by A D Swanston
‘I believe it likely, my lord, although I cannot yet say how this has happened.’
‘I have told Dr Radcliff that I believe that the coiners, whoever they are, may be playing a game with us. That might also explain the recent slogans,’ said Warwick.
‘And the murder of my intelligencer, Isaac Cardoza, and the removal of a body from the deadhouse.’
‘What are we doing about it?’ snapped Leicester.
‘Thanks to my lord Warwick, Mr Martin has proved helpful and has given us the names of two minters dismissed from their posts.’
‘I am aware of this. What else?’
‘We are searching for them. Meanwhile, there have been no more slogans or false plague crosses.’
‘I suppose that is something for which to be thankful but really I am beginning to wonder if I should appoint another man to the task. What is your opinion, Ambrose?’
Ambrose Dudley hesitated before replying. ‘I doubt another man would have achieved more than has Dr Radcliff. He seems to me to have acted with the energy and thought that you would have expected, brother.’
Christopher silently thanked him. An unsmiling man but a fair one. More predictable than Leicester. What had the other brothers been like? he wondered. John, Henry and the unfortunate Guilford, husband of Jane Grey and executed with his father for his part in the ill-fated attempt to make her queen. To take such a risk, Guilford must surely have been more Leicester than Warwick, but the others?
‘Hmm. Perhaps it is my ill humour to blame. As always, my dear brother, I bow to your judgement.’ Leicester fixed his dark eyes on Christopher. ‘But be in no doubt, doctor, this affair must be brought to an end and soon or even my lord Warwick’s patience will run out.’
Better not say that he was hopeful or confident – the words went down badly the last time he used them. ‘Be assured of my determination to bring it to an end, my lord.’
‘Good.’ Leicester’s tone softened. ‘I am grieved that your Jewish goldsmith has died. Will you replace him?’
‘In due course, my lord. For now I am fully occupied upon the task that you have given me.’
‘Are you? No more appearances at the sessions house in front of the magistrate?’
Good God, was there nothing the man did not know? His spies must lurk behind every wall and in every corner. ‘The circumstances were particular. I see no reason for them to be repeated.’
‘Then be about your work, Dr Radcliff.’
Christopher bowed and took his leave. An uncomfortable meeting but no worse than he had expected. Thank God for Warwick.
He should call on Roland but he lacked the energy. The encounter had drained him.
Ell had spoken of a mood – intangible, invisible, yet unmistakable. And she was right. Walking down the Strand, he too could sense it. More beggars outside King Henry’s Savoy Hospital, more whores in dark doorways, the stalls on the corner of Carting Lane deserted and a heaviness to the air, a blackness that in summer might presage a thunderstorm. In February it felt more like the end of days. He could not help but hold on to his poniard tightly, and looked constantly back over his shoulder. But if the shadow was there, he kept well hidden. There was no sign of him. Was this what the coiners and slogan-writers, the unseen creators of chaos, intended?
With a last look around, he unlocked his door and stepped inside the house. He made straight for the kitchen and poured himself a beaker of ale from the pot on the table. The beaker still held the dregs from his breakfast, but the ale tasted well enough.
He was carrying it to the study when he heard a gentle knock. He had seen no one but someone had seen him. Beaker in hand, he opened the door to find a slight figure standing there. ‘Good day, Dr Rad,’ she said with a wink and a nod at the beaker, ‘you look busy. Can I come in?’
He stepped aside. ‘Come in, Ell. I am all alone. I hope you weren’t seen.’
‘No need to worry, doctor, there’s not much of me. I can hide behind a militiaman’s pike staff if I have to.’
He gave her a mug of ale and sat her in the study. ‘Sorry there’s no fire, Ell. My housekeeper’s in Newgate.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Nothing except be accused of being a witch, which she is not.’
Ell scoffed. ‘Another one. There’s too many telling lies about their neighbours. Hope she doesn’t go to the sessions.’
‘So do I. What brings you here, Ell? Why no note under the door?’
‘I knew Mistress Allington was away so it would be safe to come and I’ve been asking around about those men you mentioned. The Pryses, father and son. Word is, they only lived in Southwark for a short time and then went to the town of Guildford to look for work. Where is Guildford, Dr Rad?’
‘Not far. About thirty miles south of London on the Portsmouth road. I’ve not been there.’
‘Nor me. Never been further south than Southwark, thank the Lord.’
‘How did you find this out, Ell?’
‘You told me that the son, Hugh, was fond of the ladies and fond of his ale. Liked plenty of both. I found a lady who knew him and remembered him saying he was going to a town named Guildford. Didn’t mean much to her but the name stuck. Proper swordsman by all accounts and with drink inside him talked more than a priest on a Sunday. Had a temper, too.’
‘Could she be mistaken?’
‘Could be, of course, and there’s no saying he’s still there. It’s a year or two ago. Still, I thought you should know so I risked coming.’
‘You were right to do so. Guildford. It’s a start. Well done, Ell.’
‘Thank you, doctor. Well enough done for a crown?’
Christopher took a crown from his purse and handed it over. ‘Certainly. Check it though, it might be false.’
Ell chortled. ‘Don’t think so, not with you chasing the coiners.’ The brown eyes sparkled. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
Katherine had left him, his spirits were low and the thought of a woman’s touch – especially this woman’s – was almost irresistible. Almost. ‘Can you cook, Ell?’
‘Cook? I’m a whore, Dr Rad, in case you hadn’t noticed. I earn my keep in my bed chamber, not in a fucking kitchen. I’d poison you, like as not.’
‘Better leave me to manage, then.’ Christopher stood up. ‘I’ll see you safely out.’
‘Tush. One day you’ll say yes, doctor. That’s if I ever ask again.’
In spite of everything he couldn’t help but smile. ‘Keep asking, Ell. One day I’ll say yes.’
He opened the door, made sure there was no one lurking on the street, and let her out. ‘Go safely, Ell. If you don’t hear from me I shall be in Guildford.’
‘Hope there’s not a single woman under a hundred in the place. That would teach you a lesson.’
A thought struck him. ‘One more thing, Ell. My housekeeper, Joan Willys, lives with her crippled mother near Wood Street. Mistress Allington is looking after the old woman while Joan is in Newgate. It was a neighbour, Alice Scrope, who accused her of witchcraft. Can you find the house and keep an eye on her whenever you have the chance? Regular customers, brawling, drunkenness – anything that can be used against her.’
Again the eyes sparkled. ‘A whore, is she, doctor? It’s a respectable trade, you know, and we look out for each other. Yes, for you of course I will. And for Joan Willys, poor wretch. She won’t be any more a witch than I am.’
‘Thank you, Ell. Take care.’
‘Goodbye, Dr Rad.’ A flashing smile and she was gone.
He watched her go and wondered why he had not said yes at once. Next time, if Katherine was still sulking, perhaps he would.
‘I had not expected to see you again quite so soon, Dr Radcliff,’ said Leicester. ‘Is once not enough in a single day?’
‘My apologies, my lord. I would not have troubled you had the matter not been urgent. It seems that the Pryses, John and Hugh, the minters who were dismissed for brawling with a supervisor and who we believe might
be involved in the counterfeiting of the testons, left London for Guildford. I request your permission to travel there at once.’
‘Guildford. Not much of a place to hide in. I will issue a travel warrant and have it delivered to you. Are you intending to travel alone? What about Wetherby?’
‘With your permission, my lord, and if he is well enough, I thought to take Roland Wetherby with me. Two heads, two pairs of eyes.’
‘Quite. Take Wetherby. He has served us well in the past. I will furnish you with two good mounts.’
There was no avoiding it. He could hardly ask for a carriage and thirty miles was too far to walk. ‘I am obliged, my lord.’
Wetherby was in his apartment, reading a book by the window. ‘Rabelais,’ he said, holding it up for inspection, ‘Gargantua. Shock, bluff and paradox – I thought to read it again.’
‘You will have little time for reading, Roland. Tomorrow we leave for Guildford.’
‘Do we?’
‘If your health permits.’
Wetherby put down the book. ‘Naturally it permits. Now tell me why we shall be travelling to Guildford. I know of no particular entertainments to be had in the town.’
CHAPTER 21
Apale sun in a clear sky hinted at the first signs of spring. Although Christopher never felt comfortable on a horse, claiming that his legs were too long for riding, there was some benefit to working for the queen’s Master of Horse. Leicester had provided them with as fine a pair of black coursers from the Whitehall stables as a man would find anywhere in England, and saddlery made to his own orders by the royal saddler and polished until the leather had taken on a deep richness that did justice to the horses. A pair of decent palfreys would have done as well but the royal stables did not provide palfreys, decent or not.
They each carried a leather bag slung over the saddle for their travelling necessaries and full purses tucked under their shirts. Wetherby wore a hat and coat trimmed with rabbit fur, and a pair of leather gloves that reached almost to his elbows, Christopher his thick coat and academic cap. ‘You will be cold, Christopher,’ Wetherby had warned him.
‘I hope so,’ he had replied. ‘It will numb the pain of sitting on this beast.’
If the state of the highway allowed, they would try to cover the thirty miles or so to Guildford in a single day. Barring accidents or the throwing of a shoe, it should be within the range of the horses and would spare them a night in a miserable coaching inn where the food would be slop and they would be more at risk of being robbed than they were on the road. For the unwary traveller, robbers and rogues posted accomplices in the inns to alert them to those who ordered the best wine and the most expensive rooms. For that reason they would not even stop at an inn to eat.
Once over the bridge and through Southwark they broke into a canter. Here, so close to London, the villagers along the way had made some effort to discharge their duty to keep the road in a reasonable state of repair and the pitfalls and potholes were few. Wetherby, naturally, rode well, his back straight and his balance steady. Christopher at least did not fall off.
At midday it was just about warm enough to break their journey. They hobbled the horses and let them find what grazing they could on the strips of fields that flanked the highway, while they refreshed themselves from Wetherby’s supplies. The palace kitchen had provided good beer, manchet bread and a roasted capon, which he cut in half. Sitting under a leafless oak by the roadside, they saw no one and heard nothing but a little birdsong.
‘Strange how a man’s actions may be the same in one place as another but be seen as those of either a wise man or a lunatic,’ said Wetherby through a mouthful of chicken.
The ride had done nothing for Christopher’s spirits. ‘If you must speak with a full mouth, Roland,’ he grumbled, ‘kindly do not speak in riddles. I am not in the mood for it.’
‘Hardly a riddle, dear doctor. I merely meant that if we sat with our beer and bread on the side of the Strand, we would certainly encounter ridicule and abuse. Here, however, a passing traveller would barely give us a second glance.’
‘If we took our dinner on the paving of the Strand we would most likely be removed by the constables directly to Bedlam and it would be no more than we deserve.’
Wetherby threw away his chicken bone and stood up. ‘You are an ill-humoured companion, Christopher. I trust that your mood will improve once this journey is over.’
‘As do I,’ replied Christopher. ‘My legs ache and my backside has not been as sore since my father took a birch stick to it for stealing apples from the parson’s tree.’
Wetherby laughed. ‘Now that is a sight I would wish to have seen.’
They remounted and set off again, riding side by side but saying little. The further from London, the worse the highway and the more care they had to take. It would be all too easy for one of the horses to break a leg in a pothole. Here and there they passed an isolated farm or a cluster of houses but very few travellers either on horseback or on foot, and hardly anything that might be called a village. As the population of London had grown, so that of the countryside around it had declined. Poor harvests, the closure of the religious houses, plague and pestilence had rendered life intolerably harsh for those who tried to eke a living from the land.
The distress could be seen not only in the poor state of the highway but in the deserted cottages and hovels and the lack of animals on the land. Where were the sheep and goats? Where were the pigs and cows? The answer was plain enough – when nothing else had remained, they had been slaughtered and eaten. And then their starving owners had walked to London where they found neither work, nor shelter, nor charity. If they got through the city gates at all, they were likely to be arrested for vagrancy and to end their days in prison or in the river. Jumping off London Bridge had become frighteningly popular in spite of the Church’s warnings of eternal damnation for all who took their own lives.
Approaching Guildford, they clattered across a stone bridge over a narrow river, flowing fast after the winter rain and snow, past a silent mill and a deserted friary. ‘Dominicans,’ said Wetherby scornfully as they rode by.
‘How do you know?’
‘Looks gloomy enough. Miserable lot, the Black Friars. Or were. Who would not be, dressed from top to toe in black every day?’
The town itself, even at a time of such widespread hardship in the countryside, had a prosperous look to it. From a grammar school at the top of a hill to the River Wey at its foot, a broad street ran down between new-built brick dwellings on either side. Here and there a tailor or a cobbler had set up shop among them.
They walked their mounts carefully over the cobbles and down the hill. To their left, beyond the houses, stood the remains of a castle – Norman by the look of it – while from their right came the distant roar of furnaces. Christopher looked at Wetherby and raised his eyebrows.
‘Glass-making, Christopher. The French are very skilled at it. I believe there are many of them employed here.’
‘You are well informed, Roland.’
Wetherby coughed. ‘Yesterday, after you had left, I sought out a friend, a French friend, who I knew had lived here and had been involved in the glass trade. He was able to provide me with much useful intelligence about the town.’
‘I don’t suppose he was able to tell you where we might find the Pryses.’
‘I did not ask.’
‘Or an inn of the quality we require.’
‘About that, happily, I did inquire. It seems that the Prince Harry is the best Guildford has to offer for the weary traveller.’
Christopher looked to left and right and down the hill towards the river and fields beyond. Prosperous the town might be but it was neither Cambridge nor London: no pupils, no milling crowds, no hawkers or beggars – and no hint of an inn. ‘And where is this splendid establishment?’ he asked.
‘My excellent friend informed me that it was at the bottom of the hill on the left side. We are to look for a sign above a wide
arch.’ They rode slowly on until Wetherby swept off his hat and held it out with his arm extended. ‘And unless I am mistaken, here it is, awaiting our arrival.’
They dismounted and led the horses under the arch and into a broad cobbled yard. An ostler came running out to take their bags. He summoned a stable boy who led the horses off with instructions to brush them down and give them a good feed.
Inside the inn, a fire was blazing. The innkeeper appeared through a door at the back of the taproom. ‘Good day, sirs,’ he said. ‘A room for the night, would it be?’
‘Two rooms,’ replied Wetherby. ‘The best you have and not to be shared. We do not know for how long. And we will eat in an hour. What have you to offer?’
The innkeeper rubbed his hands together. For a room let to a single traveller who was not willing to share, he could charge five times his usual rate. ‘Good pottage, sir, bread baked this morning, and the best ale in the county.’
‘It will have to do. We will see the rooms now.’
The rooms were next door to each other. Christopher dumped his bag on the bed and asked for hot water to be brought. While the innkeeper scuttled off to fetch it, he unpacked the bag, put the contents in an oak coffer provided for the purpose, and tested the bed. His ankles hung over the end but otherwise it was passable. The mattress was filled with feathers and the sheets looked tolerably clean. Roland had done well to discover the Prince Harry. God willing, his efforts would be rewarded and the Pryses would be found.
The innkeeper himself served them. They brushed aside his questions about their purpose, saying only that they were on important business, and sent him off to fetch more ale. Roland put down his spoon, set aside his bowl and looked around the taproom to be sure he was not being overheard. ‘By now,’ he said, ‘half of Guildford will know that two gentlemen on fine black coursers have arrived in the town and will be asking themselves what these gentlemen’s business can be. It is a little early in the year for us to be buying wool, although I suppose we might be buyers of glass for a wealthy London merchant or for one of the guilds.’
