Rebellion's Message

by Michael Jecks

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Jack Blackjack Mysteries

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  The Jack Blackjack Mysteries

  REBELLION’S MESSAGE *

  The Medieval West Country Mysteries

  THE KING OF THIEVES

  NO LAW IN THE LAND

  THE BISHOP MUST DIE

  THE OATH

  KING’S GOLD

  CITY OF FIENDS

  TEMPLAR’S ACRE

  The Hundred Years War Series

  FIELDS OF GLORY

  BLOOD ON THE SAND

  Other Titles

  ACT OF VENGEANCE

  BLOOD OF THE INNOCENTS

  * available from Severn House

  REBELLION’S MESSAGE

  A Jack Blackjack Mystery

  Michael Jecks

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael Jecks.

  The right of Michael Jecks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-085-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-569-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-778-3 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Beryl Joan Jecks

  22nd March 1929 – 4th October 2015

  Miss you, Mum.

  ONE

  Sunday 28th January 1554

  There was a man lying on the ground in front of me when I came to. He was dressed in travelling clothes, and I stared with a grimace at the stained and torn cloak, the sun-bleached hat and worn boots. His face, I thought, looked familiar, but for the life of me, at that moment, I couldn’t work out why. Mind you, I had a serious lump, at least the size of a duck’s egg, on the back of my skull, and there was a series of important questions troubling me just then, not least of which were: Why had someone clobbered me over the pate with what must have been a maul or hammer? Why was I sitting on the ground? Exactly where was I? And why was my knife in my hand?

  And what was smeared over the blade? That should have been uppermost in my mind, to be honest, but just then the other questions seemed more urgent.

  My companion, on the other hand, had no questions or concerns of any sort. Not any more. He was past caring, since someone – possibly me – had caused him to add his blood to the piss and mud of the ground out there. Yes, I was outdoors, in a small yard, and the noise that now came to me reminded me that I had been in a tavern. From the smell, this was the yard that was the unofficial privy out at the back.

  I climbed to my feet, the world spinning lazily. It felt as though a giant had bound me to an enormous bobbin and was twirling it enthusiastically. I don’t know whether you have experience of such events, but, to me, waking beside a dead body with my knife besmeared with blood was not looking like a good turn-up for the books. Especially when I heard a door crash wide, steps and a sudden grunt of surprise.

  There are many men who are experienced with dead bodies. Some are used to finding them; others are used to finding those responsible for them. Me, I’m more used to avoiding them.

  I ran.

  Earlier that day

  Later, when I had time to think back, life had been so delightfully unremarkable only an hour or so before. It was just an ordinary, everyday Sunday morning.

  We had all been sent out at daybreak by Bill, determined to catch the early attendees at church so that we could enjoy a good meal that evening. Yes, it was shameful behaviour to rob the religious on the Sabbath, especially in a church, but we had to live, and pickings had been poor the past week.

  Bill? He’s our company’s fencing cully. There were six of us: Bill, Wat, Gil, Ham, me and Moll – Bill’s wench. A man on his own in London nowadays, in the year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and fifty-three – or, if you prefer the new method by which some capricious fools are setting New Year in the week after Christmas, fifty-four – is in danger all the time. There are too many men with knives, clubs, guns and swords, and a fellow on his own is likely to be beaten over the pate and arrested before he’s nipped his first bung, but with a man like Bill in charge of the company – a fellow who could fence the goods we found, who could source food and drink, beds and protection – life is a lot safer. I’d been with him for months now. When we stole something, he would find a buyer; when I cut a purse loose, he would take the money and make sure that it was held safe for the good of all of us, with the pelf being split equally. Bill ensured we all got a fair share and none of us would go hungry.

  But enough of Bill.

  That morning I’d decided to go to the cathedral. I reached the street near St Paul’s, down close to Ludgate and the Fleet river, and there I pulled my woollen cap down over my eyes and
studied myself as best I could in the limited reflection from a window-pane. Not tall, but not short, mousy hair a little ragged where Piers last cut it because he was drunk. Piers is a pimp and hairdresser working in a brothel, mainly because he lost his wife and house to the ale, but he could still handle a pair of scissors quite well – and better while sober. I suppose, as an apple-squire, he had to know how to keep the doxies looking as well as they could. The wenches there were installed to cater for a better class of client. They never would let me inside, not without seeing the colour of my money first. Actually, if they saw the inside of my purse, they wouldn’t let me in anyway.

  I suppose it is as well to explain a little about myself. A fellow setting out on a narrative of this kind should naturally inform his readers as much about himself as possible. In that case, since by reading this, my dear friends, you are joining me on the journey of my adventures, I will explain.

  First, I go by a number of names. Foremost is Jack Blackjack, since that is the name my father gave me; then there’s Jack of Whitstable and Jack Faithful by those who know me well. But I have been known to use other names as I see fit. Peter the Passer, John of Smithfield, Hugh Somerville – all have been used or misused by me. As to the rest of me, I suppose I am well formed, if slender, with a face that inspires trust – which is lucky. It is my face that has earned me my keep these last two or three years: square, with a kind of rugged integrity in my brown eyes and straight nose. True, there is a scar on my left cheek, but that gives me an air of devil-may-care insouciance. I like to tell women how I won it defending the virginity and honour of a maiden – although, in truth, I won it tripping while running from an enraged miller who found me in his daughter’s bed. It would have been fine, but when he glared at me and said, ‘Who is he?’ his daughter turned her limpid blue eyes to me and gave a squeal. ‘I don’t know! I’ve never seen him before!’ Names hadn’t mattered the night before, mind, but I suppose she saw no need to overuse the truth. In any case, when telling a tale like that of my scar, it’s best to tell most of the truth – just not quite all. I want to entice a gull to listen to me while I snip the strings of his purse.

  So, as I said, I studied myself, checked my appearance and walked into the Black Boar tavern, just another slightly scruffy fellow who had entered for a sup of ale, and hardly anyone cast me a glance. Why should they? They didn’t know that within the hour I’d be a wanted man, a notorious murderer.

  It was dark inside the tavern when I entered, and I almost brained myself on the low ceiling. Smoke curled from the fires, thick fumes choking at the throat and creating a warm fug. It was hard to see from one side of the room to the other.

  Men were seated at settles and benches, and I glanced about me as I entered, hoping for a suitable victim. The barman saw me. He was big and red-faced, and had the cheerful look of a man who knew exactly where the club under his bar sat waiting. He raised a leather tankard in a dumb show of offering, but I shook my head briefly. I was there for a different occupation. Besides, I had no money. I pushed past drinkers and a threepenny upright who was haggling with a man who couldn’t take his eyes from her chemise top, to where two men were playing dice on a rough tabletop in a window. One was a great bear of a man, with a beard that was as black as a sinner’s soul. The other was fair-haired and had a bright smile and youthful grin. Pushing past me, a fellow with a broad-brimmed hat went to the table and sat, his face hidden, and seemed to stare at the murky glass of the window.

  There was no point hanging about hopefully. A quick inspection of all the fellows inside told me that there were no pickings in there, not that I’d be keen to try it. I like the Boar and wouldn’t want to be forced to seek a new watering hole because desperation had forced me to steal from a customer in there. I wanted to watch the street, but the men near the window showed less inclination to move than dogs at a three-day corpse. The Bear glowered at me while he continued his game, and I leaned against a wall and peered through the window at the yard outside while they exercised their eyes in my direction. I eyed the game briefly, to see whether they were playing with fullams or some other form of loaded dice, but I am not experienced enough to tell. Dice are a mug’s game. The sharpers know how to trap a coney and empty his purse in minutes. The three played on, the hatted man seemingly joining in without speaking.

  It was hard to see through the window at first, but I knew that place, and in my mind’s eye I could fit the people to the scene, even with the filthy and smeared glass.

  The great looming bulk of the cathedral was just down from here. I could make out the steeple against the sky, the roofs of the canons’ houses, and even the school for poor boys. And all about them were the people of the city, wandering and bellowing.

  There were days when this city drove me to distraction. I come from Whitstable, and the ribald cries of the hucksters and whores demanding attention, the shrieks of the little brats begging for food or coin so they could go and buy drink for idle parents, or to take themselves to oblivion, made me feel sick. The idea of providing a service for money was sneered at, when the lazy brats could win a rich man’s coins, but I did not begrudge them that, although I did dislike their habit of picking on a fellow like me. These dregs of society were all too keen on deriding a fellow’s dress or sneering at him when he gave them nothing. Still, the wenches selling their pies and apples had busy lives of grim effort, just as I did. They toiled hard, as hard as any scavenger cleaning the streets of refuse. And they were just as necessary, but also dangerous, to a man like me, if they took it into their heads to denounce a fellow trying to nip a bung.

  The point was, many new people came every day, expecting to find streets paved with slabs of gold. They arrived from towns and villages all over the kingdom, walking with the drovers bringing their animals to Smithfield, riding on mules, or joining one of the teams of packhorses that made their way from as far away as Exeter or even Durham, attracted by the frenetic lure of sex and money, just like ravens to a corpse.

  Inevitably, the newcomers would end up here, in St Paul’s on Ludgate Hill. And this is where I’d meet them.

  It’s where I met him. I really wish I hadn’t.

  TWO

  I was a professional already, and I could spot them a mile off.

  Wide-eyed, confused, they’d wander the streets staring upwards with their daft mouths agape at the magnificent tall buildings, rich stonework and expensive carvings. Most of them had never seen a house with more decoration than an annual covering of limewash; here in the city, often a man set store more by how ostentatious the outside of his house was, rather than have any comfort inside, and these places showed it.

  Never pick the older ones. That was my first, my hard and fast rule. Older folks would have more experience, and may be on the lookout for a cutpurse. No, I’d always head towards the youngsters, the lads too overwhelmed and befuddled to chew the straw in their mouths. You could promise them much and make a small fortune from their foolishness before they’d realized they’d been gulled.

  But there was a problem with this rule: if you always went for the youngsters, you invariably ended up with purses that were almost weightless. They had so little left after a journey here. All their money was spent on the roads heading to London, and robbing them was as pointless as stealing the flame from a candle. It would not benefit me. And I was hungry.

  So today I was waiting to find a new target, one who could help me to find a good meat pie and a quart of beer. I had already failed to steal one purse, taken another that contained only a few bone counters that would be suited to a game of merrills or backgammon, and one clipped coin. Not enough for more than a cup of beer.

  ‘You standing there hoping to play?’

  This from the bearded man. He glared at me like a miller seeing a rat in his sack.

  ‘Nay, I am waiting for a friend.’

  ‘You keep looking at us as though you’re watching our play.’

  ‘I will turn my back.’

 
‘You’ll feel my boot in your arse if you don’t piss off!’

  The fair man was already laughing uproariously, while the man with the hat remained at the table, but any relief I felt at their lack of attention was quickly dispelled as the big man climbed to his feet, fists ready clenched. I strolled away, but as I heard him approach, I hurried.

  I swear I could feel his boot at my buttocks as I hurtled through the door and almost into the fellow who was soon to become the fellow I most feared in the whole world.

  I’d seen him walking about the street that morning while I was watching for a target. He was loitering like a man of leisure.

  Broad-shouldered, he had a thin beard and sallow complexion. His eyes were a little yellowish, like a man who’d spent too many hours out of the sun, and at first glance I would have marked him as a man who had the pox or malaria. It was a false first impression, though. On a second look, he didn’t seem unwell. A good thing, too, for else the dainty wench at his side would have dropped him in an instant. She was dressed in sober but fashionable style, with a most lecherous twinkle in her eye when she looked at her man, but when she glanced in my direction, that twinkle died like a snuffed candle.

  He was clearly wealthy. There was no chance that this woman would have been with him for long if his purse was empty, for I knew her. She was Ann Derby, one of the brightest, sweetest, shrewdest little tarts who ever lifted skirts for a coin.