His mother had loved the tune. He seldom played it now because it reminded him so sharply of her. She said that it had been composed by the queen’s father at the time he was wooing her mother, Anne Boleyn, who was resisting his advances. It was a more difficult tune to play than it sounded and Christopher had taken time to master it. He had thought that one day he would like to write lyrics for it.
A repeating bass formed the ground over which were played four chords with variations as the lutenist wished. The more skilled the player, the more variations there tended to be. The tune was known as ‘Greensleeves’.
He tuned the strings carefully, not wanting to break one and to have to replace it. He tried a few chords, adjusted two frets and started to play.
At first the fingers of his right hand were stiff and awkward and he had to stop and try again to find the divisions he wanted. Once started he was determined to play the tune as his mother had played it. For an hour he played it over and again until he was satisfied. If Leicester ever asked him to play again, this would be the tune.
He put the lute back in its case and hid it under the pile of shirts. Then he remembered that Gabriel Browne had had no difficulty in finding it there and took it up to his chamber. It fitted comfortably under his bed.
There was no food in the house but he had not the energy to go out. He went to sleep lulled by the melody of ‘Greensleeves’ repeating in his mind.
The storm began that night. Rain lashed the window and crashed like pebbles on to the roof. He lay awake and listened to it. Not a man or woman in London would be asleep. Water would be gushing down Ludgate Hill, sweeping away anything in its path and dumping it in heaps on corners and in doorways, where it would fester and rot until it ended up in the Fleet or the Thames.
When St Martin’s clock struck six to signal the end of the curfew the wind had abated but it was still raining. There was no point in rising. He needed food but there would not be an inn open at that hour. He lay on his back, just as he had often done with Katherine beside him, and let his mind wander. Heavy bags of coins with Wetherby, on their way to Leicester and Warwick, the riddle of the false testons and the slogans solved and Pryse in Newgate. But dear Isaac was dead, Simon Lovelace was dead and Joan Willys was still awaiting trial. As to Gabriel Browne, who could say? Where would he go – the Low Countries, Denmark? Somewhere far away from the reach of the Dudley family, to be sure.
By eight the rain had ceased. He rose and dressed and went in search of sustenance. He avoided the worst of the torrent pouring down the hill by keeping to the middle of the street. Urchins splashed about in the puddles while their mothers collected what they could in pails and pots, for fresh rainwater was cleaner even than that drawn from Clerk’s well.
He found what he needed in the Crossed Keys in the form of bread and beef washed down with a beaker of ale and steeled himself for Newgate. By the time he squelched his way through the great gates, his shoes were sodden.
The warden was in his room. ‘Dr Radcliff, good day to you, although I see you have had a wet time of it. And not such a good day for the prisoners. The cells on the common side have flooded.’
‘Can anything be done?’
‘Nothing but wait for the water to drain away. It will eventually. If you have come to inquire after Pryse, I am afraid you are too late. He was buried two days ago.’
‘How did he die?’
The warden coughed. ‘I have recorded his death as being caused by gaol fever. There have been cases and the flooding will bring more.’
Christopher raised an eyebrow. ‘Gaol fever. Not the result of his experience in the pressing room?’
‘No, no, doctor. Gaol fever to be sure.’
The warden was lying but Christopher felt no remorse. Pryse would have hanged and deserved to die. He had other concerns. ‘Is Joan Willys still here?’ he asked.
‘She is, on the master’s side. Do you wish to see her?’
‘If you please, warden. I shall not take long.’
The warden summoned a guard who escorted him to Joan’s cell.
She was wrapped in a thick shawl and perched on a stool, nibbling a piece of cheese. She jumped up when she saw Christopher, bobbed a curtsy and smiled her lop-sided smile.
‘Dr Radcliff, are you well? How do you manage at home? Are you well fed?’
Christopher held up a hand. ‘I am well, thank you, Joan, although I am in sore need of your honeyed porridge. Has Mistress Allington visited you?’
‘Oh yes, doctor, almost every day. She brings victuals and clean clothes.’
‘That she does,’ said one of the women with whom Joan shared the cell, ‘and we are grateful to her. A fine lady.’
‘A fine lady,’ echoed the other woman.
‘She is indeed. Have you had other visitors, Joan?’
‘No, doctor. My mother cannot come and who else would? Except you.’
‘I would have come sooner but I have been away. Do you lack for anything?’
‘Nothing. How many days more, doctor?’
A grand jury had yet to be summoned but he would not tell Joan that. ‘Not many, Joan.’
Again the lop-sided smile. ‘I have been saying my prayers as Mistress Allington told me. I knew you would come.’
‘And I will come again soon, Joan, very soon.’
He walked back to the gate. Prayers. They would need more than prayers.
Gilbert Knoyll’s servant answered the door, disappeared briefly and returned to say that the magistrate was not available. Christopher pushed past him and into Knoyll’s study.
The magistrate was stuffing food into his mouth. When he spoke, he sent crumbs flying over his desk. ‘Dr Radcliff, did my servant not make it clear that I am not available? Return tomorrow if you have business to discuss.’
Christopher ignored him. ‘Why is Joan Willys still held in Newgate and why has a grand jury not yet considered her case?’
‘That is not your concern.’ More crumbs splattered the desk.
Christopher felt his temper rising. He stretched his fingers, breathed deeply and took his time before speaking. It was in just this mood that he had killed a man on the day of his mother’s burial. ‘Mr Knoyll, I know that both you and Mr Pyke have visited Alice Scrope at her house. I also know that the woman is a thief and a whore who holds a grudge against Joan Willys. And if Joan Willys appears at the sessions I shall not be the only one who knows it. A magistrate who supports the accusation of a woman with whom he consorts and lies about it will not be looked upon favourably by the judge.’
‘Joan Willys has been tested. Justice must be done.’
Christopher snapped. ‘Justice? You speak of justice, Knoyll? An innocent woman languishes in Newgate awaiting a trial that should never take place while you sit on your fat arse doing nothing. You are swiving a whore who has made a false accusation and if Joan Willys is not released today, you will be the one in Newgate, sitting in twelve inches of stinking water with an empty belly.’ He glared at Knoyll, searching for a sign of fear. There was none.
He slammed the door on his way out.
Each time he saw Clennet Pyke, he thought the coroner looked more like a flounder. His face appeared flatter, his mouth smaller and his narrow eyes set closer together. Now the man sat by his fire, a beaker in his hand and reeking of drink.
Christopher recoiled at the smell of stale beer. He was in no mood for courtesy. ‘My patience has run out, Pyke. You are swiving the woman Alice Scrope, despite the fact that she is a whore and a thief and has made a false accusation of witchcraft against my housekeeper. What have you to say about that?’
Pyke’s eyebrows rose. ‘And who is your housekeeper, Dr Radcliff?’
‘You know perfectly well who she is. Joan Willys who now waits in Newgate for the Easter sessions. A monstrous injustice to which you are party.’
‘How is that? Was she not properly tested in Mr Knoyll’s presence and did she not appear in his court where witnesses spoke against her?’
‘To hell with testing and witnesses. Which is where you and the fat magistrate will go if she is not released today. Today, Pyke, or you will join Knoyll in Newgate and it will not be on the master’s side. Be sure of it.’
Pyke got to his feet. ‘You do not frighten me, sir, with your threats. I am a coroner and will not be intimidated.’
More spirit from the revolting little man than he had expected. ‘You are a thieving incompetent, Pyke. Persuade Knoyll to free Joan Willys or face the consequences of your crimes.’
As he had with Knoyll, Christopher glared at him before marching out. Had he seen a speck of fear in those mean eyes or was it his imagination?
He hardly noticed the prices in Cheapside. Two pennies, five pennies – he would probably have paid ten if he had been asked. His mind was on Joan and how to save her from the stocks and a prison term.
Wetherby had come bearing wine. ‘I’ve counted it,’ he said. ‘Five hundred and fifty pounds in gold and silver coin.’ He filled two of Christopher’s glasses. ‘When shall we hand it over to the earl?’
‘The sooner the better. Today?’
‘We shall have to explain where it has come from.’
‘I fear so.’
Christopher’s mind was not on the money and he was grateful that Wetherby did not push him. ‘What of Mistress Allington? How does she fare?’
‘Well enough, I suppose. I would know if it was not so.’
‘Have you called on her since we returned?’
‘I have been busy. Tomorrow perhaps.’
‘Then all is not well between you. I am sorry for it. Is that what is troubling you?’
‘In part. I am troubled also by my housekeeper, Joan Willys, having to face a judge and jury at the Easter assizes on a false charge of witchcraft. She is ill equipped to defend herself and is likely to spend a year in prison and four days in the stocks. I doubt she would survive.’
‘Tell me how this has happened, Christopher.’
Christopher told him about Alice Scrope’s accusation and Joan’s searching and her examination in the magistrate’s court. ‘If it were any other magistrate than Gilbert Knoyll, it would not have happened,’ he said. ‘The man’s a fat slop bucket and he’s been swiving the woman Scrope. How can he be thought impartial?’
‘Surely he cannot.’
‘And his friend the coroner is swiving her too. Clennet Pyke is as bad as Knoyll.’
‘Pyke? Clennet Pyke? A small man with narrow eyes?’
‘That’s him, the evil little toad.’
‘Well, well. The Clennet Pyke I know is not a swiver of women, even whores. He is well known in certain establishments around Eastcheap, and much disliked for his meanness of purse and spirit.’ Wetherby frowned. ‘Mind you, there are those who lie on both sides of the bed, if you understand me. He must be one of them.’
‘And women who do too, so I’ve heard.’
‘That I would not know. Clennet Pyke, however, I do know. He would do well in Newgate.’
When Wetherby left both bottles were empty. He staggered a little at the door, clapped Christopher on the shoulder and strode off down the hill. ‘Call this afternoon, my friend. I will arrange an appointment for us with the earl.’