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

by Patricia Finney

  ‘As would I, although I am but a woman.’

  ‘Would you, madam? And yet you are a part of the plot.’

  ‘I have nothing to do with…’

  ‘Oh indeed, you are but a simple foolish woman, that only attends Mass secretly said by Jesuits – yes, madam, I know that most of them truly have no dealings in treason overt – and who but gives shelter to her poor brother, lately returned from Spain, with the intention of killing the Queen.’

  Agnes had stiffened, her expression cold. ‘I am right to fear your kindness,’ she said. ‘What makes you so sure that it is my brother you must seek.’

  ‘The Papal Indulgence your husband found for me in a place you thought we would not find.’

  ‘The Papal…. May I see it?’

  Simon hesitated. ‘It is being examined, but I believe you may. And then perhaps you would enlighten me, madam. You have spoken to me most eloquently of the Almighty and His infinite goodness: how then can you accept this – to bind Him with paper and kill with dispensation?’ She said nothing. Simon sighed. ‘In the meantime, I have here a report of your husband’s dealings with Adam Strangways, which he has signed upon each page. I pray you Mrs Fant, read it and consider of it carefully. ’

  Wordlessly, Agnes took the papers. Simon stood, made his bow. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I pray you again, think on this land ruled by Spaniards. ’

  ‘I had not thought you would put a woman with child upon the rack. ’ Agnes said thoughtfully, ‘but that was before I knew there could be a rack made with words.’

  ‘If I knew a better way to find your brother, I would use it. ’

  ‘He, however, could not plead his belly to the rack.’

  Simon left her then and the door was locked behind him.

  XL

  Upon the Saturday, Becket paid a visit to the Nunez house in Poor Jewry, bearing a letter that had taken him hours and many attempts to compose, for all its brevity. The house was quiet and reverend for the Sabbath and while he waited for an answer to his knock, he wondered at a strange sight he saw at the window.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked the pretty fair-haired piece who came at last. She blinked at it.

  ‘Why, it is a candle with a pot over it and a hole made in the pot.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Becket patiently, ‘but what is it for?’

  ‘How should I know?’ said the girl. ‘I am no Marrano. What did you want? None of them will come.’

  ‘No need,’ said Becket, ‘only give Mr Simon Ames this letter when he can receive it. And…he smiled winningly, his foot wedged in the door, *…tell me your name and how I may serve one so fair.’

  ‘Hmf.’ said the girl, snatching the letter, stamping on his toe and slamming the door shut a half-inch from his nose.

  That same evening, and unwitnessed by Becket who was bargaining with Sweetbush Julia at the Cock on Fleet Street, a small man that looked to be a successful merchant of the Staple or a sergeant-at-law, rode smiling and talking merrily to Seething Lane. He rode a handsome chestnut gelding, well-caparisoned, but to a country eye must have seemed strange in that he was clearly of quality and yet had no attendants riding about him or walking at his stirrup. To see a wealthy man with none around him, entirely alone, might have made such a homespun- clad farmer stretch his eyes indeed. A Londoner might have noticed that the lane was overfull of beggars and large servingmen, whereas Becket or Henderson or Mr Recorder Fleetwood would of a certainty have questioned why Turling the hedge-picker and Hogg of Smithfield both found it essential to be in Seething Lane that day. Not to mention Cur-face Mitchell, Long Jack, Enderby, Pratt the Clown and a dozen others.

  ‘Enough men and we could sweep London bare of footpads, coneycat- chers and filches,’ said Ramme with a gesture at the window. ‘But Becket, alas sir, is not there.’

  Walsingham nodded once, watching through his window as Laurence Pickering dismounted.

  ‘I had not expected him.’

  ‘Hiding at the Widow Fumey’s no doubt.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Shall I have him taken?’ Ramme was over-eager and cooled at Walsingham’s glance. ‘Only I like not his dealings with Mr Ames.’

  ‘Do you not?’ said Walsingham. ‘I like them well enough. I shall receive Mr Pickering in the library.’

  The King of London was conducted by a pageboy and smiled cheerily at Ramme as he went past.

  Within stood Sir Francis, engrossed in reading a book. Pickering waited the space of five seconds to be noticed and then grinned, bustled forwards and laid a bundle of papers on the table.

  ‘There sir,’ said Pickering. ‘In earnest of my good faith.’

  Walsingham closed the book, replaced it and took up the papers, leafing through in silence.

  ‘It is no concern to me if a man gambles,’ he said at last.

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ said Pickering happily. ‘A very restful and pleasant pastime for those who have the means.’

  ‘Quite so. And it seems that these notes of debt are not made out to you, Mr Pickering.’

  ‘No, I rarely accept notes for any game. I prefer to deal in wholesome gold or bankers’ drafts. But not all are as scrupulous, sir. Mr Tyrrel took these from Sir Edward Stafford, as you see.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have it on excellent authority that a Senor Mendoza paid them.’

  ‘Can you prove this?’

  ‘These notes sir, were stolen from Snr Mendoza’s office. Alas they must go back…’

  Like a ray of sunlight striking through an overcast sky, Walsingham’s face caught fire with delight and was transformed.

  ‘Mr Pickering, I am astounded. I will tell you plain, I would gladly have given all my fortune to place a man at Mendoza’s side this past year, but I have never achieved it. Can you at least tell me your means?’ Pickering was rocking back and forth on his toes. ‘Yes sir,’ he said affably. ‘To you I will gladly tell it. Of what station were your men…’

  ‘Clerks, secretaries, manservants. One was found in the Thames.’ Pickering shook his head. ‘Shocking.’

  ‘And your man?’

  ‘Who sees the nightsoilwoman?’ said Pickering. ‘And where may she not go?’

  ‘Has she any other…’

  ‘Alas, she cannot read, only she knew what these were from the shape of the writing and brought them to me in case they were of value to her. ‘

  ‘Can she put them back?’

  ‘I shall have her carry them in on the morrow well-covered with shit and have her say they fell in the pot.’

  Walsingham said nothing for a while as he examined the papers, and noted the amounts in a ledger. Pickering smiled again, plumped up and down on his heels and surveyed the room admiringly.

  ‘A magnificent sight, your honour,’ he said at last. ‘So many books, so much learning. A man who had read all these books, he must be wise indeed. ’

  ‘I rarely have time to read for pleasure.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it, sir. With your many duties…’

  ‘Shall we come to business, Mr Pickering?’

  ‘With pleasure sir.’

  ‘I am indebted to you, twice over now. I am in hopes that my debt to you may increase. For instance know you aught of one called Adam Strangways or another by name David Becket?’

  Pickering shook his head sadly. ‘I have been seeking Strangways, but have found him not. Becket I know well but have seen him neither. No matter, I shall continue the search.’

  ‘And?’

  Pickering waved an arm expansively. ‘Sir,’ he orated, ‘I am by no means a poor man and nor am I in want of power. What little I have done in your assistance is done for pure love for the Queen, God bless her, although I can never…’

  ‘And, Mr Pickering?’

  ‘Well then, sir, if you are hot to repay me, which I take very kindly, sir, then simply your smile shall weigh against gold in the balance.’

  ‘And my blindness, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes sir. Y
our countenance, your goodwill. And as you say, your blindness. On occasion.’

  ‘Upon what manner of occasion?’

  Pickering rubbed the end of his nose with his forefinger.

  ‘Surely it is a very wicked thing for an Englishman to sell Sir Edward’s notes to a stinking Spaniard?’

  ‘Very wicked.’

  ‘And it seems that Andrew Tyrrel did so.’

  ‘So it seems. Mr Tyrrel is no friend of yours then?’

  Pickering laughed. ‘No sir, no more than is King Philip a friend of her most Gracious Majesty the Queen.’

  ‘Do you compare yourself to her?’ Walsingham’s voice was suddenly cold.

  Pickering opened his bright button eyes wide. ‘Why sir, that would be rank rebellion and treason. I have heard Tyrrel do so, but I myself… I am Her Majesty’s most humble and loyal subject…’

  ‘Then it is untrue that men call you the King of London. ‘

  ‘Over-zealous servants and followers, sir, I check them for it when I catch them. And to be sure, I can be no King whilst another claims the title with the help of money from Spain.’

  ‘We have but one Prince in this land.’

  ‘And very right and proper too, no realm can be at ease when it has two Princes in it. And if any call me King be sure it is from ignorance and foolishness…’

  ‘Which may lead to misunderstanding,’ said Sir Francis with emphasis. Pickering coughed slightly.

  ‘There will be no more of it, your honour.’

  Sir Francis nodded and poured two silver goblets of sack. He handed one to Pickering, and sipped his own at once.

  ‘This sack is over-dry for my taste, Mr Pickering, you may prefer your own drink.’

  Pickering’s eyes gleamed and he drank half the contents of his goblet in a gulp. ‘Why it seems very fine to me, sir,’ he said. ‘In fact, I have never tasted better. You do me too much honour, sir.’

  ‘Do I?’ asked Sir Francis. ‘Concerning Mr Tyrrel. I will have his papers. Your good health and fortune, Mr Pickering.’

  XLI

  We were begging by Temple Bar while the Sunday morning crowds passed by to their churches, to be instructed of the benefits of caritas, and love for their neighbour. I was not working the begging law too hard, for I know better than to beg of holy folk that know themselves to be of the elect: catch them when they can feel a few seeds of doubt niggling them like wild barley in their hose, and then will they make attempt to bribe their way into Heaven. Little Ralph was studying of a ballad sheet that praised the Fair Eliza and was regarding the frosty glass sky that seemed so empty and fearful, when I saw Gabriel come swaggering out of Chancery Lane and into Fleet Street, with the two boys his closest henchmen at his shoulder. They were glancing about themselves and fiddling with their daggers to seem more manly.

  Gabriel marched up close, his chin lifted.

  ‘Have you taught him the begging law?’ he demanded of me, waving at Ralph.

  ‘He is not apt to learn it.’ I said, ‘It comes ill to his nature.’

  ‘I heard you do well enough.’

  ‘Ay,’ I sighed. ‘What is it Gabriel? Must I tithe him to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Gabriel, ‘I will have him myself.’

  ‘Why? What for? He was never brought up to this life, he would be the hangman’s firmest friend if you tried to teach him the cutting of purses.’

  Gabriel put his hand on my stomach and pushed me backwards to the stone of the Bar until the carving pressed my spine.

  ‘There is one will pay me money for him,’ he said quietly, ‘and I found him, so I keep him.’

  ‘Money for what?’

  Gabriel spat sideways. ‘For his old trade.’ He leered up at me.

  ‘You know he was some rich man’s catamite?’

  ‘God’s Blood, Tom, what else could he be with that face and hair? There’s one that will pay me double for his being silent. ’ And he grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Has he done nothing for you then, to pay for all your care of him? Eh?’

  Fire and hard-eyed vengeful angels rose up from my belly, and I laid his cheek open to the bone with my fist. And then hands held me from behind and small fists beat a drumbeat on my ribs and belly until I must keel over for want of breath, and be kicked. In the distance I dimly heard Gabriel shouting, ‘Don’t kill him, lads, it’s bad luck to kill a lunatic, only teach him.’ And then further in the distance, a sorrowful tongueless cry as my boy Ralph was stolen from me.

  Sometimes angels are merciful, even Tom can be merciful, carrying me away from the pains of my body and the pains of my mind. Indeed, I have found pains of my body at times almost a blessing for they release the star-daemon trapped in my soul to walk about where he wills, leaving Tom to gibber below. In the dung and dirt of the alley where they left me, Tom lay broken and weeping, bleeding from Gabriel’s knife where he cut me judiciously upon the cheek in payment for his wound, bleeding in my heart also for my poor Ralph who now knew he sinned. Perhaps it would have been better had I not taught him God’s law, but then an angel stood beside Tom and berated me, saying a sin forced upon one who wills it not, is also no sin. This differs from what the Divines speak of it, but I think God is more merciful and gentler than most of his party upon the Earth. But then I am only poor mad Tom and know nothing, and indeed, if God is merciful, wherefore do the innocent ever suffer worse than the guilty?

  XLII

  And here was Becket, beard trimmed, clean shirted, his doublet and buff jerkin brushed and sponged, his boots clean and polished, his sword clean and oiled as always, and a new hat upon his head, sitting glowering into his beer in the Gatehouse common room. He had gone with Eliza Fumey to St Dunstan’s, and heard a sermon of inordinate length upon the vexed and vital subject of the old argument between homousion or humoiusion, or some such, only one word in three of which he had understood. He had eaten his way stoically through the Gatehouse’s Sunday ordinary of beef, roast on a spit and bedded on bread sippets, and peas and turnips and a sallet of elderly winter herbs, and a bag pudding with currants and a hard sauce of sack and butter and felt bloated and at peace, as to body.

  In his mind he had eaten the meal before his hanging and made it as good as he could find. When Simon Ames entered and peered about him, he sighed with relief for he could never abide waiting.

  He noted without surprise that three large hard-faced men entered with Simon, one remaining by the door, and that the other two went severally to stand by the entrance to the kitchen and the window on the street. Goodwife Alys dropped her hand to a veney stick she kept by the aqua vitae keg and watched through narrowed eyes. Becket from long habit and intent was sitting with his back wedged in a comer on the far side of the room. He awaited Simon, who wove nervously through the crowd of eaters and stood before him.

  Becket planted his legs and rose. Before Simon could produce whatever warrant he had sworn, Becket said, ‘I wish to speak with Mrs Agnes Fant who is presently your prisoner, sir.’ Her clapped his hand to the buckle of his swordbelt, ready to do the thing properly, but Ames forestalled him.

  ‘Keep your weapon, sir. You are not under arrest. I shall take you to Mrs Fant forthwith.’

  They threaded past the Fleet Street dunghill and turned down Crocker’s Lane, through the dark passage beyond the entrance to Noon Alley, down Temple Lane and round about the cloister and so to the Whitefriars Steps where Simon had a boat waiting.

  To traverse the river west to east is no easy matter with all the traffic going north to south to the Sunday afternoon bear-baiting, and then they must circle on foot about the Bridge and take another boat at Fish Wharf before rounding the forest of ships about Billingsgate and so into the Tower by the Water Gate. It was a beautiful day, a day made of adamant with all sounds striking through the air like daggers. On such a day even the stench of London must give place to the sourness of frost on the air and above the Bridge, each halt to the water had made for itself a ruff of dirty ice. There were mudlarks wading about in
the mud by the quays and a flurry from some German ship guards when they found that a boy had got aboard their cog and was throwing cargo off to his waiting friends.

  ‘Think you we shall have an ice fair this winter?’ Simon asked, dabbing gently at his red nose. Becket shrugged and he gave up the attempt at conversation.

  At the Tower, filled with Sunday silence, so that the ravens could be heard arguing upon the midden, Ramme and Mrs Fant’s appointed Yeoman were awaiting the boat. Ramme looked askance at Simon when he saw Becket still had his sword, but Simon and Becket both ignored him and so he said nothing.

  ‘Shall all this rabble be present when I speak to Mrs Fant?’ asked Becket without bothering to lower his voice as they passed between high walls to the Wakefield Tower.

  ‘I shall be a witness since one there must be. The others may wait without.’

  ‘You have spoken already to Anthony Fant?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No doubt it was a very ill tale.’

  ‘I would rather term it sorrowful.’

  ‘Hmf.’

  ‘Speaking of Strangways, there can be no doubt that he is the assassin now. We have found his Papal Indulgence that makes him free and clear to murder the Queen.’

  Becket said nothing for a while and then, ‘Have you told her I am coming?’

  ‘No.’

  When the door opened they found Agnes Fant and Mrs Nisbet finish-

  ing their own meal. To Simon with his nerves stretched out to breaking point, Mrs Fant’s flush almost tingled in his own cheeks.

  ‘God in Heaven,’ she said slowly as she rose to stare at Becket. Catherine Nisbet crossed herself. ‘Is it David?’

  Becket bowed to her and she returned the courtesy.

  ‘I think there is more of you than when we last met,’ she said with a gleam in her eyes that surprised Simon, as did Becket’s laugh.

  ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘And of you I think, madam.’

  ‘So to speak, ’ said Agnes merrily, giving him her hand which he kissed very loverlike. ‘Must we stand like courtiers or may we be seated, think you?’