by Anne Stevens
8 A Little Spillage
“This is too much,” Miriam says, reading the badly scrawled note that has just been delivered by one of the many urchins who inhabit the Thames waterfront. Her brother, Mush, looks up from the platter of eggs and hot bacon she has just prepared for him.
“Trouble, sister?” he asks.
“One of my cogs has been lost,” she replies. “The Merry Gwen was due in harbour yesterday. Now, Dudley, my harbour master, sends word that she is lost. Eight men, and a cargo of good French flour, worth eighty pounds.”
“The Merry Gwen?” Mush no longer feels hungry.
“I named her for Gwen, before … before.” Miriam sees that her brother has been pricked by her words. “I should have changed the name, but it keeps her alive in some way.”
“And now she is gone?”
“The third such loss in eight months,” Miriam explains to her brother. “There is always a chance of a ship foundering, but my luck is worse than most other ship owners.”
“How many ships do you have?” Mush asks. He has failed to notice his sister’s expert business practices bearing fruit, and has little idea of her current worth.
“Only two,” she says. “Together with fifteen cogs. The ships trade with the further markets, in Venice, Lisbon, and Genoa, whilst the cogs ply their trade across the Channel to France, Brabant, Flanders, and Calais.”
“Sweet Abraham,” Mush says, giving a low whistle. “What are you worth?”
“Seven, or eight thousand a year,” Miriam confesses. “It just seems to grow and grow.”
“Like you,” Mush says, patting her expanded girth. “This little one will be richer than Henry, when he comes.”
“Which is any time now,” Miriam says. “I cannot afford to look into this just now.”
“You think something is amiss?” Mush thinks that so many cogs going down in so short a time is most odd.
“I do not really know, brother.” Miriam is tired, and feels oppressed by this, more bad news.
“Then I will find out,” Mush says. “Can you afford my fee, sister?”
“Oh, you would charge me?” Miriam replies. “Then I shall do a reckoning on your bed and board these last months. Then I shall start to charge for breakfast.”
“Enough!” Mush snatches the note from her hand. “I will settle for a free meal, whenever I am hungry. Now, sit down, and rest yourself. I will let you know what I find out.”
“Go easily, brother,” Miriam says. “I do not want my people upset. They are, for the most part, reliable.”
“Master Dudley?”
“Who asks?”
“Mush Draper,” Mush replies, offering his hand. “My sister tells me that you are her man, when it comes to Channel shipping.”
“That is so, Master Draper,” Dudley says. He is a man in his late thirties, and his skin has the deep tan of a man long at sea. “I check all arrivals, and ensure that goods are sent to the right markets. How can I help you?”
“Beets, sir.”
“Beets?” Dudley shrugs his shoulders. “A common enough cargo, but not one we have dealt in recently. If Mistress Miriam’s agents have bought a fresh crop, I will bring it across the Channel for her. Though it is so late in the year, I doubt there is a vegetable to be had between here and Paris.”
“You misunderstand me, Master Dudley,” Mush says, twisting his cap in his hand. “I am not in the way of being a merchant, and my learning is sparse. I seek only to ask how such things are priced at market.”
“That is hardly my concern, sir,” Dudley replies, shaking his head. “I am a seafaring man. Ask me about tonnage of each cog, how to best load them, and what currents to catch, and I will give you an honest enough answer.”
“Oh, then I am confused,” Mush replies, frowning. “My sister bought a crop of beets, eight months ago. The cog, Rebeckah was charged with the cargo.”
“I recall the day well,” Dudley says. “She set sail with the early tide from Calais, and must have caught a bad cross wind. My own belief is that the cargo shifted, and she rolled over. A bad day, sir, and no mistake.”
“A bad day indeed,” Mush agrees. “There was a shortage in London that season, and the prices rose to twice their normal levels.”
“They did?” Dudley shrugs. “I seldom visit London, and know nothing of the markets there.”
“I was in Deal yesterday, and also in Folkestone.” Mush smiles. “It seems that they fared better than the city, for beets were in plentiful supply, and going for less than the usual price.”
“Really?” Dudley sizes up the olive skinned, scrawny young man, and decides he is an idiot. All this talk of beets and their price proves nothing. “How does this matter to me, sir?”
“Three months later, the Magdalene went down too.” Mush steps closer to Dudley, who stands a full head taller, and is twice the girth. “Over the next few weeks, the price of Flanders lace dropped in these parts, rather than went up. High prices … Is that not what happens when a thing is in short supply?”
“I have no knowledge of this,” Dudley says. “Why do you bother me now?”
“Because the Merry Gwen has been lost, and I expect there to be a lot of very cheap French flour about soon.”
“You accuse me of something?” Dudley shakes his head in disbelief. “Then give me your proof, sir, or be damned to you!”
“Each cog was manned by the same eight man crew,” Mush says. “Each boat vanished, with no trace of wreckage, and their cargoes turn up almost at once, sold on for a cut price. I have found some of your men, sir, and they will testify to save their necks.”
“They are in Calais, and will not put a noose about their own necks.” Dudley trusts his men, whom he governs by fear.
“Then you admit your crime, sir.”
“To your face, perhaps, but not to any court of law.”
“I am a Cromwell man, Master Dudley,” Mush replies. “I go by his law. You are found guilty, and sentenced to death.”
“Such a loud voice on so small a Jew,” Dudley sneers. “Yes, I know you and your sister are Hebrews, and I cannot be touched for fleecing Christ killers. They are outside the law, and can be killed if found on English shores.”
“Then kill me.” Mush is now within inches of the man, and looking up into his face. “I will have the whereabouts of my sister’s cogs, and recompense for the stolen cargoes.”
“Why, you piece of filthy Jewish…”
“Choose your next words carefully, sir,” Mush spits into his face. “For they may well be your last.”
Dudley cannot believe how fast the youth has drawn and placed his knife. The blade is cutting into his neck. He stands stock still and considers his options.
“I have men close by,” Dudley snarls. Mush gives him an evil look. “Close enough to avenge me, Christ killer.”
“Then call them. Go on, call them.” Mush steps back, and takes the sharp blade from the big man’s throat. He gasps, then not believing his luck, cries out for help.
“Blackie, Jeb, Vance, to me now!” There is no sudden response. “Come here, you dogs!”
“They also allowed me to get far too close, Master Dudley. Now, they are all sleeping with Father Neptune,” Mush says. “Tell me where you have hidden my sister’s three cogs, and return what money you have crimped from her.”
“I will tell you,” Dudley bargains, “and if you spare me, I will fetch the money.” Mush frowns, and moves forward, menacingly. “You shall have it … every penny… I swear it. The boats are re-named, and working a northern port for me. I did not mean it to go so far, but only wished to take advantage of the usual spillage.”
“Spillage?” Mush wonders how a little spillage became three cogs, full of goods.
“Yes, master. Each cargo that crosses the Channel suffers a little spillage. It is how us poor sailors make up our wages. Kill me, and your sister will need a replacement. He will do the same. Only I grew greedy… a sin for which I fear I must now pay dear.
”
“Dear indeed, Master Dudley,” Mush says. “For I am going to let you live. No, do not look so relieved … for there are terms.”
“Anything, kind sir, anything.” Dudley means it. He has nothing but his life, and will do all he can to sustain it for a while longer.
“Return the cogs, back in their original livery.”
“It shall be done at once.”
“Then pay over to Mistress Miriam the full London market value of her wares.”
“They were sold short, sir. I made but a half of their value for a quick sale.” Dudley is beginning to see the cost of his life, and wonders how he can best this worrisome Jew.
“That is not my problem, sir,” Mush says, enjoying himself inordinately. “The full value, and within thirty days. Then you shall continue acting as our boat master, and guard our goods well. What ever spillage there is, shall be made up from your own personal wealth.”
“But a cog might founder!” Dudley declares, and Mush smiles at the irony of it.
“Let us hope not, for you will pay, with your money, or your life,” he says. “In this way, you will set a good example to all who work these ports.”
“They will turn on me, for being too honest,” Dudley says. “I will be shunned, or even set upon, sir.”
“Stay honest, and your enemies shall be mine,” Mush tells him. “Let he who threatens you, also threaten me, and all of Austin Friars. In this way, you shall have the best of bodyguards. No one will dare harm you, for we will repay them ten fold.”
“Let us hope you are better than those three rogues who are now floating in the harbour.”
“If you are in any doubt…”
“No, sir… your word is enough.”
“The word of a filthy Christ Killer?”
“I spoke in haste.”
“And must repent at leisure,” Mush replies, sheathing his knife. He turns to leave, and Dudley takes his chance. The harbour master snatches up the primed and loaded pistol he keeps in his desk. It is cocked, and almost levelled when Mush spins, throws, and draws a second knife. It is not needed. The first has lodged itself in Dudley’s throat, and he is desperately trying to pull it out.
“Now, why do that, sir?” Mush says, kicking aside the loaded pistol. “For I must find my sister’s cogs unaided now. The big dock agent slips down to his knees, his eyes glazing over in death, and Mush retrieves his knife. A gout of blood soaks the floor.
“Dear God!” A little man is standing in the door, shaking in fear. He cannot even turn and run.
“Who are you?”
“Master Dudley’s clerk, sir.”
“Do you know me?”
“No sir, I swear. I shall not even have seen you, if that is your wish. Please, spare me.”
“The man tried to kill me with that pistol,” Mush says. “You saw that, did you not?”
“I did,” the little man says. “You acted in self defence. I swear you did.”
“Good.” Then an idea comes to Mush. “You are my sister’s new harbour master now.”
“I am?” The little fellow smiles, and draws himself up to a full five feet. “Jaunty Ince at your service, Master Draper … I presume?”
“Call me Master Mush,” Mush says. “You will have this rogue’s house, and all within it. Though you must labour under the debts he leaves behind. He stole three cogs from Mistress Miriam.”
“They are hidden in a cove, not five miles distant, sir,” Jaunty Ince informs him. “Master Dudley also has a strong box in the house, where he keeps … kept… his stolen wealth.”
“Come, let us take possession, Master Ince,” Mush tells his new harbour master. “I will take the value of the stolen cargoes, for Miriam, and we will share the rest.”
“Half each?”
“Half each,” Mush confirms, slapping the man on his meagrely fleshed back. “Stay honest, Jaunty, and we shall do well together. Now, let us consign the foolish Master Dudley to the deep.”
“A few chains will keep him on the bottom,” Jaunty says, happily. “We do not want him bobbing up inconveniently.”
“I doubt anyone will miss the fellow.”
“His wife will set up a cry.”
“Did she love him then?” Mush asks.
“Lord, no. She is a young tavern girl, who married above her station, and will want gold for her silence.”
“Is she pretty enough?”
“Yes.”
“Then marry her. She will not care whose bed she warms, if the money comes in.”
“I am already married, sir.”
“Is your wife as pretty.”
“She is not, sir.” Jaunty considers for a moment. “Not at all.”
“Then make her your housekeeper, and bed the pretty one.”
“That might work,” Jaunty Ince says, rubbing his unshaven chin. “Though it might be better were my wife to disappear along with Master Dudley.”
“I do not murder women, my friend,” Mush replies, sharply. “Now, let us be about our business!”
Rafe is sitting on the front step of Draper House when Mush appears, whistling. The young Jew has regained his sister’s lost cogs, her money, and a further sixty three pounds for himself. He is in a jolly mood, and cannot wait to tell Miriam of his good fortune.
“Ho, Rafe, have they swept you out with the soiled rushes?” he jests.
“They sent to Austin Friars,” Rafe says, glumly. “Miriam’s time has come sooner than we thought.”
“How is she?” Mush recalls how she lost her first child, and knows that any further heartache might break his sister’s spirit.
“Ellen is with her,” Rafe replies. “She is in the best of hands, my friend. I only wish Will was home.”
Ellen Barre is a maid in Cromwell’s house. She has been deserted by her husband, whom is thought to be dead in Ireland, and is under the protection of Rafe. When the husband’s death can be legally declared, the two will marry.
“He will not thank Master Cromwell for keeping him away at this time,” Mush says. “Do you truly not know their whereabouts?”
Rafe sighs, and shakes his head. He has a suspicion, but does not wish to send Mush on a wild goose chase across Buckinghamshire and Hertfordshire. This is the first time since joining Cromwell that the lawyer has not taken Rafe into his confidence.
They fetch a flask of Miriam’s best wine from the cellar, and stroll down to the bottom of the back garden. The frontage of the big house is on the Thames, and its water almost laps up to the door, but the grounds to the rear extend to over a half acre, and are walled on all sides.
“It is a chill day.” Mush takes a swig, and passes the flask to his friend.
“Winter snow will be on us soon,” Rafe confirms. “It is not a good time to travel.”
“You mean to travel?” Mush asks.
“Soon. The king has a mind to visit Calais before Christmas, and sign a new treaty. He will expect me to attend him.”
“And Cromwell?”
“I should think so,” Rafe replies. “If they still be friends by then. The Boleyn whore presses to make Sir Thomas More and a few others take the oath.”
“Will Cromwell take it?” Mush can never understand why politics is so difficult a pastime.
“Of course, as will all at Austin Friars,” Rafe says. “It is the wording that worries those who still favour Rome. It puts Henry above all others, even the pope. As Pope Clement, the venal old dog, is supposed to be God’s representative in this world, how can he be put beneath a mere mortal … even if he be a king?”
“A sore point,” Mush says, taking another drink. The flask goes back and forth, until it is all but empty.
“Miriam could build another house in this garden,” Rafe says at length. “One even bigger than Austin Friars.”
“She can certainly afford it,” Mush says. Then adds: “I made sixty pounds today. Will you take half for the fund?”
“A princely sum,” Rafe says. “Did you have to kill any
one for so large an amount?”
“Four,” Mush says.
Rafe laughs, then realises that his friend is telling the truth.
“Four?”
“All thieves and cut throats,” Mush says. “You know that Gwen bought some land, to build our own house?”
“No, I did not,” Rafe says. Then for no apparent reason, they hug one another, as words fail them both. It is Mush who sees Ellen Barre coming into the garden. The two men break apart, and turn to her. She is a woman of thirty, yet has the smooth, angelic face of a child. She is coming to them, with her shoulders down, and a look of utter tiredness on her face.
“Dear God, Mistress Barre,” Mush whispers. “What is it?”
Rafe sees his lover is close to collapse, and runs to be by her side. She slumps against him, and mutters into his ear. Cromwell’s man glances across at Mush, who can feel a cold hand clutching at his vitals.
“Well?” he demands, in a tremulous voice. Rafe Sadler nods, and smiles to his friend.
“A boy, Mush,” he says, almost crying with relief. “And he lives, by God, he lives!”
“The child has the Mordecai good looks,” Mush says, as he cradles the new born child in his arms. “What shall you name him?”
“I thought for his father … Will, or William. Then I was minded of Gwen, and her birthright. For her sake, I thought I might call him Gwyllam. It is the Welsh for Will, I think.”
“A good, strong name,” Mush says. “Cromwell will be pleased, for many of his kin are Welsh, are they not?”
“Richard’s father,” Rafe affirms.
“Would that Will were here now,” Miriam says.
“He will be enjoying the delights of some country inn, or grand house, no doubt,” Mush says, in jest. “You must make him pay for his pleasures on his return!”
“He is a father now,” the girl says. “He will want to stay home, and watch his son grow up. Will has done his share of fighting, and can spend his days playing the part of a fine gentleman, hawking, riding to hounds, and keeping in at court.”
“His new position should keep him close to the king,” Mush says, but he hardly believes it. Will is like him and cannot breath in the constraints of home, and the court. Having a son might slow him down a little, but he is drawn to danger, like a moth to the flickering flame of a candle. “He will need a new suit of clothes, and a more elegant sword.”
