Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’ The boy remained silent. ‘Mine’s Nicholas. Nicholas Wildmoor. Now you say.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Tom Finch.’

  Nicholas released his grip. ‘Very good, Tom. Was that man your father?’

  ‘That’s Ben Willis.’ Tom gave Nicholas a defiant stare. ‘I don’t have a father.’

  ‘Well, Tom. You made a grim find here last winter?’

  Tom nodded, making the sign of the cross over his chest. A Catholic, Mercia supposed. She wondered what Tom’s neighbour, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, would make of that. Gilbert Sheldon had been installed a few months before, but just last year his predecessor had renovated Lambeth Palace in a traditional style, a striking snub to the Puritans who had ransacked it during the war. Was this the latest direction in which the religious winds were blowing, that had buffeted these islands so ferociously over the past century and before?

  ‘Mercia, pay attention,’ said Nicholas. ‘Tom’s going to take us to where he found the finger.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’ She smiled to reassure him, for she could see in his young face that his defiance had turned to fear, although he was trying not to let it show. He led the way further into the marsh, away from the settlement.

  ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘This ground’s nasty. It floods and becomes very muddy. See!’ Mercia had slipped off the path, trapping her foot in the grasping mire. Nicholas pulled hard on her leg to release it, but it took a sharp tug before it squelched out, her foot inside the boot now wet.

  Further along Tom pointed to the top of a ditch. ‘That bone was here on the reeds.’ He looked up at them. ‘I thought it was just a necklace, I did, until I picked it up.’

  ‘Looking for booty from the flood, eh?’ said Nicholas.

  Tom shook his head, but his eyes darted downwards. ‘When I got back they tried to take it, but then Emma said it was touched by the Devil.’ He crossed himself again. ‘I don’t scare, but that ain’t natural. I ran to Southwark to give it the priest.’

  ‘Who must have handed it to the constable,’ mused Mercia. ‘Who did nothing, as usual.’

  Nicholas scratched his head. ‘Stay here with the boy while I search around.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If the bone was lost here, maybe our man lost other things too. I can at least look.’ He eased himself into the ditch, keeping hold of the slippery sides.

  Tom cupped his hands together. ‘You’ll get sucked down!’

  Mercia peered over the edge. Nicholas was testing the ground with each step, but his boot was sinking further each time. ‘I think you’d better come out,’ she said.

  ‘In a bit. Why don’t you ask Tom about … you know who? I don’t see how it can hurt.’ Nicholas moved back up the sides of the ditch where the ground was firmer, holding onto reeds and marsh grass for support. He inched along until he turned a corner into another channel and passed out of sight.

  Mercia looked down at Tom, who was staring in the direction Nicholas had taken, biting his lip. ‘He shouldn’t do that,’ he said. ‘He don’t know the paths.’

  Mercia shared his anxiety, but she beat it down. ‘Do you live round here too, Tom?’

  He was still looking towards the marsh. ‘I come up from home, help out. I’m going to be a carpenter.’

  ‘It must be interesting work.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

  She couldn’t think how to be anything other than direct. ‘Tom, do you know a man called James North?’

  Tom hissed. ‘That piece of shit?’

  She blinked. ‘You do?’

  ‘I’d say so.’ He unhooked his shirt from the top of his breeches, showing his waist. ‘You can’t see now, but this was bruised not long back. By him.’

  ‘Tom, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’ He snorted. ‘You don’t care.’

  ‘Tom, I do. Where is North now?’

  He reattached his shirt. ‘Gone.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course. He was here a month for the work. Got it together with that Kate bitch. Then he hid that finger in the marsh and went. Took some money, Ben says.’

  She closed her eyes, the elation she had felt just seconds before evaporating into the soggy air. Tom had confirmed North had been in the area and dashed her hopes of finding him in one short conversation. They were wasting their time out here. But something did not make sense.

  ‘Why would he hide the finger, Tom?’

  He frowned at her as though she were stupid. ‘As a curse!’

  She looked out to the marsh. A heron took flight a small distance away. Supposing Nicholas had disturbed it, she ventured further along the narrow path, arriving at a low wall near the river itself, presumably a flood defence, if one of little use against the force of the December storm. As she walked, Nicholas came back into view, pulling his way in her direction. Then his head jerked down and he stopped. Testing the strength of the reeds around him, he dropped back into the marsh.

  Several seconds passed. She covered her nose against the peaty stench of the bog, waiting. Insects played their steady tune in the undergrowth. Still more seconds. Now there was no sound but the wind blowing through the reeds. She could understand why Inigo Jones, the architect, had buried his money here during the war. She felt totally isolated. An apprehensive feeling grew in her stomach, moving up towards her chest. Suddenly she heard Nicholas cry out. In the distance, Tom crossed himself once more.

  Worrying Nicholas was trapped, she decided she had to go into the mire herself. She moved off down the path, straining to see any sign. But as she was nearing the spot where she last saw him, his head reappeared beneath her, followed by his hands, then his chest. Slowly he pulled himself from the ditch, his clothes splattered in mud.

  She knew something was wrong when he didn’t joke about his appearance. Instead he rested his fists on his thighs, lightly panting. Then he held up his right hand and flung away a clump of mud, scattering dirt onto the bottom of her dress.

  ‘Well.’ He looked up. ‘I don’t know where North has been all these years, but I know where he is now.’

  She waited.

  ‘He is lying dead here in this God forsaken swamp.’

  Mercia made the sign of the cross herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘You found a body.’

  He nodded. ‘Hidden under mud and reeds.’

  She held her hand against her chest. Her heart was beating wildly. ‘An accident?’

  ‘No. The skull is smashed. There is a bullet hole in his head.’

  ‘Could he have killed himself?’

  He looked at her. ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Murder, then.’ She felt nauseous. ‘How do you know it is North?’

  ‘The body is vile, rotted. It must have been here some months. But the mud has saved it somewhat.’ He retched involuntarily. ‘By God’s teeth, ’tis disgusting. The priest needs to be called to bury it.’

  ‘How do you know ’tis him?’ she repeated.

  He waved his hand, looking out towards the Thames. ‘There is some hair left, very thin now, but the black is just visible. And the left hand is missing a finger. My guess is he was killed before the storm and left in the marsh, then the flood snapped the chain from his neck and washed it to where the boy found it.’

  ‘Was the storm powerful enough to do that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Then there was little doubt. James North had ended his days here in this marsh, murdered. Mercia closed her eyes. The breeze lapped against her face.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Nicholas.

  She opened her eyes. ‘We report it to the constable.’

  ‘Won’t they ask why we’re here? I thought you wanted to keep what you’re doing quiet?’

  ‘We cannot hide this body. But we do not have to mention his connection to the paintings.’ She thought a moment. ‘We will say we came for a stroll to see the palace from this side of the river. You went into th
e mire, not knowing its dangers, and in your struggle to get out you saw the body.’

  He frowned. ‘Will they believe that? ’Tis not what you told Ben Willis.’

  ‘Hell.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know. I do not think they will investigate at all. But Nicholas …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If North has been dead some time – who left me that threatening note?’

  Running on ahead to call the constable, Tom had spread the news of their grim discovery by the time they returned to the huts. A sweating collection of workers was milling around, their work forgotten, a ragged assortment of women chattering amongst them. One of the youngest stared at Mercia, her face ashen.

  ‘Bastards!’ she cried, running towards the marsh.

  ‘She knew James.’ The woman Emma came up, her indifference lost with the shock. ‘He didn’t live here long, but it was enough for them to become close. She thought he’d run away, fearing she was with child.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why have you come here? A coin won’t make me believe what you say.’

  Mercia sighed. North was dead. She had nothing to gain by staying silent. ‘Can we go inside? It will be easier to talk.’

  Emma assessed her with suspicious eyes, then nodded. ‘You might wash first,’ she said, indicating an improvised well.

  The hut was tiny, merely one large room, the floor bare earth. A pile of straw that served as a resting place filled one corner; a few rickety stools were tossed against the thin walls. A cold draught circulated, causing the limp fire in the middle to roar periodically. They were offered water, but neither accepted it. Water from the Thames was dangerous enough without worrying over any effect the marshland would add.

  ‘So talk,’ said Emma as she sat.

  Mercia leant forward on the stool she had dragged across. Its legs sunk into the moist ground.

  ‘There was an incident some years ago,’ she said. ‘North was involved.’

  ‘If you came here looking for hearsay, I won’t help you. Even if James is dead.’ Emma lowered her baby onto the floor. It began crawling around, stuffing dirt into its mouth.

  ‘No,’ said Mercia. ‘But I would like to learn what he knew.’

  Emma pursed her lips. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘There was a robbery. People were hurt.’

  She sighed. ‘He said he’d run into trouble overseas. Is this to do with that?’

  Before Mercia could respond, the young woman who had sworn at them ran into the hut, her dress caked in mud.

  ‘You have done this!’ she screamed. ‘You have taken him from me!’

  Emma leapt up to grab the shaking woman, holding her in a powerful grip. The baby chortled, bemused by the commotion. ‘Murderer!’ the woman howled, deranged.

  ‘Come now, Kate.’ Emma turned her by the shoulders. ‘How could they? They’ve just got here.’

  ‘They want to take his body, then.’ Kate glared over Emma’s head. ‘I won’t let them.’

  Emma shook her. ‘Think, girl. That don’t make sense.’

  Kate’s face began to tremble. She looked at Emma, her fury turning to pain, before collapsing into her arms. Softly, Emma stroked her hair.

  ‘’Tis most likely he wandered into the marsh and got sucked down,’ she said. ‘Like happened to poor Sarah’s girl two summers back.’

  ‘But you looked for him,’ said Kate, her voice muffled by Emma’s shoulder. ‘You didn’t find anything.’

  For an instant Emma’s hand stopped. But it was clear Kate trusted her, for gradually she calmed herself, her breathing becoming steadier. Wiping her eyes, she pushed back from her friend and looked at Nicholas.

  ‘Did you know James?’ she asked. Nicholas smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re not from New Amsterdam too?’

  Mercia looked up. ‘You don’t mean Amsterdam?’ she said, recalling her conversation with the clerk.

  ‘No.’ Kate’s tone was scornful. ‘New Amsterdam, in America. Don’t you think I know where he lived?’ Her eyes shone with renewed tears. ‘He was going to take me there when he went back.’

  Nicholas glanced at Mercia. ‘New Amsterdam?’

  ‘’Tis a Dutch outpost,’ she said. ‘Near New England.’ And so, she thought, near where Jamie Thorn was sent. She turned back to Kate, her mind churning. ‘What was James doing there?’

  ‘He was a carpenter. That’s why he came to Lambeth, to find work at the timber yards.’

  ‘But why come back to England at all?’

  A tear ran down Kate’s cheek. ‘I thought he’d left me. But now I know the truth, I don’t know what’s worse.’ She scratched at the teardrop, her anger flaring once more. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? Who are you?’ Agitated, she ran from the hut. Moments later a door slammed further up the makeshift street.

  ‘She’s upset,’ said Emma, bending down to remove a slab of mud from her baby’s hands. ‘And I still don’t understand what you wanted with James. When you came here, you told my husband you were interested in what young Tom found.’

  ‘Well, what I don’t understand,’ said Nicholas, folding his arms, ‘is if that girl was close with North, she must have seen what he wore round his neck. I’m guessing you would have known too.’ He jerked his head towards the door. ‘That search you made when he disappeared. Very thorough, was it?’

  Emma stood up. ‘I think you should leave.’

  ‘And when Tom found the bone – North’s, as you must have known – did you search again? The storm had disturbed the body by then. I found it quite easily.’

  Mercia realised what he was implying. ‘What are you hiding from us, Emma?’ No reply. ‘Would you prefer to tell the constable?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Emma paced the hut. ‘We didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. He did disappear and we did search.’ She stared at Nicholas, defiant. ‘But yes, we found his body. And we left it there. Covered it with reeds to keep it hidden.’ She rubbed at her arm. ‘James was a nasty piece of shit. He wore that finger bone like a talisman, intimidating anyone he could with it.’ She scoffed. ‘If someone killed him, what of it? We left the bastard to rot, fooled Kate into thinking he’d run away. She’s better off. Stupid girl thought he cared for her. Obvious what he really wanted.’

  ‘But then the flood came,’ said Mercia.

  ‘God sent that flood, made that damn bone float off.’ She sighed. ‘When Tom found it we said James had left it behind, that he’d got the Devil to curse it to bring the workers bad luck. But the fool panicked, took it to the bloody priest. The constable came, but we sorted him out.’ She glared. ‘We will again.’

  ‘And Kate?’ said Nicholas.

  Emma shrugged. ‘We made sure she never knew it had been found.’

  Mercia rested her chin on her clasped hands. ‘I still don’t see,’ she mused, ‘why North came back.’

  ‘I don’t know much.’ Emma stooped to pick up the baby. ‘But Kate said one night, when she was done with business’ – she shot Mercia a look – ‘that James was after someone at the palace who’d give him money. A nobleman. That if this noble sir refused, there was some threat he would use against him, something from his past.’ She looked up, her expression sharp. ‘He tried, didn’t he, and was murdered for it.’ She crossed herself. ‘This is truly the Devil’s work. Now please go. I need to feed my baby.’

  Aware Emma’s mood was darkening, Mercia nodded and rose, beckoning Nicholas to follow her out. They stepped into the cold air just as Tom was coming up from Southwark with a constable. Without warning, Nicholas yanked her behind the hut, motioning for her to keep silent.

  ‘What was that for?’ she said, once the constable had passed.

  ‘Just – I don’t think we need speak with the constable any more. Now that Emma’s talked, we know for certain the body is North and why he was here. We’ll gain no more from confessing our part.’

  ‘But he will want to speak with the people who found the body!’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘He’ll
be glad not to have to. You know yourself they’re paid so little they don’t care. And don’t forget – what are you going to say about why we’re out here? Nobody knows where we live. We can just go.’

  She hesitated. Then she nodded. They walked quickly away from the huts, just as Ben Willis was draping his arm around the constable’s shoulder, a smile of prepared deceit broadening his face.

  Troubled by their discoveries, Mercia barely noticed the severed heads that were rotting atop London Bridge’s southern archway; the traitors’ quartered body parts would be decorating the various city gates. The King could have ordered her father’s head so displayed if he had wished it, but in an act of clemency he had returned it to be buried with the rest of his remains.

  Through the archway they came onto London Bridge proper, still the only road across the river since the first bridge had been erected on the site in Roman times. The mass of people was so intense it was a wonder anyone was able to jostle past the teeming shopfronts. Even their muddy clothes failed to persuade people to move aside, although they suffered many stares and shouts, especially Nicholas, who was dripping foul ooze onto the pavement.

  After twenty minutes they were still only halfway across. Two drays, the sideless wagons that delivered heavy goods throughout the city, were facing each other in the middle of the narrow roadway. The bridge overflowed with buildings, many jutting six feet over the water, but shopfronts still spilt into the road and the drays were unable to pass. The drivers were currently fighting over who should reverse, their horses adding to the bridge’s filth as cursing pedestrians tussled to heave them aside.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Nicholas, looking askance at Mercia as they waited to file into the small gap beside the drays.

  She sighed. ‘How this has just become more complicated.’

  He lowered his voice, indicating with outstretched palm that she do the same. ‘Because North is dead?’