The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Have you ever met the monster, my lord?”

  Lord Staines blinked those bright blue eyes, feigned shock, and shivered with noticeable but gleeful disgust. “The sins of the flesh, madam, are shocking to the innocent. I have indeed met the man himself. I believe he drowned earlier this year, so I assume well before his dastardly deeds were uncovered. But the Lord punishes, you know, and this villain has met a just end.”

  Jane Seymour blushed, staring down at her toes. It was already common gossip that the king had singled her out as his next mistress. Staines had no clear idea whether or not she had yet succumbed, but the king rarely accepted denials for long. Impatience now ruled where once he might have enjoyed the wait and chase. He had learned that lesson from his own wife.

  Mistress Jane, still blushing, murmured, “My lord, I know few other details. But it is the whispered buzz a’boil through the court.”

  “Apart from her being the next royal whore,” Lady Rochford sniggered, keeping some safe distance from both Jane Seymour and the queen.

  The following morning, being the day before Epiphany, the baron sauntered back towards the Strand Ward, and visited the chambers of the local constable who was warming his hands by the fire.

  “Only my own curiosity, naturally,” admitted the baron, shrugging as he accepted the proffered hippocras. The rising steam warmed his nose, and he smiled. “But I once had some slight acquaintance with Edward Thripp, you see. Not a man of consequence, but a trader, you know, and had dealings with some friends of mine. Shipwreck. Drowned at sea. But of course – now this. So I thought I would discover what had happened.”

  “Buried ‘em,” said the constable, with eyes politely lowered. “Poor souls. They needed the freedom to move on, after being trapped in Purgatory for so many years. Murder and mayhem indeed. Now they’ve had Christian burials, and can rest in peace.”

  “Wanted your back antechamber free for general use again, no doubt?” suggested the baron. “No more naked females cluttering up the place.”

  “Naked they were indeed, my lord. But no salacious pleasure, I assure your lordship. The bodies were all squashed up with the skin gone grey as twilight and wrinkled as a sausage left out in the snow for a week.”

  “Not a pleasant thought, sir. No need to describe anymore.” Staines turned, but stopped momentarily in the doorway. “And the crime has been accepted as the work of the homeowner, one Edward Thripp, I believe? Although the wretch himself is dead some months back?”

  The constable shook his head. “Indeed not, my lord. Without Edward Thripp to question, there’s no proof, and it seems there’s doubt in many quarters. Not being able to identify the young women, there’s no way to connect them to anyone in particular, and the crimes might date back before Master Thripp’s occupancy. That most wise gentleman Richard Wolfdon has taken an interest in the case, sir, and is investigating. As yet there’s no conclusion.”

  “Dickon the Bastard? What has it to do with him?”

  “I understand,” frowned the constable, “that his father once owned the same property, sir. And since Master Wolfdon is an advisor to his majesty himself, we have welcomed his involvement, and are honoured to have him investigate. Last I heard, he had some guesses as to identity of these poor dead creatures, but I’ve heard no more. Mastyer Wolfdon has not returned for days.” He sighed, spreading his hands. “But these were murders committed many years ago. We may never discover the truth.”

  “Master Wolfdon meets regularly with the sheriff to discuss the matter?”

  “Not recently, my lord.” The constable shook his head. “Master Wolfdon left the city some days before the height of the Christmas celebrations. Since I’m not personally in contact with the gentleman, I’ve no idea where he’s gone. To relatives, no doubt, for family festivities. When he returns, sir, shall I inform him of your interest?”

  “Certainly not,” snapped the baron, and left the antechamber, hurrying out into the late December winds.

  The court dazzled. Massive fires swept away the draughts. But outside in the streets the whistle of gales brought new flurries of snow, sudden storms, and a virulent freeze, turning the great River Thames to smooth ice so thick that children played, couples skated, the royal court congregated, and it was as simple to walk across from the northern bank to Southwark as it was to cross the Bridge.

  Most birds had long since fled to the warmer shores of Spain, Italy and Africa, but the ravens, kites and gulls stayed to scavenge, even though they could no longer fish the slopping waters, and even the rubbish in the gutters was now too solid to peck. But a kestrel still sat the turrets of the Tower, watching for opportunity, and robins sang in the bare twiggy trees along the river’s banks.

  Her majesty, awaiting the day when her lying-in would commence, made the most of Christmas revels, dancing, poetry and minstrel music. The brilliance of young Thomas Wyatt brightened her chambers. John Wainwright, Baron Staines, had also attempted poetry. The queen, large with child and therefore unable to fully enjoy her last celebrations for the next month and more, was now considerably less patient than she had contrived to be in the past.

  “Your poetry is trivial, sir.” She had already thrown her embroidery to the rug, and sat glaring at the fire. “Tell the pages to build up the logs. If those flames sink any lower, I shall lose my temper.”

  “Ah, indeed I shall, your majesty,” bowed the baron, “And as the winter chill breathes bleak upon the court, so warmth, and festive cheer is sought. To ease the snow which makes us shiver, the ice and rain to cause the quiver, so the lady most beautiful gazes most bountiful – ”

  “Oh do be quiet, sir,” sighed her majesty. “If I require verse, I shall send for Thomas Wyatt.”

  The baron stomped off to find a page, two steps backwards, and then a low bow before turning. He had only just set off across the Turkey rugs when a scream of rage turned him back in shock. Confused, he stepped on his own toes, stumbled, and found Lady Rochford at his elbow. She was smiling.

  “Never heard a screech of tantrum before, John? A pretty girl scorned for the simpering smug pretences of a plain one, that will always inspire a tantrum worthy of the name.” The lady barely troubled to lower her voice. “You’re not wed yet, John. So stay and watch and learn.”

  In return, Staines mumbled, half whispering, “Is the queen the pretty one, then?”

  “Prettier than Jane Seymour. I remember when men would say that once Mistress Anne Boleyn was in the room, no one would even notice another.”

  Across the chamber, her majesty stood facing the other girl, the glitter of a gold chain between her fingers. Anne stamped her foot and flung the chain. It twisted like a tiny serpent, then clattering to the tiles in a spin of golden light and a smashed locket. One of the queen’s fingers was bleeding, and she sucked it, soothing the sting. With her other hand, she pointed. “Get out,” she ordered. “Leave that thing here to be swept up with the other rubbish. Don’t come back.” Jane Seymour fled. Her cheeks were flushed and she kept her eyes down, rushing from the vast chamber and into the corridor beyond. The queen watched her go, then turned, catching her breath. “Sweep that thing up and out,” she said, speaking to no one in particular. “I am going to rest.” She pointed again. “You. You and you. Come with me. My back is aching. I have a headache. I need – consolation.”

  Lady Rochford, her majesty’s sister-in-law, had not been one of those chosen. She stood by the baron, smiling as if at a miracle play or a pageant like those recently paraded for Christmas. “Our beloved queen,” she said with obvious delight, “suffers from the pains of late pregnancy. No woman carries a child without suffering. The penalties of inheritance from Eve, they say. The priests were always pleased to put the blame on womankind for their own sufferings. Now the priests suffer. Do they still blame Eve, I wonder.”

  “I have no idea,” said the baron with dignity, “what all that was about. Scorn, you say. Jealousy? Yes, I’ve heard the gossip regarding Jane Seymour. But it’s her hu
sband a wife should blame, or herself for failing to attract him.”

  “Another priest at heart, I see,” said the lady. “But dear Jane deserved both the slap and the broken locket. The locket was a gift from the king, with his miniature painted within. It’s a gift he often gives, identical lockets and his portrait to show his admiration and win himself a new mistress. He must have a cupboard of replicas. Every mistress receives one. And yes, Anne knows the gossip. But Jane chose to show her pretty locket to every other woman in the room, surely knowing that the queen would see, and guess, and know herself supplanted by a younger and more accommodating woman. There was no need to shove the news – and the locket – in the scorned wife’s face. But that’s what Jane chose to do. A charming child, who likes to present herself as so sweet, so quiet, and so pure.” Lady Rochford sniggered. “The priests would have adored her.”

  “Does the king adore her?”

  “My dear sister,” the lady decided, “is increasingly petulant. No man wants a petulant wife and a king least of all. But she is petulant because he has been treating her badly for months. Indeed, a year. And that started because she is twice as intelligent as he is, and doesn’t try to hide it.”

  “Be careful.”

  The lady raised an eyebrow. “You’ll inform on me? But you, sir, are not as well placed and if you try to cause me trouble, you’ll be in more trouble yourself. My husband is our queen’s only brother. That, my dear sir, makes me beyond reproach.”

  Lord Staines straightened his back and stared down with a sniff at the small woman before him. “Female threats. Female jealousies. I shall seek out Wyatt. Far more congenial company, I believe. I have a verse for him to set to music.”

  But it was not Thomas Wyatt that Lord Staines marched off to find. Instead his horse was brought from the stables, and he rode immediately towards London, entering through the Ludgate and aiming directly for the small squashed building where Master Michael Macron owned and inhabited the two lower floors. He had business on his mind which would surely be far more likely to be profitable than putting his verses to melody, and the absurd idolatry of poetry was not of the remotest interest to him.

  “The idiot thinks himself subtle and believes that he keeps his secrets secret,” smiled Lady Rochford. “Instead, he is as discreet as Mistress Jane Seymour, and as well understood by everyone around, even though we all pretend otherwise.”

  The dark tousle headed young man was stretched on the cushioned settle beneath the window, regarding the deserted gardens outside, and their wind-blown gloom. When her majesty was absent, her courtiers were able to sit, stretch and gossip at will. It was a relief. Etiquette and the proper proprieties could be a strain. Thomas Wyatt yawned. “And I should care because?”

  The Viscountess sat before him, her hands neatly clasped in her lap. She was not, however, feeling docile. “Because you are speaking to me, Thomas. Because it is a rare pleasure to speak to someone with brains occasionally.”

  “Especially,” decided the young man, “if you have slander, vice, or simply gossip to spread.”

  “Naturally.”

  He laughed. “My father was a brave adventurer before the Scottish king locked him up for three wretched years in some vile Scottish dungeon. He told me he was put to the rack. King James was vengeful. But my father supported this king’s father, and was ransomed from his highland cell when that great king took the throne. Otherwise, had the previous King Richard won the battle and kept his throne, kept his crown and kept his title, I would be a penniless beggar wandering the moors with my lute under my arm. Instead it was our glorious Henry Tudor who rose to victory with the French. So,” and he was smiling, “I’m well aware of the part luck plays, my lady. Those are my heroes. The beauty of the English language, which I adore. The beauty of music in harmony, which I adore. And the blessings of luck, when that smiles my way.”

  “Which you adore.”

  “When luck adores me.”

  “Put this to music then,” advised the lady with the hint of a dimple. “Or are you afraid to listen, and risk the scandal tree which twines like ivy from branch to branch, and sets down roots in every space until it strangles its host? But if you’re brave enough, sir, then listen. Because I know a good deal about Lord Staines, and his secret business, and his dealings with the drowned criminal Edward Thripp.”

  “The one who murdered those three mistresses in the attic?” Thomas appeared disinterested. “I don’t write poetry based on scandal.”

  “One day,” decided Lady Rochford, “you may discover that scandal is more of an urgent necessity than poetry.”

  He yawned again. “Inform her majesty. Not me, madam. I’m careful never to be the butt of scandal and strife, and never will be.”

  The lady smiled into her lap. “Her majesty is usually the subject of the gossip. But for once, she is not. Shall I tell you about Mistress Jane Seymour and his majesty? Shall I tell you about Edward Thripp the pirate, and vile multiple murder? Or shall I tell you about Lord Staines and his own improper dealings, and how frightened he now is that his business will be discovered while Edward Thripp’s crimes are being investigated?”

  “I know nothing of this Edward Thripp you speak of, “Wyatt informed her, looking back towards the window. It was snowing and a white gossamer veil was hushing the land.

  “And if I were to tell you he is a secret supporter of Rome?”

  Wyatt scowled. “I dislike Staines, and I refuse to gossip regarding her majesty. You are far more attracted to such chatter than I am, my lady.”

  “Every palace in England would collapse, sir, if gossip faded from its corridors.” Lady Rochford shook her head, a little cross, and her pert turbaned headdress wobbled. “ The shadows whisper secrets. Shine the light into each hidden corner, and the whole court would cease to exist.”

  “Nonsense.” Wyatt stood suddenly, and turned to leave. He looked down briefly at the lady still sitting before him. “I’ve far better matters to attend to than scouring the sins of others who’ve done me no harm.”

  Lady Rochford sighed. “If your life was as utterly boring as my own, sir, you might change your mind.” She clasped her hands a little tighter and looked up past her companion to the soft patter of snow outside the window. The glass mullions had frosted and tiny ledges of white coated each frame. “Her majesty will soon, in a sennight or so, be confined to her chamber for the final month’s lying-in. I will spend a good deal of time at her side. Already I feel like a prisoner here, watched, confined, unable to spread my wings. I sympathise with your father, sir. I feel as he must have done chained in his wretched dungeon. Did he stare from his cell out into the Scottish winters, I wonder.”

  “No doubt he did, madam.” Wyatt frowned. “But you are no prisoner. You live in luxury.”

  “Comfort, yes. Not luxury, sir. For every move of every lady here is watched by every other. The queen cannot sigh or trip or smile without twenty women, ten pages, three guards and half a dozen others all noting it. We thrive on gossip. What else is there? We scheme for position and favour. Every lord at court does the same.”

  “More.”

  “Then don’t criticise me, sir,” said the lady and turned away. “Go write your pretty poetry where you can make life appear as innocent as sun in the apple blossom, even though the truth is as dark as a winter’s night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Sleepy Oyster Inn, long, low and windblown, overlooked the coast, although its windows looked carefully in the opposite direction, avoiding the tidal swells and the screeching of the gulls.

  But the innkeeper said, “There’s bin no one here of that ilk, sir.”

  It was the last possibility he had tried, and Richard Wolfdon was tired. His own wounds were mending but his hopes remained open and painful like unhealed injuries. “And no rumour of other matters?” he asked. “Shipwrecks, or men coming back alive from one?”

  “Well now,” admitted the man, scratching his chin, “wrecked and wreck
ers there were last winter and spring, but that’s well gone and I’ve not heard of one recent. But there were sommint a bit odd we heard tell about a few days ago, sir. But naught to do with ships nor oceans. Some lass left here in the night, and then t’were a mighty upheaval on land, and some folk killed.”

  “Exactly where?” Richard immediately demanded. “And exactly when? Most importantly, who was involved?”

  “Yonder,” said the innkeeper, frowning with vague insistence. “And a few days gone. But I can be right sure about the ‘what’, as it happens. For in this part o’ the country, there’s no man, woman nor child don’t know the crimes and battles o’ Red Babbington. T’was him and some other men done fought, and left a forest full of bodies.”

  “Are they buried? I need to identify them, Quick,” Richard said, leaning across the table where the innkeeper was listing his tallies. “This is urgent. Hurry.”

  ‘Not got no idea,” the innkeeper shook his head. “Best ask at the church. Where the steeple sticks up near the square,” and pointed.

  “Laid in a neat row at the edge of the cemetery outside the boundary,” the church warden later informed him. “Most of them we recognise, being sinners and brutes of the Babbington gang, and I’ll not have them lying afore the altar, not to be blessed nor cherished. Unfortunately, Red Babbington ain’t one of them. None is buried so far, since there’s none to pay. We be waiting for identities on some and families on them others. If there be neither wives nor sons come to claim them after two more days, then we toss the bones in a mass grave, dug out east on the slope. I’d swear none deserve a Christian burial, and there’s too many. They’d fill up the holy ground more merited by local respectable folk. There’s dying a’plenty without making room for briggands. ”

  The bodies were preserved by frost, stiff in the bitter cold. Their faces had twisted into snarls, mouths open. Their limbs appeared grotesque, eyes shut or staring, wounds gaping, blood frozen into blackened glue around their injuries. Thomas Dunn was not one of them. Nor was any of them female. Every man was a stranger to Richard. He stood there a moment, gazing down, and realised that he could breathe again after so many minutes unable to breathe at all.