Rebellion's Message

by Michael Jecks

  FOURTEEN

  ‘But … but … what can I do? This is terrible!’

  ‘It is for you, yes.’

  ‘It’s not so good for those who aided me, either. And those who have managed to translate the message could be considered as dangerous as me.’

  His face fell. ‘Ah! I had not, um, considered that eventuality.’

  ‘Then start considering now, and quickly!’

  ‘Perhaps this will, um, take a little time to think through,’ he said, picking up a small brass bell. He rang it, and a man appeared in the doorway at the rear of the room. ‘A jug of wine, Jonah.’

  ‘We don’t have any.’

  ‘I’m sure I told you to order it?’

  ‘That was a month ago. You’ve drunk it.’ There was an expression of morose glee on the man’s face as he spoke. He appeared to be older than Mark and was dressed in sober black, and though I was convinced he was a servant, his manner was more that of an irascible brother than a bottler.

  ‘Then go and fetch some from the vintner,’ Mark said with some heat.

  ‘It’ll take me a while.’

  ‘Go!’

  Mark scowled at the fire for a few moments after the door had closed. ‘I don’t know why I keep the fellow,’ he muttered. ‘He is more trouble than he is worth: he eats me out of house and home, and his rudeness is intolerable.’

  ‘Why do you keep him, then?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Mark said, and then the keen look returned to his eyes. ‘Very well, so we have the basic issue of what to do with the, um, parchment. We can guess who it came from, and to whom it was intended, as well as having a good idea what the result would be for us, were the note to be discovered.’

  ‘Are you sure destroying it isn’t the best solution?’ I said, gazing at the fire.

  ‘How long would they spend to make sure that you were not telling a lie? The rack is a fiendish machine and capable of utterly destroying your body. Then there are thumbscrews and other judicial devices that would make you really wish you had better news for your torturers.’

  It was a good point. ‘Then we have to keep quiet and hope that the rebellion will soon die away,’ I said with conviction. ‘What we don’t want is to discover that they approach closer to the city so that the queen’s men look for something to discredit her enemies.’

  ‘If she becomes more powerful, that will mean her enemies will grow more alarmed at the risks to themselves,’ Mark pointed out.

  ‘Yes. But the queen has racks and torturers.’

  ‘The others still have whips and steel bars,’ Mark said.

  That was fair. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that there was no safe option for us.

  It was a while later that the miserable servant returned. He eyed us both, sniffed and went to the rear where there was a kitchen and buttery. A short while later, he returned and set a jug on the floor between us. He filled three large cups, two of which he passed to Mark and me, and then, to my astonishment, picked up the last and drank deeply, smacking his lips. Mark seemed in no manner upset at such familiarity from his manservant, but I was.

  ‘Aye, ye’ll want to know this,’ Jonah said. He shook his head, staring at the fire.

  ‘What?’ Mark snapped.

  ‘The first reports of the fighting against the rebels.’

  ‘Were they beaten?’ I asked. This could spell the beginning of the end of this appalling situation.

  ‘Aye. They were soundly thrashed by all accounts. Aye, they were beaten thoroughly. So many went to the other side, ye see.’

  ‘So the Whitecoats have saved the day!’ I breathed.

  ‘Eh? No, the whiteys ran to Wyatt, calling out “A Wyatt, a Wyatt; we’re all Englishmen!” and he took ’em in. Now he’s marching on London with ten thousand, so they say. The few Whitecoats who made it back had lost their pikes and guns, and were all bedraggled, with their coats turned inside out to hide their royal insignia and badges. Aye, they were beaten sure enough.’

  I could say nothing. I stared at him in mute horror.

  When his morose servant had left us again, grimly delighted, I had no doubt, of the impact of his news, I looked at Mark.

  ‘For now, our crucial difficulty lies in discovering our enemies,’ he mused. ‘The dead man is insignificant. He was a mere, um, messenger. It is said by all great warriors and leaders that the most important weapon is that of knowledge. A commander must know who his enemy is, where his enemy is, how large his enemy is, and what the territory is like where his enemy is. We know that we have an enemy, but little more.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ I said. ‘He wears a broad-brimmed hat,’ and I told Mark of the men I had seen in the tavern, how they had traced Gil and then killed him. If he was interested, he concealed it well.

  ‘There was also the man with Ann,’ I said. ‘His name was Henry, apparently.’

  ‘What did he look like? What form of clothing did he wear?’

  I told him, sparing no detail that I could think of. I finished, ‘One of those two must have murdered the messenger.’

  ‘Aye. Perhaps one works for the queen, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aye, that is a problem. Was the message stopped by, um, a queen’s man, by a loyal servant of Lady Jane, or by someone else? How do we find out who this man Henry is, and then, when we know, how can we tell whether he is a fine gentleman or a knave?’

  ‘He killed the messenger and Gil. He has to be a knave,’ I said.

  ‘Many a gentleman will kill to defend his faith or his mistress,’ Mark said with a short burst of irascibility. ‘And yet – you say his name was Henry, eh? Where does he live? Where does he frequent? You must find this woman Ann again, you poor cub, and this time make sure you learn all you can from her.’

  ‘But she doesn’t like me!’

  ‘I have little doubt of that. She would be looking for a finer kind of gentleman, I am sure. But you will find her, and do all you can to learn what is needful.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He peered at me. ‘The rack is enormously persuasive.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  The meeting with Mark had not put me in a good mood. I was morose as I scuffed my boots outside his house and considered how to find Ann.

  Like many a fresh courtesan, she tended to spend a lot of her day looking for work. I’d chatted to a tired whore once, who told me that she had to spend a third of her time walking and standing on street corners, trying to find an excuse to lie on her back the other two-thirds. It was understandable. In my case, I spent two-thirds of my time looking for a good mark, before dedicating the last third to getting to know them, robbing them blind, and running away fast. It wasn’t always easy.

  In the end, I decided to look for her around St Paul’s again. It was her favourite hunting ground. The churchyard was always a good place for strumpets seeking gentlemen with money, and there was always the chance that I’d strike it lucky with another gull. I hoped that this time I would find a mark who wasn’t about to expire and leave me with the embarrassment of his remains.

  I made my way to the cathedral and bought an indifferent pie from a man on the street. The pastry was good enough, and the gravy tasted fine, but the meat was from a diseased or ancient bull, from the amount of gristle amid the stringy meat. I was tempted to go back and tell him exactly what I thought of his vittles, but reflected that it was more important for me to keep myself out of the eye. Mind you, from the quality of the man’s pies, it would make him notice me all the more, were I not to complain and demand my money back.

  The churchyard was a mass of people milling about as one service ended and others began. Horses were left cropping the grass while urchins stood with the reins in their hands, whores promenaded, and trendy, foppish men with the latest in tight hosen and jacks stood about chatting with supercilious sneers fixed to their faces. Any number of them appealed to me as potential targets, and I was keen to mix with a few of them
, but each, I noticed, wore a short sword and a dagger of some sort. No matter how appealing their wallets looked, which usually was in inverse proportion to their intellect as far as I could tell, I did not like the odds of taking on any one of them.

  Of course, there was one issue with approaching the churchyard that had not occurred to me. It was about to, with force.

  ‘Hoi! You!’

  It was this: I was close to the tavern behind which I had only recently been discovered with a dead man. I had forgotten that.

  Yes, I know. You, sitting in your comfortable home with a fire before you and spiced ale at your side, reading this for your amusement at my predicament, will have observed my error in an instant. All I can say is that it is easy to be smug. I had experienced the unnerving sight of Gil’s body, been chased by his murderer and a bear, I’d been scared half out of my wits by the thought that the queen’s supporters and enemies both had the inclination to see my body dangling from a rope, and I was aware that the rebels were on their way to visit London, too. I was not having a good few days.

  Which is why I had forgotten that I was a wanted man, and that here there were possibly fellows who would remember me, even in my new leather jerkin. One fellow I had not expected to see, however, was the young gull whose purse I had snatched. You’d forgotten? The fellow with the purse full of bone counters. He was there, and he was pointing at me. Why I had returned to only a short distance from the tavern where I had been accused of murder, I do not know. It was not intelligent, no.

  I was aware that the man pointing at me was vaguely familiar, but just at that moment I didn’t recall him. However, I did recognize the kind of man who was with him. He was a large man, and while he was not in uniform, and did not hold a staff of office or badge of rank, he had the unmistakable look of an officer of the law. Although he wore only a shabby leather jerkin over a jack of some heavy wool, there was something in his belligerent stance that boded ill for the man he was pointing at. I turned to see whom he was indicating. Which goes to prove that a man of even moderately good intelligence can be a fool on occasion.

  Before I knew what was happening, three toughs had grasped me by the arms and shoulders, and the hot-faced, official fellow trotted towards us like a pig seeing a tasty morsel in the gutter. He had a round face like that of a hog, and there was enough fat about his mouth to make me want to retreat. The men holding me tightened their grip.

  ‘You!’ he said again. ‘I know your face. So does this gentleman.’

  That was enough to make me blanch. I looked at the young gull, who now wore the sour smile of the victim who anticipates revenge, and realized I was in trouble.

  ‘Me?’ I said with an attempt at innocence.

  ‘You were up here the other morning, when the man David Raleigh was slain!’

  ‘What man?’

  Suddenly, I felt a hammer blow on the top of my pate, and sparks and gleams of painfully bright light whirled and span about me. My legs wobbled and I toppled forwards, and just before the ground came up and struck me on the nose, I had time to think, ‘Some bastard’s hit me!’ and feel a great sense of injustice, just as all went black.

  FIFTEEN

  I haven’t woken too often in a prison cell. It’s not a pastime I recommend to anyone generally, but if you do have a choice, I can recommend this one.

  In the past, when arrested for being drunk, I had been woken by a bucket of cold, mostly fresh water being thrown over me. In the winter, having freezing water drench you is not a life-enhancing experience. However, it does have the merit of distracting from the acid in the stomach and the constant hammering of smiths in the skull that normally I associate with a sore head after an evening of riotous enjoyment.

  Today I was not to feel the same relief, partly because I had not been uproariously drunk, and partly because there was no relief from the second blow to my head. I kept my eyes screwed tight for a while, as the dancing lights dissipated and stopped their whirling behind my eyelids, before I could even consider to venture to open one.

  It was my right. I cautiously unlocked a lid and took in my surroundings.

  The churchyard had disappeared. Instead, I was lying on a pallet on the floor in a gloomy chamber that had only one candle to illuminate it. Don’t mistake me, one candle is significantly more than I had on waking in Newgate gaol. There, the only light came from the feeble sun trying to insinuate itself past the thick bars of the window high overhead. Here, the candle allowed me to see a number of chests with intriguing patterns that implied that they were full of rich and interesting items, and a sideboard with a selection of plates and goblets that would easily fit into a man’s jack, so I felt. There was also a painting of a severe man who appeared to be suffering from an appalling form of constipation on the wall, staring down at me.

  ‘So you are awake. Good.’

  I turned on hearing that cool, calm voice, risking my skull breaking open and spilling my brains all over the floor. Behind me, I discovered, a man was seated on a stool.

  ‘You will no doubt be wondering where you are,’ the man said. He had been reading a sheet of paper and now he set this aside at a table near his right arm. He leaned forward. He had a fleshy face, with a long nose and a small mouth that made him look prim and disappointed. Slightly bulbous eyes were framed by thick eyebrows above and weighty bruises beneath. He was a man who needed more sleep, I thought. He spoke in a precise, pedantic manner, holding my gaze all the while. ‘I am Stephen Gardiner, but you can call me “Lord Bishop”. I am Bishop of Winchester, and also the queen’s Lord High Chancellor.’

  I took in the black cap on his head and the episcopal robe, and instantly my heart fell.

  Did I know of Gardiner? Yes. He was one of those who had fallen out of favour during the reign of Edward VI. Something to do with religion and the way the king was imposing new rules, I think, but as soon as Edward died and Mary took the throne, she released Gardiner, returned him to his bishopric and elevated him as a trusted subject.

  In other words, he was one of the most senior men in the land.

  ‘I should like to talk to you about the man who died in the Black Boar three days ago. The man you killed.’

  Those words froze me. He sat there, the candle making dark pits of his eyes, and as it guttered, shadows flew across his features like geese across a dying sun. I suppose he was seventy years or so, but all I saw as I looked at him was a keen intellect that was focused entirely upon me. The only thing that looked hopeful was his eyes. Every so often I caught a gleam, as though he was a sympathetic soul who felt for my predicament, rather than a bureaucrat without compassion who would sign my death warrant without compunction.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him! I was out there, and a gate opened behind me while I was there, and someone knocked me so hard on the pate that he almost broke my head,’ I protested. ‘I was only there for a piss, and the fellow came out after me. I don’t even know who he was.’

  ‘And yet you had been with him and drinking with him for the last hour or more.’

  ‘No, I was in the tavern and met him when …’

  ‘Be careful, my friend. You see, I know much of what you were doing that day. You were being watched.’

  I felt as if there was molten lead in my bowels. If they had been watching me … but who had? I hadn’t seen anyone.

  ‘I did meet him before, I’m sorry, yes. My head … it makes it all confused. Your man hit me so hard, and on the same place I was injured before. It’s made it all very difficult to remember now, and …’

  ‘You must not think that I approve of torture,’ he said, and although I didn’t consider that his comment ran on logically from what I had been saying, I felt it would possibly be a good idea not to interrupt. ‘I dislike the whole process – the concept – of torture. It means destroying someone. Breaking a body into its constituent parts is an act of horrific brutality.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to keep the relief from my voice. />
  ‘But sometimes a recalcitrant person must be prevailed upon to go against his natural inclination. Occasionally, if someone is seeking to endanger the throne or the realm, and wishes to conceal their part, torture becomes more acceptable. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, my Lord Bishop.’

  ‘Good. Now, to start again. You were with the gentleman who died from the middle of the morning, roughly.’

  ‘Um …’ I racked my brains to recall. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do be quite certain in your evidence,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘That is a little better,’ he said, and picked up the sheet of paper once more. He appeared to be reading and digesting certain facts, and then he put it down again. ‘Now, when you entered the tavern, what happened?’

  I tried to tell the story of bringing the messenger into the tavern without mentioning my intention of robbing him, and then I wondered about talking about the cutpurse and Ann. In the end, I decided I owed the man nothing.

  ‘I wanted to help the young fellow,’ I said. ‘He was so clearly a stranger to the city, and I didn’t want to see him robbed.’

  Gardiner looked at me with a kind of world-weary disbelief, but I hurried on.

  ‘I bought beers, and we went to sit at a bench. There were two others there already, and I think that they were cutpurses. These parasites do infest every part of our city, my Lord Bishop.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed,’ he said drily.

  ‘So, a little while later, while talking to my new friend, I felt a hand tug at my coat, and then I felt something thrust into my hand. You cannot imagine my surprise when I realized it was my young friend’s purse! I was astonished.’

  ‘So much so that you hurried from the tavern to investigate the interior of the purse.’

  ‘Yes, I … no! No, I was going out to see …’

  ‘Yes. Precisely. What then?’

  ‘I was outside and then the door to the alley opened, and someone caught me across the head with a hammer or club. I collapsed and knew no more.’