by Barbara Kyle
“To Master Colchester,” he instructed the scribe. “Tell him this. ‘The work was delayed but I am in London and it will be done. Come to the meeting with payment.’ Write that.”
He watched the indecipherable pen strokes. When the clerk finished with a flourish, Carlos ordered, “Read it back.”
The clerk did so. Carlos was satisfied.
“Is that all, sir?” the clerk asked.
Carlos nodded. “How much?”
The clerk smiled and asked for a shilling.
Carlos looked down at the coins in his hand. Her coins. “Madre de Dios,” he cursed under his breath. He would beglad when this was over and he’d seen the last of her. The last of her dangerous passion to rescue her father. The last of her sympathetic eyes. He tossed a coin on the table.
The young man had looked up sharply at the foreign oath. “You’re Spanish?” he inquired.
Carlos only glared at him. “See the message is delivered to the Blue Boar Tavern,” he said, tossing down another coin. “Enough?”
“Ample, sir.”
Carlos turned on his heel and left.
14
Friends
“Can you remember all that, mademoiselle?” Ambassador de Noailles whispered. His face was in shadow in this dim corner of his scullery at the Charterhouse. None of his English servants would have been able to understand his French conversation with Isabel, even if they could hear it, but the furtive location was necessary to keep his none-too-trustworthy French staff ignorant of the meeting.
Isabel managed a smile and assured him that she could remember, though her head felt jammed with the facts and figures of French fleets and infantry companies. De Noailles had declared the situation too dangerous for her to carry the information to Wyatt on paper.
“I wish I could offer you some refreshment before you go,” de Noailles said. “But …” He gave a fatalistic, Gallic shrug.
Isabel understood. The very fact that he had steered her to this deserted scullery beside his washhouse court was evidence enough that her visit was dangerous. She’d taken the precaution of entering the building through his back garden, her face hidden by her hood. “You are kind, monsieur,” she said. “But in any case I must return to the inn before curfew. I hear there’s little leniency from the citizens’ watches at the gates.” It was already dark.
His brow furrowed. “I do not like to send a young lady alone out into the evening. The streets are full of ruffians.”
“I’ll be all right,” she assured him. He accompanied her to the back door.
“Wait,” he said as if struck by an inspiration. “There is someone else visiting me who is also going back into town. He can escort you.” He smiled apologetically. “These days, I’m afraid I think too much of secrecy. But, in fact, you two should meet.”
De Noailles fetched the other visitor, a lanky man of about thirty with quick eyes and a trim beard that did not quite mask his receding chin. De Noailles made the introductions. The man was Henry Peckham. His French was halting, but Isabel could see that he and de Noailles were in accord. “Peckham is organizing the London citizens supporting Wyatt,” de Noailles explained to her, smiling. He added with obvious relish, “There are a great many of them. Aldermen, even. Ah, yes, the Queen is in for a great surprise!”
There was a burst of female laughter from somewhere at the front of the house, perhaps from the maids. Isabel and Peckham took a hurried, whispered leave of the Ambassador and stepped out into the washhouse court where a single hanging lantern on the court wall barely lit their way out into the dark garden. The evening wind made the boughs of the barren fruit trees creak and groan. They reached the postern gate in the garden wall and, in almost total darkness, made their way up a lane to Aldersgate Street where Peckham’s horse was tethered. Isabel had left her horse at a hostelry farther down the street; like Peckham, she had been sure that de Noailles’s lodging would be watched by the Queen’s officers.
Once in the street Isabel felt a rush of exhilaration at this small success with de Noailles. Amid the welter of her difficulties she had accomplished what she had set out to do here for Wyatt’s cause. It felt wonderfully satisfying.
On the way to the hostelry, with Peckham’s horse plodding behind them, Peckham told Isabel about his clandestine group’s activities. They were quietly organizing citizens and arms, he explained.
“Sir,” Isabel said cautiously, “may I ask if you are any relation to Sir Edmund Peckham?”
“My father,” he answered with a mischievous smile. “He dare not declare himself yet, but he is behind us.”
Isabel was impressed. Sir Edmund Peckham was Master of the Mint and a member of the Queen’s council. It was thrilling to think that support for Wyatt’s cause had reached so high.
And thrilling, too, to realize that as soon as she took the Ambassador’s information to Wyatt at Rochester she would see Martin. She would unburden her heart to him of the appalling things that had happened to her family. She would find solace in his embrace.
As they walked down the almost deserted street, she hugged herself against the evening’s cold gusts. The question was, when could she possibly manage to get to Rochester?
The young clerk at St. Paul’s cathedral packed the last of his quills and parchment and ink into his portable escritoire. Other scribes filed past him, heading for home. He rolled his head to ease a kink in his shoulder after the long day of writing in the drafty nave. The usual assortment of boring legal documents and banal love letters had been supplemented by a flurry of anxious missives from servingmen to their families in the country, warning of the approaching danger. Whether it came from a Spanish invasion or from lawless rebels, the country people would feel hardship either way. The clerk and his fellow scribes had been busy until well after dark.
He was about to close the escritoire when his eye was caught by the folded paper he had written for the tall Spaniard. He had tucked it away, reluctant to send it to the Blue Boar Tavern as instructed, yet equally reluctant to act on his suspicions.
He took out the paper. What was the right thing to do? He had taken the Spaniard’s money; professionally, he owed it to the client to deliver the message. “The work has been delayed, but I am in London and it will be done. Come to the meeting with payment.” But what did it mean? A veiled message to activate some Spanish mischief against England? Was the man himself a Spanish spy set amongst unsuspecting Londoners to further the aims of the Emperor?
The Jesus bells above him clanged, startling him. Seven o’clock. The west door opened as a scribe went out, and a gust of wind eddied up the nave, making the pillar torches tremble. It seemed a kind of sign.
The clerk quickly ripped the paper into shreds and scattered them among the slushy muck on the floor. He would not be responsible for abetting a Spanish spy.
“The Queen’s men’ll trounce these whoreson brigands of Wyatt’s, never you fear,” a red-faced man declared loftily to his fellows in the Thames Street cookhouse. His speech was slurred by ale.
“Aye,” a man leaning on the counter grumbled, “and then the Spaniards’ll be trouncing you and me.”
The mustached woman working behind the counter scoffed. “Oh, shut your gob, Jock, what do you know of Spaniards?” With a muscular arm she expertly jerked out the bung in a fresh keg of ale and slid a pewter mug under it to catch the foaming brew. “Better to let the Queen have her bridegroom, I say, than see an English rabble rampaging through the city. For that’s what it’ll be if Wyatt reaches London, sure as there’s a twinkle in a widow’s eye.”
“What do I know of Spaniards?” the man named Jock belligerently protested. “I know enough that I’ll be locking up me daughters if any of those bastard sons of Satan land on English soil!” Pleased with the dramatic power of his retort, he hiked up his breeches sagging below his belly and added, with a wink at his mates, “But never you fear ‘em bothering you, Tess. They only go for virgins.”
Laughter rolled down the counter
and from the nearest tables.
The barwoman’s eyes narrowed on Jock with malicious delight. “Then there’ll not be much use in locking up your daughters,” she said. “Like the stable door, it’s too late once the horse has bolted.”
The other drinkers roared. Jock snarled and stared into his mug. Tess, the barwoman, turned back with a grin to filling mugs.
Carlos, listening with half an ear to the inane conversation, lifted his mug and drained it. He sat by himself at a small table by the wall. He set the mug down amid the four others he had emptied. The ale had done little to alter his mood. He had half wished he could get drunk and stay drunk until the job was finished and he had enough money to get out of this godforsaken country, but he was still very sober.
The door opened and a cold gust reached him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl come in. With an inward groan he turned his back again, hoping she would not notice him. But within moments she was standing by his side.
“I’ll join you if I may,” she said. She was still hugging herself from the cold, her cheeks red.
He said nothing. She took the chair opposite him and raised her hand to catch the barwoman’s attention, then shrugged off her cloak and vigorously rubbed her hands. “At least it’s warm in here,” she said. She seemed full of energy. Her eyes were sparkling.
A boy of twelve or thirteen shuffled up to the table, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Ale, mistress?”
“Small beer, please. And,” she added, with a glance toward the hearth, “what have you to eat that’s hot? I’m famished.”
“Rabbit pastry and eel stew. Mayhap a bite of roast capon left, though this crowd’s done their worst on it.”
“Rabbit pastry, please,” she said.
The boy looked at Carlos.
“Ale,” Carlos ordered.
The boy left and they sat in silence. The room was stuffy, heated by the huge hearth where two sweaty men worked at thumping bread out of pans, shifting hot pies onto trivets, and stirring stews. The customers, sitting and standing, babbled on. There were porters and lightermen from nearby Dowgate Dock, and housewives and servant girls waiting for meat pies and beer to take home.
“Have you eaten?” the girl asked cautiously. She was looking at the litter of mugs Carlos had emptied. “Perhaps I didn’t give you enough money,” she murmured. “Let me order you some food.”
“Not hungry,” Carlos said. It was a lie. He had spent her third shilling on the drink and eaten nothing. But he wanted none of her charity. It was bad enough he needed to stick with her so she could pay for the inn … and provide the perfect cover to lead him to Thornleigh.
The server brought the food and drink. The girl paid him. “And another order of the rabbit, please,” she said.
Carlos scowled, grabbed the fresh mug, and drank down his ale.
“I hope we can get an early start tomorrow morning,” she said, cutting into the pastry. She lifted a bite on the tip of her knife to her mouth. Her lips parted. Full lips. And red, as if roughed from kissing, he thought. But of course it was only from the cold. He looked away.
He heard the door open again as some new patrons stomped into the warmth.
“I think we should try the Fleet prison next,” the girl said after a few more bites. Carlos looked back at her. “Do you agree?” she asked. She had leaned toward him to whisper this talk of prisons. He noticed a freckle at the base of her throat, just above the swell of her breasts. It struck him forcefully, and oddly, that such a little thing as a freckle should have such allure after he’d seen her practically naked when Mosse had had her. He wished he hadn’t remembered that now. He’d been finding it hard enough to forget. It was easier if he didn’t look at her at all.
“Why not,” he said, grabbing his empty mug and standing. She looked up at him inquiringly. “The boy is too slow,” he said, and started for the counter to get more ale.
“Wait.” A warning in her voice caught him. He turned back. She was looking past him toward the counter. She had stiffened and her face had gone pale. “Sit down,” she whispered.
He sensed danger. He frowned at her, his eyes questioning.
“Two guards from Colchester jail are standing at the counter,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.
Slowly, Carlos sat. His back was to the counter so he had to rely on her face for information. He sat very still, but his hand slipped under the table and across his body to the hilt of his sword. He cursed himself for having succumbed to the room’s warmth and hung up the sheepskin coat on a peg. Its hood would have at least masked his face, but it was too far away to fetch without drawing the guards’ attention. Mentally, he scanned the room. He knew of no way to get to the door except past the counter. No way out.
“It is them,” the girl whispered in amazement. “The two who took Father away.” A fevered look flashed in her eyes. “They know where he is!” She suddenly stood.
He couldn’t stop her. If he grabbed her and she struggled he would only draw attention to himself. She moved past him. She was going toward them.
Carlos clenched his teeth. Attack now, before they saw him? No, there were two of them and they’d be well armed, and the way to the door was clogged with people; no quick escape. His only hope was to pretend to be dead drunk. When they came for him he could at least lull them off guard for a moment with this ruse, then lunge. He slowly leaned over the table, dropped his cheek on it, and lowered his eyelids almost shut. But under the table his hand tightened around his sword hilt.
He heard every word at the counter.
“I know you from Colchester,” she said to them abruptly. Her voice was slightly unsteady.
“Oh?” a deep voice asked. There was a pause. “Hold on, aren’t you the girl …? Hoy, Simon, look here. It’s that lady what was in the Hole.”
“What?” a second male voice asked. “Christ on the Cross, so it is.”
The chatter throughout the rest of the room continued unchanged. Above it, Carlos’s ears strained to focus on the girl’s words.
“The man you took from the jail yesterday morning was my father. You brought him to London, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” the deep voice said. “That we did.”
“Where?” There was desperation in her voice. “Oh, please tell me. Where did you take him?”
The second guard said, “Why he’s in—”
“Enough, Simon!” the deep-voiced guard cut in. He went on smoothly, amiably, “You’re well met, mistress. I warrant you can help us.”
“Help you?” she asked. “How?”
“We was about to head home yesterday when word came with new instructions. So now we’re looking for the cur what was chained in the Hole beside your father. A murdering Spaniard. Escaped, he has. But then"—his voice dropped menacingly—"you know all about that, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About you and the Spaniard scampering off together, clean out of Colchester. Don’t deny it. A farrier by the stable saw you run out of the jail together thick as thieves.”
“Sir, I hurried from the jail during a terrifying riot. I was running for my life. I cannot be held responsible for whatever criminals came out the door behind me.”
“Had a falling out with him, have you?” the guard taunted, clearly unconvinced. He tried a different tack. “So, you’re looking for your father here in London town, is that it? Maybe we can do business together.”
“Business?”
“Look here, mistress,”he said placatingly “Simon and me, we’ve no mind to bother a pretty lady like yourself about your affairs. Our commission is to find the Spaniard and take him back to hang. If you parted company with him, well and good. Just tell us when and where you last saw him, and where you think he might be holed up now. It’ll help us track him, see? You tell us that much, and we’ll tell you where your father’s at.”
Carlos’s heart banged against his ribs. Nothing mattered to her but her father—he had learned that
much about her. His hand slowly slid out the sword blade an inch, two inches. He was going to have to fight his way out.
“My information in exchange for yours?” the girl asked. Her voice was very thin. Carlos could barely hear her.
“That’s it, mistress. A fair bargain, wouldn’t you say?”
She said nothing for a moment. A woman in the far corner roared with laughter at some private joke. Carlos felt sweat crawl down his ribs from his armpits. The waiting—the stillness—was agony. Then the girl said, “Tell me first. Where’s my father?”
The guard laughed mirthlessly. “Now, now, mistress, that wouldn’t be fair. Ladies first is what I always say.” His voice suddenly hardened. “Where’s the bloody Spaniard?”
Carlos decided to strike. He took a sharp breath, tensed his muscles, was about to jump up … when the girl said, “I wish I could help you, sir. Truly, I do. But unfortunately I have no information to give you. I know nothing about this Spaniard you speak of. I left the jail in a panic, alone, and came to London alone. I am looking for my father. That is all.”
There was a pause. “Maybe she don’t know,” the guard named Simon said.
“Maybe she don’t,” the deep voice conceded. “No business here after all.”
“Perhaps there is,” she said eagerly. “If you will tell me where I can find my father I will gladly pay you.”
“All right, mistress. Let’s start with paying for this here ale. Simon and me’s had a pot each.”
“Yes,” she quickly agreed. “Here.” Carlos heard the faint jingle of her purse.
“And we’ve got another two or three taverns to check before curfew.” There was more clinking of coins. “And beds to pay for before we search again on the morrow.” Again, she handed over money.
“Much obliged, mistress. Come on now, Simon, finish up and let’s push off.”
“But wait, you haven’t told me,” the girl protested.
The deep-voiced guard laughed. “Oh, I thought you was paying us for our trouble,” he said derisively, “since you’ve given nothing else. No information from you, no information from us. Now that’s fair.”
