Knaves Templar

by Leonard Tourney

  Joan waited her turn, and when the apothecary asked her how he might serve her, she told him the same story she had told Mistress Browne, convinced that an indirect approach would be more likely to obtain the information she sought and arouse less suspicion of her motives.

  “You must mean Christopher Prideaux,’’ the apothecary said. He was a short, thick man with a bulbous nose and close-set eyes that regarded Joan with quiet curiosity. “Your father, if he was one of Prideaux’s patients, was well rid of him, for he was a disgrace to our calling, if you must know the truth. He was a zealous student of him they call Paracelsus, but was corrupted by greed and lust.”

  “Why, what was it he did?” Joan asked.

  The apothecary frowned disapprovingly. “Prideaux applied quicksilver to the bodies of young women that came to him, causing them to stand stark naked for him to feast his eyes upon them, and then in the guise of relieving what ailed them, he prepared certain compounds that induced trances. ”

  “Trances?” Joan asked, fascinated.

  “Prideaux said he wanted to ease their pain, and of course, they believed him.”

  “And did he ease their pain?”

  “Why, he relieved them of pain—and then their virtue! Afterwards some of the women came for more of his devilish compound. Came and came again, wanting more and paying whatever he asked for it.”

  “I have heard Prideaux was hanged for his crime,” Joan said, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes, he was hanged—as he deserved. He got with child a daughter of a gentleman of the country, and when her condition was known, there was a great uproar. He married and impregnated still another gentlewoman. Then the father of the first had Prideaux taken, and the false apothecary was tried for witchcraft, for so it was believed he practiced, so strong was the hold he had upon his gullible patients.”

  “You’re sure he was hanged?” Joan said.

  “As I hope for Heaven,” said the apothecary. “His death was reported in a broadside that I bought from a bookseller’s at Paul’s and read twice over. My wife’s uncle has a neighbor who knew one of the women Prideaux treated.”

  Joan thanked the man for the information and gave him tuppence for a vial of medicine she didn’t need. Then she went out into the street where Robert was waiting.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, Mistress Stock?” Robert asked.

  “I believe I did, Robert,” Joan said.

  “May we go home now?” Robert said hopefully.

  “First we must stop at the Temple again. Afterwards I promise there will be no more errands.”

  Robert looked grateful for small favors.

  It was now midaftemoon, and Joan waited by the Temple Gate for Matthew. She searched every face that passed, for she was eager to tell him how she had used her time. It had been an intriguing tale the apothecary had told—and even more intriguing because of Mistress Browne’s denial of having heard of so infamous a character as Prideaux. And yet she claimed that she and her husband were from that part of the kingdom. The question in Joan’s mind was whether the story had anything to do with the Templar murders, or was the similarity of names just a coincidence. She wondered, too, whether she was merely fascinated by a story of chicanery and seduction or endowed with one of her glimmerings.

  She looked up the street and down. There was still no sign of Matthew. Where was he?

  If it was a glimmering, she hoped Matthew would take it well. With respect to his acceptance of her sudden intuitions, Joan had to admit that Matthew was far in advance of most men. Never did he scoff or belittle her, tell her to mind her house or forswear the Devil’s work—much less threaten to beat her if she even so much as mentioned whatever would not immediately submit to cold, rational proof. As did some husbands she could name, a pox upon them. On the contrary, Matthew had respected her glimmerings and had at times been schooled by them. The worst that she could say of him was that he was frequently overcareful, especially when her safety was concerned, thus subjecting her to odious restraints upon her will, which restraints she was of no natural temperament to endure.

  Then, suddenly, Matthew appeared. He was moving along slowly, staff in hand, as though he carried a burden upon his back. She waved and called out his name; he looked up and waved back. He looked very tired and dejected, and she felt sorry for him because of the responsibility he shouldered.

  Sending Robert off to a nearby tavern for something to eat—he was near to starving, he complained, and dead tired from all the walking he had done and to which, as a household servant, he was woefully unaccustomed—they went inside the Temple Gate and found the bow-shaped bench where they had sat before.

  “What fortune, Matthew, with Keable and the lawyer Pri-deaux?” she asked when they were comfortably situated and sure that their conversation would not be overheard by pas-sersby.

  “Keable wasn’t at dinner. Someone said he had gone into the City. I went to visit the lawyer.”

  “And learned?”

  “The man lives in a great house, in one spacious chamber of which he practices his lawyering and confers with his clients. At first I was made very welcome and invited to sit in a kind of waiting room. There were at least a half dozen gentlemen and one woman before me, all looking very anxious and keeping to themselves. A servant in livery brought dainties on a plate and a refreshing punch. The servant thought I was a potential client, you see. After a good hour I was let in to see Prideaux himself. I told him I was servant to Sir Robert Cecil and had come to inquire about his knowledge of certain persons at the Middle Temple. But when he found out I wanted only information and had no suit to bring to line his coffers withal, he roundly declared that he was no balladmonger, and that if I wanted news, I should go into the streets and not trouble him. He said he was a Lincoln’s Inn man and that the Middle Temple was a sinkhole of vice and ignorance into which he never yet set foot nor would. He spoke viciously of Master Hutton and called him ambitious and unscrupulous. When I protested his rude treatment of one who had come to him with good intentions, he called his servant, a mad fellow about seven feet tall if he was an inch, to show me the door.”

  “He sounds like a most disagreeable character,” Joan said. “No wonder he prospers in his litigious art. Poor Matthew,” she said, patting his shoulder affectionately. “This haughty man needs to learn manners as well as charity. Anyway, I doubt he is the person we seek.”

  Then she told him of her own adventure in Bishopsgate Street, Mistress Browne’s denial of having ever heard of Pri-deaux, and the full account she had received from the honest apothecary.

  To all this Matthew listened without comment, but when she had finished he said: “I don’t know, Joan. This mountebank of Norwich was undoubtedly as great a devil as the apothecary said—and surely his account agrees with that Sir Henry told me he had from Master Millcock. But perhaps this Mistress Browne lied because she was ashamed to acknowledge him as one of her husband’s calling. A rotten apple spoils the lot, you know. If she denies the rotten fruit, she may thereby preserve the reputation of the rest.”

  “That may be,” Joan said doubtfully. “How, then, do you explain the second apothecary’s forthrightness? Marry, is he to be blamed for failing to defend his brethren because he spoke so candidly of Prideaux’s sins?”

  ‘‘The important fact is that the man is dead,” Matthew said firmly. ‘ ‘The fifth man in Litchfield’s chamber was alive, no Norwich ghost. The names are coincidental. Besides, what can a false apothecary have to do with the murders of lawyers?”

  She had no answer to this question, yet she was still convinced she was right. She said: “I wonder if Giles knew Prideaux. Giles was from Norwich. Sir Henry said Giles’s father was a victim of the scoundrel. A gentleman’s daughter, one of the women seduced. She had a child by Prideaux. Surely, Matthew, this all adds up to something.”

  “I think a powerful collection of coincidences,” he said wearily.

  ‘‘Will you do me a favor?” she asked.r />
  ‘‘Speak it.”

  “You have access to Temple records. You can confirm what I suspect. First, that Giles was in Norwich five or six years past when Prideaux was about his mischief.”

  “And if he was, what then?” he asked skeptically. “Why, then it proves he knew Prideaux.”

  “Which proves what?”

  “ Please, Matthew.”

  “Ob, very well. Trust me, I’ll look at the records. You said ‘first.’ What comes after?”

  “Find out if Giles had a sister.”

  “That’s no crime.”

  “What if Giles had a sister who was seduced—by Prideaux?”

  “Then it is passing strange he should make merry with his ghost in Litchfield’s chamber.”

  He smiled at her as if that was the last word on the subject. She said calmly, ‘ ‘You have given me your word that you will search these questions out. I expect that you will keep it.” “Oh, I will keep my word,” Matthew said. “But because you ask it, not because I have much faith in this Norwich connection you hold so dear. But what if the Templar records tell me nothing?”

  “Then ask old Flowerdewe, who claims to know so much of Templar history. And don’t forget Sir Robert. His agents will supply you with facts soon enough, even if he has to send all the way to Norwich to do it.”

  Grudgingly Matthew agreed to do what she had asked. ‘ T wonder what hour it is.”

  “Why?”

  “Supper. I missed dinner entirely waiting to see Prideaux the lawyer. Damn the man, when I think of him I want to curse him with blindness, palsy, and impotence, all in the same instant. ’ ’

  “I suspect supper is still a few hours off,” Joan said. “Time sufficient for you to do what you have promised. But I must go. I have uncharitably abused poor Robert in dragging him from one end of the town to the other this day so that I could keep my promise to Frances Cooke not to go abroad alone.”

  They rose to go when Joan spotted Jacob Flowerdewe coming toward the Gate. “There’s Flowerdewe. Ask him now about Prideaux.”

  “He has been asked—and answered that he never heard of the name, save for the London lawyer.”

  “Ask him rather about Giles, then,” she urged.

  Matthew intercepted Jacob and drew him back to the bench where he and Joan had talked. The old man appeared pleased to be asked for his opinion and betrayed no curiosity as to why Matthew and Joan should want to know more about Giles.

  “Poor lad,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “I knew him as well as any man here. He was a thoughtful, sober sort, with an open hand and his nose always in a case or in that Bible of his. He was a bencher, you know.”

  “He came from Norwich, I believe,” said Matthew.

  “Ay, sir, he did. He and his father before him, and his father too. Three generations in the law they made together, the Gileses of Giles Hall. And now their name is done. ’ ’

  “Giles’s father had but one son, then?” Joan asked.

  “A son and a daughter, now both dead.”

  “A great pity,” said Matthew.

  “The whole line is done.” Jacob looked very sad at the thought.

  “Did you ever hear Giles speak of one named Prideaux? ’ ’ Joan asked.

  ‘‘I don’t remember that he did, ’’ Jacob said. ‘ ‘It’s a French name, isn’t it? There’s a great lawyer in the City by that name. Is it the same you mean?”

  “I don’t think so,” Matthew said, wincing at the memory of his ill treatment.

  “You said Giles had a sister,” Joan said. “You said she was dead. How did she die?”

  “Oh, there’s the saddest tale of all,” Jacob said, nonetheless looking rather pleased to be invited to relate it. “Master Giles told me the story once. Said he had a sister that was his twin. It was some years ago he told me—”

  “How many years?” Joan asked.

  “Four, five, six, I don’t recall exactly, but it was about then, before Master Hutton was Treasurer. He and this sister were two birds on a single branch, being that they were twins. She had fallen into the hands of a man learned in all manner of pills, salves, and infusions, and these he administered to her recklessly. He also committed abominations upon her body, got her with child. Then she died.”

  Joan said: “Tell us, Jacob. What was the man’s name, the one who had wronged Giles’s sister?”

  The old man scratched his head and rolled his eyes. “Why, Master Giles never mentioned the man’s name. He never did. Yet he spoke most evilly of him and called him the Devil incarnate, a gross lecher, and a fiend and said that if the law hadn’t hanged him for a witch, he would have tom his heart out from his throat—and this from a man who was the soul of kindness otherwise.”

  “This fiend, as Master Giles called him, had a wife. Did he ever say anything about her?”

  “Not that I remember. ”

  “Thank you, Jacob. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Jacob doffed his cap and moved away toward the Gate. Joan looked at Matthew and said: “Deny now, husband, that Giles knew Prideaux of Norwich. Why, the man violated his sister, his twin!”

  “If Jacob’s memory serves,” Matthew said.

  “Do you doubt it, Matthew? Come now, let’s have no fiddle-faddle about this. Have Sir Robert confirm the facts if you can put no trust in an old man’s memory. For me, the gathered parts are too much in accord with the whole to deny them. The ancient, honest doorkeeper is perfect in his tale. ” “All save the name,” Matthew reminded her. “He could not remember that. ”

  “Because Giles had never told him what it was,” Joan said. “Compare his story with what I heard the apothecary tell. They agree on all principal points. The apothecary said that Prideaux was brought to justice by an outraged father, whose daughter the villain had undone with his medications and vile practices. Giles’s father was the very gentleman! His sister the victim!”

  “Granted all you say is true,” Matthew said. “Now explain to me why the name of a man who for five years has been food for worms should have been included on Giles’s list of living Templars. That’s the question that still wants answering.”

  Eighteen

  KEABLE had been listening to the learned doctor of the law lecture on wills, testaments, and conveyances for nearly an hour but had given over any attempt to follow so arid a subject, although as his father’s presumptive heir, he had on other occasions found these matters worthy of his attention. Free of condemnation for the death of Braithwaite by the Treasurer’s sudden and most strange but welcome pronouncement that Keable’s unlucky thrust and Braithwaite’s death were unconnected, Keable accepted the verdict without questioning Hutton’s motive. Like most inherently selfish young men, he believed he richly deserved whatever good came his way, and freedom from the threat of imminent arrest for manslaughter was definitely a good.

  As was his new freedom from the importunities of Theo-philus Phipps. His fear and isolation immediately following Braithwaite’s mysterious death had caused him to forge a disgraceful alliance with the effeminate clerk—an alliance that had climaxed in the latter’s outright proposition of the evening before that the two become lovers.

  Not that the apparent settling of the Braithwaite matter had completely eased Keable’s fears. Quite the contrary. Cecil’s spy still lurked about the premises, crutched but still dangerous. Who knew what bitter fruit Matthew Stock would pluck from all his snooping. Phipps—that petty intriguer and shuttlecock of gossip—had been right about that at least.

  Phipps, whose indecent proposition, again remembered, stuck in Keable’s craw, gagging him with its recollection. Keable had pushed Phipps away, disgusted and enraged. Called him a degenerate knave, and laid upon the clerk a dozen other names no less insulting. Phipps’s face had turned as red as a radish. The jaw had set like a trap. Phipps had grated: “You’ll rue those words. There’s no wall about you, Keable. You think you’ll live forever. But look what befell Litchfield. And the others. You’re contaminated b
y the very association. I’d look to my life if I were you.”

  Later Phipps’s warning had sunk deep into Keable’s heart and would give him no rest. His mockery of the clerk at breakfast—that stupid wrangle over plays and their makers— had been a petty revenge. In the clear light of day Keable had reconsidered his situation. The victims had all been members of Osborne’s company of players. So was Keable. All had been present in Monk’s chamber when he had inadvertently stumbled upon their covert meeting. Here, thought Keable, pausing in a methodical, lawyerly way, a distinction might be drawn. He had been no fellow of that conspiracy. An innocent bystander, rather. On the other hand, as Phipps had so trenchantly implied, Keable had slipped into peril by happenstance, and a slip certainly could prove as fatal as a deliberate step.

  Contemplating these matters now, Keable felt a mighty stirring of his old fear. Meanwhile, in the background of his thoughts, the learned doctor of the laws droned on. Some of his audience had slipped out of the room; the lecturer seemed hardly to notice. He spoke in a deep, resonant voice, weighing his words, savoring the heavy phrases of his sullen art, proposing death as a legal problem, even as Keable sat sweating out Phipps’s warning again.

  He looked anxiously about him for a familiar face in the Hall. He knew them all, but none was his friend. He could not trust his chamberfellow, Wilson. Wilson was an idiot.

  All others had turned against him over the Braithwaite affair, save for Phipps.

  A sprinkling of applause terminated the lecture. Several of the audience went forward to speak to the learned doctor of the laws, but Keable remained where he sat, even after the Hall had emptied and the servants entered to prepare the table for the evening meal.

  “What, meditating the muse or the supper to come?” Keable looked up at the familiar voice, so distasteful with its nasal sneer.

  But Phipps’s expression was not unfriendly, despite Kea-ble’s rebuff of the previous night, the condemning phrase, and the mockery at the breakfast table.