by A D Swanston
‘Our problem?’
‘We do not wish to die and I do not think you wish to kill us.
What you do wish to do is spend the rest of your years in peace and safety. You have the silver taken by Fossett from the Pryses – at least I imagine you do – why not take it and our horses and leave us here? It is a long walk back to Aldgate and by the time we reach it you will be long gone.’
‘And pursued until I am found.’
‘Not if we swear never to speak of this. Your face is known only to us. You will be safe.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘Because we came alone. We did not bring armed constables or the queen’s guards. We were curious, that is all. We meant you no harm.’
‘A lawyer’s argument that does you credit, Dr Radcliff, although, like all lawyers’ arguments, not to be believed.’
Christopher was watching him and trying to read his expression when, outside, something spooked the horses. A fox, perhaps or a dog. Instinctively, Gabriel turned his head and in that instant, without conscious thought, Christopher leapt at him. But he was not quite quick enough. Gabriel raised the pistol and fired. Christopher felt the bullet sear his cheek but his momentum carried him forward and he crashed into Gabriel, sending his chair and the pistol flying. He was probably as strong as Gabriel but the bullet had dazed him. Gabriel managed to reach the handle of Christopher’s poniard and pull it out. He heaved Christopher off and raised the blade to strike. Christopher was on his back. Looking up, he was dimly aware of Wetherby standing behind Gabriel. With a crack, the butt of the pistol came down on Gabriel’s head. The poniard fell from his hand and he collapsed on to the floor.
Wetherby helped Christopher to his feet and sat him down. ‘You were lucky, my friend,’ he said, peering at Christopher’s cheek. ‘A slight wound only and you will keep your looks. But why did you do it? He might have agreed.’
Christopher shook his head to clear his mind. ‘I do not know. It was beyond my control. I did not think about it.’
‘Well, it is done now. I will find something to bind his hands with.’ He went outside and was soon back with a short length of rope with which he tied Gabriel’s wrists behind his back.
There was a groan. Wetherby picked up the blade and put a foot on the back of Gabriel’s neck. ‘Stay still, Gabriel Browne, and you will live,’ he growled. ‘Move a finger and you will feel the point of this blade in your throat.’
Christopher had regained his senses. ‘I offered you a solution, Gabriel, but you hesitated. That was a mistake. We should take you to Newgate and leave you there to face trial. But you can still save yourself from that fate. Do you understand?’ Gabriel did not reply. Christopher nodded to Wetherby who pressed the blade into his neck. ‘If we search the house, what will we find? Is there any evidence to support your story?’
‘You will find nothing. The house is empty.’
‘No papers, no letters?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Mr Wetherby will search while you and I remain here. Be quick, Roland. Now that we know the truth, I am anxious to be away from here.’
Wetherby took a candle and climbed the stairs. His footsteps echoed around the emptiness of the upper storey. It did not take long and he was soon down again. ‘Nothing but a couple of mattresses,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not much comfort for the weary traveller in this inn. I will look below and in the kitchen.’
He was soon back. ‘Empty but for the mattress in our cell. Not even a pot to piss in.’
‘So, Gabriel,’ said Christopher. ‘We find you in the act of removing all trace of Simon’s existence. But I doubt you’ve removed Simon’s money. You would want to keep that close. Where is it?’ Gabriel shrugged. ‘Jog his memory, please, Roland. The earl would be pleased to receive an unexpected gift.’
‘With pleasure,’ replied Wetherby. He knelt beside their prisoner and ran the point of the blade down his cheek. Blood bubbled up and Gabriel squirmed. Wetherby applied the blade to the other cheek. This time Gabriel yelped in pain. ‘There,’ said Roland, ‘now both sides match. A pity you have only one nose.’
‘Where is Simon’s money?’ demanded Christopher.
‘Take the knife away.’ Wetherby did so. ‘What remained of the false coins lies deep in the marsh.’
‘Not those. His true money.’
‘What money?’ Another nudge with the blade, just under his left eye. ‘His chair.’
Christopher stood up and felt under the chair. He had not before noticed it but the seat was unusually deep. He found a catch. The seat opened on a hinge. Inside were three bags. He took them out. ‘Is this what remains of his inheritance?’
‘Yes.’
‘We will take it. Now listen carefully and be in no doubt. Roland and I will return to London and you will accompany us. Your hands will be bound and tied to the saddle of your horse. We know you have one. This house is a long way from anywhere on foot. The animal will be loosely hobbled to deter you from attempting to escape. If you try, I will kill you. Is that understood?’
‘Entirely.’ Blood was dripping down Gabriel’s face. ‘Undo my hands so I can wipe the blood away.’
‘It will dry. Until then, put up with it.’
‘Come, Christopher,’ said Wetherby. ‘It is a fine day and we have a most agreeable ride to look forward to.’
They rode in single file, Wetherby leading, Christopher at the rear. With Gabriel’s horse hobbled, progress was slow. Wetherby looked back over his shoulder often to check that their prisoner was secure. Christopher kept his eyes fixed on the prisoner’s back. They saw no one and, as far as they could tell, no one saw them.
They had almost left the marsh and turned left towards the city when a long-beaked curlew shot skywards out of the reeds, shrieking a warning to others. Half a dozen smaller birds rose from the marsh, all anxious to spread the word that there were strangers about. They swooped overhead directly in front of Wetherby’s horse, spooking it.
The horse tried to bolt but stumbled in a rut and fell, throwing its rider off. Before Christopher could react, Gabriel had slipped out of the rope around his saddle, jumped down and run back down the causeway towards the house. He must have worked his binding loose. Roland or Gabriel? Christopher chose Roland.
He dismounted and led his horse around Gabriel’s so that he could tie their reins together. Wetherby’s horse lay on its side, a front leg twisted grotesquely backwards. If Christopher had had a pistol he would have shot it without hesitation. But he had no pistol, only a slim blade.
Roland sat up and rubbed his shoulder. ‘God’s bowels,’ he grumbled. ‘Fucking birds.’
‘Are you wounded?’ asked Christopher.
‘A sore shoulder, nothing more. But the wretch has escaped. What shall we do?’
‘There is no point in following him. Either he has disappeared down some secret pathway or he will be waiting for us, armed and keen to be rid of us once and for all.’
‘So we travel on to London?’
‘We do. Can you ride?’
‘I think so. Unhobble the horse and I will take it.’ He glanced at his own mount. ‘This one is finished. Give me your blade.’
It had to be done. Christopher handed over the poniard and watched while Roland stroked the horse’s head. When it was quiet, he held its mane with one hand and with the other drove the point of the blade into its throat. It eyes opened wide in shock and it struggled feebly to get to its feet. Wetherby pushed it down and when he removed the blade a fountain of blood gushed out, the animal twitched and soon lay still. ‘Kinder than leaving it to die,’ he said, wiping the blade on a tuft of grass before handing it back.
Christopher untied the hobbling ropes and held the horse while Roland mounted. He grunted in pain but managed to get on without mishap. Christopher untied the reins joining the two animals and clambered on to his. He patted the bags slung over the horse’s back. ‘At least the money is safe.’
‘I would rather have h
ad a prisoner to give to the earl,’ replied Wetherby. ‘Too late now. Let’s be on our way.’
Two hours later they rode slowly down a busy Leadenhall Street. ‘If all these good people had an inkling of what we are carrying, we would be food for the rats within minutes,’ said Wetherby. ‘What are we going to do with it?’
‘We are going to take it straight to Whitehall, Roland. It will be safer there than at Ludgate Hill.’
‘There is a great deal of it. Five hundred pounds at least and not a bear or staff to be seen.’
‘Let us hope that their lordships are happy.’
They went first to the palace where they stored the bags in Wetherby’s apartment and returned the horses to the Chancery Lane stables. ‘Call tomorrow in the afternoon,’ said Christopher. ‘In the morning I shall be occupied.’
CHAPTER 34
His mother had loved the tune. He seldom played it now because it reminded him so sharply of her. She said that it had been composed by the queen’s father at the time he was wooing her mother, Anne Boleyn, who was resisting his advances. It was a more difficult tune to play than it sounded and Christopher had taken time to master it. He had thought that one day he would like to write lyrics for it.
A repeating bass formed the ground over which were played four chords with variations as the lutenist wished. The more skilled the player, the more variations there tended to be. The tune was known as ‘Greensleeves’.
He tuned the strings carefully, not wanting to break one and to have to replace it. He tried a few chords, adjusted two frets and started to play.
At first the fingers of his right hand were stiff and awkward and he had to stop and try again to find the divisions he wanted. Once started he was determined to play the tune as his mother had played it. For an hour he played it over and again until he was satisfied. If Leicester ever asked him to play again, this would be the tune.
He put the lute back in its case and hid it under the pile of shirts. Then he remembered that Gabriel Browne had had no difficulty in finding it there and took it up to his chamber. It fitted comfortably under his bed.
There was no food in the house but he had not the energy to go out. He went to sleep lulled by the melody of ‘Greensleeves’ repeating in his mind.
The storm began that night. Rain lashed the window and crashed like pebbles on to the roof. He lay awake and listened to it. Not a man or woman in London would be asleep. Water would be gushing down Ludgate Hill, sweeping away anything in its path and dumping it in heaps on corners and in doorways, where it would fester and rot until it ended up in the Fleet or the Thames.
When St Martin’s clock struck six to signal the end of the curfew the wind had abated but it was still raining. There was no point in rising. He needed food but there would not be an inn open at that hour. He lay on his back, just as he had often done with Katherine beside him, and let his mind wander. Heavy bags of coins with Wetherby, on their way to Leicester and Warwick, the riddle of the false testons and the slogans solved and Pryse in Newgate. But dear Isaac was dead, Simon Lovelace was dead and Joan Willys was still awaiting trial. As to Gabriel Browne, who could say? Where would he go – the Low Countries, Denmark? Somewhere far away from the reach of the Dudley family, to be sure.
By eight the rain had ceased. He rose and dressed and went in search of sustenance. He avoided the worst of the torrent pouring down the hill by keeping to the middle of the street. Urchins splashed about in the puddles while their mothers collected what they could in pails and pots, for fresh rainwater was cleaner even than that drawn from Clerk’s well.
He found what he needed in the Crossed Keys in the form of bread and beef washed down with a beaker of ale and steeled himself for Newgate. By the time he squelched his way through the great gates, his shoes were sodden.
The warden was in his room. ‘Dr Radcliff, good day to you, although I see you have had a wet time of it. And not such a good day for the prisoners. The cells on the common side have flooded.’
‘Can anything be done?’
‘Nothing but wait for the water to drain away. It will eventually. If you have come to inquire after Pryse, I am afraid you are too late. He was buried two days ago.’
‘How did he die?’
The warden coughed. ‘I have recorded his death as being caused by gaol fever. There have been cases and the flooding will bring more.’
Christopher raised an eyebrow. ‘Gaol fever. Not the result of his experience in the pressing room?’
‘No, no, doctor. Gaol fever to be sure.’
The warden was lying but Christopher felt no remorse. Pryse would have hanged and deserved to die. He had other concerns. ‘Is Joan Willys still here?’ he asked.
‘She is, on the master’s side. Do you wish to see her?’
‘If you please, warden. I shall not take long.’
The warden summoned a guard who escorted him to Joan’s cell.
She was wrapped in a thick shawl and perched on a stool, nibbling a piece of cheese. She jumped up when she saw Christopher, bobbed a curtsy and smiled her lop-sided smile.
‘Dr Radcliff, are you well? How do you manage at home? Are you well fed?’
Christopher held up a hand. ‘I am well, thank you, Joan, although I am in sore need of your honeyed porridge. Has Mistress Allington visited you?’
‘Oh yes, doctor, almost every day. She brings victuals and clean clothes.’
‘That she does,’ said one of the women with whom Joan shared the cell, ‘and we are grateful to her. A fine lady.’
‘A fine lady,’ echoed the other woman.
‘She is indeed. Have you had other visitors, Joan?’
‘No, doctor. My mother cannot come and who else would? Except you.’
‘I would have come sooner but I have been away. Do you lack for anything?’
‘Nothing. How many days more, doctor?’
A grand jury had yet to be summoned but he would not tell Joan that. ‘Not many, Joan.’
Again the lop-sided smile. ‘I have been saying my prayers as Mistress Allington told me. I knew you would come.’
‘And I will come again soon, Joan, very soon.’
He walked back to the gate. Prayers. They would need more than prayers.
Gilbert Knoyll’s servant answered the door, disappeared briefly and returned to say that the magistrate was not available. Christopher pushed past him and into Knoyll’s study.
The magistrate was stuffing food into his mouth. When he spoke, he sent crumbs flying over his desk. ‘Dr Radcliff, did my servant not make it clear that I am not available? Return tomorrow if you have business to discuss.’
Christopher ignored him. ‘Why is Joan Willys still held in Newgate and why has a grand jury not yet considered her case?’
‘That is not your concern.’ More crumbs splattered the desk.
Christopher felt his temper rising. He stretched his fingers, breathed deeply and took his time before speaking. It was in just this mood that he had killed a man on the day of his mother’s burial. ‘Mr Knoyll, I know that both you and Mr Pyke have visited Alice Scrope at her house. I also know that the woman is a thief and a whore who holds a grudge against Joan Willys. And if Joan Willys appears at the sessions I shall not be the only one who knows it. A magistrate who supports the accusation of a woman with whom he consorts and lies about it will not be looked upon favourably by the judge.’
‘Joan Willys has been tested. Justice must be done.’
Christopher snapped. ‘Justice? You speak of justice, Knoyll? An innocent woman languishes in Newgate awaiting a trial that should never take place while you sit on your fat arse doing nothing. You are swiving a whore who has made a false accusation and if Joan Willys is not released today, you will be the one in Newgate, sitting in twelve inches of stinking water with an empty belly.’ He glared at Knoyll, searching for a sign of fear. There was none.
He slammed the door on his way out.
Each time he saw Clennet Pyke, he thought the c
oroner looked more like a flounder. His face appeared flatter, his mouth smaller and his narrow eyes set closer together. Now the man sat by his fire, a beaker in his hand and reeking of drink.
Christopher recoiled at the smell of stale beer. He was in no mood for courtesy. ‘My patience has run out, Pyke. You are swiving the woman Alice Scrope, despite the fact that she is a whore and a thief and has made a false accusation of witchcraft against my housekeeper. What have you to say about that?’
Pyke’s eyebrows rose. ‘And who is your housekeeper, Dr Radcliff?’
‘You know perfectly well who she is. Joan Willys who now waits in Newgate for the Easter sessions. A monstrous injustice to which you are party.’
‘How is that? Was she not properly tested in Mr Knoyll’s presence and did she not appear in his court where witnesses spoke against her?’
‘To hell with testing and witnesses. Which is where you and the fat magistrate will go if she is not released today. Today, Pyke, or you will join Knoyll in Newgate and it will not be on the master’s side. Be sure of it.’
Pyke got to his feet. ‘You do not frighten me, sir, with your threats. I am a coroner and will not be intimidated.’
More spirit from the revolting little man than he had expected. ‘You are a thieving incompetent, Pyke. Persuade Knoyll to free Joan Willys or face the consequences of your crimes.’
As he had with Knoyll, Christopher glared at him before marching out. Had he seen a speck of fear in those mean eyes or was it his imagination?
He hardly noticed the prices in Cheapside. Two pennies, five pennies – he would probably have paid ten if he had been asked. His mind was on Joan and how to save her from the stocks and a prison term.
Wetherby had come bearing wine. ‘I’ve counted it,’ he said. ‘Five hundred and fifty pounds in gold and silver coin.’ He filled two of Christopher’s glasses. ‘When shall we hand it over to the earl?’
‘The sooner the better. Today?’
‘We shall have to explain where it has come from.’
‘I fear so.’
Christopher’s mind was not on the money and he was grateful that Wetherby did not push him. ‘What of Mistress Allington? How does she fare?’
