Dark Queen Waiting

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Heaven forfend!’ Minehost blustered. ‘Master Reginald Bray. You are welcome but sir, the hour?’

  ‘Hush my friend.’ Bray extended his hand so the taverner could both clasp it and the thick silver piece Bray was offering. The coin promptly disappeared into the taverner’s purse.

  ‘Come in, come in my friend.’ Minehost dismissed his retinue and led his visitor into the musty taproom. He offered a tankard and a platter of refreshment. Bray just shook his head and walked towards the great serving board and the shallow box nailed on the wall next to it containing keys to each chamber. He studied this then walked back and asked a few questions drawn up by Urswicke about Robert Vavasour and his stay at the tavern. Minehost answered them.

  ‘Strange business,’ he mused.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bray demanded.

  ‘Well, the sheriff’s men came and, as you can imagine, they were full of questions which I couldn’t answer. But, do you know, on that same day the Guildhall despatched a carpenter and his apprentice, the boy swept that chamber and the carpenter repaired the door. A short while later, a locksmith arrived. The bolts, clasps and lock were replaced, almost as if the murder had not happened. All signs of it, the ruptured door, the broken locks, all cleared away. I did ask why and I was told that it was a mark of respect to the city dung-collectors as they use this tavern as their guildhall. As for the truth of all that.’ He pulled a face. ‘If you want, you can see the repairs for yourself.’ Bray glanced up at the smoke-blackened beams and smiled. ‘Master Reginald? Do you want to see the chamber?’

  ‘No, no, sir, I have seen enough, I have learnt enough. It’s time I was gone.’

  Bray left the tavern, he hurried through the streets determined on the path he must follow. The countess and Urswicke were now deep in the wilds of Essex. There was little point in following them: the greatest danger they faced were those Flemish carracks. Bray was also intrigued. He realised he was being kept under close watch but, as he paused and stared back the way he’d come, he could detect nothing amiss. Bray continued on down towards the river, following the cleaner, broader thoroughfare towards the great cobbled expanse which stretched in front of London’s stateliest mansions. Once there, he slipped into the shadows until he reached the steps sweeping up to the magnificent door of the countess’s elegant townhouse. Bray was halfway up when he heard the rasp of steel behind him. He spun round and crouched so low the crossbow bolt whirled clear above his head to smash into the polished oaken door behind him. He raised sword and dagger, carefully moving up the steps, waiting for the three assassins, hooded and masked, who had appeared out of the darkness, weapons at the ready. Bray forced himself to remain composed even as he was swept by a mixture of dread and despair at this constant threat. He realised he would have to stand and fight so he waited for his assailants to draw close. The one in the centre reached the bottom step; he was about to edge up when the door to the countess’s mansion was flung open. Fleetfoot and a host of servants burst out, armed with whatever weapons they’d found as well as knives, mallets and hooks from the scullery and kitchen. The abrupt and sudden appearance of such saviours, thronging on the top step shouting ‘Beaufort’ and waving their weapons, proved too much for the assassins, who turned and fled into the darkness. Bray, sweat-soaked, slumped down on the steps. Fleetfoot and the chamberlain ordered the servants back into the house, praising them for their courage and the assistance they’d given to Master Bray. The courier, wrapped in a woollen night-robe, sat down beside Bray. They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace, Bray murmuring his thanks.

  ‘How did you know?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, we keep close watch on all approaches to this house now the countess has left. Our spit-boys have the keenest sight. They’d glimpsed three men lurking in the shadows. One of the lads went out as if on an errand. He passed all three and noticed they were well-armed, their faces visored.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Bray retorted. ‘They gave up following me in the streets. Our enemies know I am in London and they were simply waiting for me to return here. Master Fleetfoot, you have my grateful thanks but I need one further favour.’ Bray turned and grinned at the courier. ‘You are a master of disguise. I will enter this house as Reginald Bray, the Countess Margaret’s steward. I want to leave it, or rather steal out, as John Sturmy – mercenary, mariner and a man totally dedicated to mischief.’

  PART FOUR

  ‘Nature’s Struck And Earth Is Quaking’

  Christopher Urswicke made himself as comfortable as possible on the small stool in the narrow, cobwebbed, dirty chamber on the first gallery of the ancient royal manor of Thorpe, only a short distance from Walton cove. He was certain that even from where he sat he could hear the dull roar of the sea as it swept into the land. The sanctuary men and all their escort had reached Thorpe yesterday after five days of hard travelling: within two more they would board The Galicia. The Breton ship would sail in as close as it could to the Essex coast, lower its ship’s boat, collect the ten sanctuary men and take them to the nearest port which, in their case, would be La Rochelle, The Galicia’s one and only landfall. Christopher glanced out of the corner of his eye at the countess, bundled in furs, hands extended towards the meagre fire in the shattered hearth.

  ‘I wish it was better, mistress,’ he murmured. ‘We have this and two other chambers which are nothing more than narrow, filthy closets.’

  ‘Hush now, Christopher. We have to set our faces like flint. Think of those poor sanctuary men, each locked in a narrow cell below. This is an ancient royal manor, fortified and moated, built for war rather than pleasure.’

  ‘My father, Sir Thomas, our worthy Recorder, has made himself as comfortable as possible. The warmest rooms, the choicest rugs …’

  ‘We must bear the insults and wait for better times, Christopher. We must keep our temper, restrain our tongue and watch. But I agree, this truly is a winter season.’

  Urswicke caught the deep bitterness in the countess’s voice. Fleetfoot had arrived earlier that day, carrying Bray’s letter written in cipher, hidden within secret symbols. Urswicke had read the dire contents: the attacks on Bray, Zeigler’s escape, the murderous assault on Pembroke’s kinswomen, Joachim’s confinement in that alehouse pit and what Bray had discovered at The Devil’s Cellar. There was little in the letter which could provide any comfort, and its contents only deepened the countess’s despair, not to mention his own. They had discussed their suspicions, speculated on the different possibilities but they had neither the time nor the power to do anything about them. They were as much Sir Thomas’s prisoners as the men chained below.

  ‘What can be done?’ Margaret whispered. ‘We are invited this evening to sup with your father. He is so keen to act the great lord. He sent retainers ahead of us to prepare this ghastly manor. And now we are supposed to sit and feast while Sir Thomas smiles falsely and prepares to act the Judas. Some of Tudor’s most faithful retainers lie chained below. We know they are marked down for death yet if they escape, if we arrange that, they will be hunted down like coneys in a hay field.’

  ‘We are trapped,’ Christopher whispered. ‘If we allow them to board that Breton cog, they will undoubtedly perish and, whatever happens, Zeigler will be free to prowl and hunt. And what can we do? How can we warn Lord Jasper? It’s too late to send messengers. We are not sure how safe that would be and, even if they reach La Rochelle, it might well be too late. Zeigler will be there long before them to wreak whatever damage he can.’

  ‘I agree,’ Margaret replied sombrely. ‘Both Lord Edmund and my son live constantly under the shadow of the axe, the dagger, the garrotte and the poisoned chalice, only this time the shadow grows deeper and closer.’ She crossed herself. ‘Christopher, I agree with you. We must not inform Pembroke about the slaughter of his kinswomen.’ She paused. ‘Not here, not now,’ she murmured, ‘we dare not reveal to anyone what we know and how we learnt it. Christopher, I have at least set a trap. I have positioned th
e lure and all we can do is wait on events and put our trust in Master Bray. We have a traitor in our midst, Christopher. We have our suspicions but only time will show us the truth. Now, before we sup with the devil, let me lie down. Send Edith to me.’ Margaret abruptly stretched out, seized Christopher’s left hand and grasped it in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Here we are in this benighted, ghost-haunted place. Night is about to fall over this hall of dancing shadows. But God is good. Your wits are sharp. Let us think, Christopher. Let us plot our way out of this loathsome labyrinth.’

  ‘We have already began that, mistress; you have set the trap and primed the lure?’

  ‘I have.’ The countess sighed. ‘But what I have done is put one of those sanctuary men in mortal peril of his life.’ She smiled through her tears. ‘And yet they are Welsh. They have taken the blood oath and they regard with hate anyone of their company who would breach such a solemn vow. I might be wrong but, there again, what other way is there? We have both reflected on the intelligence sent by Master Bray. If our enemies have their way, all those sanctuary men will die and many others with them. So yes, Christopher, we are committed.’ She leaned over and gently touched this young man whom she loved as dearly as any son. ‘The greatest danger is that one of my company has been named as a possible carrier of the Dragon Cipher. So, for God’s sake, be vigilant.’

  Margaret paused and opened her belt wallet. Urswicke watched curiously. Earlier in the day he had seen his mistress move amongst the sanctuary men, speaking to them individually, sharing out coins. Urswicke thought it was an attempt to comfort the prisoners, he hadn’t given it a second thought. Now the countess handed him a pilgrim’s badge, a cheap circle of metal embossed with a picture of St Swithun standing by his well, a popular shrine on the Welsh march.

  ‘Christopher,’ she murmured, ‘I have my suspicions but study that badge and, if anything happens, remember it.’

  Once Urswicke had ensured the countess was settled with the ever-shy Edith in attendance, Urswicke returned to his own narrow garret. He sat for a while, half listening to the sounds of the ancient manor house, the constant creaking of weathered timbers, the slamming of doors which did not fit properly, the cries of servants as they prepared for the night. Urswicke curbed his anger. His father really acted to the full his role as the powerful Recorder of London, a true master of the Guildhall, a great Lord of the Soil. Sir Thomas had led the cavalcade along the Mile End Road through Epping, towards the coast. The Recorder gave the impression that he really enjoyed the bitter, cold weather which, at least, made the lanes and trackways passable. Sir Thomas, swathed in furs, riding a magnificent destrier, escorted by his entourage of mailed clerks and retainers, openly basked in his power and responsibility. Christopher truly believed his father regarded all this as a yuletide mummery, a Christmas masque in which he was the Master of Revels acting on behalf of his Yorkist King.

  ‘Well, well,’ Christopher murmured to himself, ‘let us see how the game proceeds.’ He cleared the small chancery desk, took a large vellum sheet from his satchel along with quills, inkpot and pumice stone. He pulled the two-branched candelabra closer so as to create a pool of light over the parchment as he slowly began to list his thoughts. Item: undoubtedly a murderous traitor lurks close to the countess and her household. Zeigler, however, despite a fog of uncertainty about him, could also play a major part in proceedings, though Zeigler’s threat was aimed more for the future than these present troubles. Zeigler had been imprisoned in Newgate when Cromart and the Vavasours were killed. There wasn’t a shred of evidence that this blood-drinking mercenary had a hand in their deaths or the murderous assaults upon himself and Bray. Zeigler would only become dangerous if he reached La Rochelle and was allowed to assume his new identity. Item: Cromart’s murder. The church had been locked and bolted from within and without, yet that mailed clerk had been murdered and his belt stolen. Why? The countess had openly speculated about whether the assassin had been searching for the Dragon Cipher. Was that the truth? It still didn’t explain how Cromart had been murdered. Urswicke was now certain that St Michael’s had no secret entrances or hidden doorways, whilst its windows were mere lancets. If the assassin entered and left there could only be one logical conclusion surely: the assassin must have been admitted by Cromart but, once that clerk had been murdered, who locked and bolted the door behind the assassin? Again, the only logical conclusion was Ratstail. Item: Ratstail had been murdered in St Michael’s, once again the church had been locked and bolted from within, yet Ratstail had been slain by a crossbow bolt. Why and how? He and Bray had been there, along with Pembroke; there was no evidence for anybody else being present. Parson Austin had allegedly seen someone hurrying through God’s Acre whilst Urswicke was certain he heard one of the church doors open and close. Members of the parish council claimed to have seen the same. So what had really happened there? Item: the Vavasour brothers. First Guido who had fled from Walton-on-the-Naze and thought he was safe hiding in the cellars of The Hanging Tree. So, who had betrayed him? And when Guido was being led out to execution, was the condemned man, fingers splayed over his face, trying to convey some sort of message to the countess?

  ‘Let me see,’ Urswicke whispered. He lifted his right hand, fingers spread to cover his face. He felt a tingle of excitement as he recalled his suspicions and those of the countess. He rose, walked to the door and stared down at the key hanging in the lock; it sparked a memory of that chamber in The Devil’s Cellar where Robert Vavasour had been slain. He took the key out but dropped it as the manor bell began to toll the tocsin. Christopher picked up the key and listened intently. The manor had fallen silent except for that incessant pealing. Urswicke hurried out of his chamber. He knocked on the countess’s door. This was opened by Edith, her head and face almost hidden by a cowl. Urswicke stared at the maid, he felt intrigued: something was very wrong with this young woman though, he could not say what, at least not now. He urged the maid to stay with her mistress, keep a sharp eye on her and allow no one to enter the chamber until he returned. Edith, her face turned away, mumbled she would and Urswicke, nursing fresh suspicions, hurried down the stairs into the main hallway where his father, Parson Austin and others had gathered. They were listening intently to the captain of the guard who kept pointing to the far wall and the open trapdoor leading to the cellars below.

  ‘Father?’ Christopher pushed his way through. Sir Thomas, face all concerned, clutching Parson Austin’s wrist as if to reassure himself, simply shook his head.

  ‘I have been down, Christopher. One of the sanctuary men has been foully murdered, Rhys Conwar, a barbed bolt through his forehead. Go, go. See for yourself.’ The Recorder flailed his fingers disdainfully.

  Christopher sketched a bow and left them to their discussions, which showed little concern for the murdered prisoner and more for Parson Austin’s exclamations on behalf of Master Blackthorne. He brushed past the two guards at the entrance to the cellar and went down the steps to the long, freezing-cold passageway hewed through the rock. On either side of it ranged narrow cells, each sealed by a stout, iron-studded door. Cresset torches flared above these. Halfway down the gallery one cell door stood flung open. As he passed others, Christopher heard moans and groans and the occasional raucous shout about what was happening? Christopher reached the open cell and went into the narrow, stinking darkness. Someone had left a lanternhorn which illuminated Conwar sprawled against the wall, his slack face almost hidden by a crusty veil of dried blood caused by the crossbow bolt driven deep into his forehead. Conwar had the glassy-eyed stare of the dead.

  Urswicke crouched down, crossed himself and murmured a requiem. He then stared round and swiftly concluded that this narrow stone closet had been sealed with a fortified door locked from outside. There was no secret tunnel or passageway, no door or wall grille, no gap or aperture. Moreover, the crossbow bolt had dug deep so it must have been loosed from very close quarters, a few heartbeats, a click and the barbed bolt released to shatter Conwar�
��s brain. Christopher closed his eyes. He’d seen the tunnel outside, merely a hole carved through rock and these cells were nothing better than fortified stone boxes. So how could the assassin enter and leave so easily?

  ‘So how?’ Urswicke murmured. ‘How?’ he repeated loudly.

  ‘How indeed?’ a voice echoed.

  Urswicke rose and turned to greet his father, accompanied by Parson Austin and the captain of the guard. Urswicke beckoned his son out of the cell.

  ‘It’s so cold here,’ the Recorder exclaimed. ‘Christopher, what can be done about this?’

  ‘Esteemed father, I must have, on behalf of my mistress the countess, the most urgent words with Pembroke, the leading sanctuary man. I need to ask him,’ Christopher shrugged, ‘if he saw or heard anything untoward.’ Urswicke abruptly recalled the murder of Cromart and Vavasour. He went back to the corpse and pulled up the blood-soaked jerkin, noting how Conwar’s hands and ankles were still secured by stout gyves, steel bracelets connected by a chain, though loose enough for the prisoner to walk and eat.

  Urswicke inspected the corpse, moving it gently, and concluded, as with Cromart and Vavasour, that Conwar’s belt had been taken. Urswicke was about to turn away when he caught a glint of something in the dead man’s right hand. He pulled back the cold, hard fingers and plucked out the round medal, a pilgrim’s badge, very similar to the one the countess had given him, a medallion which celebrated St Swithun’s well. Urswicke inspected this and drew from his own purse the one that the countess had given him; the two were almost identical. He glanced over his shoulder. Thankfully Sir Thomas and his two companions had moved away from the doorway, loudly discussing how they would report this to Archdeacon Blackthorne. Urswicke smiled grimly. This was all a pretence. By the time any messenger reached London, The Galicia and all it contained would be destroyed, and what could the archdeacon do then? Urswicke glanced at the corpse, hurriedly repeated the requiem, crossed himself and joined his father in the passageway, flinching at the icy draught which pierced that dark, sombre tunnel.