[David Becket and Simon Ames 01] - Firedrake's Eye

by Patricia Finney

  While he waited, Becket looked at the hangings that were painted with the marriage of Cana, and Penelope weaving at her loom. She had always been a cleanly whore and now she was a respectable widow. Her rooms sparkled like a Dutch woman’s, not a single rush upon the floor older than a week and well scented with meadowsweet and lady’s bed- straw from Simple Neddy’s garden.

  He had been sorry when he returned from the Netherlands and found she had long married out of her trade and had two babes that lived. He was sorrier still when he at last persuaded her back to his own bed and found the scars and marks of a stick no thicker than her husband’s thumb on her haunches.

  The husband was found dead in an alley a month afterwards.

  Now Eliza was a widow of substance that most of the hedge-pickers in London resorted to when they had a good haul of someone else’s washing, and she instructed them in the better kind of linen to pick. Becket liked her even more as a sturdy widow than he had as a plump businesslike whore, but she saw no sense in putting herself under the marriage yoke again, even for so good and kind a friend as Becket. Considering how hot and lusty all women are by nature, which is a well-attested fact according to all good authorities, it is strange how many of them bloom in widowhood when they have no man to guide and protect them.

  ‘Marry me,’ he said nonetheless when she came back and held up his doublet for him to put on. She laughed, shook her head. ‘I am not so ill a match, even drunk. I could turn respectable…’

  ‘If I wanted a respectable man I could marry half a dozen that want their little fingers into my pie of silver. Did I tell you that Mr Custance asked me after church a few Sundays ago.’

  ‘But he…’

  ‘Ay, once upon a time he was a-dipping of his wick unwed and no lacking of enthusiasm. He was the one that cast down and broke the little crucifix that Molly gave me from Blackfriars. He said it was idolatry and wickedness.’

  ‘What did you say to him of the marriage?’

  ‘I told him I could never wed a man well-known by all to lust after whores and left him to wonder how I knew.’

  ‘But did he not recognise you?’

  ‘How should he, with no view of my gear?’ She laughed at Becket’s puzzled expression. ‘Why, David, sweeting, one thing that made me take a liking to you in the old days was that you look upon my face every now and then…’

  Becket kissed her and would have spoiled all her work at making him neat but she cuffed him with intent this time and slid out of his grip.

  ‘When will you go to Pickering?’ she asked.

  Becket shrugged. ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘Why sit about waiting on it?’

  ‘His price may be high to help you.’

  ‘Ho doubt of it.’

  ‘If he ask you to do it, will you kill for him?’

  ‘Why not? I have for lesser men.’

  ‘That was in war.’

  ‘So? The men were dead.’

  Becket would have no more of the conversation and she brushed him down and stood to look at her handiwork and smiled on him as if he were indeed her husband.

  ‘Go to,’ she said. ‘I think you were wise to fear Laurence the King. I hear he has hardened.’

  ‘I do fear him,’ said Becket reasonably. ‘There is no shame in fearing one who might break every bone in my body on a whim and then fail to kill me. I would fear the Queen herself no less.’

  XXVIII

  From Blackfriars Simon Ames made his way by Water Lane down to the river to find a boat, which Mall did for him at that late hour, being possessed of a kind of sixth sense for the watermen. Once at Seething Lane, Simon made for his chamber and called upon his manservant to attend him.

  ‘Why would he ask the date?’ Simon asked of no one in particular, forgetting that his man was lighting the fire.

  ‘Who sir?’

  ‘Ah… a man in the Tower.’

  ‘Hm. Throgmorton.’

  ‘It is supposed still to be secret. What is that racket?’

  ‘A page being beaten for running away. Well it is, sir, none of us would dare let on to an outsider.’

  ‘Well then, Throgmorton. Why did he ask the date?’

  ‘To know what it was, sir? Phew. Sleep too close to the fire, did you, sir?’

  ‘What…. Oh the smell. I had forgotten. So long between sunrise and sunset, I sometimes…. Yes, there was a fire, but no harm done, to me at least.’

  ‘Thanks be to God.’

  ‘Indeed. If you cannot take the smell out of them, I suppose you had best give them away…. No, leave me the book and the candle, I am not sleepy yet.’

  The servant waited outside the door until he heard the quiet muttering of prayers cease and Simon’s reedy snoring, then crept back within to out the light and draw the bed curtains.

  Meanwhile Becket was out in the black night of London, still coughing now and then from the catching of smoke from the fire jostling in his lungs. He went carefully, slipping from alley to alley and keeping a curved path as it were drunk, but in truth full of choppings and changings to see if any followed him. By theory there is curfew in the City through the night, and by theory it is impossible to enter or leave once the gates are shut. In practice there is the broad highway of the Thames striking through the centre and besides that a man need only walk a little northwards of Ludgate into the rookery of Amen Comer and duck down an alleyway, to find broken and stolen places in the old wall which would scarcely stand a siege of well-armed rabbits and fieldmice.

  Yet there is still a slight fault to the City in that the Watch walks about it, and the absence of many folk on the streets makes it hard for the evil to mingle among any but their own kind. Laurence the King himself lives in the suburbs, in a good tall house, with his wife and children and two manservants and a cook and a tiring woman for his wife. He holds court in a number of places, each day different, and does his business now from this warehouse in the Vintry, now from that yard in East Cheap, and bases much of his power upon the convenable fact that his own sister is wife to the London hangman.

  Becket headed north through Old Bailey, Gifford Street and Pie Comer, to where the ruffians shout and fight in Smithfield on the grass. There he asked at the Cock alehouse whether Pickering had a game open that night.

  At last he found a man he knew to be of Laurence the King’s faction while he was hiding from one of Tyrrel’s party. He made a petition for an audience that night.

  A little later two men stopped him as he passed again down Long Lane.

  ‘Mr Becket,’ said one, ‘the King wishes us to bring you to him.’

  Now mark you the trust in Laurence the King’s name, for Becket instantly allowed the two to take from him his sword and dagger and even the little knife in its sheath at the back of his neck. It is because all London rogues know that the man who takes the King’s name in vain must expect a death no less bloody than the man who does as lightly with her Majesty the Queen’s name, and so is good order and governance maintained in any realm.

  They brought him to a fair large house in the Strand, and at the end of the upper room by a good fire of coals, his pipe in his hand, sat Laurence Pickering, the King of London. For those who have never seen him, he is a small plain-looking man, with a round bullet-head, his clothes as rich and dark as a Cheapside goldsmith’s, and happy small eyes set deep and brightly gleaming in his head.

  Becket uncovered his head and made his bow, which tickled the man’s vanity. He had Becket sit beside him (a little closer to the fire and upon a lower stool than Becket would have liked) and ordered him to be brought a pipe and a silver tankard of best Canary, and so did him honour.

  There were pleasantries to be exchanged, as must be the case at any audience, politesse and courteoisie marking out the Prince from the common herd as well as the swords of his soldiers and the nobility of his blood (which Laurence the King hath also, coming of a very ancient family of thieves and murderers).

  Behind them in the room velvet and samite crowded on sl
ashed leather and dark brocade as men fought politely over the dice and cards, with Lady Luck as their hoped-for champion. There were rush-mats on the floor so that no dice could hide there and no covers on the polished oak tables, and men of experience as artists with weighted ivory and marked cards watching all. The stakes were gold. In this, the best game in London, Laurence Pickering the King makes guarantee that there is no coneycatching, no thieving, no footpadding of winners and no cheating. Which brings in the Court gallants and their oozing honeypot purses in plenty, and forms a pillar of Laurence’s estate. He will even grant credit to some, at a price would make Simon’s cousin Senhor Gomes the pawnbroker stretch his eyes, and he levies a tenth penny on all winnings as the price of honesty and safety.

  Becket had been there before and had no fear of the wearers of embroidered silk or cunningly tufted velvet. He sat square on his little stool, overlapping the edges on all four sides and causing it to creak sadly, his broad hands on his knees.

  ‘Someone in London is attempting to kill a friend and patron of mine, a Mr Simon Ames, Sir Francis Walsingham’s man. I know not what their quarrel is with him, but it seems they have included me in it. This morning we were burned out of my lodgings and I… I take exception. ’ Laurence inclined his head and puffed on his long pipe. Becket counted off the other attempts upon his fingers, but omitted the detail of the rat.

  ‘What do you want of me?’ asked the King, affably.

  This is one that pays others to do his killing, in Spanish gold or French gold, we know not which. At least, he must be a foreigner and against the common weal. Let me hear of it when he next hires men, or the next time someone is paid.’

  ‘Does Mr Ames know you have come to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what will you do for me in return?’

  Becket spread his hands. ‘A favour sir, whatever is within my power and not against my honour. I am a poor Provost of Defence, without even a school, not a penny of capital beyond my sword and my best buckler which is still in pawn. Alas for me, I cannot…’

  ‘Spare me,’ smiled Laurence. ‘I have always had a liking to you David, and was sorry when you left me before. But I think this service you ask of me is more to the benefit of your friend than yourself, and so it were justice if he were to…carry the debt.’

  Becket looked worried. Laurence leaned forwards and tapped his knee. ‘No very great burden, believe me, David. Here, I will lay it out for you and you may put it to him and so decide. And in earnest of my good faith, I will enquire a little for you, whatever his decision. ’

  Becket waited while Pickering tapped out his pipe into the fire. ‘Have no fear, all I ask is an audience with Mr Ames’ master.’

  ‘With Walsingham?’ Becket asked, astonished.

  ‘With Mr Secretary Walsingham, yes.’

  ‘But…’ Becket’s mouth was round to form the question ‘Why?’ when he thought better of it and swallowed it. ‘Of course. I shall ask him as soon as I may.’

  ‘No. Wait a little. Put it to him when he is feeling grateful. You will know the time. Now, if you have need of money this night, David, you may stand guard for me here as you used to.’

  Becket made a little open-handed gesture of thanks, and when his own pipe and Canary were finished, he took his place among those who prevent the uninvited from entering the game and inspect those who enter for sinful dice.

  Which was a bad night, in truth, for Becket. The riddle for a man such as he, who made no fortune out of war in Flanders, is not how to come into Laurence the King’s employ, but to get out of it without a halter about his neck and a tilting ladder at his feet. A thing he earnestly wished to do and had tried to do, but was now thwarted. The audience with the King was in the nature of a defeat, and both knew it.

  XXIX

  For Throgmorton the day had been far worse. While Becket snored in Eliza Fumey’s bed and I spent my strength on vain prophecy and warning, Throgmorton was haled out of Little Ease and hustled into the basement of the White Tower among the barrels and the broken pikes and the pairless greaves. There, in a comer under an arch hung with armour, they married him to the Duke of Exeter’s daughter and stretched him a little while Mr Rackmaster Norton hectored and questioned and Simon Ames, in his part as Judas, made pretence at being his friend. Simon had estimated the man to be made of a baser metal than he proved in the end, for he spoke nothing but the word Jesus no matter what the cruelty of the rack.

  In the end Mr Norton gave up the business as a bad job and Ames had Throgmorton carried to a cell with a dry floor and good deep straw upon it in the Lanthom Tower. Then he brought him a tincture of poppies and held his head up to help him drink.

  ‘If you will give me a little word or two,’ he whispered, tempting like Satan in the poor man’s ear. ‘Something or nothing that seems like something, I may prevent the next racking.’

  But even this counterfeit softness got nowhere for in truth Throg' morton was too far gone to hear him, and so Simon left him. When he came outside Fienderson asked what had disagreed with him, and got a very foul and cold stare for his kindness.

  Simon went to a little room within the hardly used Coldharbour building that he had begged of the Records Clerks. He wrote his report by candlelight for the greyness of the day, his borrowed spectacles further oppressing his nose and making his gritty eyes water. He imparted his reflections upon Throgmorton’s determination, which was unexpected. He thought, perhaps, the man was waiting for something. He also recommended there be no more racking for a goodly while, or he thought Throgmorton’s joints might burst and so he might die of the bleeding. Which was a kind of kindliness.

  XXX

  If the City of London be likened unto a man, and its heart is, in the figure, the great Church of St Paul’s, then is the heart of London full rotten. St Paul’s squirms with as many thieves and money-changers as ever fouled the Temple of Jerusalem which Our Lord scoured of the same with a rope’s end. Who has a new cloak that cost ten villages or a doublet that cost forty must run unto St Paul’s and walk up and down and round about, past the food stalls and the stationers’ stalls, and the men in search of work by the serving man’s pillar. Those who have spent all their lands to get fine clothes may likewise walk about and at dinnertime continue and listen to their bellies rumble by Duke Humphrey’s tomb.

  I myself flew through the nave, borne upon angels’ arms, speaking to the faces carved upon the roof bosses and the still whole saints in niches too high for Reformers to reach.

  Tom capered below and got some pennies for amusing of a Queen’s favourite with an argument that it was possible to weigh tobacco smoke. Becket was there, standing with his thumbs in his belt by a headless statue, his heavy lids half-shut to watch the eye-curdling parade of red and green and buttercup and violet. He smiled to see me dancing about the thin bars of sunlight from the holes in the roof and splashing the puddles among the stone flags and brasses on the floor. The rain comes in at the place where the spire was before God struck it with His bolt. At the time the preachers ranted that this was a manifest sign of His anger at a woman presuming to be Governor of the Church; even the bishops were a little concerned. Now it is only as it has always been, and the temporary roof they put up after the lightning become older than many of the new flowers of the field that flaunt their vanity below.

  I was making good money with my larking but when I saw three of the churchwardens foregather with their staffs, pointing narrow-eyed at me, I bowed, scooping up my earnings and trotted out into the churchyard among the awnings and booths of the booksellers and stationers. There I saw the small pockmarked ballad singer that killed Peterkin and left him to rot in a ditch. He was taking up a new load of songs, with Tom O’Bedlam still among them but ousted from his pre-eminence among the sheets, and that place taken by A New Song of the Hatter’s Daughter from Islington. As the balladmonger left the churchyard and began to sing, a ragged boy and a man left at the same time, one before, one behind, and nothing to show
any connection.

  I think it was no angel that pulled me eastwards, away from mine own haunts, to Old Change in the City. It was a house I knew well and had watched often from cover and loved well for those that dwelled there. No wits high pointed roof and fair diamond windows and the worn grimy elephant above the door lay under the shadow of Cain, or Lucifer, the pink of its bull’s blood wash become an ugly pale clot on its walls. This I could forgive my brother least of all: that being come into England in a matter of treason, he should take shelter with our sister.

  It happened as I came through the gateway that led from St Paul’s Ground into Old Change, I saw the boy I had marked before, in his livery of blue and swans upon his linen, running in at the kitchen gate, and I followed him which I had never done before. Tom was now settled firm and immovable in his madness so I could not resist. I had no wish for Agnes to see me in such a state, yet I squatted by the kitchen door where he went in, and shook my head at the boy when he came out again.

  ‘Here is sadness, here is harm,’ I whispered to him. ‘Speak not to Lucifer, for he will up and eat your soul if he can.’

  The boy stopped and stared at me, long lashes fringing his intense blue eyes.

  ‘Here is poor Tom of Fleet Street that speaks with angels, come to warn you of Lucifer, and keep away. ’

  He shook his head, slipped past me though I made no attempt to catch him, and trotted on down Maidenhead Lane. A stone hit my shoulder and I turned to see my aunt, Catherine Nisbet, upon the kitchen threshold with her hands upon her hips and her face full of anger.

  Her mouth was shaped to shout at me, but she stopped, full of doubt at the ghostly familiarity of my face.

  ‘Now then Aunt Catherine,’ I said peacably enough. ‘My duty to you. Is my sister within?’

  Her pale watery eyes bulged and her face turned as white as her ruff. There was a gargle in her throat, which the singing of angels hid from my ears, since it was my old name that must be kept from demons.