Do We Not Bleed

by Patricia Finney

  Enys was still fully dressed. He crossed to the window of the main chamber which looked out directly over the courtyard giving onto their staircase. Gathered at the entrance was a dark clot of men in cloaks.

  "God damn it to hell!" swore Enys. "Er... sorry, Father."

  "Perhaps I should give myself up," said Felix, his tongue so dry and leathery he could hardly say anything at all. "There's nowhere to hide and you would be..."

  "No," said Enys, "I told you, I've a plan. Besides you'll take me down with you."

  Felix had seldom been more shocked and horrified in his life when Enys explained the idea to him.

  "It's against the Bible," he said, "Deuteronomy says it's an abomination - "a woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a woman's garment..."

  "I know. In the same chapter 22, it says "You shall not wear a mingled stuff, wool and linen together," said Enys, "I checked. So does that mean we should execute the weavers?"

  "But... but won't your sister mind?" Felix spluttered, desperately.

  "She'll understand," said Enys with a grim smile as he pulled the woman's stays down over Felix's shoulders and started lacing them as tight as they would go. Two wadded cloths went under his shirt at the strategic points. "It's a good thing you're not big-built."

  "But if they find me like this..."

  "We'll all have something to laugh about in the Tower," said the lawyer, tying on the bumroll and engulfing Felix in a farthingale and then what seemed like a ton of petticoats. Felix tried to rearrange himself with the flounces of linen over the strange wicker cage hinging from his hips. He had not really had the chance to find out what women had under their kirtles, for all his fevered imaginings at weak moments.

  Enys had already taken his discarded doublet, hose, stockings and boots and tucked them under a blanket in a box by the bed. The sword he stuck out the window and pushed into the thatch of the next house. Now he advanced on Felix with an incredible amount of lined woollen cloth into which he had Felix dive, still sputtering about the shame of being discovered.

  "Help me move the truckle again," snapped Enys, "And stop moaning."

  Furious and red with shame, Felix tried to follow him and tripped on the heavy skirts. Enys steadied him, took a falling band from the stand and put it round his neck and then tied a neat widow's cap over his hair.

  "Sit down here," said Enys, "My sister often acts as my clerk. Do you have a good Italic hand?"

  "Yes."

  "Try and copy it like that," Enys pushed some sheets of paper at him. Felix squinted at the writing which was small and neat and even more wild in spelling than most women's writing. Then he realised that it was in a combination of Norman French and Latin as was normal for legal papers.

  "Here," grunted Enys, dropping a velvet face mask on the desk, "My sister is well known to be very shy about her pocky face – put the mask on immediately the door opens. If they see your stubbled chin the game will either be up or my sister's reputation will be utterly ruined."

  Felix blinked at him and realised that Enys thought this was funny, which made him even hotter with embarrassment and anger.

  And then the madman went and unlocked the door, even lifted the bar across it. For a moment Felix wanted to protest but then he found he couldn't speak. The leathery dryness had gone all the way down his throat and he couldn't even swallow. Somewhere inside himself he was beseeching God that if he had to be caught and martyred, could it please not happen while he was dressed as a woman?

  Enys lit a good wax candle and a rushlight. He left the candle on a shelf so that the pale light would fall on the paper but leave Felix in shadow.

  Then Enys cleared his throat and began to dictate something about a case to be heard before Judge Whitehead in Westminster Hall.

  Felix bent his head and began to write, watching his hand shake and waver and then firm as he tried to copy the small Italic of the rest of the page.

  There were feet on the stairs, quite quiet considering they were wearing hob-nailed boots. Enys clasped his hands behind his back and said in slow measured tones,

  "In the matter of Land Sergeant Henry Dodd versus Sir Thomas Heneage, quondam Vice Chancellorius de Regina nostra in coram de banco reginae..."

  Felix pressed too hard and split the nib, fumbled for another pen. Enys reached over and put one in his hand, brought up the inkpot. Felix took a deep shuddering breath, dipped and wrote, struggling to write as small and neat as Mrs Morgan. His hands seemed a long way away from him and he tried to stop them trembling. For some reason he thought of the long hours he had spent face downward in front of the altar before his ordination, promising God everything. He prayed again wordlessly as Enys continued to dictate and he struggled not to blot the villainous lawyer's Latin.

  Enys's voice was steady and quiet, he paced as if he really was writing an opinion or perhaps a pleading, Felix wasn't sure which. His ears were under his respectable starched cap, he stretched them to hear what was happening on the landing. A quiet muttering in the darkness and then...

  Bang! Bang! "Open up in the name of the Queen!"

  There was a scant second's pause and then the crash of a battering ram. Enys went to the door, waited a second and opened it at the exact moment when the battering ram swung at the door again.

  The man wielding it stumbled over the threshold and landed on his face next to Felix's borrowed skirts. Something like a hysterical shriek escaped him, then he grabbed up the velvet mask and put it over his face, found the button to hold in his teeth. He shrank back as if he truly were a woman, that was the thought of an amused and objective part of him.

  Enys had grabbed his sword from the hook and drawn.

  "Help!" he shouted, "Murder! Robbery! Fire!"

  That got a response. Felix could hear answering shouts from the couple who lived one floor down and a banging on the wall from the next door neighbours.

  In the centre of the gang of men on the threshold stood Topcliffe with his mouth open.

  "We are in the service of her Majesty the Queen!" he bellowed, "You've got a God-damned Jesuit hiding in there."

  Enys was standing between Topcliffe and Felix with his sword en garde before him. At least his blade was well-oiled and sharp and he looked steady and as if he knew what to do with it. Felix couldn't see properly because of the small eyeholes of the mask and he didn't dare move at all to peer past Enys' back.

  "How dare you sir!" shouted the lawyer, "I am a loyal Protestant subject of her Majesty and I go to St Bride's church as often as my work allows. My good lord and master, my lord Baron Hunsdon, Lord Chamberlain and cousin to the Queen, he will hear about this outrage!"

  Topcliffe stalked over the threshold.

  "Your warrant, sir?" demanded Enys, moving to keep his sword between Topcliffe and Felix.

  "I don't need a warrant," sneered Topcliffe, "I work directly for Her Majesty."

  "So you say, sir," said Enys, "Where is your proof? You could be a Jesuit priest yourself for all I know."

  Topcliffe fairly snarled at him.

  "I'll call you out for that insult."

  "Certainly, sir, where and when shall we meet?" snapped Enys.

  Felix put his hands in his lap because they were shaking so badly. He concentrated on breathing through his teeth and not dropping the mask.

  Somebody pulled on Topcliffe's sleeve and Felix saw that it was a smallish well-dressed man with a sour tight-lipped face. He whispered in Topcliffe's ear urgently.

  Enys obviously knew him for he tilted his head at the man.

  "Mr Catlin, what brings you here?"

  "A mistake, I believe, Mr Enys," said Catlin,"My apologies Mrs Morgan," he added with a little bow and then spoke again at length in Topcliffe's ear.

  Topcliffe scowled at Enys. "You are working for Mr Recorder Fleetwood in the matter of the murdered whores?"

  "I am," said Enys, "I think he would hardly employ me if I were a papist. And I have sworn on the Bible my allegi
ance to Her Majesty and to the Church in England before I could be called to the Bar. Why in God's name would I risk mine and my sister's lives to hide some fool of a Papist Mass-monger?"

  Topcliffe spat. "What's there?" he demanded, pointing at the other door.

  "My bedchamber."

  "Share it with your sister, do you?" said Topcliffe, with an unmistakeable leer. Enys stepped towards him. Two henchmen moved in. Felix tensed for the fight.

  It was Catlin who opened the bedchamber door. Topcliffe stalked to the fourposter, drew the curtains and found the cat with his back arched, spitting and slashing at him with a pawful of blades. He yelped and stepped back and there was blood on his hand. He drew and threw his dagger at the cat, but missed and had to pull the blade out of the headboard. Nobody laughed. The cat contented itself with swearing down at him from the top of the tester. Topcliffe looked under the bed, in the chest and ostentatiously tapped his way round the walls.

  He came out of the bedchamber again. "I can smell Papists here," he hissed. "Are you going to challenge me then, boy?"

  Felix could just see a crowd of neighbours, some holding candles, peering in from the darkness of the landing. He couldn't make them out at all and prayed they couldn't see him properly either. Enys and Topcliffe were nose to nose: Topcliffe had his dagger in his hand and Enys's sword was still out.

  "You are an old man," said Enys quietly but loud enough to be heard by the crowd on the landing, "Above sixty years of age by what I hear, and a well-known letcher, fornicator and forcer of virgins. Why would I soil my honour and dirty my sword by challenging such as you?"

  Topcliffe's old face under its thatch of black hair whitened and his lips lost all colour as well. His dagger twitched.

  "I would however welcome a chance to kill you in self-defence, especially with plenty of witnesses," Enys added. Topcliffe's eyes moved slightly and took in the audience, a couple of whom seemed to be quietly laying bets.

  He walked out the door after deliberately tipping the inkpot over what Felix had written as he passed the desk. The people parted for him and his men.

  "Thank you for your intervention, Mr Catlin," said Enys, and Catlin nodded in response as he shut the door. Catlin's voice could be heard on the landing, saying that they would now search the next chamber down.

  Enys locked the door, listened carefully to the noises of Topcliffe's men barging into the set of chambers just below his. He then finally sheathed his sword again, hung it back up on the peg. He sagged down onto the chest and put his head in his hands.

  "Jesus," he said in a shaking voice, "Jesus Christ."

  He looked up at Felix and his eyes were bright with slightly hysterical laughter.

  "Lord, you make a terrible woman," he commented, "Thank God I could keep Topcliffe's mind on me."

  "I fear you've made an enemy of him," said Felix in a whisper. He was dripping with sweat under all the cloth he was wearing and the stays were so tight under the bodice that he couldn't breathe, in fact he thought he might black out and caught the edge of the desk to steady himself.

  "Use your stomach to breathe," said Enys, then shook his head and laughed again.

  Felix was embarassed. "I must look very comical..." he said stiffly.

  "You do, Father," said Enys, "But then the whole situation is hilarious. And I would probably have crossed Topcliffe sooner or later anyway. The man is vileness incarnate and I seem to have a knack for making powerful enemies."

  "Do you think it would be against my honour to fight Topcliffe?" Felix asked a moment later, once he had taken a gulp of the cup of aqua vitae Enys had passed him.

  "I never even thought of honour that way before," Enys said, swallowing, "But, yes, I think it would. A fight should be between equals, not a foul old man and a young strong man."

  Felix nodded. He had a point.

  "Anyway, aren't priests forbidden to shed blood?" Enys asked, "Isn't that why they used to carry a mace on Crusade?"

  Felix felt the fire running down his throat relight something in him and found he could smile back. "A technicality," he said, "I'm sure I can get an indulgence to cover that. Anyway, I'm a very inadequate priest."

  "I must ask you to go before sunrise," Enys said, "My sister will be back and I wouldn't want to worry her with this whole matter. Also I have hired a boy to help her with something today who I know works as a spy for Mr Catlin."

  "But what about the searchers?"

  Enys went to the door and opened it again, listened carefully. There was no one on the landing and he peered down the stairwell. A sound of crashing and angry argument came from the first floor chambers.

  "You know," he said, "I think they're busy. If you go now and are quick on your feet, I don't think they'll catch you."

  "What about the window in the bedchamber?"

  "Well, I wouldn't try it especially not in the dark."

  It took another twenty minutes for Felix to change back into his proper clothes and find his sword in the thatch.

  "God bless you, Mr Enys," he said formally to the lawyer who was looking sadly at the ink-blotted papers on his desk, "If there is anything I can do for you..?"

  "Yes, you can get out of London, your sister won't be here any more. Topcliffe will have moved her away from wagging tongues," said Enys.

  "I thank you from the bottom of..." He gripped Enys's hand.

  "It was not your priesthood," said Enys, "Only that I honour a man that will understand his sister to be innocent in such a terrible case. I hope you find her."

  He peered down the stairwell again and then beckoned to Felix. Heart in his mouth, throat dry again, Felix started down the stairs two at a time.

  "Walk," hissed Enys, "If anybody says anything, say that you're due in court at eight o'clock and need to get to Westminster."

  Felix slowed. The stairs seemed to go on forever, surely there could not be another flight. There was a man on the first floor landing, and Felix tensed to go past him, but then just as he came down the stairs the man was called into the set of chambers to help with lifting a chest.

  He went past, head down, convinced they could hear his heart. At the arched entrance he paused and looked about. The courtyard had four horses standing there and a lad sitting leaning against a tree, clearly supposed to look after them but actually fast asleep.

  Just for a second Felix thought of stealing one, but then thought better of it. He carried on, through the court, up through the little alleyway that led onto Fleet Street and turned right towards the City. He was at Ludgate when he suddenly found himself laughing under his breath like a boy. It was true. When you thought about it the whole thing had been very funny and a good story to tell later, though perhaps not to Fr Persons. And it showed God was not yet ready to make him a martyr, for which he was extremely grateful.

  As dawn broke over the smoky thatched rooves of London, Peter the Hedgehog climbed the rickety stairs to the top of the old building in the Earl of Essex his court. That pocky lawyer had come along to the Cock and paid the landlord for his services for a couple of hours to serve his sister while he went to court this morning. Peter was a bit worried about it because he didn’t like working for women; it’s true they boxed your ears less often, but then sometimes they were offended about something and didn’t tell you about it until they were so offended you couldn’t calm them down. He went despite his worries in case there was a tip or food.

  There was a whole bunch of men with pursuivant written all over them and that Mr Catlin among them too, just climbing into saddles ready to ride away. A very angry well-stomached man in a fur-trimmed dressing gown was shouting that Mr Topcliffe would be hearing from him again through the courts. Peter hung back to watch the show; Topcliffe said, "Put your writs up your arse, sir," and kicked his horse to a canter, followed by all the others. Mr Catlin hadn't noticed Peter and looked worried which was nice to see.

  As soon as the coast was properly clear, Peter climbed up all the stairs. Everybody was up, some people wer
e in their dressing gowns and some others were dressed and they were all shouting and raging and banging doors as if there'd just been an attack of robbers, which in a sense, Peter supposed, there had been if Topcliffe had raided them. He crept past them doing his best not to be noticed in case they thought he was a hookman.

  When he knocked on the door at the top and went in he found Mrs Morgan putting things away in a chest. She turned with a squawk and picked up a velvet face mask like they wore at Court masques and held it over her face.

  He’d seen much worse than that in the dear old gaol. And her brother's face was worse than that, definitely.

  The woman fastened the mask’s ties behind her head, put her beaver hat on and said to him in a kind enough voice, “You must be Peter. I want you to come with me and carry my shopping.”

  Peter nodded, his heart sinking. He hated going shopping. Never mind. She might buy him a sweetmeat or even a pie. Things were definitely getting better, he reminded himself, thanks to that funny balding young player. He actually had food every day now from the leftovers at the Cock, but still... Why did women do so much shopping? Even his sister had insisted on going down to the Bridge on good days so she could gawp and sigh at the bright cloths and silks and the hats in the windows there. They usually got chased away by burly apprentices – so what was the point? Peter and Mary had as much chance of buying something from one of the merchants on the Bridge as the Bridge had of breaking away from its starlings and walking out into the ocean like a sea monster.

  “Yes we will,” Mary had said when he’d protested about this, “One day, when you’re a rich lawyer, yes we will.”

  A pie’s a pie, he told himself. Mind, he’d never eat another orangeado after the last one but a pie... With gravy?

  Mrs Morgan locked the door behind her, gave him the basket to carry and went down the stairs, swishing her skirts and he scurried after her. She stopped to commiserate with a flushed angry woman on the first floor about the wickedness of Topcliffe searching respectable peoples' chambers. Why couldn't he do it to Papists, that was what he was for? Mrs Morgan agreed and tutted and finally got away down into the courtyard.