The Cardinal's Court

by Cora Harrison

  ‘And James, did you notice anything about him during the storming of the château vert?’

  ‘He shoot well, even with little toy arrows, he shoot very well indeed,’ she said promptly. ‘I see him aim at an orange on the floor and the arrow fell beside it. It did not, not stick in it,’ she finished after a brief search for a word.

  ‘So you were watching him.’ I began to think that this girl might be very valuable to me as a witness, but she read my mind and shook her head.

  ‘Not all of the time. No, there was more to see. I have never been so near to a king before. He is very, very magnificent.’

  ‘So he is.’ I brought her back to James. ‘And where did the rest of James’s arrows go? Who did they hit?’

  ‘Just the boots, or in the air between persons.’ Her reply was prompt, but unless she could swear that she had her eyes on James all of the time, it would be of little use in a court of law. She had gone back to her fish and placed another layer of green over the gold outline, very, very delicately, managing with her tiny brush of miniver hair to leave minuscule slivers of gold untouched. I wondered whether I might be able to pick out that fish when the whole of the cardinal’s room had been covered with the painted panels, and then thought that I was unlikely to see the finish of this work of art.

  ‘Farewell, Mistress Artist,’ I said. It was time that I got back to James. He had had sufficient time to have shot his demons.

  ‘Farewell, My Lord Judge,’ she said and then laughed. She did not curtsey to me, but held out her hand as though we were friends and I took it and pressed it lightly.

  ‘I will see you again, I hope,’ I said and went down the stairs, not thinking about James, for a few minutes, but of this interesting Flemish woman called Susannah.

  But when I came out, there was no sign of James. The butts were deserted, his arrows had been plucked from the greensward and the yeoman, who was supposed to be in surveillance, was happily exchanging insults with a barge-load of lively Londoners who were unloading some boxes. As I hesitated, the clerk of the kitchens came scurrying down from his office above the gate and the cook appeared through the archway, neatly garbed in a new white apron.

  ‘Now for heavens’ sake don’t take all the straw from around them. The sugar will take in the moisture from this damp air and it will weep and the cones will be spoiled.’ Master Beasley made his complaint in the weary tone of one who knows that he will not be listened to. The clerk continued to lever up the cover.

  ‘Well, we’ll waste it then, and if anyone complains, I’ll refer them to you,’ said the cook emphatically. ‘One of the gentlemen ushers was talking about the amount of sugar used. I told him to tell the cardinal that used is one thing, spoiled is another. That last lot of sugar was so damp that many of the subtleties just broke down and had to be thrown away.’

  The clerk hesitated. The cardinal, whose mind, I noticed, loved new knowledge and new problems, was a formidable figure to the kitchen clerks now that he was taking such an interest in the running of the kitchen. The involvement of the gentlemen ushers had meant that the clerks’ work was being checked, too.

  ‘Look, why don’t you just take the box into the weigh house and weigh it,’ said Master Beasley impatiently. ‘There should be ten sugar cones in there and each of them will be anything up to fourteen pounds. Now if this box weighs more than 140 pounds then we’re all to the good and these fellows can get on with their delivery for Westminster now that the tide has turned.’

  There was still no sign of James but I reckoned that he had gone off to his lodgings. He would be tired and cold. Let him have a glass of wine and a manchet of bread, and he would be feeling more himself. Then I could talk to him privately and find out exactly what Gilbert Tailboys had been hinting at.

  So I followed the clerk to the weighing house. The box weighed 160 pounds, to the cook’s satisfaction. ‘Well, there you are then, and don’t say that the straw makes a difference because we all know that it weighs next to nothing. All right, lads, you be off, take the tide and do your delivery, come on, young Dick and Matthew, take one end each and if you drop it, then I’ll boil you alive in the big cauldron in the boiling house.’

  I followed them in obedience to a slight jerk of the head given by the cook.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve never seen a sugar cone,’ I said loudly. ‘It’s just honey in Kilkenny Castle.’

  ‘Honey wouldn’t make subtleties. These sugar cones are the stuff for marchpane. Come and see them.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Now that we’ve got rid of old sourguts we’ll have a little piece, you and I, just to make sure that it is good.’ The cook led the way to the confectionery. I could see his point about not opening the box until we got there, because the air in that place, heated through the floorboards from the pastry ovens below, was warm and dry. Once the straw was removed, the ten cones shone like white marble and Master Beasley, helped by a man in a green waterman’s cloak, lifted them one by one onto a slatted shelf.

  The kitchen boys, too, were given a tiny pinch, carefully scraped off with the edge of a sugar scissors, before they were sent off to check that the wood yard boys had brought in some more number one talshides to get the fire burning hot for the supper.

  ‘Not too much for me,’ I said hastily as he took up the scissors again. ‘I’m a man for the wine, not for the sugar. So that’s what you use to make subtleties like that magnificent chess board that I’ve been hearing of. You mix the sugar with crumbs of almond nuts, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘And here are the moulds.’ He reached up to the shelf above him and took down the shapes hollowed out of pewter. ‘See these are for the figures: castle, knight, bishop, king, queen and pawn.’ And then, without looking at me, he said very low: ‘Your James is in trouble, Master Brehon. They are all after him. They want to make sure that he is the one who swings for this murder. I heard them in the clerks’ offices. The serjeant is hand-in-glove with that lot, you know. James is a stranger, not like the Earl of Northumberland’s son, or Master Arundel or any of the others who come from the nobility around here. They would want to pin this on him. If I were you, I’d try to get him out of here. The cardinal is fond of him, they say, but – Lord, bless my soul – the cardinal has a lot on his mind. He comes and goes, might be away from here for a few months on end. He’ll leave the matter to his serjeant-at-arms.’

  I nodded, but said nothing. He had told me no more than I had been thinking myself, but I was dismayed to find that the serjeant’s suspicions were common knowledge.

  ‘Take him this. The young like sweetmeats.’ The cook took a piece of marchpane from the moulds box, wrapped it in a napkin and handed it to me with instructions to keep it warm and dry. ‘And don’t let the clerk of the kitchens have a sight of it or I’ll be out of a job,’ he warned.

  I placed it inside my pouch just beside my knife and went to the door, leaving the cook and his helpmate behind me. The wood yard boys were wheeling loaded barrows in through the archway to the kitchen, but I dodged around them. I would waste no more time, I vowed. I had to tackle James and I had to find out the truth. I had already turned towards the butts when I heard the shouting and one voice amongst them that I knew well.

  ‘I’ve got a sword and I’ll use it!’ It was James’s voice.

  5

  It was a crowded scene. Sir George St Leger and his men were on the pier, the wood yard workers, kitchen staff, clerks, yeoman, servants and workers scattered on the grass lawns, were shouting, gesticulating and many running in different directions. Out in the centre of the river four barges, each laden with building materials, stone, cement, wooden doors and panes of glass, made their slow way towards Hampton Court and a small, swift boat rowed by one man shot out from a small stream and turned neatly in the direction of Westminster. The cardinal’s barge was on the river, also. The usual crew, helmsman, oarsmen, but no passengers, none but …

  And then I saw him, I saw James standing beside the helmsman of the cardinal’s barge
. His arm was held stiffly above his head and the sword glinted despite the grey sky. The barge had come to a stop, mid river, but now it began to move again, the men moving the oars with slow reluctant sweeps.

  I forced my way through the crowd, ruthlessly pushing and thrusting myself between the crowded figures. I was not the only one. A man with a green doublet, not one of the cardinal’s men who were all dressed in mulberry and gold, overtook me, brutally slashing open a passageway with the stock of a matchlock gun. The other men on the wharf fell back for him leaving the route open. He passed the matchlock rapidly to St Leger, who lifted it unhesitatingly to his shoulder.

  ‘Stop that boat,’ yelled St Leger, ‘stop it, I say or I fire.’

  ‘Get out of my way, or I’ll kill you,’ I grunted to a man who had put a hand on my arm. The pier was crowded with St Leger’s men. I savagely punched one of them in the ribs as he, also, tried to stop me mounting the wooden landing stage. St Leger now had the heavy matchlock securely balanced and had aimed it at the barge.

  Once again the barge slowed to a stop and had half-turned so that its prow faced the bank. Now I was near enough to see the faces of the rowers and of their helmsman. All had turned towards the St Leger and his deadly weapon. This time James’s voice was audible.

  ‘Get on men, there’s no danger.’

  St Leger’s answer came within a second. ‘I’ll fire on the count of three!’ But he wouldn’t. I tried to tell myself that as I punched and kicked my way through the crowd.

  But I was too late. I was halfway along the pier when a shot rang out. Men jumped back. The cold still air stank of gunpowder. I could see the seated oarsmen on the barge, every head was down to the level of their knees. The helmsman was no longer visible and neither was James and for a moment my heart stopped.

  ‘You murdering villain; I’ll see that you swing for that,’ I roared at St Leger. The crowd between him and me had fallen to the ground, each fearing to be killed – it was not unknown for these guns to spew out death to all around them. In a moment I was by his side and had gripped him by the collar of his shirt. I grasped the matchlock, wrestled it from his grip and flung it into the water.

  ‘Who gave you authority to shoot one of the king’s noblemen?’ I could hear my voice bellow out in the sudden silence that had followed the explosive shot. Three swans further down the river had risen into the air, trumpeting an alarm and a flock of crows that burst from the riverside willows rent the air with their raucous cries.

  He faced me. ‘I gave the man fair warning,’ he said. I said nothing in reply but my breathing slowed down. Floating on the river, just below where the swans circled, was a white form, long neck outstretched. These guns were notoriously inaccurate. James was very contemptuous of them, saying that one good archer would always be worth ten gunners. Still, I was not going to call St Leger’s attention to his victim.

  ‘You’ve killed the helmsman,’ I said with purposeful brutality, pointing to the empty seat in the prow. The cardinal’s barge wavered in the water and its prow swung around. It was not the only one; the barge carrying the unpainted doors seemed rudderless also. There was a loud crack as the cardinal’s large, heavy passenger barge hit the smaller one and seconds later the icy water was covered with brown slabs of wooden doors, each floating like a miniature barge. The man in the skiff paused, seemed to edge a little nearer, perhaps to give assistance, or perhaps with thoughts of towing one or two of the doors to his home. The cardinal’s barge lurched dangerously. The helmsman rose up from the floor and snatched the tiller and then James, with a hasty glance back at the wharf went over the side of the barge. Two seconds later I could see him spread-eagled upon one of the floating doors. I put my two hands to my mouth and yelled as loudly as I could.

  ‘Ahoy, there, you in the skiff. There will be a sovereign for you if you pick up that man and take him to Westminster.’ By now I had recognised the fellow. He was the man in the green cloak who had been in the confectionery helping to put away the sugar cones. He would have seen me there with Master Beasley and would know where I would leave his reward. At least I hoped so and held my breath for a moment until I saw the skiff approach the floating door. Once I had seen a hand outstretched, I turned on St Leger to distract his attention, hurling every insult that I had heard in the kitchens or stables of Hampton Court.

  ‘You murderous dog! You filthy, bloodthirsty fool! I’ll see you flung into gaol for that! I’ll see you hung for murder!’ I yelled the words at him. And then to one of the yeoman, I shouted, ‘send for the cardinal’s serjeant-at-arms. He’s with the Lady Alice in her rooms.’ And then I turned back to St Leger, resolved to keep his eyes on me and away from the river until John arrived.

  ‘Don’t think you can get away with this, St Leger. There’s a law in this land and it’s for you to obey as well as others. Wait until the cardinal hears that you fired on his ward.’ The men from the cardinal’s barge would report Master Butler’s escape and how he had been picked and ferried down river up by the man in the skiff, but they had not yet turned the boat around towards the wharf. I had to rely on them waiting for orders before they made a move. In the meantime, I would keep St Leger’s attention on me.

  John, good fellow that he was, came at fast run, only slowing down when he reached the wharf. I saw him smooth a hand over his mouth and jaw as he came towards him. I was running out of insults and had just called St Leger ‘a base scullion’ and ‘a bottled spider’ – an expression which I had overheard one of the watermen use.

  ‘What’s all this about, gentlemen?’ John might not be as quick-witted as his sister, but he was well used to brawling noblemen. I cast a surreptitious glance down the river. There was no sign of the skiff. A crowd had gathered, including Colm, my servant, and Padraig, James’s. I smoothed my expression.

  ‘This gentleman has tried to kill Master James Butler by aiming and firing his matchlock at the cardinal’s well-esteemed young ward.’ I laid a heavy emphasis on the last words. Cardinal Wolsey was not a patient man and few of the courtiers ever dared cross him.

  ‘James Butler has been accused of murder and was now trying to escape.’ Even to St Leger, himself, the words sounded weak and he flinched slightly when the cardinal’s sergeant-at-arms stared at him incredulously.

  ‘You fired at him!’

  ‘He was trying to escape’ he repeated. His voice was truculent, but he betrayed his uneasiness by the hand that endeavoured to smooth his bushy thatch of iron-grey hair.

  ‘Escape from what?’ I put in. With satisfaction I could hear that my voice now sounded calm and judicial. James, by now, would be well on the way to Teddington where he would meet the ebbing tide. That light skiff would travel quickly with the north-westerly wind behind it.

  ‘Master James Butler was not under arrest,’ confirmed John stolidly.

  St Leger gulped. He looked around, but there was no sign of the king’s serjeant so he had no backing. ‘What about my valuable gun?’ he spluttered. ‘This man deliberately threw it into the river.

  ‘An unfortunate outcome,’ I said blandly. ‘Of course it is the duty of any good man to make sure that murder is not committed. You were trying to shoot the son of my employer, the Earl of Ormond.’

  I saw a crimson tide of anger spread over his narrow face at that. There was something wolf-like about that face. Despite its smooth skin, the alert and hungry eyes and the prominent side teeth beneath the tuft of bristling grey hair had a menacing appearance. I faced him, unafraid, but very aware of the threat that he posed to James.

  ‘Send for the king’s serjeant,’ he said abruptly to one of the yeoman.

  ‘No need,’ said John mildly, but with a quick glance at the yeoman, a very quick glance, but it was enough to keep the man rooted to his spot on the wharf. ‘No need, at all,’ he repeated. ‘You are at perfect liberty to depart. Thanks to the quick thinking of this gentleman here, no harm has been done.’

  And then John deliberately took me by the arm and turned away
. The yeoman on the wharf and even St Leger’s men drew back respectfully as we marched together back towards the gatehouse.

  ‘Better go and see Alice. She’ll have heard of the fuss and will be waiting for a report,’ he said with a grin and, as he predicted, Alice was waiting for us when we came into her rooms. There was a flagon of wine on the table and three of her favourite glasses.

  ‘Well, Hugh, what have you been up to this morning?’ she said lightly. ‘What’s this story that my maid tells me?’

  ‘He drowned St Leger’s gun and was just about to drown the man himself when I arrived in the nick of time.’ John was in better humour than he had been for days. It occurred to me that it must have been very irksome for a man in his position to be compelled to hand the conduct of a law and order case over to another man. ‘Goodness knows how much that matchlock cost St Leger,’ he added with a slightly malicious chuckle. John, I guessed, had worked out that the king’s serjeant’s continued involvement in the matter of the death of the Hampton Court instructor of the wards stemmed from St Leger’s interest in convicting the heir to the Ormond estate in Ireland of the crime of murder. Any serjeant would not have been human if he had not bitterly resented this. I hastened to take advantage.

  ‘Serve him right. He was trying to fire at James,’ I explained and he gave a secret smile, pulling at his beard.

  ‘I think I’d better go and have a word with Master Gibson,’ he said, putting down his empty glass upon the table. ‘It’s only right that he should hear of this affair involving a member of his court. Tell the whole story to Alice while I am gone.’

  Alice was her usual decisive self. ‘I’m sure he’s safe if that man was a friend of the cook’s. And, you know, Hugh, it’s just as well that he has gone. Let him stay away for a while,’ she said as soon as I had finished the tale. ‘While he’s around you are worrying about him all the time. You’d do him a better service finding out who committed the murder rather than hovering over him like a nursemaid, or losing your temper with king’s serjeant, or with St Leger. Now calm yourself. Sit down there and hold Lily in your arms. She is a dog who knows how to relax and she’ll teach you how to relax.’