She stopped, white faced, staring into the silvered mirror before her. “Lord have mercy indeed,” she murmured, “or I shall know that the church is a cheat, whether it is the king or the Pope at the head of it.”
“Madam, the Lord will save him.”
“With my help,” said Jemima. “Now, I need the warmest cloak, the thickest gown, a winter chemise, well lined gloves, my riding boots, and a muff. Everything else must be packed into the saddle bags.”
But there was something else which she did not order packed for her. This required some searching, and some time. Nor did she wish to be seen too closely, nor followed. Richard had told her where and how her father’s gold coins would be hidden, but some of it remained too secreted to be found. But the locked box, now holding only a small and lightweight handful of wealth, was quickly taken and stuffed amongst her clothes in one parcel. The gold she had carried herself beneath her gown, she still had. One other full purse, which Richard had placed between the two mattresses on her own bed, she was able to snatch up. Everything else, she left.
The guide and guards who had accompanied them to Wiltshire had already been paid off, and had returned home to Dover. Now Jemima needed replacements and they were quickly found.
“Madam,” bowed the steward, “it grows late, and you should not be on the road when night falls. It may be dangerous. Master Richard would order me, were he here, to ensure your safety, my lady.”
“I wish he could order anything he likes,” Jemima sighed. “But I dare not delay. Time is urgent, Every moment he spends in gaol will be another terrible moment. Will he be taken to Newgate? To the Tower?”
“We accept our master as the lord he should rightly be, my lady. But his majesty will not do so, I cannot tell where he may be taken, but it is customary, I believe, to confine only the nobility in the Tower itself.”
She stared at her toes, biting her lip, trying not to cry. “I will find him. And I will get him released from whatever hell hole they’ve put him in. But I need to leave quickly. At once. It will be days and days before we can arrive, whatever the weather”
It was an hour later that a small retinue left the great estate in Wiltshire, heading north east towards the far distant clamour of the Capital City. It had stopped raining but a heavy haze lay over the wet land and the pastures were boggy, the roads puddled and the country paths streaming with a chilly slush. Gradually the shadows spread from long mist into total darkness and Jemima was forced to stop at the next wayside inn. It would, she knew, be a long journey. Unaccustomed to ordering her own passage, she had never before reserved a chamber for herself in a hostelry, and was as yet unacquainted with her guards. But as the journey rolled onwards, all these problems passed, Mistress Jemima Thripp became thoroughly experienced in all such matters. Exhausted each night and her back and legs aching from the endless ride, she slept better than she had expected, kept awake neither by the strangeness nor the loneliness, the occasional storms not by the terror, the worry, nor even the discomfort of cold and lumpy beds, or the fear of thieves. When she cried, which was often, she cried through her dreams and did not wake. She ate well, drank well, and slept well. But she could not make the road shorter.
The miles crawled by and the days slunk, one by one, into weary disillusion. None of this weakened her resolve. Richard’s face, high cheekbones and golden streaked eyes, remained hovering in her mind with a tentative smile and a yearning tuck at the corner of his mouth.
Jemima slept in many inns and lost count of time but when she saw tall buildings shadowed against her horizon, the guide, riding a little ahead of her, turned, saying, “Mistress, tis Southwark ahead. One more chilly night and we shall be in London.”
“Thank the good Lord,” Jemima whispered. “And now, at last, I can achieve something.”
It was April and the sun was shining. Along the riverbank the primroses peeped golden from the dust and soggy grass, the first daisies winked like little white and yellow butterflies at the scudding clouds above, the cobbles were no longer rimed and were only wet from spring showers, and the blossom was a fluff of prettiness on the little bent hedges. The river traffic was busy with shouts from the wherrymen and calls from passengers waiting impatiently on the wharf side, the clank and splash of oars, and the complaints of housewives, waiting too long in the wind.
A group of frightened lambs were bleating for their mothers, brought in for sale at the market, and the ravens were sitting in the newly budding birches, watching for something to scavenge below.
Everything leapt with new hope for Jemima and now she directed her own guide, hurrying first to the Strand, and her father’s house. They trotted across the Bridge from Southwark and followed Lower Thames Street westwards towards the Ludgate, and through the gate over the Fleet and onwards to Westminster. Half canter, half gallop, any rider carrying a message should have arrived days since, and she assumed her father would be aware of the situation, and perhaps even expecting her.
He was, and Jemima, toppling from her horse and collapsing from exhaustion, discovered herself in her father’s short muscled arms.
The captain kissed her cheek, and she remembered the hard passion of Richard’s kiss, and began to cry. “Silly miss,” objected Edward Thripp. “New doublet. Making it damned wet.”
Although the day was warming and the sun gleamed through the narrow windows, the fire was lit large across the hearth, and the captain led his daughter to the cushions already strewn there, and as she sat, he called for Katherine. The embrace from her nurse was more copious than that from her father, and there were no complaints about damp shoulders.
“Oh, my dearest,” sniffed Katherine. “Tell me, tell me, and I shall hold your hand through every wondrous detail. You have been living an adventure worthy of King Arthur and Guinevere, or the great green giant. And after you’ve told us everything, then tell us how we may help.”
“You received my letters?” asked Jemima.
Katherine nodded. “Indeed we did, my love, my own, which I have kept secret, and that for your Papa, and even that for the horrid Cuthbert. He no longer lives here, of course, but he visits often to complain and demand his claims. He calls them his ‘rights’ but they are not right at all. They are quite wrong. But he was honoured to be included in your secrets, and has offered to help.”
“He has a dishonest solicitor,” Jemima mumbled. “The one who made false papers to say this house was all his when we thought Papa was dead. So I decided that a dishonest solicitor might be just what I need.”
Her nurse smiled faintly. “A dishonest solicitor to join your dishonest father and several dishonest women you once called step-mothers. All fair enough, since your letter clearly states that the accusations against Richard Wolfdon are absolutely dishonest.” Katherine was now holding Jemima’s hand very firmly while Captain Thripp called for wine, for the dinner to be hastened, for special dishes to be prepared, a bedchamber warmed and made ready, his daughter’s baggage to be unpacked and hung in her room, and the guide and guards to be settled comfortably above the stables and given ale and fresh bread.
Feet running once more, a bustle and a scurry, while perfumes of roast beef floated like clouds of steam from the kitchens. Jemima paused, then whispered, “Have you asked? Do you know? Where is he?”
It was her father who came to her side. He was bright, scrubbed, shaved and well dressed, unlike the last time she had seen him. He was also smiling.
“Since your letter arrived, my girl, I’ve not been idle. Young Richard Wolfdon is confined to the Tower, and is not yet permitted visitors. I tried, and believe me, I shouted for an hour. No good. Your friend under strict orders, is being questioned, and that means no interruptions. But I’ve sent in an official complaint.”
“To the king?”
“Well, no,” admitted the captain. “To the Constable of the Tower. And he’ll never see it anyway, but I did my best.”
“The Tower.” Jemima sank back, leaning against Katherine’s should
er. “How terrible. How wicked. Do you know,” she stared up at her father again, “what he is accused of?”
Edward Thripp stared back and was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. “They say treason. But what is treason? They won’t talk. They won’t explain. I don’t know, my dear. I don’t understand. None of us do.”
“When I left here all that time ago,” Jemima whispered, “I was frightened for you. I thought you might be arrested. I imagined you hanging downriver, on the scaffold, waiting for high tide. I imagined the worst. But,” and she closed her eyes, “I never, ever imagined the same thing happening to Richard.”
“Well, it won’t,” said her father with a shrug. “Not going to be hung as a pirate, is he? Stands to reason. He’ll be hung, drawn and quartered for treason.”
Jemima opened her eyes with a snap. “Papa, if you’re going to be – ”
He interrupted her, “Small question, my’dear. Not wishing to spoil the drama of course. But the money box? Your letter said it was found. Well locked of course so you’ll not know what’s in it. But did you happen to bring it with you? A little heavy, I imagine – but maybe a horse and litter - ?”
“Richard opened it. He’s good at things like that. I expect you are too. It was very, very full of gold and very, very heavy. I won’t tell Cuthbert.”
The captain heaved a sigh of utter contentment, and sat in a hurry. The cushions flattened. “And you managed to bring it?”
“About half of it,” Jemima admitted. “The rest is left in Richard’s house in Wiltshire. But half of a fortune is still a lot of money.”
The captain’s smile spread like the high tide itself. “Now, there’s a good girl. I shall give you some of it to keep for yourself.” The grin kept spreading. “And naturally, it will also serve well for a little quiet bribery.”
“Starting with the guards at the Tower,” Jemima said at once. “I must see Richard.”
“Supper first,” nodded her father with benign contentment. “A good few cups of wine. And the gold, of course, whatever you’ve brought, passed carefully into my patiently waiting hands. Finally a warm bed. Up tomorrow morning. And then we shall be busy, my girl. Oh yes, you’ll see just what busy means when your Papa gets his boots on.”
She slept in a bed without lumps, without damp feathers, with two fluffy pillows and a thick welter of blankets. And Jemima slept. She thought she heard the clink of gold coins slipping through her father’s fingers as he counted, gloated, and counted again. But that might have been her imagination.
Waking late to the scent of hot new-baked bread and spiced hippocras, she stretched, yawned, sat up and gazed at Katherine, who was sitting watching her from the end of the bed.
“How is it,” she wondered aloud, “that during this most terrible time of misery and injustice, I manage to feel so rested and happy back in my old home.”
“Humph,” said Katherine. “That won’t last, my dearest, once you and your dear Papa get to arguing, the guards at the Tower refuse to be bribed, the Constable tries to throw you out, his majesty refuses to see you and threatens you with gaol yourself, and young Cuthbert turns up to tell you how it is all your own fault.”
Jemima smiled again, but reluctantly, into the shadows of the new day. “The guards at the Tower will adore being bribed,” she said. “But everything else is certainly true. I won’t think about that. I’m going to keep on and on and be utterly determined until I have my wonderful Richard back, holding me within the circle of his arms again.”
“Then hurry, and I’ll help you dress,” Katherine said. “Breakfast first, and then we should be off to Holborn.”
“Holborn, yes.” Jemima looked at her naked toes, curling into the silk weave of the rug. “I want to see Alba. She always knows what to do and she’ll comfort me, and help with ideas and practicalities too.”
The birds were singing once more, and the echoing thrill of the blackbird welcomed the dawn with its pale rosey dazzle. Jemima hurried into the warmth of her winter chemise and woollen stockings, but her mind was on the creeping chill of the Tower dungeons, and of Richard waking to the new day without warmth, without birdsong, and perhaps even without hope.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Moisture oozed through the lime washed plaster, dripping into small puddles along the edges of the stone floor. A seeping chill permeated.
It was a well-furnished cell, but a single cell none the less, and not one of the grander chambers where the titled nobility had been housed before their executions. Sir Thomas More had been kept in two comfortable rooms, each well furnished, and complete with his own servants. But he had been beheaded none the less.
Richard stood beside the single unglazed window, watching the sun sink before the rooftops, and the stone walls of the Tower’s western wing, its last faded crimson disappearing into the sullen sludge of the moat. Even when darkness fell, swallowing the gloom of twilight, he remained standing there, staring out at the stars and blinking into their diamond sparkle.
There was, after all, nothing else to watch.
A brazier in the far corner brought some warmth to that wall, but it did not heat the chamber, small as it was. It left a smattering of light, so that Richard saw the drip, drip of the damp and the grime beneath his own unwashed fingernails. They would bring a bowl of water in the morning, but washing had not been one of the comforts permitted until the questioning had been completed.
The questioning had produced no results either for Richard himself, nor for the crown’s inquisitors. The swings and turns of interrogation had confused Richard, but he was not confused by the charges brought against him. He understood exactly what had happened for conspiracy and falsehood had long been his study when compiling information at trials, helping his friend Thomas, or studying for his own interest. He knew the court. He knew Staines had discovered his identity as regards the business of Captain Thripp, and so had accused him of anything and everything. Meanwhile the king wanted rid of his wife. Someone, presumably Thomas Cromwell, the genius of conspiracies, had entwined the two causes and Richard had been neatly packaged between them.
He hoped, although had no proof of it, that Thomas was working behind the scenes. He also retained some hope of his innocence finally being accepted, and of his accusers being disbelieved. This was no conviction, but the absurdity of his committing such a treason might possibly be acknowledged by those with some small intelligence. Richard knew, without conceit, that his own intelligence considerably exceeded that of Lord Staines, and also that of the king. He doubted, however, that it exceeded that of Thomas Cromwell.
It seemed simply a trifle ironic that fate might now decide to end his days at precisely the moment he discovered his days were worth living. He wanted to live, knew why, and would fight for it. Fighting the king was always entirely pointless. But fighting Lord Staines might be diverting, and produce the results he required.
Richard sighed. It was all a game, not unlike chess, the unpredictable throwing of dice, or the shuffling of the tarot cards. There was no need for desperation when games were the time-stealers. He shrugged, unwilling to ponder without result, and, although somewhat earlier than his usual choice, went willingly to his bed. With warm covers and a deep mattress, it was not a bad bed, and he drew the brazier closer, climbed beneath the blankets semi-dressed, pulled the eiderdown to his chin, and quickly fell asleep. He did not dream. He refused to do so.
The guards came for him shortly after daybreak on the following morning. It was the third day of questioning and Richard was tired of repetitions. He sat before the table, rested his elbows on the old unpolished wood, and sighed. Having woken abruptly, he was not entirely patient.
“Do you imagine,” he said with deliberation, “that any man of any or no standing, would be capable of seducing a queen while watched by a continuous multitude of her ladies-in-waiting, her minstrels, her advisors, her pages, her cleaning maids and her other constant companions? Her majesty has probably never spent one moment a
lone since her marriage, Both day and night, whatever she does is witnessed and she has neither privacy nor any opportunity for secrets. Any indiscretions, unlikely or impossible as they are, would be seen by many, some of whom would immediately carry gossip to the king’s spies.”
“Perhaps they did, sir.” The large man, square shouldered and red nosed, stared from across the table. “Perhaps, if it be fair obvious to point out, sir, that is precisely what done happened. You’re here, sir, having bin seen at the wickedness what went on.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed the prisoner without pause. “Not only would no man of sanity do such a dangerous thing in the presence of others, but I know full well who has accused me. Lord Staines has his own problems, and one of them is me. His accusations against me are designed to simplify his own life.” The inquisitor leaned back with a humph. The condensation which streamed the walls of Richard’s single cell, was here a flood. The concentrated chill, without window, was a dark and gloomy pit of shadows. The draught, as cold as the drip drip of the water, slipped down the back of Richard’s neck. But he was not yet tired, nor had he lost hope.
The other man leaned forwards. “Lord Staines ain’t got nothing to do with it, nor that gentleman’s problems don’t interest me. Tis your own falsehoods that we need to talk on, and that’s till you admit your guilt, sir, be it all day, all night, and all week besides.”
“Then,” sighed Richard, “I shall fall asleep where I sit. I have always accepted life as a tedious interlude between more interesting journeys. This place, and you in particular, are the bottom pit within the dregs of tedium.”
“You ever witnessed a hanging, sir?” answered the gaoler with faint irritation. “Taken from the gaol to the place of hanging, be it Tyburn or another, chained to the barrow what bumps through the dirt and piss along the street, with the prisoner half nekkid and bare arsed in just his shirt, and his feet all a’muck with the shit off the road. Then he’s dragged up the steps to the rope, head stuffed in the noose, and pushed off the ladder to swing. Does a few kicks and turns, he does, with the wind up his shirt,” the inquisitor was now smiling, “with his ankles banging against the drop afore he’s cut down again and laid there on the boards. And there, sir, is the tedium of life, as you calls it. Mighty boring, no doubt, sir. First your shirt be hoisted up to the waist and the knife goes hard into your belly. Carves downwards, it does, then across and up, so all them slimy knotted innards come a’tumbling out. Wrenched free, they is, and a fire set to burn them in front of yer nose. A good strong smell it is. Shit, piss, and a good helping of whatever you ate supper, set a’flame.”
The Deception of Consequences Page 37
