by Paul Doherty
Bray decided to stay and learn more. He kept hidden until he was satisfied that no pursuer dogged his footsteps. Once he’d established this, he found a shadow-filled recess and used this to scrutinise both ships. They were busy, their crews frenetically loading stores. Men, well-armed and harnessed for war, ran up and down the gangplanks and across the decks whilst others, nimble as squirrels, clambered up the mast to check the sails, cords and other rigging. Both vessels were well-armed. Bray took careful note of the small cannon, culverins and bombards on each of them, as well as the stout, heavy barrels used to store the black fire powder. Bray also noticed how the masters of both ships, along with their henchmen, stood at the foot of the gangplank, talking to sailors passing backwards and forwards to other craft, be they merchantmen or fishing smacks. Bray smiled to himself. Both captains were trying to recruit, to bribe mariners to join their respective crews, a difficult task at the best of times. Most seafarers knew that these Flemish carracks were pirate craft, the profits of serving aboard could be great. However, if the dice rolled against them, the crew of such vessels would be shown no mercy, either cut down or summarily hanged.
Bray was about to move on when he glimpsed two figures on board The Sea Hawk, one tall and bulky, the other much shorter. Both came up from the hold and hurried across the deck to a small cabin beneath the stern. Bray tensed. He was sure that the taller of the two, garbed in the earth-brown robes of a Franciscan, his head and face completely shaved, must be Zeigler, and the other was his murderous accomplice Joachim. Bray moved to keep them in sight. Zeigler entered the small cabin but his companion abruptly turned and scurried down the gangplank. Bray decided to follow the assassin as he made his way off the quayside into the tangle of alleyways which stretched up into the city. Bray hurried in pursuit, though at a discreet distance. The assassin had hired a lantern-carrier so it was easy to follow the circle of constantly bobbing light.
Bray’s quarry eventually reached a crossroads and hurried across the cobbles to a tavern deep in the shadows. Only the occasional light peeped through the door and shutters of the squat hostelry with its garishly painted sign creaking on a post. The sign displayed a salamander with a beautiful blond-haired youth, naked as he was born, caught between the creature’s jaws. Bray watched as the assassin knocked on the front door and was immediately ushered in. Bray stared around. An alehouse stood to his right, its narrow front window overlooked the square, providing a full view of The Salamander. Bray went into the ill-lit taproom; it was completely deserted. He sat down before the barrel which served as a table whilst he positioned the rickety stool so he could peer through the gap in the shutters and keep the main entrance of The Salamander under close scrutiny. The ale master, a greasy tub of a man, came bustling across, wiping fat fingers on a filthy apron. Bray pulled out his purse and placed silver coins on the table.
‘You are keeping The Salamander under sharp observation?’ the ale master asked.
‘My business.’
‘It’s mine if you are a sheriff’s man.’
‘Why, is your ale watered or of poor quality?’
‘Now, now sir.’ The ale master smiled, his fat, greasy face creased in the falsest good humour. Bray tapped the table, the ale master wetted his lips as he gazed longingly down at the silver pieces winking in the poor light. ‘If you are not the sheriff’s man,’ he whispered, ‘I will do what you want.’
‘Of course you will.’ Bray pointed to the gap in the shutters. ‘The Salamander caters for those who like young men, yes?’ The ale master pulled a face. ‘You know it does,’ Bray persisted, ‘and for having such information and for not sharing it with the sheriff’s men, that could mean trouble. Yes?’ The ale master’s small, black eyes didn’t waver. ‘Even worse,’ Bray continued, ‘Archdeacon Blackthorne would be very upset to discover what you know and did not share with Holy Mother Church. Oh yes,’ Bray tapped the side of his nose, ‘Archdeacon Blackthorne is a close acquaintance. He has powerful friends at the Guildhall. It would be a pity if you were indicted,’ Bray waved a hand, ‘and, if you were found guilty, all this would be confiscated.’
‘You also know about The Salamander?’
‘No,’ Bray countered, ‘I have just discovered that and now I am wondering what to do with such information.’
‘Sir,’ the ale master wailed, though his eyes never left the silver coins, ‘what do you want from me?’
‘Does The Salamander have more than one entrance?’
‘No, just the front door, though there are hatches at the back just in case the tavern is ever raided.’
‘So the man I pursue will leave as he entered?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good, then this is what I want.’ Bray beckoned him closer and spoke quietly and bluntly. The ale master made to interrupt and object but Bray, picking up the coins, told him to shut up and listen. Once he’d finished, the ale master nodded in agreement. He shouted for a scullion to watch The Salamander then took Bray out into the back yard of his establishment. He opened a trapdoor, lit cresset torches and led Bray down to inspect what was really a dirty stone box, its walls, ceiling and floor coated with filth. More importantly for Bray, the cellar was the haunt of long, black sewer rats which scampered and slithered about as if oblivious to the dancing cressets or those who carried them. Satisfied, Bray told the ale master to prepare the cellar, giving further instructions about what he wanted. Now assured of the ale master’s support, Bray returned to his seat in the taproom where the sleepy-eyed scullion reported that nothing had happened and the man fitting Bray’s description had not left the tavern opposite. Bray flicked him a penny and watched the boy climb the stairs to his garret.
Bray continued his vigil whilst the ale master, now his willing accomplice, did what was asked. The ale master was delighted with the two silver pieces Bray had handed over and fervently hoped that the mysterious stranger would hand over two more once this business was completed. Now and again Bray would rise to inspect the thick hour candle as its flame greedily burnt away the wax between the broad, red circles. He half dozed for a while, conscious of the ale master hovering behind him, ever eager to help. Bray wondered about Urswicke and how he was faring; he just wished that the skilful young clerk were with him now.
‘Master?’ Bray shook himself fully awake. ‘Master?’ The taverner was pointing to the gap between the shutters. ‘The man you described, garbed in a brown robe …’
Bray peered through the slit: his quarry, much the worse for drink, had lurched out of The Salamander, its door slamming shut behind him. For a while the assassin leaned against the wall of the tavern, struggling to find a hold as he vomited and retched.
‘Now,’ Bray murmured, ‘let us take him now.’
Accompanied by the ale master, Bray left the taproom. The square was deserted except for the cats hunting through the midden heaps.
‘Can we help you, sir?’
The assassin turned to greet the ale master who repeated his request. The man staggered forward, eyes all blurred, face caked with vomit. Bray slipped around him and brought the cudgel down, a smacking blow to his quarry’s bald pate, which laid him out across the cobbles. Bray and his accomplice dragged their victim over into the alehouse and out to the cellar in the yard beyond. They thrust him down the steps into the darkness. The chamber below had been well prepared with ropes to fasten Bray’s quarry by wrist and ankle. Once their victim was stretched out, Bray tore off the brown robe along with the begrimed shift and loincloth beneath. Bray swiftly searched the robe to find a purse of coins, fighting rings for the fingers and a long, thin Italian stiletto. Bray handed these over to the ale master. He then asked for the lantern to be pulled closer and the taverner to leave.
Once he was gone, Bray took a bucket of icy water and threw it over the semi-conscious assassin: his victim stirred, mouthing curses. Bray threw more water over him.
‘What is it?’ The man, gasping and spluttering, spat out the dirty water. ‘Who are you? Wh
at do you want?’ The prisoner, his close-set eyes blazing with fury, mouth twisted in a snarl, tugged at his bonds until Bray punched him in the mouth.
‘Where you are and who I am does not concern you,’ Bray hissed. ‘You, sir, are an assassin who slew in cold blood two innocent women in their chamber at the Minoresses, a mother and her daughter, Alice and Beatrice Morgan. For that you are going to die but you do have a choice.’ Bray edged closer, dagger drawn, and sliced the man’s calf. The prisoner screamed and writhed, tugging at the ropes which held him fast. ‘You now know what I am,’ Bray continued remorselessly, ‘I am your death. Answer my questions,’ he sliced the man’s leg then waited for his victim’s shriek to fade, ‘I will cut you whenever I think you are lying or refusing to answer. So let us begin. Who are you?’ Bray demanded.
‘Joachim.’
‘A citizen of this great city?’
‘Yes.’
‘A riffler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your relationship with Zeigler?’
‘I am his henchman.’
‘Who organised Zeigler’s escape?’ Bray pressed on the knife.
‘He did.’ The prisoner screamed in protest. ‘He did it, he did it, I swear. I visited him in the death cell, the Hell pit. You know the custom, the condemned can meet whoever they want. Zeigler,’ Joachim gasped, ‘Zeigler organised it all. He told us to throng around the cart and then attack and so we did.’
‘I saw you on board the Flemish carrack.’ Again, Bray cut then waited for Joachim’s scream to fade. ‘Who is Zeigler?’
‘A Fleming. His mother was Breton. He is a freebooter. He fought for the House of York. Different battles up and down the kingdom.’
‘And his quarrel with that masked man who styles himself Pembroke?’
‘I don’t know much about that. Some family feud which originated in Wales.’
‘Ah,’ Bray pressed the knife against the man’s leg, ‘and that’s why Zeigler murdered those two women at the Minoresses’?’
‘I know nothing.’ The prisoner screamed as Bray pressed on the knife. ‘It was all part of the blood feud. Zeigler saw them near the cart. He recognised who they must be and where they were staying, that was obvious by their grey garb. He wanted them dead.’
‘And why were you and Zeigler on board the Flemish carrack The Sea Hawk?’
‘We were to sail on it on tomorrow’s evening tide.’
‘Where?’
‘I heard mention of the Essex coast. Walton-on-the-Naze.’
Bray withdrew the dagger. ‘Joachim, Joachim,’ he murmured, ‘listen carefully. Just listen. Those great rats!’ Bray kept rigidly still so the scrabbling and screeching of the foraging rodents could be clearly heard. ‘Sewer rats, Joachim. Long and black and, when hungry, totally vicious. I could cut you again and again, gag your mouth and leave you here. You know what would happen. Such vermin are always hungry, ever ready for blood, eager for soft, warm flesh. They will be cautious at first but then the horde will close in. They will shred you.’ Bray ignored Joachim’s curses and groans. ‘That’s one way you can die, or I can give you the mercy cut, light candles for you in a church and pay a chantry priest to sing a requiem for your soul, if you have one. Anyway, the choice is yours. You are certainly going to die but how lies entirely with you. If you fail to answer my questions, or if I catch you in a lie, then I will be gone and leave you to all the horrors of this hell-pit. Ah well.’ Bray made to rise.
‘Stay,’ Joachim gasped. ‘What I have told you is the truth but Zeigler only shared a little.’
‘He has powerful friends?’
‘Yes, yes he must have.’
‘So you think his escape was planned?’
‘Of course, but Zeigler never spoke about that. He simply ordered me to organise the rifflers, attack the execution cart and that, once he was free, we would hide until we went aboard that carrack.’
‘So Zeigler boards the carrack to go where? I mean, apart from Walton-on-the-Naze?’
‘Across the Narrow Seas.’ Joachim strained as an inquisitive rat slithered towards him, a swift, darting movement, the rodent eager to lick the trickle of blood seeping out over the filthy floor. Bray banged his dagger on the ground and the rat scampered out of the light.
‘You see,’ Bray whispered, ‘their appetite is sharpening. The carrack? Swiftly now, time is passing.’
‘Zeigler and I,’ Joachim spluttered, ‘were to go aboard The Sea Hawk. It leaves tomorrow on the evening tide. I learnt it was to take up station off the Essex coast. Zeigler mentioned something about a Breton ship being attacked and, after that, we would return to London then sail for La Rochelle.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. But he said the world would be turned topsy-turvy, that there was a task to be done. However, once this was finished, we would be well paid and given every comfort.’
‘What task?’ Bray tried to keep calm as he recalled the countess’s dire warnings about the real dangers to both herself and her exiled son. ‘What task?’ Bray pressed on the dagger.
‘The assassination of the Tudor, Edmund and the boy Prince Henry.’
‘How was this to be done?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bray closed his eyes. He could answer his own question. Zeigler would inveigle himself into Tudor’s household, an easy enough task. Not many of the Red Dragon Battle Group had survived and, if Zeigler’s plot ran true to course, the group would cease to exist. Jasper and Henry Tudor had a cohort of loyal retainers but not many, being totally dependent on Duke Francis and the Breton court. Somehow or other, Zeigler would enter that court. He’d assume a false name and identity. He would carry forged passes and papers. Bray opened his eyes and felt a shiver of fear as he recalled those sanctuary men. What papers and seals did they carry? All of these could be filched from their corpses and used in Zeigler’s plot. After all, the assassination of Prince Henry wouldn’t take long, just a mistake, a time when the young prince was left by himself or when he went hunting. Once the fox was in the hen coop, it would be difficult to remove it. Bray, his mind a whirl of thoughts, his heart gripped by a creeping fear, wondered what he should do? Riding out to inform the countess would not lessen the danger. Whilst Bray had other urgent business to do on Urswicke’s behalf here in the city. In a sense the die was cast. The sanctuary men would, on the appointed day, be put on board The Galicia which, he was sure, would come under fierce attack from those Flemish carracks. The sanctuary men, and all those Bretons friendly to the countess’s cause, would perish at sea. The House of York would weep hypocritical tears and publicly wring their hands, proclaiming that the outrage was the work of pirates and they were totally innocent of any bloodshed. Archdeacon Blackthorne could do little. York, Sir Thomas Urswicke in particular, would protest their innocence, demonstrating that they had safely escorted the sanctuary men to Thorpe Manor whilst they had no responsibility for Flemish pirates or Breton ships. The Galicia would be destroyed. Somehow Zeigler would slip into the Breton court and the Tudor household. Murder would be committed and then, and only then, would they turn on the countess in England. The Tudor cause would be finished. Supporters such as De Vere, Earl of Oxford, might well reflect on what the future could hold and act accordingly. Bray made his decision. Let York go hang in their search for the Lady Anne, he intended to disappear from London as swiftly as possible. He had to be on that Flemish carrack when it left tomorrow evening and Master Fleetfoot would certainly help him. Joachim stirred and moaned. Bray stared down at him. He recalled those two innocent women; the memory hardened his resolve as he gripped the dagger more firmly.
‘Is there anything else you wish to confess?’ Bray demanded.
‘Mercy,’ Joachim whimpered.
‘Mercy indeed.’ Bray leaned forward and expertly slit the man’s throat with one swift slash.
Bray collected his possessions and left the alehouse. Sword and dagger drawn, he hurried like a flitting shadow along the dingy, stinking stre
ets. The glint of lights from lanternhorns, hanging on their hooks beside some citizens’ doors, caught the drawn shine of steel, a clear warning to the dark-dwellers to stay well away. A witch and her warlock made the mistake of darting from their enclave. Bray whirled round, his dagger slicing the warlock high on his upper arm, and both nightmare figures fled shrieking. On one occasion he was stopped by the watch, six burly bailiffs dragging a line of drunken roisterers, now much sobered after being doused in a horse trough, to the city stocks. The bailiffs demanded to see Bray’s warrant and, satisfied with the countess’s seal, they let him pass.
As he entered deeper into the city, Bray realised the truth of it all. The new Yorkist King was enforcing the peace, little wonder that his mistress’s despair deepened at the bleak prospect of a resurgence by the House of Lancaster and the Tudor cause in particular. The power of King Edward was everywhere. Soldiers guarded crossroads, mailed Tower archers thronged the alleyways, some thoroughfares had chains pulled across them. Night had truly fallen but the city, in all its different forms, was watchful. Bray was relieved when he reached The Devil’s Cellar. He pounded on the door until minehost, garbed in a soiled nightshirt with a bonnet pulled down over his scrawny hair, threw open the door, a mallet in one hand and a dagger in the other. Behind the taverner clustered a coven of kitchen boys, scullions and servants. The spit-boy next to his master raised the lanternhorn which was almost as big as him.
