“See now if she be not a witch as well as a thief,” Starkey bellowed in rage, holding a hand to his face to which Joan’s fury had added several vertical scratches.
“Leave my wife alone,” shouted Matthew at them both. “We will go to the magistrate and happily, knowing our innocence, but allow my wife to be.”
This concession seemed to quiet the tumult in the room, which had by this time awakened the house and brought a large crowd of spectators to the open door. Joan glared at Starkey. Starkey glared back. Matthew looked at them both. The burly officer took a pair of manacles from his belt and proceeded to bind Matthew, but he did not do the same to Joan. “She’ll follow,” he said. Starkey protested. He wanted both man and wife bound, but the officer told him he had only manacles for one. “She must follow unbound,” he repeated, giving Starkey a look that implied that he had had enough of this uproar. The younger officer attempted to clear their way from the room, but this proved difficult. The crowd had enlarged, had filled the passage without and the stairs, and the curious gathered to view the arrest had difficulty retreating. Finally a path was made and the younger officer with Joan in custody led the way. Matthew, manacled and humiliated, followed with the larger officer, and then Starkey brought up the rear. As he emerged into the passage, someone spit upon Matthew’s boots and cried, ‘‘Bloody thief.” Another gave him a solid poke in the ribs. Up front of the procession the younger officer was commanding the crowd to make way and threatening to call out the watch. But the crowd took these threats very lightly, guffawing and threatening, making obscene gestures at the sheriffs men as well as at Matthew and Joan.
Matthew tried to put on a brave face. Bruised and indignant at this outrageous treatment, he attempted vainly to call out comfort to Joan, who with her officer companion was so far ahead of them that he was in danger of losing sight of them altogether. The crowd pressed in on them, shouting “Thief, thief” and “Let the villains hang.” The onlookers seemed unable to distinguish the bound from the unbound, for Starkey was receiving as much abuse as was Matthew.
Matthew was relieved when they finally reached the street and the tumultuous assembly dispersed. Matthew’s officer walked at a fast clip, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Matthew could see Joan and her officer in front of him now, and he was happy when they caught up with them again. Soon they came to a gray stone building, very filthy inside and out, and apparently some sort of gathering place for the disreputable persons of the city. He had never seen such a display of sordid humanity, the twisted bodies and countenances of those whom life had made brutal and mean. Some were chained to pillars or posts. Others sat around in groups on their haunches or leaned idly against the walls, spitting in the dirt and leering at the women passersby who were every whit as disreputable as they, whores, thieves, vagabonds, riffraff.
They were brought into a long hall at one end of which was a dais. There Matthew saw the magistrate, robed and deferred to by the cluster of officers about him, a motley collection of men and women in bonds, and a larger number of witnesses and onlookers, clerks of the court, warders of the prisons, and various friends and family of the accused persons present. The magistrate, an old bearded gentleman whose mannerisms suggested he was both hard of hearing and hard of seeing, half dozed as two angry women exchanged slanders before him while the bailiff of the court vainly tried to restore order. Compared to the restlessness of the yard outside the building, the interior seemed distressed. When the women’s acrimony was finally stilled, a solemn hush descended over the company, and the business of justice resumed.
It was a good three hours before Matthew and Joan were brought before the magistrate. They had been made to sit upon a hard, stone floor, isolated from others of the accused, forbidden to speak to each other much less prevail upon some passerby to carry an appeal for help to Cecil. In the meantime their accuser, Starkey, came and went, strutted about importantly, and whispered to the two officers and various other persons with whom he apparently was acquainted.
“What have we here?” inquired the magistrate, looking up at the arresting officers and then at Matthew and Joan, as though he was unsure just who was officer and who prisoner. But the burly officer who was in charge of Matthew resolved his doubt with a thunderous denunciation of them as thieves and impersonators, elaborating the charge to such a degree that Matthew was forced to protest. But the protest was censured very severely by the magistrate, who for all of his torpor rose at once to the occasion and told Matthew that if he opened his mouth another time without begging his honor’s permission he would be confined to the stocks forthwith.
The officer held the gold chain aloft for the edification of those present. The crowd at their backs drew close to view it and there were various estimations of its worth heard, murmurs of approval and disapproval, and then the shrill voice of the bailiff calling for a restoration of order.
“What says the accused of this?” inquired the magistrate, looking at Matthew sternly, as though the very existence of the chain made Matthew’s guilt a foregone conclusion.
Matthew declared his innocence, said that he had never seen the chain before this day, before the moment Starkey produced it from his wife’s chest.
“Do you mean to say that you were never in my master’s shop, the sign of the Basilisk?” interrupted Starkey.
“Well, yes, I have been in the shop.”
“See, sir, he admits it, then,” answered Starkey with satisfaction. But Matthew had no time to quarrel with the logic of this inference before Starkey led him into a more damaging admission. “And you told my master your name was Miles Merry weather, did you not?”
Matthew hotly denied this, asserting that his name was Matthew Stock, clothier and constable of Chelmsford, that he had used the name of his neighbor only to protect himself from the threat of murder. But his explanation somehow managed to come out sounding like a palpable lie. Disputing every word, Starkey lost no time in pointing out to the magistrate that a man who registered at an inn under a false name was very probably a thief or worse, and certainly no honest constable. He ridiculed the idea he should want to murder Matthew. “What,” he exclaimed, “a murderer, I, standing here before this assembly? Do murderers then keep company in the halls of justice and press their suits before magistrates? Sir, I beg you have no regard for this man—or his wife—but to administer speedy justice to them both.”
The magistrate, who had seemed content to allow Starkey to undertake the role of prosecutor in this business, now sat back in his chair, stroking his white beard, and looking from Matthew to Joan and back to Matthew again as though the evidence presented left nothing more for an epilogue than the confession of the crime. During this interrogation Joan remained silent by her husband, too mor—
tified to speak, fearful of her own violence should she be slandered again. She knew they were in enough trouble as it was.
But now it was Matthew’s turn to lose his temper. He denounced Starkey as a liar and a traitor; he denounced Castell as the father of Starkey’s treachery; his indignation even spilled over onto the magistrate, whom he called an old graybeard, more suited to drowse the while than administer justice. These remarks sat poorly with the magistrate, who leaped from his chair, and ordered Matthew and Joan removed to Newgate prison to await the next assizes.
He had no sooner pronounced this sentence than Matthew noticed a familiar face among the spectators. It was John Beauclerk, Cecil’s secretary, standing by a pillar observing the proceedings. Matthew pleaded with the magistrate to hold his sentence; there was one in the hall who might testify on their behalf, he said. The magistrate was in no mood for delay, but then he said he would countenance it, should Matthew apologize for his words.
Reluctantly Matthew did, although he knew them to be true, and then he pointed out to the magistrate where Beauclerk stood and the magistrate called the young man forth.
“Who are you, sir?” asked the magistrate.
Beauclerk spoke very calmly
and with much dignity, identifying himself as John Beauclerk, secretary to Sir Robert Cecil, information which seemed to impress the old magistrate greatly.
“Do you know this man and his wife?” asked the magistrate.
Beauclerk turned to look at the Stocks.
“I have never seen them before in my life,” he answered.
“What!” exclaimed Matthew and Joan in unison.
“I do not know them at all, either the man or his wife,” repeated Beauclerk.
This new development caused much commotion in the assembly, which the bailiff moved to quell.
Then Beauclerk asked the magistrate if any more were
wanted of him, and the magistrate said no, expressed the wish that his testimony had not inconvenienced either Beauclerk or his august master, and wished him good day.
Stunned by this new treachery where they had least expected it, Matthew and Joan exchanged looks of bewilderment as Beauclerk disappeared into the crowd. Then Matthew cried, “The man is lying in his throat!”
“Indeed,” mocked Starkey cruelly, “we are all liars here, save for this goodman chainswiper, this Mr. Stock-Merry weather-or-What-you-will. ’ ’
There was a great explosion of derisive laughter from the crowd at these words, and then Matthew felt himself being led off again. He caught a glimpse of Joan behind him. Her face was ghastly pale and her eyes drooping, as though she was about to faint. Faint she must have done, for when he saw her later outside, the younger officer was carrying her in his arms.
“Then there is no woman named Susan Mallory at court?” Castell asked again, well knowing the answer now but still clinging to the hope that somehow the old man would say that there was.
“None, sir . . . not in this Queen’s time. There was a Susan ... a Susan Graham . . . and a Brigid Mallory . . . and I think a Margaret Mallory as well, perhaps her cousin. Brigid was a pretty young thing. I recall her mother, too—”
But the jeweler was no longer listening; he had turned his back to the speaker, and seeing that he had said more than what was wanted, the old man fell silent, letting his long bony arms hang at his side like dead branches half wrenched from their trunk. He had once been a chamberlain at Westminster. Long retired, he knew everyone at court and was gifted with a prodigious memory. He was so given to gossip that he would cheerfully have provided it to Castell for nothing, but in fact the jeweler kept him on a small retainer, which the former chamberlain took eagerly, thinking what intelligence he passed on to Castell was to be used to make lucrative business contacts.
The chamberlain was afflicted with palsy; his right hand trembled as he spoke. His eyes were azure and watery.
“No Susan Mallory,” Castell murmured to himself.
“What, sir?”
“I said nothing.”
He should have confirmed the letter earlier, before approaching Cecil. His error had been a fatal one. But why should he have suspected it and its tale of adultery anything but the truth? The girl’s foolish mother, the plump baggage with the funny hat and the swarthy skin, had seemed genuine enough. And now to discover that she was Stock’s wife, that Stock, too, was alive and aiding Cecil.
It was certain that even Castell’s house and shop were under surveillance. Thank God for Beauclerk’s big ears. The man had been quick enough to put what he had overheard together, quick enough to perceive there was money to be made by conveying word to Castell straightway. At least his investment in Beauclerk, a modest allowance dolled out intermittently, had paid off.
He slipped a few coins into the chamberlain’s palm and told him to go. Then Castell turned his attention to Ortega.
The Spaniard had arrived an hour before in response to the jeweler’s urgent message, snatched half dressed from a brothel in Cheapside. At the moment he was sitting at the window, his hat in his lap, his long legs sprawled before him as though his chief concern was the cut of his hose. But the Spaniard had been all ears since arriving, and rather than being dismayed by this unlucky turn of events he had actually seemed to take pleasure in Castell’s growing awareness that he had been duped.
“I warned you against playing with Cecil,” Ortega said when the chamberlain had left the chamber. “See now. He and his constable have made a fool of you.”
Castell regarded Ortega coldly and forced a grim smile. The Spaniard returned his gaze very smugly, and Castell felt murderous. “Even now the constable and his wife are being conveyed to Newgate,” Castell said.
“Cecil will find out. He will rescue them.”
“Not in time he won’t. How will he learn of it? Not from Beauclerk.”
Castell stood directly before Ortega gazing down on the man. “Newgate is another name for hell. Who dies not there of the pestilence is murdered for his boots. But I’ve taken care of all that. You’ll see, they’ll not live to swear against me, by God.”
“We shall see,” replied Ortega languidly, as though he had suddenly lost interest in Castell’s business. He rose to his feet. “By the way, what have you got on Beauclerk that he does this service?”
“Him? Nothing less than his greed. His ambition is very large. Twice, nay thrice, the size of the man.”
“I advise you to quit England as soon as possible.”
“No,” replied Castell, making no attempt to hide his hostility now.
“You are no longer useful to us,” said Ortega, smiling sardonically.
“I don’t understand why this is so amusing to you, Count. It is your lord who would see his sister enthroned.”
“And so he shall,” replied Ortega, maintaining his smile. “But without your assistance.”
“I have risked a great deal for your cause,” returned Castell angrily.
“You are no longer useful to us,” repeated Ortega, turning to go.
Castell made a dash for his desk, grabbed the pistol from where he had concealed it beneath some papers, and aimed it at Ortega. Ortega had seen the movement. In the same instant he had swiveled and drawn his rapier.
“Very pretty,” said Ortega, looking at the weapon in the jeweler’s hand. “Wheel lock, isn’t it? A great improvement over the old matchlock but I still prefer a good Toledo blade. Fire it, sirrah, and you’re a dead man.”
“Thrust and I’ll fire,” Castell answered.
The two men stood there glaring at each other, killing each other with their eyes. Then Ortega said, “We seem to be at a stalemate. Perhaps we should lower our weapons and-”
Ortega never finished his sentence. The report was thunderous. Ortega’s eyes widened with surprise and he fell backward, still holding his sword.
The explosion brought Starkey hurrying into the room, his own weapon drawn. He saw what had happened and knelt down beside Ortega, who was flat on his back with one long silken leg crossed over the other. There was a hole the size of a penny where his heart was.
“You placed your ball well, Mr. Castell,’’ observed Starkey. He stood up and looked at his employer. “The man’s dead.’’
“Good,’’ said Castell, turning away. The pistol, a •pocket dag of the latest and most clever design, still smoked. It trembled in his hand like a living thing. “Take care of Ortega, will you? And when you have done, take care of Matthew Stock and his wife. Make their deaths appear to be the work of some felon. It will be likely enough.”
Starkey hesitated in answering and Castell turned to look at his servant. Starkey had risen to his feet and was regarding his employer coolly.
“What is it, Starkey?”
“What shall I have for it—for lugging off the Spaniard and killing the Stocks?”
Castell, his ears still ringing with the report, suppressed his irritation at Starkey’s delay in carrying out his orders. “You may have the Spaniard here—his purse and his weapon. Will that suffice?”
Castell turned away again and presently behind him he could hear Starkey ravaging the corpse. Castell thought with disgust, The man will carry Ortega out stark naked before he’s finished. Starke
y had probably been listening at the door. That would have been very like him, sensitive as a hound to the prospect of his employer’s failure, his imminent arrest. There would be no trusting him now. Through the diamond-shaped apertures of the lattice, Castell could see the red-tiled roofs of neighboring houses, a generous swath of azure sky, a scattering of delicate clouds moving indolently eastward to the sea. Birds sang in his garden and the leaves of his trees were splendid in the
sun, but Castell took no joy in these things. The Spaniard’s death had not been in the reckoning and he was sorry for it. Not for Ortega’s sake but for his own, for the needless complication of disposing of him and of covering his own traces. He thought of Ortega sprawled behind him, the man’s eyes still wide with surprise. He was half naked now if the obscene sounds of Starkey’s pawing meant anything. Was the young Count’s soul in heaven or in hell? Remembering Ortega’s theology, Castell decided he was in purgatory. But Castell doubted that. No, Ortega was nothing, nada, a whisper in the air no sooner uttered than vanished forever, along with his pride in birth, his pride in his pure Castilian blood. Starkey was right to take the purse, the sword, the shirt. When they were gone there would be nothing.
Castell turned just in time to see the last of Ortega, limp on Starkey’s shoulders. He turned back to the window, and saw the strangers standing beyond the garden wall staring up at his house. With the instinct long nurtured in such matters, he knew at once who they were. Cecil had lost no time in having the house watched.
He went to the top of the stairs and called out to Roley below and when Roley came he told him to dress himself in the dark velvet robe with the rolled sleeves that Castell often wore in the City. Accustomed to assuming disguises, Roley did not question these instructions. He donned the robe which fit him very poorly since he was slender of girth and long of arm; Castell told him the poor fit would make no difference. By the time Cecil’s men realized who it was they were following the jeweler would have gone off in the opposite direction.
Low Treason Page 21
