by Anne Stevens
The group slow to a trot, then a walk. At last, they stop about fifty paces away from Will Draper and his friends. The leader, a muscular, dark skinned man, calls to them, in Spanish. Tom Wyatt answers in Italian, before they find French to be a mutual language.
“Might I name myself, sir, as Don Alessandro Gomes, a member of the Emperor Charles’ household. These men are Dominican friars, about their business as Inquisitors.”
“Your business with us, sir?”
“None, my dear friends,” Gomes replies. “We seek only to take into custody the heretic, Esteban Vann, who is in league with William Tyndale. I see he is in your company. Does he ride with you?”
“You have no jurisdiction, Don Alessandro,” the poet informs the Spaniard. “If Master Vaughan is, truly a heretic, we shall return him to London, where he will receive a fair trial.”
“I cannot let you have the man,” Gomes snaps. “He has eluded my agents twice, and is a fugitive from the empire.”
“This is, according to the sergeant with us, English soil, sir, and that means that it is you who are in the wrong. God’s Hounds have no place in a civilised country.”
“You mock God?” The Spaniard makes a slight movement of his left hand, and the Dominican friars all produce weapons from beneath their garments. “The brothers will be most displeased.”
“If they love God so much, perhaps we can send a few of them to meet Him today?” Tom Wyatt drops a hand to the heavy pistol hanging on his saddle. “Perhaps you should go?”
The Spaniard looks as though he wants to throw himself at Wyatt, but instead, he turns his horse, and trots back towards his dour looking Domini Canes. They have been listening, and await but one word from their leader.
“Do they mean to fight?” Will asks, in English. Tom Wyatt nods, and drops his hand down onto his pistol. The single shot will not stop a concerted rush, but he intends to shoot Gomes from his horse at the first sign of trouble. Will also reaches for his saddle pistol, a gun invented for use on horseback. Once discharged, it has a stabbing blade under the thick barrel, or it can be used as a very effective club.
“Do we draw on the foreign bastards, sir?” Sergeant Buffery asks, and as if in answer, the mounted friars come at them, at the gallop. Will is first to react. He raises, aims, and discharges his pistol, in the blink of an eye. The leading man topples from his horse, and Tom Wyatt fires at Gomes. The one inch lead ball whistles past the Spaniard’s shoulder, and hit’s a horse behind him.
The beast goes down in a great flailing of legs, and surprised friar. Two more horses balk at the loud noises, and sheer away from the charge. Mush throws one of his perfectly balanced knives, and is rewarded with a scream of pain, then he is forced to duck under a swinging sword. All about them steel clashes against steel, as the Dominicans try to take Stephen Vaughan, dead, or alive.
Vaughan is no fighter, but manages to get his sword above his head, to parry a savage swipe. Richard Cromwell, who has just unhorsed one man, turns, and chops his axe into the unguarded thigh of Vaughan’s assailant. The man cries out, and Stephen, seeing his chance, thrusts his own blade into the man’s chest. It hits a rib, but the strike is enough to unhorse his opponent.
Sergeant Buffery, either offended at having to fight mere priests, or scared of killing a man of God, turns his heavy military sabre side on, and uses it like a hammer to knock three Dominicans from their saddles. Two of the friars wheel about, and attack Richard from behind, His horse is slashed, and it goes down in a welter of blood. Richard rolls clear, and comes up like a demon from Hell.
The two Dominicans make the mistake of thinking him easier prey now, and spur their horses to the kill. Richard blocks one blow with his axe, and thrusts upwards with his sword, into an unguarded chest. The man topples backwards, spewing blood from his mouth. The second man is almost past, when Richard turns, and throws the axe. It strikes the man’s mount, and they both tumble down.
Richard strides forward, to finish his man, but the Dominican is up, and running for his life. Behind him, he leaves seven dead comrades, and three more battered into a stupor. The Spaniard is furious, and demanding the survivors return to the fray.
“You do God’s work!” he cries. The head of the surviving friars shakes his head.
“Not today, brother Gomes,” the man says. “You must employ soldiers for this sort of a task. My friars have been found wanting. Come!”
Will watches as the Dominicans canter away from the battle arena. The Spaniard, Gomes, stays at a distance, then follows his defeated troops. Mush and Richard are disappointed to find that the friars have nothing to steal, except for a motley collection of weapons.
“Thank God they were not armed with muskets,” Stephen Vaughan says. “I killed my first man today … and it has to be a bloody monk!”
“They are friars, my friend,” Tom Wyatt replies. “Though reports of your man’s death are greatly exaggerated, I fear. He is up, and staggering after his comrades.”
“Thank God, for I would do no man harm,” Vaughan says, as if he has spared the friar on purpose. “What of these others?”
“Seven of them dead, and three battered senseless by our picky sergeant. He turns his nose up at a fight, unless they are the emperor’s bodyguard, or the finest Muscovite infantry!” Tom Wyatt stoops, and pulls one of the men to his feet. “Now, my dear Domini Canes, you and I shall talk. What tongue do you favour … Spanish, German, Italian, or French. Ah, I see your eyes light up. Let us speak French, brother.”
“I am an Inquisitor, and as such, inviolate.” The man, little more than a youth must be disabused of his belief quickly.
“You are a brigand, and an outlaw, brother,” Tom Wyatt tells him, sharply. “My leader - the man reloading his pistol - has a mind to hang you for a rogue. Now, who was Gomes?”
“I know not, sir,” the young friar replies, dabbing at the blood on his cheek. “He came to us, with letters from above, and said we must search for an Englishman.”
“Well, you found several,” Tom Wyatt says, grinning. “So, you simply took up arms, and followed him?”
“It is the will of our master,” the friar replies, earnestly. “I saw the Holy Seal with my own eyes!”
“Holy Seal?” The poet curses beneath his breath. “Gomes had orders from the Pope?” The friar nods. With such an authority, they were forced to help out.
“The Spaniard spoke of only one man. A spy, who has stolen a treasure, and must be taken, or killed.” The friar seems to see the carnage about him for the first time, and shudders. “I must help my comrade’s souls to rest, sir.”
“You may take your dead, and your wounded away,” Wyatt tells him, “but first, you must tell me whatever you know about Gomes.”
“Nothing, I swear,” the friar tells the poet. “He and his companion came to us out of a stormy night, and demanded our help.”
“You say Gomes had a companion?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you know who the man was, or what he looks like?”
“A tall, spare man, who spoke very poor French,” the friar replies. “At our evening meal, Brother Raoul took pity on him, and spoke in English.”
“The man was English?”
“Why, yes. He was an English priest, I think,” the friar says.
“Why do you think that?”
“His French was poor, but his Latin was that of a man in Holy Orders.”
“Not a silver penny amongst the lot of them,” Richard Cromwell curses, and spits on the ground at his feet. “Nor could they fight well. I understand now why the sergeant disdains them, and refuses to bloody his blade.”
“Still, five against twenty,” Mush replies. “It will make a fine tale around Austin Friars breakfast table.”
“We were six,” Richard says.
“I do not count poor Stephen,” Mush tells his friend. “He was more like to cut off his own leg, as hurt one of them. Thank goodness there are no spoils to divide, else he would have an empty
pocket.”
Will Draper smiles over his friends, who are discussing a bounty they have not got. He takes a look at the other two men, who are suffering from nothing more than sore heads, and dented pride.
“Richard, help the sergeant load the dead onto four horses, and set them on their way with their wounded. Then we will take the remaining six horses, and sell them off in Calais. What price there for a decent mount, Sergeant Buffery?”
“The Quartermaster’s office pay six pounds each, if they be sound,” the sergeant informs Will. “Though you might wish to ship them back to England, where you’ll get a little more.”
“And if they do not manage the voyage well, some crimping bastard will try to beggar us,” Will tells him. Some years before, he was a quartermaster for the army in Ireland, and he knows most of their tricks. “Let us do our sums, Sergeant Buffery. Six horses at six pounds a piece is …”
“Thirty six pounds,” Mush says, eagerly. “Then we will make something from this little scuffle.”
“Equal shares?” Will asks, and watches their faces for any dissent. “Then that is six pounds each man. We Cromwell men will put a cut into the Austin Friars kitty, as usual, and still come out with four pounds each.”
“Six pounds!” Sergeant Buffery is shocked by his sudden wealth. As a garrison soldier, the sergeant usually earns seven pounds twelve shillings a year, less the cost of his food, and the maintenance of his uniform and arms, which means he is lucky to clear four pounds in a good year. “That is enough for me to throw over soldiering, and go home to Cambridgeshire.”
“And do what?” Tom Wyatt asks. “Is not soldiering in your blood?”
“Not in mine, sir,” the man replies, happily. “Tap mine, and you will taste wine. A good wine shop in the market town, run by your servant, Rob Buffery, will make a tidy living.”
“You must speak with my wife,” Will says. “She has a regular supply of Italian and Portuguese wine shipped in, and is ever looking for new customers.”
“I bless the day you settled on me as an escort, Captain Draper,” the big soldier tells Will. “For my life is changed from this day forth. Why, I might even bethink to take a wife.”
“Not your own, I hope,” Tom Wyatt says. “The best wine is often sipped from another man’s cask!”
“You swore that it was safe!” The preacher, Father George Constantine, can scarcely keep his hands from trembling. “How can I go to England, knowing that Vaughan still draws breath?”
“It was ill luck that the man has fallen in with a gang of mercenaries,” Gomes says. “The Dominicans were no match for them. I dare say that he will be on a boat from Calais within the day.”
“But, he knows!” Constantine whines.
“He knows nothing for a certainty,” Gomes snaps back. “Only that he has had sight of a half written letter, proposing some sort of venture against the English. He does not know of your involvement, and he does not know of whom we speak when the ‘great personage’ is mentioned. You must keep your nerve, and carry out your part of the plot.”
“I cannot,” the preacher confesses, “for I am too frightened of what will become of me. The Lord Chancellor promised to burn me, if I ever crossed his path again, and there are others who wish me harm. Tom Cromwell never forgets a grudge, and I wronged him when I falsely accused Vaughan.”
“If you wish to withdraw, I fully understand,” Gomes says, with a heavy sigh. “Though others will not. Herr Fugger has invested several thousand ducats in the scheme, so far, and will want some form of return. If I cannot persuade you to your duty, I must send him your head.”
“Oh, dear God above!” Constantine is now shaking with terror. “You would kill me, sir?”
“Eventually.” Allesandro Gomes toys with the dagger at his belt. “Though first it would be remiss of me not to exact some further retribution on the man who seeks to betray us. I might slice off an ear, or sever a few of your fingers. The Dominican Inquisitors have a way with red hot irons, which they press into a man’s privy parts, until he screams his guilt.”
“I have not the courage to face you,” the preacher replies. He is becoming used to betraying those about him, and prefers losing his honour, rather than his manhood, or even the odd thumb. “Tell me what I must do, and I will obey.”
“Your part is a simple one, Father,” Gomes explains. “A fishing boat will land you on the English coast, close by to where our ally lives. Your task is easy. Go to our friend, and say that the plot is approved, and that they are to send word to the Keeper of the Angels. Once that is done, our plan will run its course.”
“And no more from me?” The treacherous preacher hopes that his part in the plot is thus limited, and he can slip away, with his generous fee.
“There is always more, my friend,” Gomes says. “You will stay close by our great ally, and act as messenger. It might be that you have to roam the West Country with secrets to tell.”
“Then I must go in disguise, for I am from Suffolk, and my face is known from Norwich and Ipswich, and across to Cambridge.”
“Then grow a beard, and change your demeanour,” Gomes snaps. “For mark me well, sir … you must do all that is bid of you.”
“I cannot kill.”
“I know that. Though you can send men to their deaths, it seems,” the Spaniard tells the frightened preacher. “Do as you are bid, and your life will be spared. Fail me, and you die. Is that plain enough, sir?”
“Would that I did not fear death,” Constantine curses. “For then many men would still be alive, and my honour intact, even though I did burn on the heretic’s pyre!”
“Talk is cheaply bought, Master Preacher.” Gomes touches the hilt of his sword. “I am sworn to do, or die, and will not rest until the race is run.”
“I fear we are returning to Master Cromwell empty handed,” Stephen Vaughan says, as they climb the gangplank of their waiting boat. “I return with a sorry tale of a half read letter, and a mysterious Spaniard who can command churchmen to fight for him.”
“What about this English priest?” Will asks. “Perhaps that might lead us to some other thing?” He cannot think of anything else to add, and throws his leather bag down onto the deck.
The others, including the now retired Sergeant Buffery, do the same, and look about for a comfortable place to lay their heads, whilst traversing the Channel. Mush, like Richard, cannot go below decks, without fearing some calamity. The boat seems frail to them, and they cannot understand how it manages to beat its way back and forth between Calais and Dover without mishap.
In truth, the Cog is a reliable workhorse of a boat, designed to shift cargo, and people with relative ease, and some comfort. The flush laid flat bottom at mid-ships gradually curves out, thanks to ingeniously laid overlapping strakes of timber. Each oak plank is secured with double-clenched iron nails, and tightly caulked with tarred moss.
The single decked vessel is controlled by a single rectangular sail, and a stern-mounted central rudder which, the ship’s master assures them, is little different from the Norse craft of centuries past. The twelve man crew are a dubious mix of English and Flemish rascals, who go about their business fully armed.
“French pirates breed like fleas,” the ship’s master explains.
“Would they risk attacking us?” Mush asks.
“Unlikely, but why take the chance?” he replies, unlashing the rudder bar. “Sometimes, two or more ships join forces, and fall on any stray cog as comes their way. My lads are all good fellows, though, and always ready for a fight. The king pays well for captured pirate ships.”
“Does he, by God!” Tom Wyatt says. “It almost makes you wish for one to come our way, sir!”
“Be careful what you pray for,” the ship’s master replies, grinning. “For these Frenchies eat babies, and shit lightening for breakfast.”
“Did I hear the mention of breakfast?” Richard Cromwell appears at the first mention of food. “A piece of well salted pork will do nicely!”
The cog slips anchor, and is rowed out of the confines of Calais harbour, before the single sail is hoisted. Will and his party remain on deck, scouring the horizon for any sign of pirates, but see nothing but the grey expanse of water that keeps England and France apart. A favourable breeze springs up, and the small craft is blown, serenely on its way to Dover. After an hour, the wind increases, and veers about, pushing them further south.
“We’ll not be able to make Dover with this blow,” the master informs his passengers. “I must stand off, and run south, for Sandwich. Does that upset your plans, Captain Draper?”
“Not by much,” Will replies, turning his face from the increasing spray. “We are on the king’s business, so can pick up post horses there, and ride to London. What of you … does it affect your trade?”
“Not a wit, sir,” says the cog’s captain. “My cargo of salt will sell in any coastal market. It is in cakes, and comes from the famous Istrian salt pans.”
“You expect a good return?” Will asks.
“I do, but it will take the merchants a week to bicker over the price, and then I must sell it piece meal.”
“What return will you make?”
“On the whole cargo?” the man calculates for a moment. “I will be first to market, so should clear about thirty five pounds on the shipment.”
“I will take the entire cargo from you, for thirty pounds,” Will tells him. Miriam is always looking for good deals, and Istrian salt will sell well. “Though you must deliver it to my warehouse in London.”
“Thirty one, and we have a deal.” The man spits into his palm, and they shake hands on it. “Though I will need a cargo for the return journey.”
“Speak to my wife in London,” Will says, “and she will find you one … at a price.”
“Your wife?” the sailing master scowls at the very idea of such a thing. “I cannot deal with a woman, sir!”
