ONE

April 1555

London

There are times in a man’s life when he has to accept that he might have made an error.

This was one of those times.

If you have ever found yourself staring down the barrel of a pistol, you will know that the thing looks big enough to dive into. This one was enormous – seriously, it looked as though my thumb would slip in without touching the sides, and I was appalled to think what a slug of lead that size might do to me. I had only recently been forced to work with a gun like this, a wheel-lock. Truth be told, I had taken to carrying it around with me – a fellow in my line of work cannot afford to be without a means of protection, after all – and I knew what damage such a gun can do to a man. I was highly unwilling to be exposed to this one.

At that moment, the main thing that took my interest was the gun itself. Everything else around me took second place as far as I was concerned, and when the woman sharing my bed clutched at my arm, I yelped in surprise. I had forgotten she was there. I confess that my first thought, on being reminded, was that I might swing her before me and protect myself – but, slim as she was, she was heavier than I could manage while lying in the bed. It was nothing to do with morals or politeness; I simply didn’t think I could wrestle her into the bullet’s path from my recumbent position.

Yes, I was in bed. Not my own, I should say. I was in a pleasant chamber in a house in Pope’s Lane, having enjoyed a thoroughly pleasant time with this lusty wench in a tavern near St Paul’s, which led to her suggesting that we repair to her rooms to complete our evening to mutual satisfaction with a saucy entanglement. I was very content to agree.

‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded, trying to feign righteous anger. It made me sound like an adolescent with a broken voice.

‘I am her husband, and you are in my bed!’ he snarled.

My day had started to go wrong from the moment I rose from my bed. I stubbed my toe and was set to hopping about the bedchamber, clutching my poor foot and swearing at the excruciating pain. Shortly afterwards, while washing my face, fate conspired to upset the dish, hurling water all over me and the floor, the bowl landing on the same injured toe and making me hop about in agony once more until I tripped over a stool and fell headlong.

Raphe, my peculiarly incompetent manservant, appeared to smile at my discomfort as I carefully descended my staircase. I dislike the fellow, but he was set in my household by my master, John Blount, and I do not consider it likely that my dismissing Raphe would be well received. I believe the lad to be related to Blount, and that he was sent to serve me either from despair at the fellow’s inability to find any suitable employment of his own, or because he was to spy on me – I did not know which it was, but I could guess there was a good admixture of both.

My servant added his own peculiar brand of idiocy that morning when he managed to spill a cup of wine over my hosen while I broke my fast at table. I had been about to go out, and my leggings were particularly fine, setting off my calves to good effect. They matched my new jacket, which was green with red piping, and I had a cloak of emerald with a lining of red silk. Topped with my hat, which had a scarlet feather in the band, I was a figure of great style. Those who knew me at the Boar or the Pheasant Without were always complimenting me on my elegance. In short, I was a man known for my effortless style. Now my green leggings were sent a dirgeful brown with the red wine he had sent over me.

I was furious. Raphe received a cuff about the head that would have rattled his brains, had he possessed any, and I had to dress again, this time in my second-best hosen and jacket of a pleasing faun, which once had been first quality, but now bore the marks of a dozen unfortunate accidents. Still, they were at least dry.

As I walked from my door, I instructed the fool to have my clothing cleaned before I returned, or I would colour my hosen with more red, but this time it would be his gore. He gave me that sneering smile that showed his disdain for me, and I slammed my way to the taverns with my companions.

At noon I was to be found at the Boar, drinking with some pleasant cock-robins at the back. The fellows were all keen to try their luck, and so, after feeding, I and the others made our way to an alehouse nearby, where we were entertained by a series of cock fights. The money flowed from one man to another, and a riotous, fun afternoon was enjoyed by us all. We had a few drinks, and then some more, but at the end of two hours together, many of us had lost the funds we were willing to risk, while others had been tempted by the women offering themselves for a quick alley-fumble and had already departed. I took my leave too, happily enough, but as I was on my way, I happened to meet Arch and Hamon.

These two are well known in certain parts of London. If there is a game of chance, they will be involved, be it dice, cocks, dog fighting, or even betting which rain drop will run fastest down a window pane. And often they will make loans to those who lose, so that they can throw themselves further into the mire. And Arch was particularly keen to extract all his debts in full.

I was walking past them when a hound saw a cat who, deciding that he had already risked too many lives in his time, disappeared like a streak of black-and-white lightning up a nearby tree, from where he hissed and spat at the hound, who stood on his hind legs and barked and snarled for all he was worth.

‘That cat would’ve been eaten alive if ’e’d had to run further,’ a voice at my side said.

It was Arch, an unenticing sight at the best of times.

‘Yes, very likely,’ I said.

‘You think I’m wrong?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Yes, you do, don’t you? You think the cat was fast enough to flee, don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Well, ’ere’s five shillin’s says ’e would.’

‘I have no need of gambling.’

‘You callin’ me a liar, then?’

‘No!’ I protested. ‘But I have no money, and I don’t wish to gamble with you.’

‘I’m not good enough, you mean? ’Ere, ’Am, ’e says I’m not good enough to gamble with!’

A rumble at my side told me that Hamon had joined us. I could have cursed my luck. Hamon had a fearsome habit of getting into fights, his ginger hair a warning about his peppery spirit, while Arch was no less choleric, for all that he smiled all the while.

‘I cannot place a wager. I have no money,’ I said, thinking that would save me.

Arch’s face lit up. ‘I can ’elp you there. I’ll lend you the stake, and you pay me back when you ’ave the dibs.’

‘No, seriously, I …’

Of course, it was no good. In a trice, Hamon had reached up and grabbed the cat, throwing him into a sack, while Arch and another fellow threw a coat over the hound and wrestled him away. They held him, still snarling, while Hamon dropped the sack in the road. A hideous shrieking and yowling could be heard. Arch looked over at Hamon, and I saw some silent communication pass between them. Then Hamon released the cat, and as he did so, Arch let slip the hound, who took three bounds, scarcely believing his luck, since the cat was at the moment expounding upon his extreme displeasure at having been bundled into the sack. There was a vicious spitting and then a startled yowl, and a crunch as the hound’s jaws snapped over his spine.

‘That will be ten shillin’s you owe us,’ Arch said. And then he said a lot more, all about debts that should be paid as soon as possible. I gave him one of my false names and hurried away.

I was already half seas over after my drinking, but not so far gone that I would give out my real name or address to a fellow such as Arch.

So you can see, when I discovered that a man with the looks and intelligence of a gorilla was pointing a pistol at me for galloping his wife, it seemed to me to be only the capping of my misfortune.

Of course, I was not to know that this was not the cap, but only the beginning.

That evening had begun so pleasantly, too. I had met Mistress Catherine at the Cheshire Cheese. She was sitting in a corner and trying to repel the advances of a pair of swine-drunk oafs.

‘Leave us,’ I said firmly, crossing to her side.

‘Go swive a goat,’ one said.

He looked so drunk that he could barely keep both eyes open, so I took the risk of hauling him from his seat by grabbing his ankles and pulling. He was too far gone to defend himself, and slid from the bench, his head bumping on the floor as he went. Once on the floor, he closed his eyes with every sign of comfort and began to snore. His companion took the view that I must be some form of Hercules, and scurried away without a backward glance.

‘Thank you, master,’ she said nervously, as though she was alarmed as much by me as the two drunks.

‘There is only one way to deal with brutes like them. A strong hand and a firm determination,’ I said. ‘Are you new to London, maid?’

‘Yes. I have only been here a few hours,’ she said, and there was a faint note of anxiety in her voice. Her accent was plainly not from the city, but from the east, if I was a judge.

‘Where are you from?’

She didn’t answer that, but looked about the room with trepidation.

Well, when I had been a cut-purse, I had always enjoyed the process of putting my gulls at ease, and with this one it took a little longer, but soon she and I were engaged in wordplay of the most promiscuous kind, Cat complimenting me on my new codpiece, and I staring at the assets that were scarce restrained by the thin material of her blouse. There was not as much as I would usually hope for, but a good handful that would make a reasonable pillow, so I thought. For all her slenderness, she had a wit and ready enthusiasm that was most appealing. Her tongue was by turns sharp and tender, and I was soon given to understand that she would happily consider a bout in the lists of lechery.

It was when Arch and Hamon arrived that I decided it was a good time to leave; I had no wish to be discovered by either so soon after the hound and the cat. I saw them walk through the door and over to a table at the farther side of the chamber. The fact that I owed Arch ten shillings over the ‘gambling debt’ was potentially enough to make him reach for his dagger rather than his fists. Except it was no gamble. He had rooked me.

Ten bob was a mere trifle to a man like me, of course, with my advantages, but a rich man wouldn’t remain rich, were he to give away money unnecessarily. Besides, I had the impression that Cat was in a hurry, and since I was eager as well, leaving suited me fine.

London, so it is said, is a place where a man can never grow bored. I would wholeheartedly agree with that. Tedium was never a part of my life. But I would prefer a little of it, in preference to the regular moments of terror that plagued me. Arch and Hamon were more than capable of making my life very exciting indeed – if only briefly.

I was fortunate, so I thought; neither of the two sons of vixens appeared to notice me, sitting in the farthest corner as I was, so I threw myself over my companion, making her squeak with feigned alarm.

‘Fie! You want to cover me here?’ she giggled. ‘I am not a draggle-tail to be serviced in a tavern. Come, my fellow. You must take me to a bed first. Then we shall see whether you deserve a reward of some sort!’

‘To my home? I doubt I can make it that far,’ I said with a leer.

‘Well, master, if you are so hasty and incapable of staying the distance, perhaps I should find a man with more stamina? A woman like me needs time to be satisfied. I don’t want a man who’ll be spent in a moment!’

‘I’ll be happy in your service, maid,’ I said with a quick leer.

‘So long as your service is matched by your stamina,’ she said tartly.

‘Come with me and I shall gladly demonstrate,’ I said.

I rose, carefully keeping my hat’s brim towards Hamon and Arch, leading her behind me, where she would conceal me from their gaze. Although there were many men in the Cheese at that time, we made our way quickly enough from the bar and were soon in the road, where Mistress Cat grappled again, but with little urgency. She was anticipating a wrestle as keenly as I, but she would not agree to a trembler against an alley wall. I had already asked. No, she wanted a warm bed with a lighted fire, so we broke off the engagement and made our way to a house in Pope’s Lane, where she had a key.

And all was going swimmingly, until this great brute appeared with his cannon.

You will perhaps understand me when I say that I was rather reluctant at this point to go into details with the man. Truth be told, I was more than a little befuddled from wine, and being interrupted early on in a grapple with a cheerful maid by what looked like a gorilla with a gun was enough to leave me confused.

He was one of those fellows who seem to have been born with too much hair. He had a shaggy brown thatching that ran down the sides of his head and somewhere became a beard. A fringe smothered his brow so heavily that he was forced to keep pushing it from his face, which was fixed into a scowl of such ferocity that it looked as though his brows had been bunched together like a fist of rage.

There was one other aspect that drew my attention, of course, and that was the size and number of muscles that rippled up and down his arms as he looked from me to my bedmate and back. He wore a thin linen tabard without sleeves, and his arms were distinctly impressive in a way that was not appealing at this moment.

‘Perhaps I should leave you both. I am sure …’

The gun moved back in my direction. I took the hint and was silent, but a doubt was raised in my mind as I stared.

Despairingly, the woman clutched at me. I was irritated by that. Cat should have been able to appreciate that this was a rather serious moment in both of our lives, which were likely, all things considered, to be curtailed. I wasn’t ready for death yet.

‘Who are you?’ the man demanded. His eye moved to my jack and clothing, which had been dropped on the floor near the bed.

‘I am called Hugh Somerville,’ I said.

He sneered at that. ‘What’s your real name?’

I quickly ran through some of the alternative names that I had used in the past, discarding those that had been stained with arrests or accusations, and returned to one that I felt was safe enough. ‘Peter of Shoreditch.’

‘Well, Peter of Shoreditch, you’ve been swiving my wife, and you’ll have to pay for it.’

‘Don’t, Henry! He’s not worth it! Don’t kill us! I’ll make it up to you, honest I will.’

‘Too late, slut! You’ve dragged your backside past a gull once too often. I knew you were steeped in treachery, but to take an old fool like this – this is an insult too far. You’ll both die!’

‘Old fool?’ I repeated with some asperity.

‘No, Henry! I won’t do it again, Henry,’ she protested, and as he pointed his gun’s barrel at her, something clicked in my head.

You see, before I became a professional assassin – or, at least, a professional contractor of assassinations – I had a moderately successful career as a pickpocket. In those happy days, I lived with other disreputable characters in a number of properties of greater or lesser elegance, and I had come to know experts of lock-picking and gambling, and cheats of all stripes and colours. There were many women who would sell their bodies, and some who would pretend to, before practising their best purse-diving and bolting.

‘Why should he live? He’s taken advantage of my wife!’

‘Oh, Henry, please, don’t do anything rash!’

‘I’ll make him pay!’

‘Oh, Henry, think of the children!’

And although many of those same women would have convinced on the stage, this one – well, she was a poor actress.

I pushed Cat gently from me and bent to pull on my hosen, setting my codpiece in place. ‘I am sorry, but if I want to watch play-acting, I will go to a good inn and watch it there with a quart of ale in my hand.’

‘You think I’m play-acting?’ the man said, the barrel turning to me once more.

‘No, I don’t think it; I know it. In the first place, your wife was too quick, too keen to take advantage of me. And while I know I am better-looking than most, I feel sure that her eyes were more fixed on my purse than my cods,’ I said, ‘and in the second, your story is not convincing.’

‘What?’ the man said. His tone was threatening, and the barrel was a hideous sight. I peered at it and then pressed on.

‘If you wish to continue with this line of work, I really must recommend that you have your woman instructed in how better to show alarm. Her feigned concern really will not do,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ she said, a scowl darkening her pretty features. She pulled away from me, kneeling at my side, long dark hair all awry and not covering her modesty. She was wearing a shift against the chill of the evening, but it was ancient and thin, and I could see the entrancing figure beneath. I tried not to be distracted by it.

‘Cat, if you wish to entrap a man, you need to show genuine fear for your own safety, not for his. After all, a jealous husband would be likely to slaughter you both when he found the two of you in his bed, would he not? And for all that your partner here is a strong, bold-looking companion, I can see and hear little of the true rage in his voice that a man would exhibit on finding his wife enwrapped about her swain. My apologies, but a husband in such a moment would be less likely to speak to her and threaten the ravisher, and more likely to slaughter them both. And he would not do it with a firearm, but with a club, knife or anything else that might come to hand speedily and with ease. A man in the throes of jealous, righteous rage doesn’t pause to discuss the adulterer’s offences, but simply leaps in and punishes both his wife and her love-lad.’

‘Damn your eyes!’ the man said, and the gun barrel was thrust towards me.

You can believe me or not, but I merely smiled at him.

‘Leave it, Henry,’ Cat said. She had her head tilted as she surveyed me. ‘What should we do, then?’

‘You did quite well,’ I said. I was pulling my shirt over my head now. ‘Your man’s apparent rage was well feigned, but slow, and your snaring of your gull was most efficient, but you needs must think of your reaction when your man appears.’

‘It worked well enough so far!’ she said, and she sounded hurt. ‘I got you here, didn’t I?’

‘Your attractions did,’ I said, glancing at the body semi-concealed by her shift. She pulled the edges about her and glared at me. I continued, ‘Perhaps you need to think of a new patter. It sounds contrived, Cat. As though you have learned the words, but not the emotion. You need to think up a different line, something that will sound fresh and new.’

Henry was scowling now, but he had the appearance of an offended man rather than an angry one. ‘You mean we’ve wasted all this time and you …’

‘I am not fearful, no.’

‘We could still rob you.’

I stared at him, and for the first time I realized he was a little older than me. Cat was herself about two and twenty, I guessed, the same as me, but he looked to be three years our senior. There was another difference between the two: she was delightful.

Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, and now that it was released, it curled about her shoulders like an inky waterfall. It framed an oval face with cheekbones that would have looked good on a Spanish princess. I may, like all natural Englishmen, dislike the Spanish for their arrogance and greed, but no man could deny that their women have great beauty. Cat’s own face was so pale that it had an almost transparent quality. Usually, I prefer women who have more colour to them – blondes with skin that has been lightly bronzed, or auburn-haired harpies with freckles and cheeks the colour of damask – but I confess Cat was the sort of woman who could entrance with a glance. Her mouth and eyes were, if not already doing so, always on the verge of smiling. Hers was the sort of face next to which a man could wake up every day for the rest of his life and feel honoured.

Which is why I found it hard to understand what she was doing with the gorilla.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You can’t just rob me.’ I pulled on my jacket, feeling the comforting weight again.

Henry was a dolt. A clod of the first water. He may have been a quarter of a century in age, but he had the look of an apprentice who had found his vocation by tripping over it, more than by dint of any effort. His dark eyes were suspicious as he stood glaring, his gaze moving from Cat to me and back, with an air of offended pride, like a child who has been thrashed for another’s offence, and his mouth moved like a landed fish gasping on the deck. ‘What, you think you can protect yourself against this?’ he demanded, and thrust the gun at me.

I put my left forefinger on to the very end of the barrel and pushed it aside. He glared at me. When he tried to grab my hand and move it away, I pulled out my own handgun and pushed the barrel into his cheek.

‘What are you doing?’ he said.

‘I am showing you what a real pistol looks like. Because yours is a pale imitation, Henry. It isn’t real, and it won’t fire. Whereas this thing most certainly will. In other words, step back and don’t act like a lunatic, you great lummox.’

‘Let it go, Henry,’ the woman sighed. ‘He’s beaten us.’

Henry groaned, and the gun in his hand fell to his side. ‘What do you mean, it’s not real?’ he said in hurt tones. ‘I paid good money for that.’

‘They saw you coming, then,’ I said. I pulled the dog from the wheel to make my gun safe and thrust it into my belt. ‘You have a nice idea for a scam; I’ll give you both that. All you need to do is make it a little more believable. More panic on your part, Cat, and, Henry, you need to make it sound like you really believe that she’s done something. You didn’t convince me, and you won’t convince others.’

‘It’d work with others,’ Henry said grumpily.

‘Not, I’ll wager, in London. Folk are more suspicious here. And now I will be off.’

I stood. Cat was eyeing me suspiciously, head set slightly to one side. I admit, I preferred to see her with the half-smile on her face.

‘How do you know so much?’ she said.

‘I have lived in London most of my life,’ I lied. I had only been living here for the last few years. I had been born in Whitstable, and when my mother died, I became lackey and slave to my father, who was more interested in the contents of a cup of ale than me. It was good to come here and be free of him.

‘You could teach us a lot.’

‘If I wished, no doubt. But I have better things to be doing, I am afraid, Cat. You must shift for yourselves.’

She lithely climbed from the bed and made her way to me, the thin linen of her tunic falling open to show the swelling of her breast. ‘I could make you feel it was worthwhile, if you helped us.’

‘What? Oh, no. You’re not going to lie with him just so he can tell you a load of …’

‘Henry, be still,’ she said. She was standing before me now, her back to Henry, and her eyes delicately dropped to my cods before she looked up again, and now she raised an eyebrow. The offer was clear enough.

‘Just to tell you a little about the city?’

‘Yes. Just to help us a little.’

I considered. There was no doubt that she was a pretty little piece, and there would be some satisfaction in having my way with her against the will of her own husband. Not that Henry would be difficult as an amorous antagonist; I would surely be able to entice her away from him with my charms and money. Perhaps holding a few little engagements with her, I might be able to get further than I had this evening. If the benighted Henry had only given me another few minutes … but there was no point weeping over lost opportunities. Far better to make an assignation for later.

Thus it was that I arranged to see her the following day, at the Cheshire Cheese again, where I hoped to be able to arrange for a quiet, snug little chamber where we might discuss a number of topics and I might give her a practical demonstration of my own qualities.

I was not to know that I would not be able to honour the arrangement.

Leaving the house, I stood a moment or two in the street, reflecting. It was tempting to propose that we might immediately move to discussing their predicament and other possibilities, ideally while sending Henry out on a wild goose chase, but I felt it would be safer to leave the two together, in order that she might persuade him of the merits of learning from me.

I strolled eastwards, along Pope’s Lane, past St Agnes, then down past St Vedast to Westcheap, and thence turned towards my own house, which lay just off Alegatestrete. It was a pleasant abode, with a goodly sized hall, parlour, buttery and pantry, a small room upstairs next to my bedchamber, in which I kept my money box, and a kitchen that a cook might make good use of. However, I had no cook. Instead, I relied on the less-than-incompetent servant who stood as butler and cook: Raphe, the whining scoundrel whose sole strengths lay in his ability to throw wine over my best hosen and disappear whenever there was work to be done. I would have to dispose of him somehow. As things stood, his only other skill being an apparently rapacious appetite for my meat and wine, he was costing me too much to justify his lack of effort on my behalf. However, casting him from my door might prove difficult, bearing in mind he was related to my own master. Throwing him out might have complications.

It was while I was considering this that I heard a loud ‘Hoi!’ from behind me.

This was just as the light had fled the city, and I was startled by the call. After all, a man is always in danger in London, and never more so than at night. I reached under my jacket for my handgun, catching the dog in my shirt as I pulled it free, and I was attempting to extricate myself when the man appeared from the shadows, two others at his side.

‘Master Blackjack, I want a word with you.’

‘I am otherwise engaged,’ I said, with a slight bow to indicate that I was a man of quality, not a mere ‘Hey, you!’ to be stopped in the street.

‘You are now,’ the man said, and that was when I noticed his staff of office. ‘You are wanted for murder, my bully boy!’

‘Murder?’

Now, I have had my fair share of arrests over the years, and generally I have not enjoyed them. Today, after my frustration with Cat, the damage done to my breeches and my gambling losses, I was not in the mood for another. In the past, of course, I would merely have submitted, were there no escape in sight. I was young enough in those days to leap up like a deer and spring into the middle distance before the average tipstaff realized I was gone. I imagine a few of them saw little more than a shimmer in the air, which faded like dissipating mist before their eyes, while I set off at speed.

But that was before I became a man of quality. Now I had a house, good clothes and regular meals. I was not content to be berated by an officer in the street, and I made that clear to him.

‘Then you’d best let us inside, hey?’

This was from somewhere near my left ear and was so loud that I felt sure my ear would never stop ringing. I sprang round, clapping a hand over it, and found myself looking up into a beaming, bearded face.

‘Who are you?’ I asked weakly.

‘Me? I’m Sir Richard of Bath, sir,’ said the fellow, and I felt myself rocked back on my feet by the blast. His voice was so loud, it was like hearing the crack of doom pronouncing, and it was unpleasant to be only inches from it. When he spoke, birds stopped tweeting, and dogs stopped barking to slouch away, whimpering.

You see, it wasn’t just how loud he was; it was the mere fact of his presence. It was like standing before a gale and listening to a message on the wind. He was huge. I swear his chest and belly together were like a barrel, and I had the distinct impression that were I to attempt to punch his stomach, it would hurt as much as striking an oaken stave with my fist.

For all that, he did not look a dangerous man. He had kindly blue eyes that twinkled, more wrinkles than a mastiff, and his beard looked as if it had never come in contact with a comb. It was gingerish, shot through with threads of silver, and hung halfway down his breast in a thoroughly unfashionable manner. He was plainly some yokel knight who had come to the city to see the sights. Still, he was deafening.

‘Who?’ I said dully.

‘The Coroner for this ward. Come, man, let us in and we can tell you what the matter is, without disturbing yer neighbours, hey?’

I felt bewildered, but did as he asked, and when I stood aside to let him pass, he gave a cheery chuckle and waved me in before him, as though I might have bolted, had I the chance. It was damned disrespectful and proved that he was not as dim as most rural knights. I was about to make a pointed comment when I heard a strange sound from inside. It was a dog barking. I don’t have a dog.

‘Raphe!’ I shouted as I entered. ‘Bring wine! And what is that noise?’

The boy would usually be sitting in the kitchen with a flagon of my best sitting beside him, if I knew my servant at all, and I knew him all too well now. But what he was doing with a four-legged flea-farm, I had no idea.

His head appeared around the doorway. ‘What?’

‘What are you doing with a brute? Are you turned dog-muffler?’

But he made no comment as to whether he sought to flay the animal to sell the skin. He took one look at Sir Richard and hurried out of sight.

‘Well?’ I demanded as I walked into my hall and took my place before the fire, warming my backside. ‘What the devil is this about?’

The man who called himself the Coroner, still smiling broadly, walked to my favourite chair and plumped down into it with a sigh such as Bacchus might have given after a gallon of the best. ‘Ah, that’s good, master. You are, I believe, Master Jack Blackjack?’

‘Yes, servant to John Blount and, through him, Sir Thomas Parry. What of it?’

‘Ah, you see, there has been a murder, master. Very sad, very sad. And there’ve been accusations laid at your door.’

‘Mine?’ I said. ‘Who dares accuse me?’ In the last months I had been hired as assassin to Master John Blount, a professional position to which I was less than enthusiastic to be wedded, but which had compensations, such as this house, my clothes, my wine and food. It paid very well, as my little strongbox upstairs could attest. In recent weeks I had been commissioned to remove certain two-legged impediments to the plans of Master Parry and Master Blount, and although I had not completed the commissions myself – instead, I had taken the opportunity to subcontract them – still, the knight’s announcement shook me. It made me feel weak, and I slumped on to a seat and made a show of clearing my throat. One of my supposed killings had come back to haunt me, clearly. ‘Murder?’ I tried again. ‘Who could you mean? Who has died?’

‘The sad truth is he was a priest. Leaves a wife and five children.’

‘That is sad …’ I said no more, but he and I both knew the fact of it. The Queen, God bless her, had decided early on in her reign that the priests who had been forced to give up their Catholic faith under Good King Henry, God bless his memory, and then Edward, his son, had all been told to give up their new faith and return to the fold, as it were. Those who had taken advantage of the new religion to marry the women with whom they had already been sharing their beds, begging forgiveness from God each Sunday, were now told to set the women aside and leave them. The alternative was to keep the women but lose their benefices. And unlike when King Henry had dragged the monks and abbots from their homes so that they could be torn down or sold on, giving them generous pensions in many cases, the Queen had resolved that those who refused her kind offer were to be ejected from their livings. They could keep wife and children or their incomes. Not both. ‘What has this dead priest to do with me?’

‘His servant said that ye were responsible.’

I gaped. ‘Who? Who is this servant? Who is the man who’s died?’

‘As to that, who d’you think?’

I racked my brains, but I was no closer to a solution. ‘I have no idea. I don’t know many priests, and none with five children.’

‘Hah! That’s what they all say. Mind you, the fella shouldn’t have had a wife and children if he’s still a priest. So either he was a bad priest or he was calling himself “priest” when he wasn’t, if ye follow me meaning.’

‘It isn’t difficult,’ I said. ‘Who said I was responsible?’

‘His servant, a Master Atwood.’

‘Atwood?’ I yelped, and sprang to my feet.

‘What of it?’

I could, of course, have said, ‘He’s the murderous pickthank, a mischief-maker, who tried to murder me,’ or ‘He’s the unscrupulous bastard who turned his coat three or more times during the Wyatt Rebellion,’ or ‘He’s a man who would open your belly to see what you ate last night,’ or any one of the many of the other things that immediately jumped into my mind. Instead, I said calmly, ‘He is a fellow who used to work for me here. I was forced to part with his services after I saw the sort of man he was. I kept him as butler, but the damned fellow sold off much of my wine, ate my best meats, and then tried to rape a serving wench from the house next door.’ I have always found that, when attempting to give false witness, it is better, if possible, to embellish and leave the listener in no doubt as to your feelings in the matter. ‘He was not the sort of man whose word I could trust.’

‘Ah. I see.’

The Coroner’s eyes were very shrewd. When he set them on me, I felt as if I had been pinned to the wall by a pair of stilettos.

‘What?’ I said.

‘It’s just that he said you would say something of that sort.’

‘He would, wouldn’t he? He knows how badly he served me!’

‘Aye, well, I can see that,’ the Coroner said thoughtfully.

The tipstaff and his two companions were sulkily listening to us, but their expressions lightened visibly when Raphe suddenly appeared in the doorway, glowering about him like a man who had just been woken from a comfortable doze before the kitchen fire after drinking strong wines. He brought a tray with him, on which were several cups, while a large flagon hung from his hand. It was an enormously heavy flagon when full, I knew, and he handled it with the care of a man to whom a drop of wine spilled was a drop of liquid happiness lost forever. He poured, but was two cups short, which surprised me. He had not seen the two with the tipstaff; even so, the flagon, when full, should have held more than enough to fill all the cups twice over. I reflected that he must have only half filled the flagon. No wonder he could handle it with such ease.

I said, ‘Raphe, what are you …’ but he passed one cup to me, and left to refill the flagon and fetch two more cups.

Manners are important, I have always believed, so I passed my cup to the second man with the tipstaff. The knight, I noticed, had taken a sip of his wine and now smiled broadly.

As soon as Raphe returned, he filled two fresh cups, and when he saw me without a cup, he was flustered. ‘Give me the cup, Raphe,’ I said sharply. I was growing thirsty. ‘What are you doing with a mutt in my house?’

I took a sip while I waited for his response, and all but spat it out. Raphe was carefully avoiding my eye. I had bought a firkin of good Bordeaux only a day or two ago, but if this was Bordeaux, I was a Cardinal. I could feel it strip the flesh from my throat as it passed into my stomach, where it tried to set up a happy conversation with any ulcers it could find. The other man who had been forced to wait for wine had also taken a sip and was surveying the cup with the wide-eyed horror and suspicion of a monarch who believes he has been poisoned.

‘Dog, master?’ Raphe asked innocently.

There was a scrabbling noise at the kitchen door. A bark soon followed. I eyed Raphe with stern disapproval. ‘Well?’

‘It was just hungry. I gave it some food,’ he said defensively.

‘Do you have any comments, Master Blackjack?’ Sir Richard said.

Pulling my thoughts back to the issue at hand, I said, ‘So you say Atwood has accused me of having something to do with this poor fellow’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s more likely Atwood killed the man. Who was murdered, anyway?’

‘Father Peter. He was vicar of St Botolph Without.’

I shook my head. ‘Where is that?’

‘It’s east of the city by some few miles. It is a sad story. His woman was in the area, and she stumbled over something when she was in the road. She raised the alarm when she realized it was her husband. Except it wasn’t, of course, since they were declared unmarried by the Queen. So she found him, and the hue and cry determined that he had been stabbed in the back, repeatedly.’

‘How do you mean, “repeatedly”?’

‘Nine times. That’s pretty much as repeated as any stabbing I’ve ever seen.’

‘That doesn’t sound like him,’ I said, musing. ‘Atwood is a bold fellow, and I can easily imagine him killing a man, but not like that. He would merely stab the once, then a second time to make sure, and perhaps a third if the first two didn’t suffice. But nine times? That sounds more like a frenzy.’

‘I agree. That was me own reading. However, he said that you got frenzied when you were in a hot temper.’ Sir Richard emptied his cup and sat looking at the jug hopefully. I motioned to Raphe, who reluctantly approached with the flagon. He poured and sidled away in what looked like a hurry. Sir Richard sipped and pulled a face, glaring into his cup. ‘’S’lids, what is this? Piss water from a privy?’

Raphe’s eyes remained fixed on something in the far distance beyond the walls. I stared at him and sniffed my own cup. Sir Richard was right. It did smell of piss.

‘Ye need to get rid of that little streak of shit! You have foul luck when it comes to hiring your own people,’ Sir Richard said, as I told Raphe to find some decent wine and throw this away. ‘First you have this Atwood, who you say drank all your good wine, and now you have this disreputable little squeeze-grab, who seems to want to do the same, and serves you and your guests the foulest wringings of a child’s clout!’

He goggled at his cup again and clearly tried to set aside the thought of what could have been in there. ‘If Atwood served anything similar to that, I’m surprised you allowed him to go. He’d have deserved a week in the stocks and then a rope about his throat, rather than dismissal!’

‘He undoubtedly deserved it, but I am a man of peace,’ I said. It was plainly true.

‘My apologies, Master Blackjack. That foul concoction was too much of a shock to me blood for me to be able to contain meself. Looked fine, but damme, they were different as a pea from a bean. Reminds me of the story of the fellow who was talkin’ to a friend, and said, “My woman is lovely. Beautiful, affectionate, and ever prepared to go to bed.” “Aha!” said the second, “If she had a twin, I could enjoy myself, too.” “She does have a twin,” said the first. “Can you tell them apart, then?” asked his companion. “Well enough. She has long hair and a figure of perfection,” the man said, “and her sibling has a beard!” Eh? See? Her twin was a man, eh? Ha ha ha!’

I tried to smile, both ears ringing.

Sir Richard’s mind swiftly turned to important matters. ‘Where’s your boy? He should be back by now with the wine. We can drink that, and then we must take a walk.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Aye, well, the dead don’t wait, do they, master?’

Thus it was that a scant few minutes later I found myself bellowing for Raphe, who had finally found a decent wine, which he set about pouring into fresh cups. Sir Richard took up one and sipped it with a black glower fixed to his face, which was suddenly washed away and replaced by a beatific smile. ‘Hah! That’s more like it, boy! Next time I come, you will make sure that you find that barrel again, won’t ye? And next time we come here and find you’re serving dregs to your master, I will have you taken to the stocks personally. Understand me, boy?’

‘Y–yes,’ Raphe said, and I was delighted to hear him stammer. It was the first time in months that I had seen him lost for words or anxious, and it was a salve to my soul.

‘The dog,’ I said before he could scurry away. ‘You will have to put it out. I don’t want some mangy cur in my house. It could have rabies, for all you know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

That itself was a major success. He tended to avoid calling me ‘sir’, as if that was to concede that his own position was inferior. I watched him with narrowed eyes. I didn’t trust his sudden conversion to politeness.

He walked out carrying the two dirty cups and the empty flagon before I could comment further.

‘So you deny knowing this dead man?’ Sir Richard said.

‘Yes! I don’t even know the place you’re talking about. I’ve never been there. I spent all day today here in London.’

‘What about yesterday?’

‘I was in the Boar most of the afternoon. Why, when was the man killed?’

‘He was found earlier this morning, but he was as cold as a tombstone. I suspect he could have died yesterday and—’

There was a flurry of barking, shouting and cursing, and suddenly a disreputable, wiry-haired black dog, with white patches over one eye and his shoulder, burst into the room, barking and trailing drool. He rushed to me and jumped up, making me spill my wine over my jack, and when I roared, he flung himself at the tipstaff, still barking, apparently in joy at meeting so many people. Sir Richard bellowed for Raphe, and the dog ran to him, but without the pleasure he had shown at his first appearance. He crouched lower, and his hackles rose; he stopped barking and showed his teeth, eyes narrowed, like a lion stalking his prey. When Sir Richard stood, the dog backed away, still snarling and growling.

Raphe appeared, apologetically flapping his hands, trying to get a grip on the monster. It evaded him, still glaring at Sir Richard, who eyed it with glowering distaste. I have to confess, I warmed to the mutt. Anything that would dare to stand against the knight was deserving of respect, I felt.

Throwing himself on the dog, Raphe managed to grip it about the belly and throat. He stood, with difficulty, four legs struggling manfully – dogfully? – to escape his grip, but Raphe knew when he had gone too far. Red-faced and bitter, he retreated, while sounds of rage and defiance issued from the hand he had clamped over the animal’s mouth.

‘Be off with you, then. Ye must have duties to attend to,’ Sir Richard said equably. ‘And I would kill that thing. It’s clearly dangerous. You don’t want to be reported to the City for owning a dangerous dog, do you?’ he added, looking at me.

‘Yes, sir,’ Raphe said.

Sir Richard eyed him benevolently as he scurried away. ‘Little urchin! Ye need to keep both eyes on squeakers like him, Master Blackjack. He’ll try every trick under the sun to gull you, that one. Keep him under a close observation, and trim his wings every so often, whenever the opportunity allows. Ye’ll find it worthwhile to strap him once in a while, too. He’ll need it. And make sure you have the brute killed.’

‘Yes,’ I said, but, truth be told, I felt almost affectionate towards the thing. It had been braver than me when facing Sir Richard.

We walked on towards Aldgate’s great … well, gate. ‘What is that at your belt?’ Sir Richard asked as we walked.

‘This? A gun. I was given it a little while ago,’ I said. It was true enough. I hadn’t wanted the thing, but it was foisted on me, and could easily have cost me my life.

He grimaced. ‘Don’t like the things. They make an ungodly row, and rarely hit what ye want. Knew a man once, fired it, and the thing didn’t work. He thought he hadn’t put in the powder and ball, so he shoved both in and fired again. Still didn’t work, so he tried tipping even more powder down the barrel, and another ball. In the end, he had it loaded four times, and finally put a bigger charge in the pan, only to have the damned thing explode.’

‘Did it kill him?’

‘No, but it made him much more thoughtful in future. Now he sticks to plain steel, sharpened both sides. After all, at least with a sword or dagger, you know where it’s goin’. You push it into a man, you know you hit him. With those things, you can pull the trigger, but it may misfire, and even if it does go off, ye don’t know where the slug will fly.’

Just then we reached the city wall, where we found that the gate itself was closed, it being after dark. ‘Hoi, Ballock-features,’ the knight shouted out.

A warm, orange glow lit a chamber beside the gate, and now a wizened old man peered round the doorway. ‘What is it? Who are you?’

‘Who d’ye think, Oakley, you scraggy old rat! Me! Sir Richard of Bath. Now open the gate.’

‘You? Again?’

‘Queen’s business, Oakley.’

‘If you want something, you’d best keep a civil tongue in your head, you old goat.’

Sir Richard swelled like an inflated bladder. ‘You dare call me a goat? I’m a Queen’s officer! Open the gate.’

‘Swive a goose, you old fool,’ the man said. ‘You know the City demands that the gates be kept shut from sundown to sunrise.’

Sir Richard’s face suddenly darkened. ‘What did you say to me, fellow?’ he said, and although the first word was at – for him – normal volume, the rest of the sentence grew louder and louder with every syllable. I swear I could feel the ground trembling beneath my feet.

The effect on the gatekeeper was pronounced. He darted into his room and returned with a pike that was almost twice his height. At my side, Sir Richard strode forward, and I saw the keeper point his weapon at the knight with a trembling hand. Gatekeepers are rarely the boldest of guards, and this one was about to meet with divine retribution in the form of Sir Richard of Bath, I was sure. While I dislike the sight of blood, I was interested to see how this bout would go. I scampered after the knight.

‘Fellow, did you tell me to go and do something unnatural to a goose?’ Sir Richard bawled.

‘It’s after curfew, ain’t it? I’m not allowed to open the gates to anyone. Not even a Queen’s officer!’

‘Are you a loyal servant to Her Majesty?’

‘Of course I am!’ the man said shiftily. It was difficult not to look shifty just now, with plots and rebellions on all sides.

‘There is a man over the other side of the wall who has been murdered. Do you value your immortal soul?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘The murdered man was a vicar, Porter. A vicar! Just think of that, hey? Poor fellow doing his best to look after those in his parish, and someone stabbed him nine times. Someone like that, who can kill a vicar, he doesn’t care about your soul, does he? He doesn’t care about anybody’s soul, not even his own. And he is more than likely a murdering rebel. If he can kill a vicar, then no one in the realm is safe from him, hey? Not even the Queen.’ Sir Richard’s head had dropped, as had his voice, and he stood sorrowfully shaking his head. Now it snapped up. ‘So if you don’t let me out there right now, I will have to report you for endangering the Queen. I don’t think I need tell you what the penalty would be for treason of that nature.’

‘Treason? Wait, you can’t tell me that—’

‘I am waiting. I expect that gate opened by the count of ten. One.’

The pike was still pointing at Sir Richard, but now it wobbled alarmingly as the porter began to panic. His breathing was coming in shallow rasps, and I feared he might collapse, but then he came to a conclusion, swore a couple of times, span about and darted into his chamber. When he reappeared, he gripped an enormous key, which he thrust into his belt.

We walked to the gate, and the porter slid back bars, shot bolts and generally made a din about trying to open the wicket gate. He tugged hard on a bolt to no effect whatsoever. Eventually, he threw us a disgusted look, before pulling the enormous key from his belt. He shoved the handle over the bolt’s handle, and with a heave against the thick barrel of the key, the bolt finally squeaked itself open. The porter threw the door wide with a sour glare, and as soon as we had all traipsed through, he slammed it shut again, and we heard the series of locks and bolts being shoved into place.

‘I don’t think we’ll be getting back in there in a hurry,’ I said.

The tipstaff gave a grunt of agreement. ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing,’ he said, nodding towards the figure of the knight, who was trudging off into the gloom.

I have never been superstitious, but I don’t believe in taking risks either. I looked at the tipstaff and his two companions. They were all moderately sized men. Yet somehow they were not as reassuring as the burly figure striding off away from the city walls.

‘Oh, ’s’blood!’ I muttered, and set off after him at a trot.

‘Here it is,’ Sir Richard said, as we reached a large building some two miles from the city. In the dark, it was hard to make out much about the place, but a steady squeaking when the wind blew spoke of something moving overhead. When I looked up, there was a post with a weather vane that moved sluggishly with the breeze. Above it was a dim shape.

‘What is?’ I asked. I had never come this way. East of the city there were fields, and I knew of St Botolph’s, but when I wanted to go whoring, I would go over the river to Southwark, and if I wanted ale or wine, I would stay within the city. There was nothing out this way for me.

‘Haven’t you eyes in your head? There! The sign of the crown, isn’t it? This must be the inn.’

I stared up, but he must have much better eyes than me, for I could see little of the crown. He began to beat heavily on the door with a fist that made a noise like thunder claps in a heavy, humid summer’s evening, while I remained standing and gazing upwards like a philosopher seeking the stars. Not that there were any to be seen. A cloud hung low over the sky, adding to the general gloom.

There was a rattling noise and a weedy voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

‘I am the Queen’s Coroner. You have a stiff. Let me in.’

‘I can’t do that. You’ll have to come back in the morning.’

‘You wouldn’t want that, my fellow.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you send me away now, I will return with the posse of the county, and I will have your miserable inn closed and you and your master taken to Newgate in the morning.’

There was a pause of some moments, and then I heard the slow movement of a bolt, then a second, and a bar being removed. Soon a gingerish thatch of hair appeared, closely followed by a pair of large, anxious blue eyes. Sir Richard thrust at the door with the flat of his hand and the owner of the hair and eyes disappeared with a bleat of alarm. There was a loud clatter.

‘What is it, in the name of heaven?’ Sir Richard bellowed in what he probably thought was a quiet, sympathetic tone.

I followed him inside. There, on the floor, lay a young ragamuffin clad in scraps of old cloth and bare-footed, a rough three-legged stool at its side. The child was only some ten or eleven years old, and was wiping its nose with a filthy sleeve. Large eyes stared up at us. Sir Richard stood over it – and yes, I did not know whether it was male or female – and cleared his throat. The instant reaction from the child was to draw a breath in terror and try to shuffle backwards, but the stool was in the way.

Sir Richard bent and held out a hand. ‘Were you standing on the stool when I pushed the door open? Please accept my apologies, young master. Are your parents here? Let me help you to your feet.’

The child accepted his hand after giving it a reluctant and fearful glance, as though expecting to be roundly thrashed at any moment. Sir Richard stood straight, pulling the – as he assumed – boy to his feet.

As he did so, a fellow walked in and glared at Sir Richard suspiciously. A man of about thirty years, I guessed. A scrawny fellow, with sharp eyes under his thatch of thick, dark hair. He had a stubbled beard that spoke of a shave delayed, and that added to the air of distrust about him. ‘Are you well, Ben?’

‘I fear I shoved the door a little hard on entering and knocked him from his perch,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am a friend to this boy and his family. Who are you?’

‘I am the Queen’s Coroner, here to hold inquest.’

The man’s expression altered, but only to harden. It was normal. Coroners had the duty of imposing fines for any infraction of the many rules about finding a dead body, so a coroner’s visit was rarely to be celebrated. Anyone hearing of an inquest would show the same enthusiasm as he would on hearing a cut-purse was working in the area.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am called Roger. My apologies. I saw the door was open and thought some mishap …’

‘You thought that felons could have broken into the place. You are a brave fellow, master.’

‘Are you well, Ben?’ the man Roger asked again. The youngster nodded, and moved towards him, I noticed. He plainly trusted this man, although I could not see why. He was clad in ill-fitting clothing that was obviously cut for a much larger man, and he had little to commend him. The fashion of his clothing was not of a standard I would ever consider wearing.

Sir Richard appeared to put him from his mind and walked to the fireplace. There were some wisps of smoke rising from the embers, and he stirred them, blowing gently until a flame appeared. There was a wicker basket with kindling over a damp patch on the stones of the hearth, and he carefully selected a few pieces and set them over the flame, placing logs nearby. ‘Where are your parents?’

The boy retreated nearer to Roger and he stood there now, with Roger’s hands on his shoulders, staring from one to the other of us. When Sir Richard repeated his question, he shook his head and began to tremble visibly. Sir Richard grunted and rose to his feet, but I held up my hand to stop him.

Walking to the lad, I squatted in front of him so we were on the same level. ‘My name is Jack. We don’t want to upset you. Do you live here, Ben?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘With your parents? Do you know?’

‘With my mother, sir. And Master Nyck – he is the host.’

His tone changed subtly as he gave that name. It sounded as if he wanted to spit it.

‘Where is Nyck? Or your mother? Do you know?’

‘He went to church with my mother.’ Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears.

‘What of your father?’

The tears could not be stemmed now. Roger gently said, ‘He was murdered. He’s in the back room.’

Sir Richard and I made our way through to the lean-to chamber at the rear of the inn. It was an old dairy, or so it felt. Cool even now, and growing cooler as the night drew on.

I was reluctant. There was that familiar odour, the smell of death and decay, with the tang of iron. I knew that scent well enough now; I may be a poor assassin, but there are aspects of the job that I have not been able to avoid. No matter how I attempted to evade dead bodies, I had managed to stumble over more than my fair share in recent months.

‘I don’t need to see this.’

‘Hey?’ Sir Richard turned and saw my face. ‘God’s blood, man! It’s just a dead fellow. Don’t be a mulligrub! No need to be down-spirited. This fellow won’t harm ye, will he? Hey? Ha ha!’

He clearly perceived this as the very height of humour and returned to the trestle table which had commanded my attention since we had walked into the room. It held a large figure wrapped in a white winding sheet, and while I doubted the enclosed man would be likely to spring from the table to assault me, it was a daunting sight. Sir Richard went to it and began to remove the linen. ‘Whoever thought it would be a good idea to wrap him up like this, hey? There’s been no blasted inquest yet! And look! The damn fool’s took off his clothes! This is ridiculous!’

As he spoke, I heard footsteps in the parlour. I turned in time to see a woman standing in the gloom. She held a candle, shielded by her left hand, and the light shone pink and orange to outline each finger.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded shrilly.

‘I am the Queen’s Coroner. Who are you?’ Sir Richard said.

She looked away. ‘I was this man’s wife.’

That was an interesting way to put it, I thought. Not that she was his widow, but that she had been his wife.

She was a comely enough woman. She had her hair concealed beneath a coif and hat, while her figure was concealed by the heavy travelling cloak she wore, which was muddy and stained. Her face was long, and she had a high brow, with slightly slanted eyes that made her look kind and affectionate. She had that sort of look about her that made me want to take her in my arms and console her. And from the look in her eyes, there was plenty to console her about. They were red with weeping, and tears had left tracks in her cheeks, washing away the dirt from the road. The child from the door was behind her, and I could see others behind him in the passageway.

‘Where’ve you been? Your child had to let us in,’ Sir Richard said.

‘At church. We wanted to pray for his soul.’

She looked close to tears, but Sir Richard was not a sensitive soul. His tone was brusque and unsympathetic. ‘Who cleaned him and took his clothes?’

‘I did. He was murdered, and I couldn’t leave him in the state he was in.’

‘You realize, madam, that you broke the law? He should have been left where he had been found so that I could inspect the body in situ. There is likely to be much evidence that has been lost, because you moved him here.’

‘I wasn’t going to leave him lying in the dirt at the roadside just so that you could study him there. He was my husband. I loved him,’ she snapped, and added quietly, glancing down at the man’s face, ‘There was no need to leave him there. He was my husband, Coroner. My husband. I loved him.’

‘You may think so. However, it was not your choice to make, woman. Now we may never know what I could have learned. Where are the clothes he was wearing?’

‘I gave them away,’ she said with a defiant tilt of her head. ‘What, you think I want to be reminded that someone stabbed my poor Peter in the road and left him to bleed to death?’

She looked as though she was close to tears again, her gaze moving from Sir Richard to the pale face on the table.

I put on my best smile. ‘Madam, I am very sorry that you have lost your husband.’

‘I lost him a long time ago,’ she muttered. ‘As soon as King Edward died.’

‘Eh?’

She looked up again, shaking her head as if bewildered. ‘I am sorry. I was thinking out loud. What do you wish to know?’

Sir Richard draped the linen back over the man’s face. ‘Nothing for now, except to know that you will be here tomorrow for the inquest. I must have the local jury called – all the families who live in the near vicinity. I dare say there won’t be many. I will need you to bring all the clothing you still possess, and tell those you gave his other clothes to, to bring them as well. I will hold the inquest at noon sharp.’

‘I understand.’

She had a great gift of stillness, which gave her a calm dignity as she stood there, staring down at her husband’s body.

‘Madam,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I am very sorry for your loss. However, since this is an inn, is there food for me and my men? And a chamber for us to sleep tonight?’

‘I shall see what can be provided.’

When I returned to the parlour to stand before the fireplace, I found that the tipstaff and his men were already halfway to the happiness that can be found at the bottom of a cup or tankard. Roger was standing in the corner, eyeing the men with disfavour. It was like so many local taverns: introduce a stranger, and the peasants would always become silent until they left.

The landlord was a cheerful-looking man of some five-and-thirty summers. ‘Sir? What may I fetch you?’

‘I’ll have a pint of sack,’ I said.

He disappeared, soon to return with an earthenware jug. He set it on the table beside me and placed a cup next to it.

‘Excellent,’ I said, pouring a measure and sipping. It was a great improvement on the foul concoction Raphe had served me earlier. ‘This widow – do you know her well?’

His rotund features stiffened. It was like watching a door slam. I could feel the waves of discontent from Roger, and the landlord glanced at him quickly before returning to me. ‘I know her.’

‘What was her husband like?’

‘Father Peter? He was a very capable, pleasant fellow. Everyone liked him.’

I didn’t see the point of mentioning that one person clearly didn’t like him so much. ‘Was he true to the old faith or the new?’

‘Well, he held services in the old when he arrived here.’

‘Which means little enough.’

‘He had been a priest in King Henry’s Church.’

‘I see. But when Queen Mary decided to change the law, so that the women married to priests must be thrown aside and their marriages declared illegal, he was one who found that easier than keeping hold of her? A shame, I’d have thought. She looks a prime article.’

‘She is widowed today, master,’ he said shortly. Roger slammed his cup on the bar and walked from the room.

I stared after him a moment before returning to the landlord. ‘I know, but … anyway, why was she here? The fellow would not have been allowed to keep his concubine with him.’

‘He did not live here with her. The Queen’s law meant that priests like Peter must move away from their original parish. He came here, leaving his wife and children behind. They were forced to accept poverty as punishment and were not allowed contact with him.’

‘So when did they arrive here?’

‘Some weeks ago. They have been staying here with me for the last fortnight.’

‘Why would she follow him here?’

The landlord didn’t meet my eye, which gave him an oddly shifty appearance. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Perhaps she wanted to remind him what he was missing,’ I mused. ‘A dangerous plan, though. A priest trying to keep his family would lose his benefice. And any discovered cohabiting would be severely punished. I have heard of a priest who was caught carrying his babe in the street. He was known to the officer, and when he was discovered, he was arrested and beaten. Some bishops are not understanding like that.’

‘Yes. The stories of how they were beaten, just for taking wives, makes a fellow shrink in horror,’ the landlord said.

It was a sad story. Many of the priests were forced to walk as penitents, while senior priests or their bishop lashed them. Personally, I would have kept the woman. After all, most of the poor devils had only married the women who had kept their beds warm before the change in the Church’s rules. At least the men had made honest women of them – for a period.

The landlord was keen to be away. I didn’t wish to delay him. ‘What is your name again?’

‘Nyck, sir.’ I nodded. The man whose name had made the lad Ben pull a grimace.

‘Have you seen a man about here called Dick Atwood?’

‘Him?’

If I had held any concerns about my old servant being able to injure me with his allegations of my being involved in a murder here, they were instantly dissipated. The look of disdain on Nyck’s face was unmistakeable. If Atwood spoke against me, it would most likely count in my favour with the locals here.

I returned to my pot with a feeling of reassurance.

As I drank, I saw the lad who had opened the door to us. I beckoned him. It was not something Ben had expected, plainly. I saw him glance about him, as though ensuring that no one was watching who might take offence at his communing with me, and then warily approached me.

‘Come, fellow,’ I said heartily. ‘Would you hob or nob?’

Ben shot a look at the jugs. One was standing on the hob, right next the fire, where it was warmed through. The other was on the nob, set away from the fire, remaining cool.

‘I can see you feel cold. You would prefer a hob, would you not?’ I said heartily. I poured him a small measure, replacing the jug on the hob, and sat back, indicating to him that he should take his seat on a stool nearby. ‘Tell me, so you live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And a fine place it is for a lad to grow up, too. A good little business. I dare say it grows busy at market time? Travellers on their way to the city, others returning. All with money in their purses, ready to be spent. You must have a lot of stories to tell of the people passing the inn? I used to know a man who lived about here somewhere,’ I added, frowning as though with recollection. ‘A man called Dick – er – Atwood. I don’t suppose you have heard of him, have you?’

‘I know him,’ the boy said with feeling, and this time his face was sour as a green cherry. ‘He beat me, when he thought I was stealing apples from the vicar’s orchard. Atwood was his servant.’

‘Haha! That’s the fellow. He can be a bit hard on a lad, I expect?’

‘He said he had been a soldier.’

‘Yes. I used to know him then. But he’s not a man I would trust much. Would you?’

The boy turned his big, innocent blue eyes on me. ‘No.’

‘Is he here now?’ I asked, feigning lack of interest.

‘No. He left this afternoon.’

‘Oh?’ I sipped my drink, and then a quick, sharp pain caught me as a thought speared my brain. ‘Um … did he leave just after the body had been found, do you know?’

‘Yes. It was just after the alarm was raised. He said he would be back shortly, but he isn’t.’

Well, I considered, it would be a wonderful thing if the man had been caught by outlaws and slaughtered at the roadside, just like the unhappy priest Peter.

I did not like Atwood.

Atwood was a man I had met during the short-lived Wyatt Rebellion the year before. Wyatt and a number of others were determined to remove the Queen and replace her with young Lady Jane Grey, or perhaps even Princess Elizabeth, as she then was. Queen Mary, to prove her own legitimacy, had to declare her mother’s divorce illegal and baseless. England would not happily accept an illegitimate woman taking the throne, after all. So her repeal of the law stating that her mother’s marriage to the King had been illegal for reasons of consanguinity, had the simultaneous effect of declaring Anne Boleyn’s marriage to the King to be illegal. If that was illegal, any children from that union were also illegitimate. So in order to save herself embarrassment, Queen Mary willingly imposed the same shame on her half-sister. Elizabeth lost her royal title of ‘Princess’ and became merely ‘Lady’.

That being so, the Lady Elizabeth likely discovered an anger towards her half-sister, an anger that would soon be expressed as jealousy, I suppose. In any case, the Rebellion, so it was said, was launched in order to remove Queen Mary and impose someone else – either Lady Jane or Lady Elizabeth – and I became embroiled. Atwood was a soldier at the time, and I had good cause to distrust him. He was a dangerous man, and held no fond memories of me, I was sure. The last time I saw him, he was employed by my master, and that might mean that he was involved in politicking here. If so, my own life could be in danger.

I resolved to leave the inn and the village at first light.

‘Hah! Master Blackjack! Would ye mind if I hobnobbed with you? Eh?’ Sir Richard said as he came and sat at my side.