‘I don’t pick enemies. This man Roscard picked me!’
‘Why would he go and murder a woman from the streets, then?’
‘I don’t know!’ I wailed, and then was quiet a moment or two while I tried to gather myself. ‘Look, I saw that she was terrified of him, and soon after, she was murdered. I saw him running from me. It was surely him.’
‘Roscard,’ Atwood mused. ‘If you are right, the man with the black hat killed the man you say was a messenger, he killed the man who took the purse, and now this Roscard has killed this woman Ann, too. That means the two have murdered all who knew of this message. If I were you, I would keep away from them both.’
‘I intend to,’ I said, and hiccupped.
‘Meanwhile, you should try to find the message so you can give it to the bishop. But tell me when you think you have it. I will help and guard you. Because if this Roscard learns you have it, your life won’t be worth that,’ he said with a snap of his fingers.
It didn’t make me feel reassured.
It was lucky. I had drunk more than enough by then, and told Atwood that I was going to return to the house and get some rest. I felt very tired after my efforts that morning. Atwood agreed, and I set off homewards, while he was busy, he said, checking with the city bailiffs about provisions for his men. At the time I thought nothing of it, but I was glad to be walking back. The light was fading gradually, and I wanted to get inside and in front of a warm fire.
I would have liked that.
However, I had wandered only a little way up Candlewright Street and taken the lane southwards towards our house when I felt a stone hit my back. A diversion, I thought, and set my hand on my purse. It was a common enough trick: get a small boy to lob a stone at a mark’s back, then have another fellow run before him and grab the purse before both disappear and share their profits. Quick and easy for a foolish victim, but I was no fool, I thought. I span and glanced behind me, but instead of the small boy I expected, I was confronted by the Bear again. He smiled at me and held his arms outstretched. He was clearly not going to be fooled this time, and there was barely space for a man to pass another in this narrow lane.
It was enough to turn all the ale in my belly sour.
I turned, ready to bolt, but as I did so, there was the man in the broad-brimmed hat again.
Where did you spring from? I wondered, but kept my mouth shut. I had already received two too many blows to my head in recent days.
He stood casually enough, leaning his shoulder against a wall while studying a piece of wood in his hand. With a small knife, he was carving it into the shape of a sitting dog, I saw.
‘You have been a sore trouble to me,’ he said.
‘Many people say that,’ I said, attempting a little humour to conceal the terror that all but made me empty my bowels there and then. I could not take my eyes off that small blade and how its terrible, sharp edge took long, thin slivers of wood from the dog. I heard the Bear’s steps behind me, but even his physical presence was not as scary as this quiet man with the knife.
‘My name is John Blount. I have powerful reasons for speaking to you, master. I know you have formed an opinion of Henry Roscard, and I think if I know the man at all, your opinions are too kind.’
‘He’s a murderer and thief.’
‘And spy, yes. And he works for Edward Courtenay. He and Roscard are dangerous men, both. You have bitten into a poisoned cake, my friend.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘I was at the tavern, you recall. We saw your friend Henry take the purse, and then we saw you filch it from him. It was,’ he said, looking over to me, ‘as pretty a piece of thievery as I have ever seen. I salute you.’
‘You want the purse.’
‘Not really. That would be easy. No, I want what was inside it.’
‘I don’t have the money.’
‘We both know I don’t care about the money. I want the other thing.’
I could have dissembled, but after all that beer I only had two things on my mind: flight and a privy. ‘Well?’
He sighed. He had a square face that would have appealed to many women, I thought. Dark hair, dark eyes set under low brows that gave him a curiously serious appearance. When he fixed those brown eyes on you, a fellow knew he was devoting his uttermost concentration.
‘I want it.’
There was no time for me to speak. Suddenly, my legs were taken away by a blow from a plank behind the knees, and I collapsed and found myself staring up into the face of the fair-haired, grinning man. His hands passed quickly over my clothes and removed my dagger and eating knife, before he removed my purse and subjected it to the sort of investigation a pox-doctor would give a man’s tarse. He had my coins out and sought any double stitching, but had to confess himself baffled. Then he took my jack and felt inside the seams while I was still wearing it. I was not happy, but then again I had sunk enough ale to stop even Hercules in his tracks. If I closed my eyes, I would doze, I thought. I closed them.
His hands went everywhere: round my breast and back, about the collar of my jack, down my legs, and then he removed my shoes and studied them for secret compartments, too, I have no doubt.
‘Nothing.’
‘Check his cods,’ John said.
‘Oi! No!’ I said, but before I could scramble from his path, a massive booted foot landed on my chest, effectively holding me there. I looked up into the Bear’s nostrils. It was like looking up a horse’s nose.
‘You have been dabbling in things you should have avoided,’ John said. ‘You’re holding up affairs for the queen, for the bishop and for many others, including me. It’s not a good position to be in. So, just give up the message and we’ll let you go.’
But before the man could do anything, there was a sudden roar. I heard a solid thud, and the Bear’s eyes rolled up into his head. I confess that sight brought a warm glow to my breast. Then I knew real terror.
He fell, and I would have whimpered as he collapsed on top of me, except I couldn’t. I had no breath. It was like having Sisyphus’s rock roll on to me: he was a ludicrous lump that I could by no means shift. I could hardly even breathe! I panted shallowly, like a broken donkey, desperate, while all about me I heard the sound of blows being struck. At last there was a shout, and finally someone came and pulled the Bear from me, and I gasped desperately, my lungs burning. I turned over on to all fours and tried to regain my natural state, but it wasn’t easy.
‘Come, man, get up, and be swift! They will be back at any moment!’ It was Atwood, hissing at me urgently. He had three men with him, and one of his companions gripped a great club in both hands and glared at the alley as though daring all the thieves, draw-latches and demons to come and attack him. The man in the hat had fled already, but he could soon be back, this time with more men.
I allowed myself to be picked up and lurched after them as they pulled me back towards the main roadway.
TWENTY-FOUR
I have no memory of the hurried scampering through alleys and lanes back to the rooms we had taken. Bill was there when we entered, and Atwood slammed the door and barred it with a show of haste that impressed even Bill himself.
‘What is it now?’
‘How much does he know?’ Atwood asked me.
‘Most of it. Not about Roscard, though,’ I said.
Atwood made a good fist of telling Bill about the man called John Blount while Moll brought me a cloth and bowl of water. I had mud and … well, similar-coloured refuse, plastering my jack’s breast.
‘This Blount, this is the man who killed Gil?’ Bill said at last.
‘Yes. A nasty piece of knavery, if ever I saw one,’ I said.
‘We will need to put paid to his threats,’ Bill said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t like the idea of a spy and scoundrel trying to disrupt the kingdom, but I like the idea of any man hurting or killing one of my own even less. I want his blood.’
That warmed me. It sounded as if he was talking
about avenging the harm done to me. But then I realized he meant Gil. I was still unwanted.
‘Who are these men?’ Bill said. I was sinking another half quart of ale, and looked at Atwood hopefully.
‘Some of the most dangerous men in the kingdom,’ Atwood said. ‘Now the rebellion is growing, those who would see the queen removed from her throne are growing bolder.’
‘You say the man who did that to Gil is working for the Earl of Devon?’
Atwood nodded.
‘But you say there is this other fellow? Roscard? Who is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘All I know is that he keeps appearing when I don’t want him. And he knows much about me, it seems.’
‘You know that, and still you come back here?’ Bill said, his face darkening.
Atwood took up the story. ‘There are others to consider. Gardiner, for example. Queen Mary has relied on him for years. It was he who crowned her, and he is her most trusted adviser, some reckon.’
Bill nodded, and I did, too. It was said that it was much to do with Gardiner, this plan on the queen being married, although many, like Wyatt and his rebels, didn’t like the idea. Most folks had nothing against her particularly, but she was determined to marry a foreigner, and no good, true Englishman likes that sort of behaviour. Especially when the betrothed in question is a member of the Imperial family: Philip of Spain. That was enough to put up the backs of almost everyone.
‘I would guess that Roscard and Blount have good reason for wanting to get the message and kill Jack here,’ Atwood said.
‘Why would they want to hurt Jack?’ Moll asked.
‘Yes! It was nothing to do with me!’ I said. I was upset, I have to confess. It wasn’t fair!
Atwood shrugged. ‘They all seem to think you know where this message is.’
‘But I want nothing to do with it!’
Bill sneered at me. ‘You think anyone will give a tuppenny knee-trembler for what you think? You’re not from London, you’re not a rich merchant, you’re not a local apprentice. You’re just the son of a leather-worker from Surrey somewhere.’
‘It’s Whitstable! And it’s in Kent!’
‘So what? The fact is, Jack, these men are much bigger than you. They have money and power behind them. You have to keep out of things. Let us sort it out.’
‘I’m not running from here!’
Atwood agreed, somewhat to my surprise. ‘Let him stay. They won’t want to do anything to him. Jack is nothing to them.’
‘He’s a loose end,’ Bill said firmly. ‘Jack, return to your village. That way you may live yet awhile. Stay here, and you’ll die.’
‘But if I flee, they’ll assume I’m guilty!’
He looked at me. ‘If you don’t, they’ll assume you’re guilty and they’ll hang you. If you run, you may live!’
‘You can’t just make him run,’ Moll protested. ‘What will happen to him?’
Bill glared at her, and I realized he didn’t care about me at all. He just wanted me gone.
‘If he stays here, we’re all at risk, aren’t we? You as well, Moll,’ he said roughly.
That was, I realized, a good point. ‘I’d better take my share of the purse, then.’
‘You had the purse and whatever was in it,’ he said.
‘But the money …’
‘It’s for the good of the gang. You’re going, so you’re not in the gang.’
I gaped. He stared back without expression. His eyes were dead and dangerous. He was already in that frame of mind that told him I was gone. He didn’t care whether I hung around or left, but he wasn’t going to share the money with me: that was clear. I could have fought him, of course. It would be like wrestling a charging bull in a dead-ended alleyway, but I was perfectly at liberty to try it.
No, I didn’t. You think I’m stupid?
However, his words had made me think of something: I needed money to escape the city, and although I owned nothing, I did have that piece of paper from the stolen purse. Maybe there was something in there that could be worth some money? I could take it to the queen, or take it to someone else who would pay for it?
Yes. I know it wasn’t the best of ideas, but I wasn’t having a good day.
‘I cannot help but think he really does not like you,’ Atwood said a little later as we left the room and made our way through the dark streets.
I pulled my cloak about me, shivering at the icy blast.
There were times when I was with my father, when the wind would whistle about our ears like demons, and the chill would make our flesh feel as though it was being scorched. Here in London, it was in the streets like this, which were aligned with the Thames, that the bitter wind worked its unholy worst. A man out without a hat or gloves would soon feel all sensation depart, and those who slept out in it were often found stiff as a board the following morning. I can bear any amount of heat, but God protect me from the cold. I hate it.
‘I am sure of it,’ I said. ‘He fears me. I could bring a constable into his group at any time, and that could mean his end on a rope. But it is more because he fears that I would tempt his woman from him. He knows she can barely resist me.’
‘Of course,’ Atwood said with a chuckle. He was impressed by my confident manner.
He was quiet for quite some time as we walked along the street, heading towards the great bridge. Then he stopped, and a frown wiped his smile away. ‘You know, Bill could have a point. You are not safe if any of those men decide to remove you. You are only a pawn in their game of chess.’
‘I’m happier here than back in Whitstable. Have you ever been to Whitstable? No, well, you wouldn’t understand, then,’ I said. The mere idea of my father’s leather-working shed made my flesh creep. I seemed to discern, as though from a great distance, the far-off, rancid odour of herrings drying in the sun, the sour smell of pitch and tanning leather. It made me shudder. ‘But I do want to stop this man John Blount from attacking me again.’
‘Well, if you don’t have the message any more, you should be safe.’
‘But I told him that in the alley this afternoon, and you saw how much he trusted me then! He was going to open me from crop to gizzard to check my insides.’
‘Perhaps if you gave it to someone you trusted, though?’
‘I already have.’
‘Who?’
I was about to answer, but thought better of it. ‘Never mind that. How can I have this John Blount arrested? Perhaps if I go to the bishop and tell him all about it …’
A vision rose in my mind of the patrician bishop staring at me and shaking his head in disappointment. After all, he had asked me to find the message for him. If I were to tell him that I’d given it to Mark Thomasson, he would probably grow very disappointed. Disappointed enough to make the rest of my life very painful. He would send me to the torturers: not because he thought I could give more useful information, but just for the appearance of things. If he didn’t, he could be thought to be slacking. I didn’t like that thought. I was fond of my arms and legs as they were, neatly articulated.
‘No,’ I said.
‘I think you’re right. You need to tell him something about this note,’ Atwood said. ‘Either that or find it and take it to him. Perhaps that’s your best option, now. To retrieve the note and take it to him.’
‘And be knocked on the head in the middle of the street so that anyone can steal it and take it to him? And then be stabbed, or captured and taken to the torturers at their leisure? I don’t think so!’
‘Ah. So you have a better plan,’ he said. ‘Good.’
‘Yes,’ I said as we trudged on. There was a distinct smell of iron in the air. I was sure it would snow before long.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’
‘Your plan. What is it?’
Thus it was that, as darkness was falling, I found myself outside Mark Thomasson’s house again. Atwood himself remained outside, concealing himself as best he could in th
e shadows while I hammered gently on the door.
‘What do you want?’ Jonah demanded.
‘I have business with your master.’
The servant peered at me with a lip curled in disdain as he took in my clothing. ‘I doubt he would want to see you, nor you him.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ I said, and barged past him.
You know, it is a strange thing, but I’ve noticed that steel feels cold when it touches you. It doesn’t matter where it touches you or what the temperature is, only that it is sharp. There’s something about, say, a sword with an edge like a razor that gives it a magisterial quality compared with a horseshoe. And now, as I felt that metal touch the back of my neck, I felt as though my entire throat was closed up with ice. It was not a nice sensation. Nor was the urgent need to urinate.
‘You, master, have given me a bastard run-around today,’ the man called John Blount said.
TWENTY-FIVE
I was just preparing to say my prayers when he took his sword away and pushed me hard into the parlour. The enormous hound, Peterkin, was there again. I had assumed the brute would be dead, but as I walked in, he blearily lifted his head, smacked his chops a few times, the drool falling on the floor before him, and then let his head flop down. I suppose with Blount and his two companions in there, their weapons drawn, he didn’t see the need to worry himself about me. He didn’t mind them.
‘Get in there and sit down!’ Blount said.
‘I said you wouldn’t want to come inside,’ the old servant chuckled, and walked out to the buttery.
I was determined to behave like a true-born Englishman. ‘What do you want with me?’ I growled.
Blount sat on a stool and waved a hand at Mark Thomasson. ‘You tell him. The way he’s squeaking, he’s near to fainting.’
‘I am not—’
‘Shut up, sit down and listen carefully,’ Blount said.
I did what he asked. As I did so, I saw the Bear kneel at the hound’s side and tickle him under the ear. The hound rolled over, paws in the air, while the man rubbed his chest. Anything more ludicrous could not be imagined.
Rebellion's Message Page 13
