by Anne Stevens
The boy loves adventure, racing greyhounds, riding to hounds, and other gentlemanly pursuits. He will never be able to step into his father’s shoes, and if Austin Friars is to survive, there must be a worthy successor, and soon.
Will is crouching over the body, when he senses that someone is behind him. He slips one hand to the throwing knife in his boot, and turns. Framed in the light of the open door, is a large, black shape. The figure steps forward, and touches his fingers to the brim of his wide black hat.
“Colonel Draper?” The figure moves closer, and resolves itself into that of a big, well muscled man in his late twenties. He is wearing a long black coat, and a wide hat. Around his neck, he has a white kerchief tied. “I am the Reverend Brady. You sent for me, I believe?”
“This lady is above ground over long, sir,” Will says, as he stands to his feet. “Would you refuse her your ministrations?”
“I am not a papist, Colonel Draper,” Brady replies. “Nor do I demand silver before I utter the words of Our Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, and Redeemer of Mankind.”
“Amen,” Will says. “You are a Tyndale man then?”
“I am a Christian, sir,” Brady replies. “I believe Englishmen should hear the Holy Bible, in their native tongue. If that makes me a Tyndale man, then so be it.” He crosses to the body, and prays. After a moment he wipes his eyes, and turns away. “Forgive me, sir, but I knew this lady well, and never a kinder woman lived. Now there will be none to stay her husband’s hand.”
“Sir Anthony Clough?” Will senses that Brady dislikes the man, and probes further. “Was it an unhappy marriage?”
“Do you mean, did he drive her to kill herself?” the reverend asks.
“No, I do not,” Will responds. “I mean, were they happy? Did they quarrel? Was he ever brutal to her?”
“I see. I have only been in charge of the church for a short time, but I farmed close by, for several years. Lady Isabella was married to Sir Arthur Destry, and it was a happy union, though childless. Sir Arthur died about five years ago, leaving Lady Isabella with a decent fortune, and a lot of land. The land was deeded from the Duke of Suffolk, who did not want a widow as his tenant, so he insisted she re-marry. His choice was Sir Anthony Clough, a penniless, card playing, friend. He was ten years my lady’s junior, and was soon whoring about King’s Lynn, and Boston, spending her wealth.”
“It was his right, once they were wed,” Will says. It is a hard world for women, he thinks, and muses at how Miriam must feel, knowing that everything she will ever earn is his, by law. He would never abuse the situation, but he is the exception that proves the rule. Most husbands simply take everything, as a right. “So, they argued?”
“They did.” Reverend Brady kneels, and closes the dead woman’s eyes. They spring back open, making him jump back in horror.
“It is the stiffness,” Will explains. “I know not why, but the dead grow stiff. I have seen those killed in battle, a few days later, and they grow softer again, just before they start to really rot. That is when you will be able to close her eyes. Or you might put a couple of coins on the lids to hold them down.”
“I have no coins,” Brady says. “The Lord commands that I give all I have to the needy.”
“Here, take these coppers,” Will says. “Give them to the poor, when you are done.”
“Thank you.” The man closes the eyes again, and balances a coin on each lid. “Ah, it works. How came she to this, Colonel Draper? Lady Isabella was the strongest woman I have ever known. She stood up to Sir Anthony, and found ways to hide her wealth.”
“I wager that drove him mad with anger.”
“Sir, your questions disturb me,” Brady says. “Pray tell me what is on your mind.”
“Come, and let me show you what I have discovered,” Will says. “Then I ask that you accompany me to the house, where Sir Anthony is ‘mad with grief’.
“When this is over, I shall horsewhip you, Marmaduke,” Sir Anthony snarls. “Then I will turn you, and your family out of their cottages, and burn them down. You will starve, like stray dogs, and I will laugh. What say you to that?”
“I cannot unbar your door, sir,” Marmaduke calls back through the wooden barrier. “Her Ladyship is dead, and you must be here to answer whatever questions there are.”
“It is almost two days,” Clough shouts back. “How long does it take to get a Sherriff? By Christ’s bollocks, but I shall have the woman in the ground, and any law sent packing!”
“Colonel Draper is the King’s Examiner,” Marmaduke replies. “He comes from London, and will get to the reason Lady Isabella hanged herself. Why, you dog… sir … it was you and your whoring and gambling that drove her to it.”
“And what of it?” Sir Anthony cries. “It is all mine, to do with as I please, you idiot! This King‘s Examiner will know his law, and release me. Then, by God, you will all feel my wrath!”
“Unbar the door, please.” Will Draper and the Reverend Brady fill the passage behind the steward. “We will have words with Sir Anthony.”
“About time,” Sir Anthony says. “I have not had a drink for two days, save watered wine with the meals they brought me. Can you believe it, sirs, two days, kept from my business.”
“Sir, your wife is dead,” Brady says.
“By her own hand,” Sir Anthony Clough says, harshly. “It was coming. I saw how unhappy she was, but what can a fellow do with these older women? I should never have took her on … though the fortune comes in damned handy. Get her buried, priest, and be damned to her.”
“You have a black heart, sir,” Brady says. “God is all about us, and sees the wickedness that men do. Beware, lest you destroy your immortal soul.”
“Oh, bugger off!” Clough waves his arms as if shooing away an insect. “And you, Master Examiner, what brings you here?”
“I come to examine your wife’s death, sir,” Will says. “I see that one of the bed drapes is missing.”
“What?” Sir Anthony frowns. “Being washed, I suppose. It might have been soiled, or in need of mending.”
“Or stained by the grass,” Will says. “Whatever the reason, it is off, and with the washerwoman.”
“No doubt.”
“Master Marmaduke, who actually is Lady Isabella’s washer woman?” Will asks the steward.
“Why, my wife, sir.” Marmaduke replies, somewhat mystified. “She tends to all the linen, and keeps the wall hangings, and bed drapes, in good condition.”
“Has she washed today?”
“No, sir. I think the shock of it has unnerved her. The washing has been left these last two days.”
“Then I shall need to see it.”
“As you wish, sir.” Marmaduke scurries away.
“As you wish? You dribbling piece of piss, it is for me to say what happens here,” Clough snarls. “Now, I suggest you all piss off, out of my house!”
“It is yours because you married Lady Isabella,” Will says.
“What of it?”
“You married, thinking to use the poor woman’s fortune for your own ends, but Lady Isabella was too shrewd for you.”
“What, a woman?” Clough grins. “She was not so clever after a few slaps. A good whipping settles them down, Colonel Draper. I wager you know who runs your household.”
“I do sir,” Will replies. “Lady Isabella arranged to hide most of her wealth, and was using it to better the lot of her tenants. You found out, two nights ago, and flew into a rage. The servants could hear you cursing and swearing, but she bested you. You could see no other way of getting her wealth, so you came up with a clever plan.”
“I told her that she was a barren old sow, and that no gentleman would ever look at her again.” Sir Anthony smiles at the recollection. “She slapped my face, and walked out on me. I thought she was in another bedroom, sulking. Had I known she was going to kill herself, I would have had the servants stop her. I mean, suicide is a crime, after all is said and done. I would have had her locked away
, as the mad woman she was.”
“One bed hanging, sir,” Marmaduke presents the heavy, embroidered bed drape, and Reverend Brady takes it and holds it up for all to see. “The wife says she will never get those stains out.”
“Why it looks as though it has been dragged across a damp field,” Will says. “And the tie?” Marmaduke holds up the thin, braided cord that is used to hold the drapes back. “Ah, as I thought, gentlemen. Reverend Brady, I beg of you, examine the cord. Do you see anything on it?”
“I do. Brown flecks of … blood, is it?”
“This is preposterous!” Clough tries to leave the room, but his way is barred. “What are you saying? The woman hanged herself. You must have seen that for yourself?”
“I saw what you wanted Marmaduke to see.” Will takes the cord in each fist, and taughtens it. “You thought he would cut her down, and send for you. A quick burial, and that would be that. Unfortunately, your steward loved his mistress, and felt her death should be looked at, if only to show you up for the swine you are.”
“You dog, I shall call you out for that,” Clough says. “I challenge you, sir. Either retract what you say, or I demand satisfaction!”
“What I saw was a woman who managed to tie a heavy rope to a beam, above her reach … even using a stool. Then I saw that, when she was hanging, that same stool was too low for her to stand on. Lady Isabella would have to have been about your height, Sir Anthony.”
“Pistol, or sword, you cur,” Clough snarls. “I will satisfy my honour, as the law allows, then deal with these servants, as I see fit.”
“You lost your argument, insulted the lady, and received an embarrassing slap for your trouble,” Will continues. “Being a coward, you waited for her to sleep, then took the cord, and strangled her. A clear case of murder. Your servants would have taken you up, and called for the Sherriff. The result would have been your own hanging.
“So, you wrapped her in the drape, and dragged her to the barn. There, you fashioned a noose, and strung her body up. I found two distinct rope marks. A wider bruise, hiding a narrower one, which cut into her neck. I have two witnesses, who will swear to my conclusions, and my report will state that you murdered Lady Isabella Clough.”
“I am a friend of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, Master Examiner,” Clough says, smiling. “It is for him to decide my fate, and he will take my word for it … the sow hanged herself.”
“I dare say,” Will says, nodding his agreement. “Now, there is the matter of you insulting the king.”
“How so, sir?” Clough is on safe ground. He knows Brandon is fool enough to take his word. “I simply called you ‘a dog’ as I recall.”
“And called me out. I offered the first insult, as I recall,” Will says. “Is that so, reverend Brady?”
“You called him a swine,” the man of God confirms. “Though later, you did call him a coward. I fear you must retract what you said, or defend your honour.”
“I am the King’s Examiner, sir, I cannot retract, lest it besmirches my honour, and reflects on his.” Will drops the cord, and bows to a startled Clough. “Pistol or sword, you cur.”
“You mean it?” Sir Anthony Clough looks from one man to the other. “Marmaduke, fetch my pistol case. The silver handled pair given to me by the Duke of Suffolk. Oh, and the heavy sabre, from the great hall. I see you have yours, sir.”
“A German blade,” Will says, touching the hilt. He has lost count of the times he has told the tale of how he took it from the hand of a defeated Irish chieftain. “Shall we step outside, sir?”
“If I kill you, the murder charge will die with you, will it not?”
“Ah, you wish it to be to the death?” Will Draper nods his agreement. They step out into the fresh Spring morning, and move away from the house. A dozen servants and farm workers are dotted about, wondering what is to befall them, now their mistress is dead.
Walter Marmaduke comes from the house, carrying a wooden box, and a sword, free of its scabbard. He thrusts the point of the sword into the soft grass, and the soil beneath, and opens the box. Will draws his own blade and sticks it likewise into the ground, about twenty paces apart. They will use pistols, and resort to their blades, if both miss.
“Choose,” Sir Anthony says. He is an expert shot, and is sure he can put his ball into Will Draper at ten paces. Unfortunately, his opponent might still have time to fire, and inflict a serious wound. It is time to take precautions. Will Draper picks one of the beautiful duelling pistols up, nods to his foe, and starts to pace off ten steps.
“Dog!” Clough snarls, even as he raises his pistol, and from a range of seven or eight paces, discharges it into Will Draper’s exposed back. The flash, and sharp crack makes the witnesses blink, or turn away. Only Will Draper remains unmoved. Slowly, he turns to face a horrified Clough. At this range, he should have punched a hole through the man’s spine.
“Dear me,” Walter Marmaduke says, opening his palm, to show two lead rounds. “I forgot to put these in.”
Will Draper cannot believe how stupid he has been, to turn his back on a man, whom he has already condemned as a wife murderer. He raises his own pistol, and fires. Clough flinches, then curses, and runs for his sword, where it is stabbed into the soil. It is a heavy weapon, designed to cleave through armour, and takes a lot of strength to wield it. He advances on Will Draper, who pulls free his own blade.
“This sword was made in Germany, by the best forge masters in the world,” he says, as he moves closer to Clough. “It is folded and folded, until the steel is stronger than any other.”
Clough launches a sudden attack, and swings the big sabre, like an axe, at Will’s head. He dances back a pace, and draws a dagger with his left hand. It will act as a useful parry if he is too slow to get out of the way. He sets himself for the next attack, and smiles, like a fox.
“Now, where was I?” Will ponders. “Oh, yes. The hilt is made from a tongue of the same steel, sheathed with hardwood, riveted through with iron fastenings, and finally, bound with a leather cord, soaked in vinegar. Good try!” Will jumps aside, and avoids a second, lethal blow. “The vinegar shrinks the leather, making it fast, and it provides a wonderful grip. Of course, the main advantage of my sword, is that it is lighter, and can be used one handed. See?”
Sir Anthony Clough cannot believe what has happened. As he makes his third lunge, Will Draper manages to flick aside the point of his heavy blade, step inside the swing, and drive his dagger home, with lethal effect. The thin blade goes in, under the rib, as Mush has often demonstrated, and punctures the heart.
The wife murderer blinks once, then shudders, and falls to his knees. The King’s Examiner stoops with him, until the light of life goes from his eyes. Then he eases his body onto its back, and withdraws the knife. There is a small fountain of blood, and it is over.
“Fairly done, sir?” Will asks of Brady, and the Reverend Gentleman nods his head.
“He called you out, and he lost,” Brady says. “I will also swear to his guilt in the matter of his wife’s death. She shall be buried in the church, and her dog of a husband can go in a hole near the lych gate. It will stop his spirit wandering.”
“Now we have no master,” Walter says.
“You saved my life, Master Marmaduke,” Will says. “I should have known he would try to play me false.”
“I knew how he thought,” Marmaduke replies. “I dared not arm the pistols, and hoped you could use a sword. Thank God you can, sir!”
“I will call on Charles Brandon,” Will says. “He owes me, and we are close to being friends. I will have him lease the estate to my wife.”
“Your wife, sir?”
“It is a long tale,” Will says. “You will find her a benign mistress, as long as you play fair by her. The church will prosper, and she will see everyone benefits.”
“Amen to that,” Reverend Brady says. “By God, but this business has given me a thirst. Will you take some ale with me, Colonel Draper, and you too, Walter?
”
“I must decline,” Will Draper says. “I promised my wife a day or two of my company, and must return home, as fast as Moll can carry me.”
“Then God bless you, Colonel Draper,” the Reverend Brady replies. “May he grant you both the few days rest you so crave.”
3 New Faces
“Denna stad luktar illa!” The tall, thin man stokes his beard as he pronounces his view of London. His companion, laden with bags, simply scowls Of course London smells badly, he thinks, it is like any other city they have visited. Cities are made of people, and people stink. He beckons a small boy over, who is standing on the dockside, where he waits for the chance to earn a few coppers from new arrivals.
“Your service, master,” the boy says, bowing to the strangely dressed duo. “What can I do for you?”
“Lodgings,” the shorter, fatter, younger one says, in a voice that is not used to speaking English. “We wish good rooms. My master is Aldo Mercurius, Master of Alchemy to the court of Prince Ygor of Lithuania. He comes to see your king. Once we are settled in, you will go tell your king, that we here! Yes?”
“Gor’ but Old Hal will love you,” the boy mutters. “Come on then. Here, sir, I’ll take that bag.”
“No!” The tall alchemist snatches the battered old bag, and clutches it to his narrow chest. “For your own sake. I keep safe. Yes?”
“Please yourself,” The boy decides that the Fighting Cock might be too lively for the two strangers, and decides to take them to the Elephant instead. It is still rough, but the rooms are clean, and the girls are usually pox free, and not too expensive. They set off, on foot, and soon have a small, but very curious, crowd following them.
London is full of time wasters, with nothing to do, except create their own fun. There are thousands who live off their masters: Lords who dole out free bread, and the odd coppers, because they see power in numbers. It is a false vision, of course, as most will back anyone who is stupid enough to support their lazy ways. One scoundrel decides to lead the way, and declares the coming of strangers in a loud voice.
