The Cardinal's Court

by Cora Harrison

  I seized a spare shirt and a soft linen towel and crammed them into a bag. Richard Gibson had been, when I met him earlier, very uncurious, most uncharacteristically so, about my visit to London. He knew, I could bet on it, that I had been missing all day and undoubtedly saw me descend from the cardinal’s barge in the company of other guests from London but he had only asked a perfunctory and conventional question about my day and had not followed it up with any further questions. Perhaps he hoped that I would unbend when we matched our racquets.

  When I emerged from my lodging, after telling Colm that I would back in an hour, I could see that it had eventually begun to snow at last, real snow, falling thickly and heavily, covering over the Base Court as I went through it and making the wood yard boys shout with excitement. The narrow passageway was filling with snow and some child from the kitchen, armed with a broom, was sweeping it up as soon as it fell, stopping occasionally to throw a snowball at the wood yard boys scurrying past with their flat-stopped barrows. The boy’s heart was more in those skirmishes than in his task and he was leaving a thin skim of snow on the paving stones – more dangerous than soft piles would have been and I resolved to be careful on my way back. But the real danger would only come if the stuff froze overnight. Still there was little chance of that. I looked at the sky. The soft heavy pale grey clouds were full of snow and snow held little threat for the cardinal’s magnificent dwelling with its wood yard piled six foot high with well-seasoned oak and large bundles of faggots and its larders, pantries and storerooms bursting with food. Even if the snow lasted a week or longer, it would not be a threat to supplies. By morning the roads might be impassable, but Hampton Court would still have its waterway open to London and to the fields and farms to the west of it. Nevertheless, it probably meant that the guests would not be in any mind to rush away. Apart from the king and his privy servants, all of whom had been playing cards all night, everyone who had been present in Hampton Court when the instructor of the wards was murdered was still there. I would do as James told me. Turn my mind to finding the killer and stop worrying about him. I reached the tennis play with my face stinging from the cold, but with an odd feeling of exhilaration.

  The king’s serjeant was waiting for me when I arrived and was armed with a coin which he tossed as soon as I came in the door and while my eyes were still adjusting from the bright glare outside to the candlelit shadow-filled interior. ‘Heads, me, tails you,’ he said before I could speak and then snatched up the coin as soon as it fell. ‘Tails! The hazard end for me,’ he said with a grimace. I did not argue. He had the worst of the throw. The service end gave a player a great advantage and to get it at the beginning of the game when one was still fresh was a piece of luck. And yet, somehow, just before he clapped his hand over the coin I had thought that I could see on the coin the sombre head of the old king, the present king’s father, seated on his throne. My lips twitched as I went to my place. Serjeant Gibson was trying very hard to get me in an expansive mood. I swung my racquet. I might win this first game, I planned, but allow him to win the match in the long run. I chipped the ball viciously with the edge of my racquet, causing it to rise up and strike the penthouse roof. It rolled there for a moment and then fell down with an odd bounce. He hit it, but half-heartedly and it went into the net. I gave a shout of triumph.

  ‘James well, was he?’ he called suddenly as I let the racquet smack the ball down towards the winning galley. The bell rang. Another point to me.

  ‘What did you say?’ I yelled the words just as the ball hit his side of the court. I had placed it badly and he managed to slam it into the grill. I saw him smirk.

  ‘Just wondered how he was. There’s supposed to be sweating sickness in that part of the city.’ The king’s serjeant must have made time to talk with young Tom. I smashed the ball back to him. His return shot landed close to the wall under the gallery and my racquet stroked the wall instead of the ball, making me swear aloud. Well, let him think that his verbal shot caused me to lose my poise. He could spend a month of Sundays searching the city for James. Perhaps, after all, it was a piece of luck for me that young Seymour insisted on coming to London. The king’s serjeant was a man who had lived in the city of London during his student days, knew it as well as the back of his hand, he had told me once. Let him send a man to search Bradstrete and Austin Friars if he wished. It must be a good hour or so away from Westminster. I smiled to myself as I served again. The score was deuce. In wits as well in tennis we were well-matched.

  This time he hit the ball well and skilfully. It went into the chase and I had lost my superior position in the serving end. First game to him. As I waited at the net post for him to pass me, I had a good look at his face. He didn’t look triumphant, or as one who was scanning my face for information. No, he seemed, oddly, as though he were listening intently and his eyes went towards the door to the outside. But when I turned to look over my shoulder, he nudged me, held out his hand and I handed him, as tradition ruled, two balls.

  And then he was in the serving place and my back was to the door. He served with great vigour, bouncing the ball up and down three or four times, and continually driving it overhead so that it clanged against the tin penthouse roof at the side and from time to time aiming directly at the tambour.

  There was a sharp, cold wind in the back of my neck for a second and then a click as if a door had been cautiously closed. I turned around and then back again. Richard Gibson was hopping his ball vigorously and had served before I had completely straightened myself. Another point for him. I was younger, just over thirty, while he must have been edging towards his middle forties, and in general I was a slightly better tennis player. However, today everything seemed to be going his way and I allowed it to do so. I played carefully, with great subtlety and skill, diving for balls and just reaching them a minute late, but then missing. The score was adding up for him and I was happily allowing myself to slide into defeat when I had the oddest impression that I was being watched.

  And then I exerted myself, using every trick that I had learned over the years, driving the ball towards the net at a deliberately low angle so that he relaxed and then, when the ball barely trickled over, raised his racquet just too late. My game! Now it was I that passed him at the net post, I who accepted the two balls with a gracious salute.

  Before I served, I looked up towards the ‘dedans’, the long, netted window behind which spectators could watch the match in safety. There did not seem to be anyone there, but I did not look at it for too long. I concentrated on playing well, for now. Even if I won this game, I could easily arrange that he would win the match. But, with such an astute character, I didn’t want to awake any suspicions that I was deliberately trying to lose. Once he had begun to despair, I could ease back.

  And so I pulled out all the tricks that I knew, swerving the ball cross-court, spinning the ball with an underhand flick of the wrist, holding the racquet ankle-high one moment and above my head in the next. And then, deliberately and swiftly, I changed a stroke at the last minute and aimed my ball towards the ‘dedans’. I hit as hard as I could. The net was strong, but it vibrated with the force of the ball.

  And I saw the movement beyond the net, deep in the darkness behind it.

  It would have taken nerves of steel to have continued to crouch unmoving in the darkness there while a ball came pelting towards his face at twice the speed of a galloping horse. For a second I saw the movement of a pale face, and then a flash. The person in the gallery had a weapon, sword or knife, steel, anyway. There was no mistaking that flash. I cast a hasty glance across at the king’s serjeant. Like myself, he had stripped to his shirt and I could see no sign of a weapon on him. That was not to say, though, that he had not left a dagger with his clothing. I had not watched him with any care while I had undressed.

  Now I deliberately began to lose. I wanted to bring this game to an end. It was pointless, anyway. If a friend had come to watch, well, he would depart instantly, wrapped in his war
m cloak. We would have no time together to chat and there would be no opportunity for me to put firmly into his head the possibility that James was not the only possible suspect. I needed to convince him that the arrow was not the cause of death. If he could accept the conclusion of the queen’s physician, Dr Ramirez, that a knife had killed Edmund Pace, then at least the field was opened up.

  I was worried about that silent watcher in the gallery. Should I shout a question? I decided that it would be more sensible to wait until the game was over. It was probably, I tried to tell myself, one of the young men in the household, at a loss for some outdoor pursuit in this bad weather who had been attracted to the sound of balls and racquets and who had come in to watch the match.

  The king’s serjeant sent the ball spinning across the net, a short bouncing stroke that came too near for comfort. I made a clumsy effort to leap back and then a spectacular stumble, which gave a good excuse for missing the ball. A point for him. The king’s serjeant had a spurt of new energy, as anxious as I to get this game over and done with, perhaps.

  Why?

  The question filled my mind. I missed the next ball and heard the bell ring as it entered the winning galley. The sound reverberated around the long, narrow court, echoing from the concrete floors and walls.

  ‘Game, set and match to you,’ I said. And walked forward to shake his hand.

  He pretended not to see. We gathered up the balls in silence, well, not full silence because he whistled loudly as he did so. He tossed the balls into the box and rapidly changed his soft slippers for his boots, slinging his fur-lined cloak around his shoulders and making rapidly for the door.

  ‘See you at supper,’ I called after him and he raised a hand in reply.

  At least I think that he did, but I was not sure as a moment later a sudden sharp blow on the side of the head knocked me sideways and that was really all that I remember happening after my tennis match.

  Until I woke up, or came back to consciousness.

  ***

  For a moment I thought that I was in bed. It was dark and very quiet. But the beds provided by the cardinal for his guests were soft featherbeds on top of the straw-filled mattresses. I was lying on hard boards. I slightly raised my head and bumped it. Wood beneath me, wood above me. I moved a hand, didn’t need to extend it too far. It touched wood. Moved the other hand. Wood again. Stretched as far as I could. My feet, still in the tennis slippers, touched wood. Wriggled up a little. My head bumped against something. More wood. I was in a wooden box. My foot felt something, I wriggled my toes and lifted the foot. Something hard and round. I guessed instantly what it was. I had often rolled my foot over one of those cork-filled, seamed tennis balls and the feel was familiar. I was in the long wooden box where the tennis balls were stored. Someone had emptied the box, leaving a ball behind by accident, probably, and I was shoved into the empty space.

  I was not tied up. My legs and arms were quite free, my mouth, though dry, was unencumbered by a gag. I lifted my arm and pushed against the top of the box but it did not yield. I tried again, using both hands and feet, pushing against the lid as hard as I could, but it didn’t work. I tried to lift my head and add its pressure, but it ached so badly that I let it slip back down again. I had been hit on the side of the head and I could feel a swelling there. I tried to picture one of those boxes: rather like a coffin, I seemed to remember. Yes, I thought, the lock, as one would imagine, was on the side of the box: just a padlock and hasp, if I remembered rightly. No great security. It was unlikely that anyone would seriously want to steal tennis balls, but some of the boys that worked in the kitchen or the wood yard might purloin a ball for their games around the narrow passageways of the service buildings. Surely I could rip the hasp from the wood if pushed hard enough.

  But it was no use. The blow on the head had weakened me and extra exertion made me feel slightly sick. My legs trembled. What time was it? I had no means of knowing how long I had been here. It would have been about half an hour before supper time when I had been stunned. I was not feeling particularly cold; my doublet, jerkin, and cloak – even my linen towel had been spread on top of me, as though some kindly person had tucked me into my bed. Even so, I reckoned that I had not been lying in this wooden prison for too long. The chances were that everyone would be busy now with the evening supper, serving, eating, cooking, the wood yard boys busily delivering more wood as the fires died down, and the pot boys starting on the everlasting washing of dishes and pots. If I were right about the time, then it would be of little use to try shouting for help. The tennis play was situated at a distance from kitchen, hall, great chambers and lodgings. There would be little chance that anyone could find me.

  My best chance would still be to tear the hasp from the lid, and so I would be better off lying quietly for a while in order to regain my strength before trying again. A faint light came through, now that my eyes were accustomed to the darkness. It was not airless in there and I remembered that the lid of the tennis balls’ coffer had a few holes bored it in so that the balls would not become mildewed. I did my best to calm myself with that thought.

  Looming in the background of my mind was a feeling of panic. I hated to be shut up anywhere, always liked to have a window open, hated even to go into small store cupboard. I focused my eyes on those small round spots of pale grey light. Plenty of air, I said to myself. I tried to force myself to sleep, but knew that I would not be able to do that. Think of something. Use this time for thinking. No action is required, no talking, just thought. I should be able to do this.

  Firmly I shut my eyes and thought of the garden at Hampton Court, admired the tapestry-like patterns of the knot garden, the jewelled colours of summer flowers enclosed with tiny walls of purple and silver lavender. And then, more calmly, I moved my thoughts back to the affair of the murder of the instructor of the wards. Surely I could solve this case. James had confidence in me, so I should have confidence in myself. I went through the last ten years in my mind and thought of cases where I had worked out the truth.

  I set myself to forget that there was barely two inches of space between my mouth and the lid of the coffer that imprisoned me and began to ponder this strange case. Someone, I reckoned, came into the hall that night, no doubt while the king was partaking of the sugar banquet in the cardinal’s room, or perhaps even later when the king himself and the young gentlemen and pages from his privy chamber were dancing with the queen’s ladies in waiting. Most of the household, except those that were on night-time duty would have gone to their beds by then. Master Beasley, the cook, had told me that he made a habit of retiring at eight o’clock on winter evenings and made sure that all the kitchen scullions did likewise. After the pageant castle had been removed, the torches on the artificial branches quenched and packed away, the floor swept and the fires refurbished, the great hall would have been empty for the rest of the evening.

  And then I considered one that had remained and shifted uneasily in my narrow prison. The picture of Susannah came to my mind. Nevertheless, when it came down to it, James had to come first. Who, I asked myself, was likely to kill that unpleasant man? There would have been a motive – the motive for all the people that I had suspected from time to time had been the same. Blackmail. An ugly word and an ugly concept. Not so important in Gaelic society where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business, but here amongst the king and his nobles there was always an edge of fear. The threat of disembowelment, of an axe, a frequently blunt axe, descending on one’s neck, the fear of hanging, hanging from a rope, even worse, hanging from chains and dying an agonisingly slow death … there was a miasma of fear among all of those bejewelled and bedecked gentlemen and ladies, and among those who served them.

  And fear would have been the root of blackmail.

  Holding firmly to my thought and endeavouring to breathe slowly and calmly. Edmund Pace had been blackmailing someone. This person found him in the great hall. With a knife such as Dr Ramirez had described, a thin, very s
harp knife, then the murder could have been committed very easily. There in the dim light, with most of the candles blown out and just a glow from the fire, it would have been easy to pull out that sharp knife and plunge it into the man’s heart. But the arrow. Where did the arrow come from? Had the murderer brought it? Unlikely. Everything seemed to point to the murder of the instructor of the wards being an opportunist crime. I tossed impatiently, hitting my shoulder against the solid wood at the side of the box and bringing my mouth dangerously near to the lid. Drops of moisture fell from it now and I had to suppress my panic-stricken feelings that the air might be getting used up.

  Did someone deliberately try to inculpate James? I asked myself. Desperately I fastened my mind on visualising the great hall in the dim light on that March Shrove Tuesday. Something had come into my mind in that elusive way that things sometimes pop in and then hang at the back of the memory like a skeleton leaf on the forest floor in autumn. It was something to do with that red glow from the fire. Why the fire?

  And then suddenly I got it!

  Fire! That was the key. I remembered my conversation with poor Ramirez. The body. Stiff as a poker.

  And the arrow.

  James had said that he had lost the arrow firing after a duck near the moat. But the wood yard was there, on the other side of the moat, just near to the water. And I had often seen, during the day, the hard-working boys piling up the wood, talshide after talshide of it, and also bundles of faggots, onto those flat, four-wheeled barrows, leaving them all ready to be pushed out to replenish the fires at regular times during the day, and last thing in the evening so that fires could be quickly revived with dry wood first thing in the morning. There must be about one hundred of those barrows lined up under the shelter of a penthouse roof. As soon as wood was chopped and graded it was quicker and most efficient to pile it onto a barrow, rather than stack it on the wet ground of the wood yard, open to the rain. What if James’s arrow, flying across the moat, and then dropping down, had fallen into a space between some of those rounded logs? No one would notice it.