Knaves Templar

by Leonard Tourney

  Joan greeted her guest warmly, then dismissed Robert. When he had gone, Nan said: “I’ve brought your clothes.”

  Joan saw the bundle at Nan’s feet. She had really not expected to see her gown again, nor Nan either, and she was highly pleased by both.

  “You might have kept the gown. It’s the least you deserve.”

  “I thought I might,” Nan said. “But then I began to think how fine the gown was. If I was caught wearing it, what would be supposed? That I was a thief. And I am no thief!”

  Joan assured Nan that she never thought she was a thief, and offered Nan money in place of the gown, but this too Nan refused with a lift of her soft chin, suggesting that further offers of reward would be similarly declined.

  Joan regarded Nan with wonder. What a marvel was here— an honest-hearted whore! “But surely I can do something for you?”

  Nan seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then said: “Last night you urged me to consider the life I lead. A very bad and wicked life. And the truth is that I am weary of opening my legs to every drunken sot willing to pay admission thereto. Nor am I so ignorant of true religion to be unaware of my damnable condition. Necessity is as ready a road to sin as greed or avarice, or so the preachers declare.”

  Joan was gratified to hear such wise confirmation of her own sentiments, and nodded to Nan encouragingly. “Every word you say is true, Nan.”

  “In brief, then, Mistress Stock, I thought you might help me to reform my life—find a new livelihood. You seem to be a woman of means as well as charitable impulse. You mentioned a husband at the Temple, a prosperous shop in Chelmsford.”

  "I have both,” Joan said. “And friends in London too who may do you good.”

  “You see, I am in present danger at the Gull.”

  “How so?” Joan asked.

  Nan was not far into the story she now commenced before Joan realized that by strange coincidence her encounter with Nan had led by a circuitous route to her husband’s own mortal matter. Nan spoke of her relationship with certain young men of the Inns of Court, young men who regularly patronized the Gull, young men whom she had taken to her bed and from whom she had heard certain things before their recent and lamentable suicides and for which she was now being persecuted by another of the Templars, a man named Theophilus Phipps.

  As much as Joan was tempted to reveal she already knew this same Phipps from her husband’s full account of his visit to the Treasurer, she kept silent about her knowledge, waiting to hear what Nan knew.

  “He came to visit me the day before yesterday, ’ ’ Nan said, looking worried. “He wanted to know all I knew of the three gentlemen who died, although I knew but two of them, and especially of one named Litchfield, who it is said cut his wrists on the Temple Stairs.”

  “And what did you know?” Joan asked.

  “Less than he hoped, I think. He asked particularly about some money that Litchfield expected to come his way, an inheritance, I suppose. But I knew nothing of that. To tell truth, I hardly remembered Litchfield, one Templar gentleman being so like the other.

  “What did this Phipps say to that?”

  “He smiled and said he knew I lied. He accused me of knowing more than what I said and declared that if I was not more forthcoming, I would be sorty.”

  “He threatened to hurt you?”

  “To tell the Treasurer I somehow caused the suicides.”

  “Ridiculous,” Joan said. “How could you be accountable for what they did?”

  “He said by some witchcraft, for I slept with all of them, sucked out their souls and other such nonsense. ”

  “The villainous rogue—to so threaten a woman,” Joan said. “I’ll tell my husband. He’ll put things right.”

  “Why, Mistress Stock, does you husband have such authority?” Nan said.

  "Well, he is well acquainted with those who do—powerful men.”

  “Indeed! Then I am more than fortunate to have made your acquaintance, for I am afraid of Phipps.”

  Nan hid her face in her hands, and Joan reached over and placed a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “You must leave the Gull, that’s all there is to it. Then you’ll be free from Phipps and his kind.”

  Nan looked up tearfully. "But how am I to live—by begging?”

  “We’ll find a way,” Joan said. “Never fear. You saved my life—no small matter in my mind. Trust me. Go to the Gull, but only to gather your things. Say nothing to Phipps should you meet him again. Then find decent lodgings, until I can provide for you myself or find someone who can. Here, take this. No, I insist.”

  Joan held out the coins. It was a goodly sum. Nan looked at them, and after some hesitation, she took the money.4 ‘But what about later, Mistress Stock? You are generous, but this won’t last forever.”

  “My dear friend Frances may be able to help,” Joan said.

  “With employment?”

  “Yes.”

  “But would she find a place for someone like me, a woman—”

  "Never you mind,” Joan interrupted, forestalling any self-deprecation on Nan’s part, “Mistress Cooke shall know nothing of your history beyond your faithful service to me. I told her nothing of the Gull. Only that I was set upon in the streets and a Good Samaritan helped me to a covering for my nakedness. You were that Samaritan. Frances Cooke shall know no more.”

  “Oh, you are an angel, Mistress Stock,” Nan said.

  “And so are you, Nan. Call me Joan, please.”

  The two women embraced, and Joan’s eyes filled with tears, for despite Nan Warren’s sordid life, there was much in the young woman that reminded Joan of her own daughter, Elizabeth, and she was determined to see her free from the evils of whoredom and the threats of Theophilus Phipps, who, for all Joan knew, was the murderer Matthew sought at the Temple.

  Nan Warren left Cooke House, thinking that it was a very fine house and handsomely furnished and remembering with a little pain when she herself lived amid such plenty and had servants at her beck and call and a fine bed of goose feathers to sleep upon and silk next to her skin. But that was another life she had lived—and one she knew she could never resume. Yet she had no regrets. What was done was done. Except for one thing. That was yet to do—the mighty oath she had sworn to the curate in Norwich the day both husband and son were taken from her and an indifferent God kept silent in the face of it.

  Under the influence of that bitter memory, her face took on a grim expression as she turned away from Cooke House. Her conversation with Stock’s wife had pleased her well. She had confirmed that Joan’s husband was investigating the Templar suicides, established an intimacy with the wife whereby the husband’s dealings might stand open to her, and implicated the obnoxious Theophilus Phipps. Three birds with one stone, it was; a goodly morning’s work, to Nan’s mind. But at the same time she realized that her increasing familiarity with the Stocks was not without its risks. Nan’s generous patroness had been taken in, but she was no fool. Nan would use the connection for what it was worth, and when it lost its value or became a detriment, she would end it with the same finality as she had ended other connections that had outlived their usefulness.

  Nan hoped it would not fall out so, for she rather liked the busy little Chelmsford housewife of such ready tongue and provident purse.

  Nine

  THE Chelmsford constable learned of his wife’s misadventure in the streets of London from Thomas Cooke, who delivered the news hard upon inquiring of Matthew with what cheer he had spent his first night in chambers. Matthew was so alarmed for his wife’s safety that he was ready to rush back to Cooke House and let the murderer he sought find himself. But that was before Thomas assured him that Joan was unscathed by her ordeal. Thomas also reported that Joan was strangely undisturbed by the theft of a good gown, and restive under the rules Thomas had imposed on her in her husband’s name.

  ‘ ’By God, that sounds like my Joan! ’ ’ Matthew exclaimed, half-amused, half-relieved, and if there were
by order of logic to remain a half to the whole of his response, half-suspicious that something more had transpired the night before than had been reported by her to her host. For although Matthew thought it was very like his wife to be rebellious against husbandly rule, indifference to the loss of a good gown was most contrary to her nature. No, that didn’t sound like Joan at all, and he began to wonder what mischief she had really been up to.

  But in the foreground of his thoughts was his charge. “To talk to Crispin Braithwaite,” Matthew answered when Thomas asked where Matthew was to begin his labors. Matthew had answered confidently—without being entirely sure how he was to approach the only known survivor on Hugh Giles’s list.

  The two men went to breakfast in the Hall, where Matthew was presented to a score of new faces, all younger men than he, and some positively callow, as though they had been weaned from their mother’s milk not the day before. He had asked Thomas if he would find Braithwaite there, and Thomas had assured him it was more than likely, for Braithwaite was a hearty trencherman, as Thomas phrased it.

  But Crispin Braithwaite was not at table. Thus, Matthew contented himself with a breakfast of middling quality and a flurry of conversation all about him.

  He was gratified that his tablemates did not discourse exclusively on legal matters; instead there was a great buzz of talk about plays, politics, new fashions in dress, theories about the motions of the planets, and talk of voyagers’ tales, along with much witty banter among the gentlemen, much of which Matthew thought was somewhat self-serving and belligerent. While Matthew ate, Thomas excused himself to ask after Braithwaite, and returned shortly thereafter to say that Braithwaite was expected to come down later in the morning to rehearse a play.

  “And here is the author even now,” said Thomas, indicating with a nod of his head a sharp-nosed young man even then approaching their table.

  Introductions followed. The author was Samuel Osborne, who seemed too preoccupied with the rehearsal about to take place to do more than nod in Matthew’s direction.

  “Master Stock would be most pleased to watch your players,” Thomas said.

  “Oh, he would,” said Osborne, suddenly brightening. “Why, then, he positively shall.” Osborne reached out to shake Matthew’s hand; his palm was moist, and Matthew could see that even though the Hall was hardly warm, sweat

  glistened on Osborne’s face and he breathed deeply as though he had just come on the run from his chambers.

  Osborne explained that the rehearsal was to take place in the Hall as soon as the tables had been cleared; then he excused himself to go find several of his players who had not yet appeared at breakfast. Thomas suggested that Matthew might enjoy a stroll in the morning air in the meantime.

  “Osborne seems a queer bird,” Matthew remarked in the relative privacy of the garden walks.

  Thomas laughed. “One of a kind, if you will know the truth. He’s completely wrapped up in his playmaking, but a well-meaning gentleman, of good family.”

  “I suppose he knew all the dead men,” Matthew said.

  “Of course,” said Thomas. “But surely you don’t suspect Osborne? I assure you he’s as mild as a maid. His violence is all in his pen.”

  “No one can be beyond suspicion,” Matthew said quickly, before considering that Thomas might think that Matthew suspectedhim.

  But Matthew read no expression of offense in his companion’s face. Matthew told Thomas about Keable’s visit the night before.

  “Prompted by neighborliness, do you think? Or suspicion?”

  “Suspicion. Keable spoke most openly. Being potted didn’t hurt.”

  “Oh, he was drunk, was he?” Thomas asked, mildly amused. “Keable is a difficult one. Very haughty. He positively despises his chamberfellow, poor Wilson. Keable’s father is rich and gives the son whatever he requires and more. ”

  “So he boasted,” Matthew said. “He discoursed most uncharitably on the dead men, especially Monk. He said Monk was a profligate—and Litchfield his disciple. He gave me a different impression of Giles than I had from Master Hutton.”

  “Oh, how so?” Thomas said.

  “He agreed that Giles was a. religious zealot and good lawyer, but said nothing about debts or melancholy. Surely Keable would have completed the inventory of Giles’s sins if

  indebtedness were a part of it. Tell me, what are Keable’s other qualities?”

  Thomas thought for a moment, then said: “Well, he’s proud of his looks—too proud for extensive friendship, although he has many admirers. Phipps being one, I might add. Keable’s ambitious—hot-blooded, too. A classic case of choler. I recall he and another of the utter barristers neatly came to blows at supper one evening. Over spilled salt, would you believe?”

  They returned to the Hall. In their absence the tables had been cleared and rearranged. The long table at the head of the cavernous chamber had been pushed back against the carved screen, making of the dais a stage. Here Osborne and about a dozen other men gathered, including Keable and his chamberfellow, Wilson.

  “Ah,” said Osborne as Matthew and Thomas approached. “Our guest for these solemnities, Matthew Stock of Chelmsford, honorable father of one of our future members.”

  Matthew bowed self-consciously to acknowledge this introduction while Osborne abruptly turned his attention to his players and continued with his instructions.

  “Which is Braithwaite?” Matthew asked after he and Thomas had found a bench to sit upon.

  “He’s not among them,” Thomas said. “I don’t know why, for his part is no small one.”

  Matthew was disappointed. He really didn’t care about Osborne’s play, but he did want to see what manner of man Braithwaite was.. Later, he would determine how he might open up the gentleman who claimed to know so little about what so obviously concerned him.

  Collected on the dais, the players took their places as directed. Thomas provided Matthew with a summary of the plot.

  “It’s a simple piece, as far as the story is concerned. Eve and the serpent warmed over—but with a happier result. The theme is likewise commonplace. The triumph of chastity over lust. The heroine is a shepherdess named Clorinda. In truth she is the offspring of a duke, although this is not made

  known until the end of the play. She falls in love with another shepherd and thereby excites the envy of a satyr who dwells in the neighborhood.”

  ‘‘Keable’s part,” said Matthew, his eyes fixed on the players, who were engaged in some sort of dispute with Osborne.

  “Yes. The satyr endeavors to seduce the maiden, but being as virtuous as can be, she will have none of his blandishments.”

  “Does she marry the shepherd?” Matthew asked.

  “How did you guess?” Thomas said, chuckling.“But there’s more crinkum-crankum before they marry. Soft, now, the wrangling is finished. The rehearsal begins in earnest.”

  On the dais Keable and six other men were beginning to dance in a circle around Wilson, who had curled up on the floor pretending to be asleep. Another student played the flute to accompany the dance, and all had removed their gowns and caps for the occasion.

  “Very stately, very stately,” Osbome cried loudly, directing die dance. “Anon the tempo will advance and there’ll be time enough to kick your heels. Steady on, Keable. Keep your eyes upon Wilson. He’s doing it right. Watch your feet, man. The maiden lies sleeping before you. Remember your purpose. She should not awake until you have distilled your flatteries into her ears. Speak now.”

  The dancing slowed and Keable bent over the sleeping Clor-inda. He began to speak his lines. Now Matthew was glad Thomas had favored him with a summary, for although Keable’s words were in English, the sense was so twisted from the normal patterns of speech that he could not make head nor tail of them. He understood, however, from Keable’s gestures and tone, that a seduction was taking place. Keable waved his arms over the sleeping form as though he were a priest performing some rites. He leered and grimaced, while the other satyrs i
n his crew resumed their dance, slowly circling the maiden, their gestures threatening and seductive.

  Osbome said: “Now the poor lady awakes. She recognizes her peril. Advance your step, one and all!”

  The flute player outdid himself with trills, and the satyrs quickened their steps as directed. Another student, watching

  from the opposite wall, picked up a tabor and began to beat it rapidly. The hectic dance went on for several minutes until the dancers were sweating from exertion; and then Osborne clapped his hands, and music and dancing stopped.

  Osborne walked over to the center of the dais, his arms akimbo and a disapproving expression on his face. While the dancers caught their breaths, he began to find more fault with their performance, especially Keable’s, which Osborne claimed was much too languid. More like a swoon than a galliard, Osborne complained, and he laughed a high-pitched, derisive laugh that even Matthew found offensive, although he had no part in the quarrel brewing.

  In response, Keable said it was an easy thing to give directions when one didn’t have to do the thing himself, and Osborne said that he could dance well enough and he hoped Keable could do half as well. Then Keable called Osborne some kind of name beneath his breath, and Osborne demanded that he repeat what he had said and grew very red in the face.

  Thomas left Matthew’s side to make peace between the men. “Come, sirs,” Thomas said genially. “This is sorry work on both your parts. You, Osborne, are the author of our masque; you, Keable, aiguably its chief character since without your enticements there is no plot, but mere virtue unassailed, much to be desired in life but hardly the stuff of drama. So, then, make peace between you that we may proceed in good order.”

  “God’s blood, I’ll not be badgered so,” declared Keable, apparently unaffected by Thomas’s admonishments. “My legs are good enough—and certainly a match for his, which are like two sticks with hardly a healthy calf between them.”