The Accusation

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Fortune dreamed of John. Her husband sat on the pew of Canterbury Cathedral, and asked her, a little plaintively, why she was sleeping in a church which denied his beliefs. She sighed. Even dreams can be tiresome. "I wanted to dream of you," she told him. "But you have to be kind. I'm very poor and you didn't leave me a house or a bed or even a kiss. Can you make love to me now?"

  "You are asking for licentious sin, woman," John told her.

  In the dream it was Charles who walked down the aisle from the altar, and smiled the smile that made her knees go weak. He said, "Come with me, my dear, and I shall show you how hot water and a bathtub can make seduction all the more interesting."

  It was Black Plum, who had not been dreaming at all, who alerted the household by suddenly barking his head off.

  The gang of eight men had entered by climbing the stone wall which divided the grounds from the street beyond. The stable hound started barking and the household awoke, leapt from their pallets and beds, and raced to the outbuildings at the back of the kitchens and pantries. The night was moonless and too dark for easy discovery.

  The eight men, keeping to the shadows, crept around to the side of the house, slipping silently into the archway which led into the kitchen garden, and from there to a side door.

  Scrambling into their bed-robes, their hose, their doublets or wrapping themselves in a blanket, the household then scurried outside, staring around. After the discovery of a headless body in the stables, they were all far too nervous to ignore the furious barking of the watchdog. Charles rolled from the bed, yawned, shrugged himself into his dark red velvet bed-robe, and strode downstairs. He took the long corridor to the back of the building, guessing that anyone wishing to enter, would have to do so through the outhouses and kitchens.

  Pushing open the swinging oak of the kitchen doors, Charles met the eight wary faces of the strangers, wielding their knives, one with an axe, and another with a heavy arquebus beneath his arm. All surprised at the other, each man stared. Charles stepped forwards, and with one fist smacked the first stranger in the nose. But being unarmed, Charles then dodged backwards, calling for anyone who heard. "Here," he called in a roar that echoed along the corridor, "attack by the kitchen doors."

  Running footsteps resounded from the floor above and thundered down the stairs. Other voices called. The eight men, one nursing a bleeding nose, separated. Charles strode to a long cupboard and pulled out a sword and two knives. One knife he wedged beneath the long cord tying his bed-robe, held the other, and grasped the sword in his right hand. Listening for echoes, he retraced his own steps. Then, equally unexpected, he nearly walked into Katherine.

  She was pattering from the kitchen towards the main entrance, a well sharpened carving knife clutched tight and pointing forwards. Charles nearly impaled himself. "My lady," he murmured, "you must certainly stay in your bedchamber. I'll send Clovis to guard the door."

  "Rubbish," announced Katherine, waving the carving knife. "I never hide from anything and anyway, I'd probably have to protect Clovis."

  She pushed past him, Charles sighed and followed, and was overtaken by two racing pages, each holding part of a roasting spit. Samson came from the opposite direction. "Ah, my lord, you are not hurt? Thank the Lord, and I pray the thieves will quickly leave before any damage is done."

  "I doubt they're thieves, Samson." Charles nodded. "But who they are is of little consequence. We outnumber them. Send one of the pages or scullery boys off for the Watch and the sheriff."

  Now everyone was running. The boom of feet on the upper floors reverberated through the ceilings, up and down the stairs, and out into the grounds as doors slammed.

  Someone screeched and yelled, "Oh, it's you," for it was hard to tell who was friend and who was interloper. Then, more poignant than anything else, was the explosion of the arquebus., Its thunderous noise extinguished all voices, and as the echoes died away, someone else screamed. Fortune raced down the stairs, her shift flying around her legs, yelling, "Is anyone hurt?"

  "I have no idea where the sound came from, mistress, "Samson told her, his voice a little shaky.

  "I shall find it," and she hurried away.

  Charles strode the length of the corridor and found nothing, turned the far corner and marched back towards the main solar and the grand stairs. In the archway outside the solar, he discovered Katherine. She was fighting desperately with a short muscled creature who grunted like a pig, and grappled, kicking out, a knife in each hand. Katherine, with a fury Charles would not have expected, stabbed and sliced with the long carving knife, slashing at the man's face, kicking bare feet at his legs. But the man wore boots and he kicked to her knees, so that Katherine fell, the carving knife ripping down his arm as she tumbled. Charles grabbed the man from behind, wrenching away both knives, and with a knee between his legs, floored him, then kicked him violently in the groin. As the man whined, trying to rise, Charles leaned down and slit his gullet. The blood gushed like water from a well, and he groaned and died.

  Charles grabbed Katherine. "Are you hurt?"

  "No. Well, yes. And thank you. So that's one gone. How many were there?"

  No one knew. But it was Henry Dayford who had a tight hold on another of the men at the top of the main staircase, and with a hurtling thrust, pushed him in a rolling tumble down the steps. The man screamed, croaked, crashed his head on the bannister, and fell unconscious.

  "Shall I cut his throat like you did with the other one?" asked Katherine brightly.

  Charles smiled. "Leave it to Henry."

  The principal chef and five of his kitchen staff were tussling one of the men out into the grounds, knocked him over the head with a hammer, a bucket, and a platter, which broke, and dragged him to the stables where the grooms were just beginning to wake.

  "Do the bugger in," yelled the chef. "Chop off his cods and throw the bastard over the back wall."

  "Death," decided Charles, "appears to have become quite common place these days. But less blood on my carpets would be welcome." He had his own knife point to one tall fellow's throat, and was hauling him to the kitchens. The man struggled, but Charles did not release him, simply tightened the hold and thrust deeper with the blade, so drops of blood oozed onthe man's dark coat. "Now," continued Charles, forcing the man to face the fire raging in the kitchen hearth, ready for the morning. "I shall throw you to the flames, as our dearest queen approves, unless you tell me why you are here, who sent you, and how many of you there are."

  The man appeared to shrink. The fire scorched his face and the knife blade stung, pushing further into his flesh. He croaked, "My lord, I dunno who sent us. I ain't the leader here. But we was to kill the Earl o' Chilham, and as many o' the household as we could." His voice was faint, half choked. "Is you the earl, then, m'lor'?"

  "How many of you?" Charles demanded.

  "We was eight," mumbled the man. "But there be six more expected later, wiv horses ready to smash down the wall at the back."

  Frowning, Charles said, almost to himself, "That's a major attack for a simple murder. Fourteen men, some mounted. Why?"

  "We was warned to expect trouble, m'lor'."

  "Who warned you?" And Charles pushed against the hilt of his knife. The steel entered and the man howled. "Tell me," Charles ordered. "Or you die here."

  "Dunno, m'lor'." The man wailed. "He were some grand gent's servant. I ain't the leader here."

  Charles thrust the creature towards the back entrance. "Run, or you will be dead in minutes," he said, and the man ran.

  Charles turned back towards the main staircase, and ran up the stairs, heading for his own bedchamber. As he had expected, the waiting assassin was crouched behind the half open door. Charles hauled him out, kicking the door shut behind him. The man lashed out, his knife a gleaming scimitar. It scratched his wrist, But Charles grabbed the hilt and flung it. The man swore. "Whether you're worth it or not, I get well paid for your death, my friend," and he swung another knife blade, pulled from his belt.
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  Charles, foot out, tripped him up, and as the creature stumbled, Charles grabbed his arm and the second blade flew across the room. Pushed up against the wall, his elbow to the man's throat and his knife point to his groin, Charles demanded, "Who ordered you here and who intended to pay you for my death?"

  The man swung, kicked out, wriggled and spat, but he was unable to wrestle himself from Charles' grasp. He spluttered, "Dunno, m'lord," and attempted to fall. Charles dragged him up.

  "Who?"

  Swearing, the man closed his eyes. "Let me go, and I'll take you there."

  "Don't be a fool," Charles smiled, increasing the pressure against the gulping throat. "Tell me within a count of three, or you die."

  The man's eyes were bloodshot and desperate. He muttered, half guttural, "Brown. Prick-arse Brown."

  "First name?"

  "Will'am," the man was now struggling to speak. "Will'am Brown's done works fer Pars. Dunno more."

  Charles asked again. "I need more information."

  But the man closed his eyes again, his tongue lolled between thick lips and he fell. Charles killed him, dragged him from his bedchamber onto the stairs, threw him down, and strode back to check the other bedchambers.

  He found no one and ran back down the stairs to the solar. Here both Clovis and one of the spit-boys was fighting with a man who roared, stabbing out with a knife, and swinging an axe. Samson ran in and tried to stab the man from the back, but his kitchen knife was too short, and was tangled in the man's clothes. Clovis had his own longer knife in the man's mouth, pressing as the other attempted again and again to swing his axe. The spit boy kicked and stabbed with his steel roasting spit, as at the same moment Clovis lunged harder. The man tumbled, rolling over, his tongue half cut through as it bled onto his chin. The spit rod protruding from his chest.

  Clovis wiped his hands on the dying man's sleeve, and walked away. "Reckon only two more to go but one's gotta gun."

  A second explosion ripped through the floorboards above their heads. A smell of sulphur oozed from beams to stairs. Then Henry Bishop appeared, dragging a pimpled young man with him, both discoloured by scorched soot. "It backfired," Henry said. "The arquebus lies broken on the top landing. This fool is broken too."

  "Throw him out," glowered Samson.

  One of the scullery boys stood, blood tipping the iron point of his roasting spit. "He'll come back when the rest arrive. So kill him now."

  "Then tie him up downstairs and he can wait for the sheriff," nodded Charles.

  "You said there were eight," said Katherine, "which means one more is skulking around in the shadows."

  "Remembering the last skulker," smiled Charles, "we must now prepare for the second arrival, should it come. A line outside the back wall, well armed. Another line in front of the house. But some must remain indoors to watch the front, and be ready for any change of plan."

  "The arquebus," decided Samson, "may well be unusable, but no one else will know that. I shall stand at the front door and point this machine at anyone who dares approach." The steward, never normally armed, clearly found this an exciting prospect.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three men galloped straight to the stone wall which surrounded the grounds of the old Chilham estate at the back, adjacent to the stables and storage barns. Two more came to the front doors, and with such speed that one horse, kicking wildly, cracked the heavy wood. The sixth man had not yet appeared.

  The two riders at the front had damaged the doors but could not force their way in, and so skirted the building, looking for other entrances. At the back, the line of men guarding the wall leapt into action. One of the riders was pulled from his horse, thrown to the ground, and disappeared beneath four scullery boys, two with iron spits, and two pages with kitchen knives. The horse, confused, raced back the way it had come. "Get the bugger," squealed one page. "Slit his guts."

  Another of the men was dragged from his horse by the chief cook and his wife, both fiercely energetic. Mistress Mums thrust a pitchfork into the invader's chest, shouting, "Scum of a turd, take that. And that. And that."

  Bleeding, limping and wheezing, the man fell backwards into the thorn bushes, and was left there as his horse bolted. The third man had already gone, realising the impotence of his attack.

  Samson, arquebus pointing, though its weight was slowing him down, made his way back into the house, roaring his warnings. "If you wicked creatures think you'll overcome me, Master Samson and well named, then I'll shoot before you see my face."

  They came in at the kitchens, leaving their horses tethered. But there were seven of the household, led by Katherine, waiting for them. "Grab them both," Katherine yelled, and lunged, her knife into one man's arm.

  The second man, leaping backwards, fell with an echoing scream into the huge kitchen fire, and rebounded, landing on the tiled floor, face down and groaning. His cape was in flames, but Fortune stamped them out, while stamping the man into submission as he lay scorched and in pain. The other was crumpled in a corner, facing Katherine and two grooms, white faced and bleeding profusely.

  The sixth invader, quiet and careful, discovered a dark and claustrophobic passage down one of the cold chimneys and landed with a small grunt in the empty hearth of the principal bedchamber, Small and wiry, and exceedingly well armed, he landed covered in ashes, his eyes stark from a black sooty face. He jumped up from the hearth, still silent, and peeped around. He blanched when he saw the quiet figure watching him.

  Charles sat on the bed, legs crossed, sword across his knees, knife in his left hand. He still wore his long velvet bed-robe, which fell open across his legs. "Good evening," he said softly. "What a delightful surprise. I came to dress a little more circumspectly, and had no expectation of such a charming visit."

  The man stumbled back and gathered his wits and jumped forwards. But immediately he found himself in an iron grip, two knives wrenched from his grasp, and the point of a battle sword pressing right through his doublet and against his ribs. "I ain't no thief," said the man, with little breath left.

  "Then perhaps a little information first?" smiled Charles. "A word or two at least before I decide whether to kill you here, or throw you to the guards at Newgate."

  They spoke for some moments before finally Charles dragged the man downstairs to face the others.

  Of their fourteen attackers, several were dead, others lay tied and prone, one at least had escaped, and another had never yet been seen. Mistress Mums was twirling her pitchfork. "Ain't had so much fun since I wed my Humphrey," she announced.

  Charles surveyed his audience. "I thank you all," he told them as they crowded around. "You have risked your lives for me, all of you, and I see a few of you have injuries. I have sent young Philip for the local doctor, and once the medik wakes, he should arrive without delay. Thank the Lord, no one is badly hurt."

  "So you know why, and who?" asked Katherine, wrapping her blanchet more tightly over her shift.

  "I have information," Charles replied, "which may or may not be true, since it came from a man I had threatened to kill unless he talked. A man who speaks under threat does not always benefit from admitting the truth. Our royal sovereigns and their official investigators have not yet discovered this obvious fact, but I am well aware of it." He paused, leaning back against the door jam. "These men were evidently under orders to kill me and create havoc. Sufficient slaughter and chaos would have disguised the fact that the sole aim was my death. Hence the number of men sent against us."

  "And who," demanded Katherine, "wants you dead so desperately, my lord?"

  Charles smiled. "Many perhaps, although I have become a hermit over past years. But the man I spoke to mentions Pars as the one who paid him. I have a somewhat distant cousin, whom I hardly know, named Piers. On my death, he stands to inherit a considerable amount of sudden wealth, as most of my closer family have died over the years. I have not met the man for a considerable number of years, and know virtually nothing of him. But I suspec
t he is the one to gain from my passing, and knows it."

  The valet, hands behind his back, stepped forwards. "I recently discovered this gentleman's place of residence, and went there to investigate - at my lord's suggestion, naturally. I discovered nothing of relevance, but if, as I think likely, Master Piers Balwin wishes to inherit a fortune, he no doubt laid the original lies of conspiracy against his lordship and her ladyship, his mother, which led to her ladyship's wicked execution. If these lies were targeted at her majesty through this James Willis, it is also likely that Master Piers would want him dead also, in order that he could never disclose the name of the man who first came to him with those lies."

  Charles raised a hand. "We cannot be sure of anything. However, I intend visiting my cousin. A prospect I look forward to."

  "And if the numbers are accurate," murmured Fortune, "there's still one assassin lurking in the house or grounds."

  Samson scratched his head, the arquebus still snuggled under his arm. "I've not counted. So we had better search. I shall direct the household, my lord, and cover every possibility."

  Charles settled in the solar, feet to the hearth although no fire had yet been lit. The night was waning and a streak of lilac peeped beyond the rooftops. Still in his bed-robe, Charles left the household to search for the last man, and to secure all those taken prisoner outside in a disgruntled row for the sheriff's later arrival, and the dead in a small and dismal pile.

  Katherine had found shoes but wore a blue gossamer blanchet over her linen shift. She stood to the side of the marble mantel, looking down at Charles. A faint light from the unshuttered window behind her etched her in shadow, but surrounded her in a pale golden aura. Charles smiled, watching the outline of her breasts through the thin fabrics, and the movements of her body as she breathed, agitated but excited. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and Charles was disappointed. She said, "May I come with you, my lord, if you visit your cousin? I know that would be somewhat unorthodox, but it would be most interesting, and if Henry accompanies you and Fortune comes with me, they can also secretly question the servants."