by A D Swanston
‘Well enough, I suppose. I would know if it was not so.’
‘Have you called on her since we returned?’
‘I have been busy. Tomorrow perhaps.’
‘Then all is not well between you. I am sorry for it. Is that what is troubling you?’
‘In part. I am troubled also by my housekeeper, Joan Willys, having to face a judge and jury at the Easter assizes on a false charge of witchcraft. She is ill equipped to defend herself and is likely to spend a year in prison and four days in the stocks. I doubt she would survive.’
‘Tell me how this has happened, Christopher.’
Christopher told him about Alice Scrope’s accusation and Joan’s searching and her examination in the magistrate’s court. ‘If it were any other magistrate than Gilbert Knoyll, it would not have happened,’ he said. ‘The man’s a fat slop bucket and he’s been swiving the woman Scrope. How can he be thought impartial?’
‘Surely he cannot.’
‘And his friend the coroner is swiving her too. Clennet Pyke is as bad as Knoyll.’
‘Pyke? Clennet Pyke? A small man with narrow eyes?’
‘That’s him, the evil little toad.’
‘Well, well. The Clennet Pyke I know is not a swiver of women, even whores. He is well known in certain establishments around Eastcheap, and much disliked for his meanness of purse and spirit.’ Wetherby frowned. ‘Mind you, there are those who lie on both sides of the bed, if you understand me. He must be one of them.’
‘And women who do too, so I’ve heard.’
‘That I would not know. Clennet Pyke, however, I do know. He would do well in Newgate.’
When Wetherby left both bottles were empty. He staggered a little at the door, clapped Christopher on the shoulder and strode off down the hill. ‘Call this afternoon, my friend. I will arrange an appointment for us with the earl.’
CHAPTER 35
In Cambridge he had often walked along the ancient path that ran alongside the river to the hamlet of Grantchester. It was a good way to clear the head after a morning’s teaching and more often than not he had only cows in the meadows for company.
Holborn Fields were a poor substitute, with or without lawyers’ horses – thick, clinging mud in winter and earth baked hard in summer. A day after the storm the fields would be like the marshes at Hackney. He would have to make do with the streets.
North from St Paul’s, right into Gresham Street and then into Gutter Lane and Cheapside would take him about thirty minutes. Enough to restore his mind after the excess of the morning. It was Roland’s fault for bringing two bottles and for entertaining him with his palace gossip.
Sir Christopher Hatton’s laundress had found a ten-decade rosary among his undergarments. Thomas Heneage had upset the queen by calling the Earl of Warwick ‘the limping sibling’. And a lady of the queen’s bedchamber had taken too much strong wine, addressed her majesty as ‘sir’ and fallen over. Roland was never at a loss for a story. True or not – it mattered little.
Water still dripped off rooftops and lay about in puddles. It was worst in Gresham Street where the rain had settled on the paving rather than seep into the ground as it did more easily on cobbles.
He passed Wood Street, walked a few paces and stopped. A small boy shouted across the street. ‘You lost, mister? A penny and I’ll show you the way.’ Christopher ignored him. He retraced his steps before turning up Wood Street.
‘You are not at the mercy of some unseen force, Dr Radcliff,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You are a man of free will, doing as you please. Do not pretend otherwise.’
He rapped on Katherine’s door. Nothing happened so he rapped again. The door opened and she stood, arms crossed, on the threshold. She did not smile. ‘Christopher, you have saved me a walk to Ludgate Hill. I have news for you.’
‘Good news, I hope. May I come in?’
‘What needs to be said can as well be said here. My aunt is sick and will not live long. I have determined to return to Cambridge when she dies.’
‘Has this something to do with Ell Cole?’
‘No, Christopher, it is to do with you. Your work for the earl has changed you and you are not the man I followed to London. The whore is simply one way in which you have changed.’
‘Katherine, that is nonsense. And I have told you endlessly that I have never touched Ell Cole.’
She glared at him. ‘Can you tell me truthfully that you have never shared her bed?’
He sighed. ‘No, Katherine, I cannot say that, but I have never—’ ‘Goodbye, Christopher. I shall pray for you.’ She closed the door, leaving him standing in the street.
‘Found ’er, did you?’ said the boy as he brushed past. ‘Penny to show you the way ’ome.’ He scuttled off laughing.
Not the man she followed to London. No, indeed he was not. The dreams, of course, and a temper more likely to flare, as it had when she had last spoken of Ell. But what else? Had she not changed too? Who would not in London?
He walked slowly back to Ludgate Hill, his mind only half on what he was doing. Like rats sensing easy prey, chattering urchins skipped around his legs, grabbed his coat and barred his way until he tipped the contents of his purse on to the street and left them to fight over the coins.
He did not even notice the coach until he was almost at his door. It was a two-seater, painted a deep blue with gold trimmings, drawn by two black Neapolitan coursers and bearing the Dudley crest. The queen, he knew, had one much the same.
A messenger jumped out when he saw Christopher. ‘Dr Radcliff, the earl requests you to come to the palace immediately. We are to convey you.’
Another reward? Another warning to keep the secret of Simon Lovelace? ‘What does the earl want of me?’
‘That I do not know, doctor, but he was most insistent that I escort you to Whitehall without delay.’
Troubles seldom travel alone, his father had been fond of saying. He climbed into the coach and sat opposite the messenger, with his back to the driver.
The Dudley crest ensured that they were not held up on the way or at the gate. He was escorted by a guard to the earl’s apartments and shown straight through the antechamber. No waiting around today.
He had not seen the man standing beside the earl for more than four years, despite the fact that he spent as much time in London as he did in Cambridge – a matter that had long grieved the college fellows. John Young, Master of Pembroke Hall, was a slight man, neat in appearance and modest in his dress, as befitted a clergyman and scholar. He was the second John Young to be Master, his father having been one of those replaced by the queen for his Catholic sympathies. His son had sometimes hinted at the distress his father had suffered as a consequence of his dismissal and Christopher had wondered if he bore a grudge. It had been he who had ordered the removal of every trace of popery from the college chapel on the day news reached the town of the queen’s wishes.
‘I have invited Mr Young here, Dr Radcliff, because he has written to me on a sensitive matter concerning you. I felt he should speak to you in person,’ said Leicester.
‘Dr Radcliff,’ said Young in his precise way, ‘it is a pleasure to see you after so long. Five years, is it not, since you left Pembroke?’
‘It is, master, and there are times when I still miss the college.’
Young pursed his lips. ‘Indeed. And I for one was sorry to see you leave us. Alas, an unfortunate necessity. But you will be happy to know that little has changed since you were with us. Idle nobles, impoverished sizars, hard-working commoners, the town council arguing with the Caput Senatus about the watch and ward and the King’s Ditch and our pupils at war with the apprentices.’
Christopher laughed. ‘Then little indeed has changed.’
‘I shall come to the point. The fellows of the college have given their consent to my inviting you to return. I am also advised that the Caput would not stand in your way. Five years have passed and the university has need of teachers of your skill. Naturally, I fi
rst advised his lordship of this and he graciously suggested this meeting.’
What was the expression? Struck dumb? ‘Well, master,’ he managed, ‘I am at a loss. This is entirely unexpected.’
Leicester grinned. ‘You lost for words, doctor? A thing I have never before encountered.’
‘My apologies, my lord. It has been a day of surprises.’ Christopher stopped stretching his fingers and made an effort to recover himself. ‘Master, I am conscious of your generosity but I remain a convicted felon. If it were not for my lord Leicester, I would still be food for the rats in Norwich gaol or buried in the grave of a common criminal.’
‘We are of course aware of that,’ replied Leicester, ‘but if you wish to accept Mr Young’s offer, I believe that Her Majesty might be persuaded to grant you a royal pardon which would extinguish your conviction.’
‘You are not married, doctor, am I right?’ asked Young. ‘I ask because Her Majesty’s prohibition on married men taking up fellow-ships could not be circumvented.’
‘I am unmarried, master, and likely to remain so.’
‘Good. Then it is up to you to decide, doctor. Continue in the service of his lordship or return to Pembroke Hall with a fellowship awaiting you. Not immediately, of course, but in a year or two I would certainly support your election.’
‘Do not make your decision hastily, doctor,’ said Leicester. ‘Give it careful thought. I should be sorry indeed to lose you but I would not stand in your way if a return to teaching is what you want. And to keep you here against your will would be foolish in the extreme.’
‘I shall, my lord.’
‘Meanwhile, I will speak to Her Majesty. It would be as well to be sure of her views. She takes a very close interest in the universities. “My Cambridge”, she is pleased to call it. Good day, Dr Radcliff.’
‘Good day, my lord, good day, master.’ He bowed and turned to leave.
There was no coach to take him home. He found a wherry at the Whitehall steps. The river was calm. His mind was not. Whose idea had it really been? John Young’s or Leicester’s? Would he be welcome in Pembroke Hall or was it simply a means of removing him from the earl’s service and sending him where there was less likelihood of his causing trouble?
And, most of all, what did he want to do? He would never now lack for money. A fellowship and the pleasures of Cambridge or discomfort and danger in the cause of the country? And Katherine? Would a fellowship change her mind or would it not? Not marriage, of course, but a reconciliation?
He alighted at Blackfriars steps. If Katherine had not that very day turned him away he would go to Wood Street. If Isaac were alive he would go to Fleet Street. He could do neither. And he had quite forgotten that Wetherby still had the money and was expecting him to call.
CHAPTER 36
It had rained again for most of the night and the dreams had come and gone. He dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a shirt and went down to the study without bothering to wash or dress properly.
He was trying without success to light a fire when he heard the door open. Surely Katherine had not changed her mind. He left the fire and went to greet her. ‘Good morning, doctor,’ said the little figure, smiling her lop-sided smile and putting the key back in her basket. ‘I thought to come straight away. Have you taken breakfast?’
‘Joan. You have been released. When was it?’ He smiled in delight and only just stopped himself from embracing the girl.
‘Yesterday evening, doctor. The warden came to the cell and told me to go, so I did. Luckily the key to your door was still at my mother’s house.’
‘Did the warden give any reason for your release?’
‘No, sir. He just told me to leave. I’ve brought honey and oats for your porridge. How have you been managing?’
‘Very poorly. It is a mighty relief to see you free, Joan, for both our sakes.’
‘Mistress Allington will have taken care of you.’
‘Mistress Allington has been much occupied. I have seen little of her.’
‘Oh. I am sorry to hear that, doctor. Now, you go to your chamber and I will prepare your breakfast and set a fire. It’s cold out after the rain.’
He could have cheered. Joan back and with a brisk confidence that he had not seen before. Where had it come from? Surely not Newgate. Perhaps she was a witch. He laughed. Knoyll and Pyke had been frightened off after all. For all their bragga-docio, they had taken fright and run like the craven scroyles they were.
He was still grinning when he went down to the kitchen. ‘I’ve made extra, doctor,’ said Joan, spooning porridge into a bowl. ‘You sit down and I will attend to the fire.’
He emptied the bowl and helped himself to another. He called out to her. ‘You can move those shirts, now, Joan. I expect they could do with a wash.’
Joan poked her head around the door. ‘They could, doctor, unless you are minded to buy new ones.’
‘If you wash them, do you know anyone who would like them?’
‘I do, doctor. There’s many would be grateful.’
‘In that case, take them and wash them and find them new homes. I shall visit the shirt-maker in Leadenhall.’
‘As you wish, doctor. Be sure to buy good linen shirts, won’t you? They do better than wool.’
He was in the study when Joan came to say goodbye. ‘Do you need money for food?’ he asked her.
‘Two shillings will be sufficient.’
‘Are you sure? The market prices have risen.’
‘I know, doctor, but the traders will be pleased to see me. I can manage on two shillings.’
He handed her the coins. ‘Tomorrow, Joan?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow, doctor.’ For the first time, Joan looked unsure of herself. ‘And I thank you for what you and Mistress Allington have done for me.’
‘You are well and free, Joan. That is thanks enough.’
Wetherby arrived at noon. He looked about the study and shook his head. ‘You’ve found a new housekeeper, Christopher, unless I am mistaken. No dust, a good fire, and where are your old shirts?’
‘Joan Willys has been released from Newgate. I shall never wear dirty shirts or go hungry again.’
Wetherby threw up his hands. ‘That is excellent news. How did it happen?’
‘It seems that the ungodly Clennet Pyke and Gilbert Knoyll took fright and saw the error of their ways.’
‘Excellent. I wonder what caused them to change their minds?’ There was something in Wetherby’s tone that made Christopher look up. A tiny smile played around his mouth and eyes. ‘Roland, did you have anything to do with it?’
‘I? Good God, no. It must have been your silver tongue and lawyer’s demeanour. Now let us to the Brown Bear. I am hungry.’
The inn was quiet. They found a table in a corner and ordered food and ale. ‘I tried to make an appointment for us with Leicester but could not. It seems he was much occupied with other matters. And I gather we had an unusual visitor at Whitehall,’ said Wetherby while they waited. ‘John Young, Master of your old college. Why would he come to the palace, do you suppose?’
‘I really could not say. Perhaps Her Majesty had asked to see him.’
‘I think not. He was seen entering the Earl of Leicester’s apartments.’
‘Was he?’
‘He was, Christopher, and so were you.’
‘In the name of God, is nothing secret in that place?’
‘Very little. Are you going to tell me or not?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Christopher, dissembling does you no credit and you are not good at it. Kindly tell me why the Master of Pembroke Hall and the noble Earl of Leicester summoned you to Whitehall.’
He knew Roland Wetherby. Like Katherine Allington, he would not let go of the bone until he had picked every last shred of meat from it. ‘Oh, very well, Roland, but if you breathe a word I will do to you what Gerard Fossett did to John Pryse.’
‘No you will not. Now tell me.’ A girl brought
their pie and two beakers of ale. Christopher waited until she had gone before he started.
‘A difficult decision for you, my friend,’ said Wetherby when he had finished. ‘Disputation and dinner with the fellows or felons and traitors for the earl. I know which I would choose.’
‘I know which you would choose, too. It is what I should choose that I do not know.’
‘Have you told Katherine? What does she say?’
‘I have not told her, nor intend to. Katherine has decided to return to Cambridge alone.’
‘Ah. Then I shall inquire no more. Sit by your fire and think. I daresay the answer will come to you. Be sure to tell me, however, if you feel in need of wise counsel.’
They parted outside the inn. At Ludgate Hill, Christopher let himself in, took off his coat and went into the study. The fire was fading. He crouched down to put more wood on it. He did not see the blow that felled him from behind.
CHAPTER 37
He was on the floor, hands and feet tied, lying on his side facing the fire. His head throbbed and his mind was befuddled. He tried to focus his eyes but could not. It took a little while before he realized what had happened. He had returned to the house, come into the study and then nothing. He knew no more.
His attacker knew his business. The blow had been hard enough to knock him senseless but not hard enough to kill. Just like Wetherby at St Paul’s. And at that moment he knew. Gabriel Browne had been waiting for him.
‘Dr Radcliff,’ said a distant voice, ‘surely you did not think that I would disappear, that we would never meet again.’ Christopher managed to roll over, unable to prevent vomit dribbling from his mouth. He looked up to see Gabriel Browne standing over him. ‘Our business is not yet done,’ said Gabriel. Christopher wriggled around and got his back against a leg of his writing table so that he could sit up. ‘How wise of you to get rid of the shirts and put the lute under your bed. Much safer. Your blade is in the kitchen, should you need it.’ He held up a wicked-looking long-bladed dagger. ‘I have brought my own. I have never liked firearms, just as Simon did not. A good blade is so much more reliable, don’t you agree?’
