A Murder too Soon

by Michael Jecks

  Now the boot was on the other foot, and Queen Mary was metaphorically pressing her dainty toe into Lady Elizabeth’s face and grinding it hard.

  So, although it’s hard to remember now, Lady Elizabeth then, in 1554, was a prisoner. A twenty-year-old lady, she had been held in the Tower immediately after the rebellion, but one month or more ago, in May, she had been transported to Woodstock, where she was kept under close guard to prevent any possibility of further plots and schemes. Queen Mary and her advisors were convinced that her younger half-sibling must be trying to rob her of her throne, and the Queen’s Council sought to ensure that no one else could again make such an attempt, and especially not someone who was committed to the English Church. Mary and her clique wanted to bring Britain back to the Roman yoke: one and all were papists. They sought to keep Elizabeth locked up like a rabid hound until she could be safely removed.

  That was the feeling among the folk of London, anyway, and many were the stories of Elizabeth’s saintliness in the face of her persecution. Somewhere in London it was noted that when people called out, ‘God save Princess Elizabeth’, they heard a voice from the heavens echoing their cry, or so it was said, but when others called, ‘God save the Queen’, their entreaties failed to rouse the angels. It was the cause of much comment for a few days. Then a less superstitious and much more suspicious bailiff investigated and found a woman in an upper chamber.

  I heard later that the young woman who had provided the echoing voice had been punished for her temerity. There was little new in that. People were beginning to learn that the new Queen was her father’s daughter, and unforgiving towards those who questioned her right to rule. It was later that she turned her attention towards those who flouted her will on matters of religion.

  That was when everything went to hell for the kingdom, although, of course, things were already bad enough in that month of June, when I was locked up inside Woodstock, suspected of a murder I couldn’t have committed.

  It was shocking to think that the Queen could be plotting to kill her own half-sister, but no one gambled poorly when they wagered on the cruelty of the House of Tudor. Even so, had I considered the situation more carefully before we undertook the journey to Woodstock, I might have realized how this tale of the Princess’s situation was not likely to be good news for me. Unfortunately, my mind at the time was still filled with the dangers of meeting Thomas Falkes down a darkened alleyway. Any escape from London seemed a glorious relief. ‘Have her head?’ I repeated.

  ‘You do not care that the Princess is held like a common criminal, watched over and persecuted?’

  This was one of those difficult moments. In short, no. I didn’t care. I was more concerned about holding my hide together against any possible threat from Falkes, but I could hardly say that.

  Blount took my silence as confirmation that I had remembered my place. He cast a disapproving eye over me nonetheless as he continued, ‘She is permitted only three ladies-in-waiting and three manservants. It is inadequate for her needs. And now Bedingfield has imposed a new woman on her. He has installed a spy within her household. It is repugnant to think that she must acquiesce, but she has no choice. One of her most loyal ladies has been removed, and Lady Margery Throcklehampton installed in her place. She is not to be trusted. Not only is she a spy, but she has even removed Lady Elizabeth’s seal, so now all correspondence must be viewed by her. The Princess has no privacy, no security. It must be awful for her.’

  ‘For Lady Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes. You must kill Lady Margery.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She is a serious threat to the security and safety of the Princess. You must kill her.’

  ‘Me?’ I squeaked.

  He looked at me doubtfully, and forbore to remind me that I was supposed to be an assassin.

  ‘A woman? I was not hired to kill women.’

  ‘You were hired to do Sir Thomas Percy’s bidding.’

  That was not something I could dispute. ‘Who is she? Her family, I mean?’

  ‘Lady Margery Throcklehampton? She is daughter of the Nevilles up at the Scottish March. Her father used to be an important man in the days of King Henry. The Percies were popular at court for a while, but now? She made a bad marriage to Throcklehampton, who plainly married her for her money and influence, while she took him for his lands, so I heard. That and his position. She was always ambitious, and her husband is a political animal. He’s one of those snakes who thinks only in terms of destroying others to further his career. I have no doubt he angled for his wife to be granted this position to strengthen his own situation. Lady Margery will be glad to help him. Her first husband died young, and her son needs a stable future. She will hope that her husband will be able to ingratiate himself with the Queen’s Court and produce a worthwhile legacy for her son, with contacts among the rich. She will be passing on everything she can to Sir Walter, and he will tell the Queen’s allies in order to destroy Princess Elizabeth. Then the Queen will have no bars to her ambition.’

  ‘What ambition? She’s the Queen!’ I protested.

  He looked at me in the sorrowful manner of a tutor whose pupil has made an elementary mistake at algebra. ‘All monarchs want to leave their mark. Queen Mary wishes only to see the country sold to the Pope and undo all the work of her father. King Harry tore down the Catholic Church in this kingdom. He took away all the fripperies and extravagances so that the public could worship as God intended, in sober equality. She would do away with that and take us back to rule by the Roman Church. She must be prevented.’

  ‘Her husband is Spanish.’

  ‘But we are English,’ he snapped.

  It was curious. I had never seen him so emotional. He was angry about my response, as though he thought I had no soul. I nodded as if in agreement. ‘But what could I do? Even if we were to travel to Woodstock, I would be unlikely to meet the woman. How could I kill her? There are walls about the palace, I suppose? You expect me to climb the battlements, killing sentries en route, and find my way in the dark to her bedchamber, avoiding all this Sir Henry Bedingfield’s men, and creep into Princess Elizabeth’s chambers to find one lady among all the others, and somehow …’

  ‘You do not need to worry about that. We have an arrangement. You and I are to be messengers. Sir Henry Bedingfield refused to allow the Princess’s chamberlain, our master, Sir Thomas Parry, to visit her and, since Lady Margery has deprived her of her own seal, and all correspondence must be sent with Lady Margery’s approval, the Princess has need of safe messengers. We must witness any confidential reports or communications from her and take them to Sir Thomas Parry. She has much business to be conducted. The Princess has extensive estates, and their value would be depreciated, were her farmers and yeomen not made fully aware that she wanted their rents. Too many will try to hide on hearing that their landlord has been arrested and held. They reason that with the landlord out of the way, they can hold on to their money for longer. But she needs her money still. So does Bedingfield.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Blount gave a short, irritable gesture with his hand as though I should have been more interested in the affairs of such people, rather than the tarts at the stews. ‘Bedingfield can’t afford to support the Princess in the style she expects. He has little money. Even manning the palace will be costing him dear. So many men-at-arms cost a great deal to maintain. So he ensured that she should pay for all the guards and their food, as well as her own little entourage. Princess Elizabeth is being held against her will, and she must pay for the privilege. That means that her letters and legal documents must be taken to her, and also that money must be brought in order that she might give some to Bedingfield for the upkeep of the palace.’

  ‘That must be a sore annoyance to her.’

  ‘Yes … and no. It means she can keep in constant contact with her chamberlain, Sir Thomas Parry, who even now stays at the nearest inn. And we must go there, take his messages to Princess Elizabeth and her re
sponses back to Parry. It gives you plenty of time in the palace to get to know it, learn where Lady Margery resides, and execute her.’

  ‘I see.’

  What could I say? I had the temporary embarrassment of Thomas Falkes who wanted to personally skin me alive – and he was not a slave to metaphor – so I could not flee from Blount and remain in the city with any security. He would want to find me if I disappeared. The money I owned came from him, as did the house and food and even the new jack on my back. He was ruthless, and if he thought I was running away after taking his money, my life would be in peril from him as well as Thomas Falkes. Then again, to leap into this palace with instructions to murder a lady-in-waiting was hardly congenial. There were dangers there, and I could already feel the strange roiling in my belly at the thought of killing a woman. It was wrong.

  ‘You must go and pack.’

  Yes, the idea of stabbing a woman was repellent. I could not do it. It was a foul, cowardly act. I opened my mouth to tell him, when a crash from the road outside made me leap into the air like a startled deer.

  At the window, Blount stared out. ‘A cart’s lost its axle,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ I said. In my mind was a horribly clear picture of Falkes’s face. It bore a leer, and he held a knife in his hand. Suddenly, Woodstock seemed a most appealing alternative.

  ‘Very well. When do we leave?’

  In the end the journey took us four days but with the changes in dialect we might have gone to a new land. The people were so uncouth! It showed why it was so easy to take the money from peasants when they arrived in London. They had hardly the sense they were born with.

  As an example: two days from London I became tangled in a game of dice. One man demanded to know the cause of my good fortune.

  ‘Beginner’s luck,’ I said, but he was not placated.

  I didn’t want any trouble, and Master Blount was glaring at me, so I said that I had a lucky potion and I showed him the little flask Jen had given me. I explained it was a gift and I could not help the fact that it was so efficacious.

  Next morning, he appeared and pressed a fat purse into my hand. He and his comrades had clubbed together. I stared at the silver, dumbfounded. I could scarcely believe that they had found so much without recourse to theft, but be that as it may, I could not leave their silver. I kept it and passed over my small pewter pot of water. At least they hadn’t realised I was using shaved dice.

  It was a relief to reach Woodstock at last and escape dull-witted churls like them. Or so I thought.

  DAY ONE

  I have no fond memories of Woodstock.

  Dilapidated, odorous, damp, and suffused with a chill that ate into the bones, it was a depressing pile of semi-rotted timbers and cold stone, grey as a winter’s day before snow. Some said the atmosphere was caused by the marshes all about. Personally, I think that malignant spirits infested the place. I was not to be disabused of that notion.

  The first intimation I had of its danger to me was in a quiet chamber off the hall on the first day of arriving there.

  I recall that room very clearly: dark, dingy, ill-lit, small, with stairs climbing to the next floor immediately on the right. A door to the left, outlined by daylight, led to the outer courtyard, while a second, behind the staircase, gave into an inner passageway. I had been passing my time in the company of Sal, Kitty and Meg, three delightful maids who were clearing the rushes in the hall. Joking and trying my luck with them, I was startled to hear a loud clattering noise and came out to seek the source. I had thought a clumsy servant had dropped the jug of wine and cups I had demanded, and was preparing to laugh at his foolishness. Instead I found myself tumbling over a large obstruction, and fell swearing to the stone flags into what felt like a slippery pool of oil.

  When you are knocked to all fours in the relative darkness of a gloomy chamber, it can be confusing. My knees were badly scraped and bruised, and my right hand had fallen with full force on to a pebble that jabbed painfully at my palm. I remained there some moments, jarred, my lips pursed as a pulse of anguish stabbed at my hand like a burn, unable to take in my surroundings. I was still there on my knees when I heard the first scream. Turning, I was confronted by the sight of a maid in the doorway with her mouth wide. It was Sal, and she was staring down beyond me. Something in her expression made me follow the direction of her glance.

  I stood hurriedly, gaping. I had not expected to find this. I backed away, until the handrail of the stairs prodded me in the back. Shortly afterwards, the finely honed blade of a long ballock knife tickled my Adam’s apple, pushing me against it harder.

  There was, I am sure, a man holding the knife, but at the time my eyes were fixed on the steel rather than his eyes. The cold prick of the tip at my throat was most compelling.

  I was, you might say, in a difficult position at that moment. It was not only the man before me and the knife in his hand. There was also the matter of the body lying on the floor at my side.

  That body was unsettling.

  It was the body of a woman in her early thirties, with glorious auburn hair that flowed unrestrained over the floor, much as did the blood from the wound in her throat. More precisely, it was Lady Margery Throcklehampton, the woman whom I had been instructed to murder.

  Events like these colour a man’s views. No, I do not like Woodstock.

  The man before me looked more like an assassin than me, I have to say.

  He was shorter and had a wall eye. A scar reached from his chin to up over his left ear, pulling the left side of his mouth into a sardonic grin. I didn’t like the look it gave him, but then again, with his knifepoint all but puncturing my gizzard, I was not likely to think of him as a glorious example of manhood.

  ‘I know this looks bad,’ I said. His knifepoint pressed harder.

  ‘Guards!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Shite! Wait!’ I said, trying to keep my throat still while I desperately sought for something to say. I shot a look towards the doorway, but Sal had fled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This wasn’t me!’ I said, and held up my hands to show my innocence.

  His eyes fell to my palms and his face hardened. When I glanced down, I saw that they were covered in gore.

  ‘Piss on you!’ he snapped, and from that I took it that he wasn’t interested in any delaying tactics I might attempt.Yes, my hands were smothered in it. When I fell, it was into a pool of her blood. I had a fleeting moment of relief when I saw that none had splashed on my new jack, before the horror of the situation overwhelmed me.

  It was apparent that One-Eye and I were unlikely to fall into a comradely discussion about the body and speculate as to who the killer may be. He, for his part, seemed pretty convinced he knew who it was. Rather than meet his accusing glare, I looked down at her.

  She was lying on her back with her throat cut. Blood had splashed over the walls and on the floor, and lay like a heavy apron down the front of her expensive gown. When I looked at her, I saw what looked like expensive rubies glittering at her breast in the light from a dingy window. Now I realize that they were clots of blood. The thought made me shiver. There were marks at her throat as well, paler lines in the foulness, and I wondered whether she tried to grasp the knife. They looked like fingermarks in the blood, as though someone had grabbed at her flesh. But that thought was soon washed away by feelings of confusion and nausea.

  It was plain enough that while I was standing and staring at her, my wall-eyed friend had walked into the chamber. He took in the scene in one glance and came to the immediate (and wrong) conclusion that I must be responsible. I should not condemn him; the sight was enough to unman me. However, I do have a strong streak of vindictiveness in me, and his assumption of my guilt was hurtful. I resented it, and him.

  Never mind all that. I could feel the blood trickling from where his blade had pinked me, running down my neck to the little pocket above my collar bone. If he pressed a little harder, it would puncture my spine, I was sure.

&
nbsp; ‘Please,’ I began, hoping to persuade my companion to remove his dagger from my throat, and as I did so, I saw a shadow. A figure detached itself from behind the stairs, stepped up stealthily and, even as the clamour of rushing armour clattered towards us from passages and through the hall, I saw a club strike my captor on the side of his head. His one good eye glared at me, and I suddenly realized that he was about to collapse. I squeaked while I could, thinking that at any time my throat would be seriously stabbed, and jerked an arm up to knock his blade away. Even as his expression took on a mildly bemused air, his eye rolled up into his brow, and he slowly toppled like a great oak reluctantly yielding to the axe.

  I was preparing to throw up when her voice came to me, insistent and imperative.

  ‘Come with me! At once!’

  I have had my fair share of adventures in the last few months. What with hiding from Thomas Falkes after he learned about his wife visiting me, and only weeks before that the murderous period of the rebellion, when everyone seemed determined to kill me, I’ve had more than enough excitement for the next ten years. Seeing a matron before me with a stout club in her hand and fire in her eye, I was tempted for a moment to remain where I was. Only a moment, yes, because the sound of approaching guards was growing closer.

  She whirled about and fled, and I followed her, rushing over my captor (I kicked his cods from pure viciousness as I passed) and in through the door behind the stairs. She latched it, propping a besom against it when I was past, and then she led me along a passageway, through another chamber, up some stairs in a circular tower, and out along a roof, not pausing to catch her breath until we had entered another tower and I could fall to my knees like a supplicant.