber, through the pernicious habit of drinking,

has greatly hurt himself in purse and person, and rendered
himself odious to all his acquaintance, and finding there is no
possibility of breaking off from the said practice, but through the
impossibility to find the liquor; he therefore begs and prays that no
persons will sell him, for money or on trust, any sort of spirituous
liquors, as he will not in future pay it, but will prosecute any one for
an action of damage against the temporal and eternal interests of
the public’s humble, serious, and sober servant,
James Chalmers.
Witness William Andrews.
Nassau, June 28, 1795.

Arrivals Extraordinary.
At the commencement of July, 1826, hedgehogs were seen
wandering along the most public streets of Oldham, in Lancashire,
during the open day. It is presumed that, as the brooks from which
these animals were wont to be supplied with drink had been dried up
from the long-continued drought, they were obliged to throw
themselves upon the mercy and protection of their “good neighbours
in the town.”[250]

In this month we have a host of whizzing insects to prevent our

lassitude becoming downright laziness. From the kind of resentment
they excite, we may pretty well imagine the temper and disposition
of the persons they provoke.
The Drowning Fly.
In yonder glass behold a drowning fly!
Its little feet how vainly does it ply!
Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries,
And gentle hearts can feel its agonies!
Poor helpless victim—and will no one save?
Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?
Is there no friendly hand—no helper nigh,
And must thou, little struggler—must thou die?
Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,
Thou shalt not die—this hand shall rescue thee!
My finger’s tip shall prove a friendly shore,
There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o’er.
Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;
Go, join thy num’rous kindred in the air.
Away it flies; resumes its harmless play;
And lightly gambols in the golden ray.
Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;
For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed.
A young and sinking family to save:
To raise the infant from destruction’s wave!
To you, for help, the victims lift their eyes—
Oh! hear, for pity’s sake, their plaintive cries;
Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,
O’er their devoted heads the flood may close!

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 63·07.

[250] Manchester Gazette.

 July 9.
Wolverhampton Fair.
Every year on the ninth of July, the eve of the great fair of
Wolverhampton, there was formerly a procession of men in antique
armour, preceded by musicians playing the fair tune, and followed by
the steward of the deanry manor, the peace officers, and many of
the principal inhabitants. Tradition says, the ceremony originated
when Wolverhampton was a great emporium of wool, and resorted
to by merchants of the staple from all parts of England. The
necessity of an armed force to keep peace and order during the fair,
(which is said to have lasted fourteen days, but the charter says only
eight,) is not improbable. This custom of walking the fair, as it was
called, with the armed procession, &c. was first omitted about the
year 1789.[251]

NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 63·87.

[251] Shaw’s Staffordshire.

July 10.
Chronology.
On the tenth of July, 1740, died sir Charles Crispe, bart. of
Oxfordshire. He was great-grandson of sir Nicholas Crispe, bart. who
spent 100,000l. in the service of king Charles I. and II. He took out a
commission of array for the city of London, for which the parliament
offered 1000l. reward to bring him alive or dead. The city of London
sent him commissioner to Breda, to invite over king Charles II. who
took him in his arms, and kissed him, and said, “Surely the city has a
mind highly to oblige me, by sending over my father’s old friend to
invite me.” He was the first who settled a trade to the coast of
Africa.[252]
 NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 62·85.

[252] Gentleman’s Magazine.

July 11.
Chronology.
On the eleventh of July, 1804, general Hamilton of New-York was
killed in a duel by colonel Burr, the vice-president of the United
States.
Memorandum.
To Men of Honour.
Whereas certain persons who contemn the obligations of religion,
are nevertheless mindful of the law of the land: And whereas it is
supposed by some of such persons, that parties contemplating to
fight a duel and bound over before a magistrate to keep the peace,
may, notwithstanding, fight such duel in foreign parts: Be it known,
that the law which extends protection to all its subjects, can also
punish them for breach of duty, and that, therefore, offences by
duelling beyond sea, are indictable and punishable in manner and
form, the same as if such duels were fought within the United
kingdom.

After this warning against a prevailing offence, we may become

acquainted with the character of an unoffending individual, through
the pen of a respected friend to this work.
 CHEAP TOMMY.

For the Every-Day Book.

If I forget thee, worthy old Tam Hogg,
May I forget that ever knives were cheap:—
If I forget thy barrow huge and steep,
Slow as a snail, and croaking like a frog:—
Peripatetic, stoic, “cynic dog,”
If from my memory perish thee, or thine,
May I be doomed to gnaw asunder twine,
Or shave with razor that has chipped a log!
For in thy uncouth tabernacle dwelt
Honest philosophy; and oh! far more
Religion thy unstooping heart could melt,
Nor scorned the muse to sojourn at thy door;
What pain, toil, poverty didst thou endure,
Reckless of earth so heaven might find thee pure!

In my native village of Heanor, in Derbyshire, some sixteen or

seventeen years ago, there appeared a singular character, whose
arrival excited a sensation, and became an epoch in its history. Some
boys who had been strolling to a distance brought an account that a
little man, with a barrow as large as a house, was coming along the
lane, at “a snail’s gallop.” Forth sallied a troop of gazers who found a
small, thick-set, round-faced man, in an old, red, soldier’s jacket, and
cocked hat, sitting on the handle of his barrow, which was built and
roofed after the manner of a caravan; and was a storehouse of some
kind of merchandise, what they yet knew not. He sat very quietly as
they came round him, and returned their greetings in a way short
and dry, and which became markedly testy and impatient, as they
crowded more closely, and began to ask questions. “Not too fast, my
masters; not too fast! my first answer can’t overtake your twentieth
question.” At length he rose, and, by the aid of a strong strap passed
over his shoulders, heaved up the handles of his barrow, and placing
his head against it, like a tortoise under a stone, proceeded at a
toilsome rate of some few hundred yards per hour. This specimen of
patient endurance amazed the villagers. A brawny labourer would
have thought it a severe toil to wheel it a mile; yet this singular