by Robyn Young
‘In truth, it’s been some years since I heard from Sir Thomas at all.’ Ned lifted his tankard. ‘God rest his soul.’ Draining it, he fixed again on Jack. ‘But how is it that you came to know his fate?’
There was something blunt, accusatory in the older man’s tone. It confirmed Jack’s suspicion that Ned had no knowledge of his true relationship to Vaughan. He pushed on through his rising apprehension that this, too, was going to prove another false hope in his search for answers. He didn’t want to think about what lay beyond this point – about what his life might now become. There was still the house in London. Arnold had said he might find someone there who knew his father.
Ignoring Ned’s question, he ventured in with one of his own. ‘Do you know a man named Gregory? He may have been bound up somehow in our master’s business. He found me where I was living in Seville – told me Sir Thomas had been arrested for treason.’
Ned’s gaze didn’t leave his. ‘I’ve known a few men of that name. But none, so far as I know, had anything to do with Sir Thomas.’ The soldier raised his empty tankard as the serving woman passed their table. ‘And two pies, Em. Not the eel, mind,’ he shouted, as she headed off. ‘Like eating a dead dog’s entrails,’ he added, looking back at Jack. ‘So who is this Gregory? What does he have to do with Sir Thomas?’
Jack didn’t respond. Despite his need for answers, he wasn’t sure how much he should divulge in his search for them, especially now he knew Ned hadn’t had any recent contact with Vaughan. A few months ago, if someone had asked him whether he trusted the men of his father’s household, he wouldn’t have hesitated with his response. But now, with all that had happened, he wondered if such an answer would be more reflex than honesty; some old impulse of loyalty? Yes, he had served and bled with Ned, but how much did he truly know this man sitting before him? This mercenary turned player?
To cover his hesitation, Jack leaned forward and took up his tankard.
Ned’s eyes tracked the sudden movement – a soldier’s instinct. His mouth opened in surprise. Before Jack could move, he lunged across the table and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. ‘Where did you get this?’
Jack tried to stand and pull away, his stool screeching on the stone floor. Heads turned in their direction. Conversations paused.
‘Answer me!’
Jack, his wrist burning, realised Ned was staring at Vaughan’s gold ring, now decorating his finger. ‘He gave it to me.’
‘Horse shit! You seek me out after all these years, dressed up like a little lord, telling me Sir Thomas is dead. Full of questions. What do you want with me? Why do you have his ring?’ Ned’s eyes alighted on the sword pommel poking from the folds of Jack’s cape. ‘His sword too? God damn your soul, Wynter, if you had something to do with his death!’
Jack cried out as Ned increased the pressure. The man may have softened in the belly, but none of his brute strength had gone. It felt as though all the bones in his wrist were about to crack. ‘He was my father! Sir Thomas was my father!’
As Ned let go, Jack gasped with relief. He sat back down, clutching his wrist. Men returned to their conversations, the din swelling to fill the chamber.
The serving woman headed over, eyeing Ned as she set down a board with two pies on it. ‘No trouble now,’ she murmured, pouring more ale into Ned’s tankard from a cracked flagon.
The soldier smiled, but didn’t take his gaze off Jack. ‘No trouble, Em.’ He waited until she moved off to another table. ‘You’re Sir Thomas Vaughan’s son?’
‘Yes.’ It still felt strange to say it out loud – coming out like a breath he’d been holding for a long time.
‘Christ on His cross.’ Ned shook his head slowly. ‘Now I think of it, you look a lot like him.’
‘Sir Thomas?’ Jack, massaging the blood back into his arm, felt a twinge of surprise. No one had told him that before.
‘No. His son. His other son,’ Ned corrected. ‘You look a lot like Harry.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Ned gave a bark of laughter at his terse tone. ‘By God,’ he muttered, pulling a bollock dagger from the sheath on his belt. The two swellings at the guard were carved from black wood, polished to a high shine. ‘Vaughan’s son?’
Jack watched him slice open the pies and inspect the contents. With a satisfied grunt, Ned picked up a thick wedge. As he bit into it crumbs of soggy pastry and gobbets of meat rained down on the table.
Ned nodded to the board. ‘Take some if you’re going to.’
Jack shook his head. He had no appetite. As he looked around the gloomy tavern at the men huddled over their tankards, flesh sagging over stools, jaundiced eyes following Em’s movements, he wondered how many had served in the wars.
He remembered the soldiers loitering outside churches for months after Edward’s triumph at Tewkesbury brought an end to the war. While some later returned home or went abroad to wherever blood still needed spilling and others sought new professions, those too disfigured or broken stayed, lost in useless peace. Even now, twelve years later, Jack knew some of the shambling creatures waiting for the close of Mass, begging bowls outstretched, had once been foot soldiers in the king’s army. Had once fought for the white rose of York. Now, they spent their farthings in taverns, tilting at wenches rather than enemies, throwing themselves into brawls not battle-lines, drowning in ale not blood. Men like these, he thought, looking around him. Men like – him.
Jack realised he might as well be looking in a mirror. Diego’s arena had kept his muscles from softening and his brain from turning to porridge, but what other difference was there? He had spent a year in an endless, aimless circle from the fight ground to the bottom of a jug of wine, to Elena’s bed and back. He, too, had become a soldier without a war. A man without purpose.
‘What?’ he murmured, as Ned asked him something through a mouthful of pie.
‘I asked why you were in Seville.’
There was a cry of protest from Em as a man pulled her on to his lap, causing her to spill ale across the floor. Laughter burst up as she tried to disentangle herself from the leering drunk. The innkeeper shouted across the room.
Jack stood after a moment, the leather bag clutched in his fist. ‘I’ll tell you. But not here.’
Ned frowned up at him, then wiped the crumbs from his mouth and rose. ‘I keep a room upstairs.’ Scooping up the rest of the pie and his tankard, he led the way through the clamour, patrons stumbling out of his way.
At the top of a twisting staircase at the end of a dark passage, Ned paused outside a door. He glanced over his shoulder at Jack. ‘Mind the dog.’
Jack entered cautiously, scanning the cramped room. A faded curtain drooped over a small window. A gap above it let in daylight, which illuminated a pallet on the floor, covered with stained sheets. A filth-speckled bucket stood in one corner, the source, perhaps, of the pungent stink. A few items of clothing were draped across a wooden chest. Jack’s gaze alighted on a row of pebbles and shells placed neatly on an old piece of timber: delicate white whorls and scalloped ovals, shimmering spirals and ink-black shards, a strangely beautiful collection in what was otherwise a malodorous pit of a room.
As he turned to shut the door, a volley of barks made him start round. A fluffy white ball was racing about Ned’s feet. The large man crouched, set down his tankard and broke off a piece of pie which he fed to the yapping creature, grinning as he fondled its ears. Jack fought an urge to laugh.
‘Quiet, Titan.’
The laugh burst from Jack. He turned it into a cough when Ned looked up at him. ‘Titan?’
Ned stood, wiping his fingers on his shirt. ‘The man I bought him from said he was a pup. Told me he’d get bigger.’
‘When was that?’
‘Three years ago.’ Ned watched the animal run in circles, snuffling up the rest of the pie crumbs. ‘Why are you here, James? What do you want with me?’
Jack’s grin faded. Despite his misgivings, he knew he had to trust someone.
Ned’s loyalty, at least to Vaughan, had been made more than clear downstairs – he’d have the bruise on his wrist for a week or more to remind him. He opened his bag and withdrew the scroll case. The leather, boiled and steeped in wax, was stiff in his hand. ‘Sir Thomas came to me, just over a year ago, and asked me to take this to Seville, to a friend of his there. I was supposed to protect it until he came for me. But he never did.’ Jack eased out the cork stopper and pulled forth a long roll of thick yellowed parchment. He handed it to Ned. ‘The man I asked you about – Gregory. He tried to take this from me.’
Ned unfurled the roll of vellum. It opened wide in his hands. He studied it for a long moment. ‘Where did Sir Thomas get this?’
‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘And this Gregory? Where is he now?’
‘I killed him.’
Ned held his gaze. ‘Was he acting alone?’
‘I don’t think so. The last thing he said was they will come for me.’
‘They?’
‘He seemed to know what was happening in England – he knew of my father’s arrest at least – so I assumed he was working with or for someone here.’ He watched Ned carefully roll up the parchment. ‘When I returned home I found my mother had died in a fire. Her death, my father’s execution, Gloucester’s taking of the throne – I don’t know if any of it is connected to this. But I fear it could be.’
Ned passed the parchment to Jack, who eased it back into the scroll case. ‘There’s nothing else you can tell me? Nothing more about where that came from or what Sir Thomas intended to do with it?’
Jack took his father’s crumpled letter from the bag. ‘This is all he left me.’
Ned read it. ‘He hopes the Needle has pointed the way? What does he mean?’ He gestured to the scroll case. ‘Needle of a compass perhaps?’
‘All I know is Sir Thomas’s last wish in this world was that I protect this. But I don’t know who I’m protecting it from. I don’t even know if . . .’ If I trust my father, Jack had been going to say, but he stopped the words from coming out.
‘Hugh Pyke,’ said Ned, after a moment. ‘He served Sir Thomas the longest of any of us. And his wife might be a sour old sow, but she has a brother who’s a map-maker. He might be able to tell you more.’
‘Do you know where Hugh is?’
‘He has a tavern in Southwark. I haven’t seen him in almost a year, but so far as I know he’s still there. We’ll go tomorrow and—’ Ned cursed and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Damn it! We’re performing at the wedding of Sir Cuthbert’s son in two days. George won’t pay me for this season if I don’t play my part.’
‘I can wait two days.’ For Jack, the sudden easing of the burden he’d been carrying alone made him feel almost light-headed with relief.
At last, he had an ally.
Chapter 13
Following the congregation out of the cool gloom of St Mary’s, Grace paused in the porch to clasp Father Michael’s hands. ‘Thank you, Father.’ She could feel the knots in the man’s bones beneath his papery skin. ‘That was a beautiful sermon.’
‘Bless you, my dear. But I didn’t see your father this evening. Is the justice well?’
‘He has gone to Chichester. County business.’
Father Michael patted her hand. ‘Will you ask him to come and see me on his return? I want to discuss the Lammas Fair.’
‘Of course.’
As Grace went to move off, the priest kept hold of her hand. ‘I haven’t seen you light a candle for some time now.’
‘I will,’ she assured him. ‘After vespers tomorrow.’
‘Your husband’s soul needs a light in the darkness, Grace. As do you.’
‘Good evening, Father.’
As another parishioner moved up to thank the priest, Grace stepped gratefully into the evening warmth. The amber sky was feathered with clouds. Shadows stretched long across the cemetery, pooling darkly beneath the yew trees. She paused on the path, looking at Peter’s grave. Her husband had been interred close to the church, his grave marked with a limestone slab. It was stark white against the mouldering stones that surrounded it. She had worn black for him and lit those candles as a good widow should, but these past few weeks she hadn’t felt able to strike a single flame. Not since James Wynter had blown back into her life. As her gaze drifted to the edge of the churchyard, where Sarah was buried, her mind filled with the image of that cloaked figure outside her home.
She hadn’t been able to get those men out of her thoughts for the past few days: the quiet menace of the one who had questioned her and the giant with that white mask covering half his face. When Francis had arrived, a short time after they’d gone, she had still been shaken. Now, staring at Sarah’s grave, she wondered again if, to an old man’s eyes, that mask could have looked like bone. Was that what John Browe had seen in the woods the day of the fire, when he thought he saw death? With her father away she hadn’t been able to tell him about the disturbing encounter and she didn’t want to confide in Francis about anything to do with the Wynters. Pausing outside the churchyard gate, Grace made a decision. Turning right, she headed away from her path home. She knew James had gone to Shoreditch. Arnold might know how to get word to him there.
The lawyer’s house stood close to two others at the end of a potholed lane. It hadn’t rained for several days and the rutted ground was hard beneath the soles of her shoes. The skirts of her gown whispered behind her through the dust. As she approached the thatched dwellings she heard the loud thock of an axe. Grace knocked on Arnold’s door. The wood was old, the paint peeling. She waited, listening to the steady chop of the axe rising from somewhere behind the house and the chatter of birds preparing to roost. A fly buzzed around her face. She swatted it away and knocked again. Arnold didn’t appear.
Heading down the side of the house, her dress snagging on thorny bushes, Grace emerged in an overgrown garden. Thistles, some taller than her, formed a spiky barrier through which she could make out a figure outside the adjacent house, hunched over a chopping block. The blade of the axe gleamed as it was raised.
‘Good evening.’
The figure halted mid-swing and turned. Grace saw it was a woman, with a hard, weathered face. Her dress was bleached by the sun and hung loose on her spindly frame.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Arnold.’
‘Haven’t seen him in days.’ The woman turned and swung the axe at the block, splitting another log. The sound was harsh.
Grace stared up at the shuttered windows. Was Arnold ill? She hadn’t seen him at church and she couldn’t imagine the old man being out so late in the evening. She half thought about turning around, going home, but now she had made a plan she felt impatient to see it through. If Arnold wasn’t here she could at least leave him a message. Moving up to the rotting door, she realised the weeds were crushed and broken, as if someone had walked through here recently. A breath of air blew against her neck, making her shiver. She pushed her fingertips against the flaking wood and the door creaked inward. A voice sounded close behind her. Grace started round. The woman had entered Arnold’s garden, the axe in her hands.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, not since those men came. I haven’t seen him since then.’
‘Men?’
‘Three days ago. Seven of them there were.’ The woman let the axe head thump down on the grass. ‘Foreigners. Well-dressed, mind.’
Grace pushed the door fully open and stood on the threshold, her heart thrumming. There was no sound or movement within. No giant in a death mask leapt out at her. Steadying herself, she picked up her skirts and entered. ‘Arnold?’
She moved through the gloomy kitchen, where the table was scattered with dirty bowls and a large pot of dark crusted slop. Flies buzzed languidly. The warm air was stagnant with the smell of rotten meat. Grace turned away from it, pressing an arm over her nose. She headed for the doorway that led into Arnold’s parlour. The smell of decay seemed
to follow her. ‘Arnold? It’s Grace.’
‘Is he in there?’ called the woman from outside.
Ignoring her, Grace opened the parlour door. As she did so, something rushed out. She stumbled back with a cry. Whipping round, she saw a large ginger cat. The creature leapt on to the kitchen table, mewing loudly. Heart in her mouth, she turned back to the parlour. There, sprawled among scattered papers and strewn books, lay Arnold. The old man’s spectacles were on the floor beside him, the glass crushed. Flies circled in the foetid air. Even in the half-light, even with the shock flooding through her, Grace could see the finger marks around the lawyer’s neck, livid reds and purples against his ash-grey skin.
Jack slowed, glancing back over his shoulder. Teeth gritted, he waited for Ned to catch up. The large man was breathing hard, red-faced with the briskness of the pace Jack had set on their route through the city. Titan trotted at the soldier’s heels, eliciting the odd exclamation of delight from women or sniggers from men.
For three days, Jack had waited in Shoreditch, his impatience only held in check by Ned’s assurance that Hugh Pyke, of any man, should know something more about his father’s dealings. Now, the nearness of the answers he so desperately needed was driving him forward as though his feet were on fire. The moment Ned caught up to him he was striding on again, into the crowds that thronged London Bridge.
With nineteen stone arches rising from twenty piers, the great bridge straddled the Thames, connecting the city with Southwark. Jack and Ned made their way across, shadowed by the shops and houses that lined its wide girth, the jutting upper storeys almost meeting in the middle, closing out the sky. Fifteen feet below, the river poured its torrent between the narrow arches, rushing white in the fast flow of the tide. Thin gaps between the buildings offered brief glimpses of its restless waters, scattered with boats and barges.
