Next morning, as soon as I had attended Mass, and received a filthy look from the priest for my irregular appearances, I made my way to Rose Lane and knocked at the familiar door.
‘What do you want?’
I have spoken before of Mark Thomasson. He was one of those fellows who is the living proof that a man of intelligence has no need to satisfy other men’s visions of fashion. As a philosopher he cared nothing for any conventions of dress or conduct. His hair was awry, his gown had stains from experiments, or perhaps soup and gravy, all down the front. There was a significant burn hole at the breast, surrounded by a spattering of smaller ones. He told me he had been divining the best mixture of saltpetre, charcoal and brimstone to make explosive powder, when something had gone rather wrong.
His expression was ever charmingly baffled, like a schoolboy presented with a theory of … something difficult. His constant companion was a huge, drooling hound called Peterkin, whose rumbling growl made the plates on the sideboard rattle when I entered his chamber.
As always it was filled with the sort of rubbish that belonged in a midden. A helm with a bullet hole at the temple, a series of bones from some creature, a huge telescope on a tripod, bows, guns, a crossbow, harness, a breastplate with two holes punched through, a second helm, this time with a vast dint in it … I have seen frippers’ stalls more orderly. Somewhere beneath all the accumulated items were tables and chairs, I believe, although I had to take that on faith. None was visible.
‘Jonah! Fetch wine.’
His irascible old servant snarled something and was off, returning as slowly as only a geriatric like him could manage.
When Mark was seated, and I was perched on the corner of a desk which he had cleared for me, he nodded to me encouragingly. ‘How may I serve you?’
Jonah came back while I was speaking about the three men. ‘Do you know of any reason why they might be following me? I thought it was just money they wanted, but now … surely after two days they would have gone in search of an easier gull to blackmail. If they are still after me, I wonder whether there is more to this.’
He agreed. ‘Yes, it hardly seems likely that they would be pursuing you for swiving a maid.’
‘What other reason could they have had?’ I scoffed – and then gaped as the obvious struck me: the man Bagnall had hinted at knowing much about me. Could he have learned of my position for John Blount as remover of obstacles to Lady Elizabeth? I was her assassin, and if they knew that, their silence might be worth a lot to me.
How they could have come to know my position under John Blount was unimportant. The clear fact was, that my position did not scare them or cause them alarm. I mean to say, most would consider carefully before attempting to threaten a known assassin, after all. He might well view their demands for ransom as a matter to be easily dealt with by a simple remedy, such as steel to the breast, or a swift garrotte in a dark alley.
It was enough to make me swallow with a cold, clammy sensation of impending disaster. ‘Perhaps their interest was due to politics, or some other intrigue.’
I have known Mark Thomasson for many years now. His was the brilliant mind behind the solving of the cipher when I was in the unfortunate position of being suspected of murdering an important messenger. More recently he has helped with other matters, but this, I felt sure, would test him to the full.
He frowned. ‘Politics? Hmm. There are rumours that our queen is unwell. She announced her pregnancy last August, I think. A twelvemonth since. In March people began to talk about her pregnancy, saying that it was no more authentic than her previous assertions, and I have heard that physicians are whispering about her health. I know that there are rumours that she has written a new will.’
I had heard that too. My master, John Blount, was a member of Lady Elizabeth’s inner circle of advisers, and over the spring and summer he had regularly disappeared from the city to go and visit Elizabeth wherever she may be at the time, whether to Hatfield or Brocket Hall, or to travel as far as Longleat to meet with her cofferer, Thomas Parry. I never liked him. The Welshman was too smug and self-satisfied for his own good, and I was fully aware that he would not hesitate to see me executed. He would stand at the gallows cracking nuts while I died, I expect, and call for more wine. That was the sort of man he was. Having said that, he was utterly devoted to Lady Elizabeth, and would have crawled over red-hot coals to protect her. Or, rather, he would have been willing to sacrifice any number of others to try to keep her safe. John Blount was the kind of fellow who would always be certain that only his brain was agile enough to see how to do so, and perhaps he was right.
Matters were coming to a head for the queen. She was unwell, as all could see, and she was, I believe, aware that something was amiss. Perhaps she was growing to understand that her reign would not last much longer.
Mark frowned. ‘What might she have put into her will? Could she be foolish enough to try to rule from the grave? Perhaps she might consider a stern injunction upon her subjects to obey Philip, her husband. Perhaps a similar instruction that all must continue in the Catholic faith, no matter what. Or even move to ensure that Lady Elizabeth might never take the throne? It would be most instructive to see what was in that will.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘Oh, possibly nothing. Nothing. So, these men came to you and you think they know you are an assassin for Lady Elizabeth, when such knowledge is only granted to a few. And if they did know, they could easily inform the queen, and see you arrested and taken to the Tower. But they have not yet sold you to the queen’s questioners; that must mean that they are not necessarily her agents. Nor, necessarily, that they know your position as assassin. You may have misconstrued their desire to see you.’
‘Which means?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, it may mean you will live a little longer than if they were agents for the queen or her husband.’
I felt that slab of ice in my bowels once more.
‘The question really is,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘what do they want from you? Other than money, of course. Perhaps you should go and speak with them?’
‘Speak with them?’
Admittedly, I had not in fact mentioned the fact that my boot had connected with the man’s cods, but even so, the mere fact that this Bagnall was threatening to blackmail me was a bit of a clue, I thought, to the fact that it might be hazardous for me to try to speak with him and his companions. After all, it was plain enough to me that they were threatening to expose me to Alice’s master. She would lose her place, but I might get a whipping.
His words did give me pause for thought, though. Was that their meaning? I had rushed to assume that they considered me a dangerous opponent. Was it possible that they had some other form of blackmail in mind? Or did they simply mean to rob me? They had known I had visited my old home – perhaps they knew that Vanderstilt’s money had come in, and they sought to take a portion of my rent? But no – if they were that assured, they would have knocked the bottler on the head. He would be an easier foe than me. At least, at first sight he would be. As I had discovered, he was less a bottler than a master of arms. Possibly the leading member of the trio had tried to take the purse from the old man, but had soon found himself bested, so in preference he sought me out to take my money from me instead. Did it matter? They were prepared to assault me in the street – or an alleyway – to demand money by menacing me. And whatever it was that made them think they could take my money, my going to them and speaking with them was hardly likely to end in a favourable result for me, so far as I could see.
‘It would give you an opportunity to discuss the affair with them,’ Mark said, nodding to himself. ‘Then, at least, you will be better informed to know how to proceed.’
I gave an indeterminate sound, which led to a loud and alarming rumble from beneath my legs. When I glanced down, I saw the enormous head of Peterkin below me, jaws open and a little trace of drool falling on the floor. His teeth were very white, I noticed. I resolved not to make any unnecessary movements or noises.
‘Perhaps such an opportunity would not be too dangerous,’ I managed after some moments.
‘It is always best to understand the motives and desires of others,’ he admonished. ‘How else can a conversation be fruitful? If you only have one side of an argument, you have a declaration. With both sides discussing, you have rational debate.’
He was, as I have mentioned, a philosopher. I was not persuaded. ‘If their sole desire is to rob or injure me, it will be difficult to hold a rational debate with them,’ I pointed out.
‘Ah, you will find everything can be resolved using logic,’ he said, waving a hand airily.
It was, I felt, easy for him to say that.
‘What if they decide against logic? They may not be philosophers.’
He looked troubled to hear that. ‘Ah, true.’
‘And my tenant has disappeared,’ I said, and explained about Vanderstilt.
‘That is interesting,’ he mused, his chin on his fist.
‘What should I do?’
‘I would suggest you speak with your tenant’s friends and business associates. Perhaps one of them could help.’
After talking it through with him for a little longer, I left with the matter unresolved. Mark’s only suggestion was that I should speak to Vanderstilt’s friends – perhaps also the man Lewan de Beaulieu, whom my tenant’s servant had mentioned – and go to the three wayfarers and ask what they wanted from me. But the three were the issue that absorbed me as I walked homewards. If I were to do as he suggested, I had no doubt that I would be robbed, and beaten, and blackmailed as well. It made no sense for them to be demanding money unless they knew about my job as an assassin, and if they knew that, they held my life in their hands.
I didn’t want to be beaten, I didn’t want to be robbed, and I didn’t want to live knowing that the three held my life and safety in their hands, for if they were determined to blackmail me, they were money-farmers. A farmer would always come back to the same cow for more milk, day after day, and in the same way, surely these three would return to me demanding more money every week until I was entirely spent – and then what? Likely they would sell me to a thief-catcher or constable for their final payment.
No, it was not to be supported.
Making my way towards Ludgate, I became aware of a prickling at the hairs on my neck. There was nothing I could see that merited concern when I looked about me, but there was some kind of nervous sense that I was in danger. I am a man with experience of such sensations, and it felt to me that I was being followed, but when I glanced about me, there was no sign of a familiar face tracking my steps.
I don’t know whether you have experienced that kind of thing, when there is nothing obvious, but you are sure that your instincts are correct. Of course, some four years ago, I had been here, and the rebellion against Queen Mary’s marriage to Philip of Spain had come to the gates of the city itself. And this was where I had been when Wyatt’s mob were finally forced to admit defeat. At the gates of the city, when he strode to the gates and asked the citizens of London to join him, he was met with jeers. He lost his head – literally – when the queen caught him.
Perhaps this anxiety was merely a remembrance of that day, and the end of the poor Kentish fools who followed young Wyatt? But that made little sense. I had been up this road many times since that day, and never had the slightest intimation that there was anything amiss.
On a whim, I turned into a side street heading towards the river. I have always felt that the Thames was a soothing sight – perhaps because it carried so much effluent, detritus and corpses that a brief glimpse of the foul, muddy waters was enough to make the rest of the world seem a brighter, cleaner place.
That feeling would not leave me. Worse, as I stood staring across the river, the sense of something dangerous approaching would not leave me. Rather, it grew even as the sound of footsteps grew louder.
‘Master Blackjack. Kind of you to come down here.’
I turned, so scared I could not even make a squeak of protect. The voice belonged to the enormous moorstone block whom I had seen standing outside my old house. He now stood over me, peering down like a … well, like a giant peering at an ant to squash.
His fist rose.
I ran.
I have been an expert in running for most of my life. My slim figure, my practice since my youth, and the fleetness of foot earned from years of escaping constables and bailiffs, all merged to make me as swift as a terrified hart. I sprang away, and could almost hear the swoosh of his fist as it missed my face, but then I was head-down and flying across the beach, avoiding the darker patches of mud in which, I knew, I could become mired. Up ahead there was a rickety bridge of planks over a gutter which brought much of the ordure from St Paul’s to the river. The stench from it was so foul it made me blench, which just goes to show that even the most religious types still shit like any other men. I have always said that if a fellow is alarmed by a man of authority in a position of power, one need only bring to mind a vision of that fellow on the privy. He sits with his hosen about his ankles just like any other, and the product of his squatting is as noisome. Thinking of that always makes even the most intimidating man seem less frightful.
Be that as it may, I was over those rotten planks like a bolt of lightning. They were green and slimy, as you would expect of planks washed daily by the tidal flow of the river, but when I reached the other side, I realized my error. I was in an entirely walled space, and to escape from here I must either climb the wall, or swim. I cannot swim. And the wall’s stones and pilings were as filthy and slippery as the planks of the bridge. I turned in time to see the tor stepping up onto the planks.
Have you ever been in an accident? If you have, say, been thrown from a horse, or fallen from a great height, or suddenly been accosted by a vagabond with a cudgel, you will know what I mean.
Here I was, standing in a small area of only a quarter acre or so. Even if I attempted to run to the water, to escape by rounding the wall, it would mean galumphing over Thames mud. I would barely make five yards before my pursuer had caught me – and if he was even slower and failed, it was likely that we should both become enveloped in mud and held there until we drowned with the rising waters. If I tried to clamber up the wall itself, I would undoubtedly be caught.
When such situations strike, I have always found that the event leaves an imprint forever on the mind. It is burned there, like a brand seared into wood. Time itself is halted, so that every moment of exquisite horror must be relived for as long as a man must live. Not that it would last long, were this walking rock to catch me. I was firmly convinced of that.
‘Stop, Master Blackjack! Perkin wants to talk to you, that’s all.’
I had no idea who this fellow was, and was not of a mood to listen in any case. I was too petrified. Instead I attempted to find an escape.
He stepped onto the plank, which squeaked in protest. I could see it bend. With a bleat of terror, I pulled my sword free. I wished I had had the foresight to bring my handgun with me, but that was far away in my house. Why hadn’t I brought it today! Pointing my blade at him, I tried to enunciate the words ‘God’s pains, I will fight!’ but the only sound came out as a sort of strangled rasp. Even I was not sure what I said.
The moorstone’s face cracked and I could distinctly see two teeth. Others were missing. He took another step, and I bleated again, with less optimism than before. And then his smile sort of flickered. It was there one moment, and then consternation overwhelmed the levity. He looked down, just as I heard it. A distinct cracking sound, not harsh and sharp like a dry twig; this was more like a bone breaking. I have heard enough of them in my time, and there is a sort of sogginess to such a noise, which is horribly unpleasant.
A broken arm or leg is without a doubt deeply unpleasant. It means a man will be in pain for months, and probably crippled for life. This, however, was worse. Recalling other unpleasant events that appeared to happen very slowly, I once was left hanging to the walls of a midden, with the stench of a tavern’s excrement overwhelming me as a man attempted to make me fall and drown in it. There can be few more terrible ways to die than that.
As he was about to learn.
The man tried to leap for it, but too late. Or perhaps his attempt was enough to shatter the last splinters which bound the plank together. Whatever the reason, his legs bent to jump, but when he straightened them in his last effort, the planks snapped with a dull sound like a stone slapping a pond, and his eyes widened in horror. I could swear he hovered there for a moment, like a hawk. Time paused, as though he was hanging between Heaven and Hell – and then he disappeared.
As I mentioned, this sewer came from St Paul’s. It was a fast-flowing brook, full of the contents of the privies at St Paul’s. However, it was also fed by an offshoot of the River Fleet, which flowed past the privies and took the unwanted waste away from the cathedral and out to the Thames. So this bridge collapse left my opponent falling some five feet or so into a river of foulness. His arms flailed, and for a moment I was transfixed by the sight of his eyes, round as pennies with horror, as he gripped the edge of the wall about the sewer, but then his feet slipped and slid on a century of shit, and his eyes reflected a kind of desperate realization that his life had always been shit, and now it was to end in shit. His eyes begged me to rescue him, but even as I considered reaching down and reluctantly gripping his wrist, two considerations struck me. First, were he to live, there was no assurance that he would not attempt to kill me again. Second, he was covered in sewage. I hastily withdrew my hand and watched as he was washed away into the Thames. Which was, I suppose, some relief, since at least those waters were, in relative terms, more pleasant as a final resting place.
He splashed and wailed, his head appearing and then sinking several times, but the flow of the river soon took him away, and just before he passed from sight, I saw his body become still, his back to the sky.
That was when I realized that I was still in an area that was enclosed, and now there was no bridge.
It was some while later that I heard voices and, by shouting, managed finally to enlist the aid of two student lawyers who were passing through the gardens above the wall.
They had lunched well, from the evidence.
It was some little time before I could get them to look over the wall and talk to me. They had been staring, I assume, all about them, wondering where my voice came from, until one suggested that I might be in the river.
Peering over the wall, they were intrigued by my appearance, demanding to know why I had reached that specific area of riverbank. One, the drunker of the two, was convinced that I had been dropped there by a wherry. His companion, a ginger-haired lanky type, was more interested in what had tempted me there, no matter how I had arrived.
After at last getting through their fog of wine or beer, one of them caught on and went to fetch a man with a ladder or rope, and soon thereafter I was on the top of the wall, knocking the worst of the mud and slime from my new suit. It was enough to make me despondent. After only a short while, my suit was already marked. I would have to hope that my maid, Cecily, was as efficient at cleaning cloth as she was at cooking.
At last I could leave and I made my way past St Paul’s Cross to the tavern just beyond. Here, I knew, Humfrie would often stop for a whet when he was not busy.
Humfrie – how does a fellow describe Humfrie? He is an almost invisible man. I don’t mean that he is literally hidden from the naked eye, but he is one of those fellows who is easily ignored. A man who could stand in the midst of a large crowd, and yet still be unobserved by all about him, a figure a little taller than me, but hunched. Nobody would notice him at a small gathering. He was as unobtrusive as any servant, just a mere figure standing quietly, and not worthy of attention. It was one of his greatest skills, this fading into the background, because Humfrie was my associate.
Yes. As an assassin, I suffer from two faults. One is the intense dislike of pain, most of all that inflicted on me. However, I also have a revulsion at the thought of killing people. I can do it. I have done so, probably, when fighting to protect London from the rebels, but that was at distance, not close to, not up close. That was why the tor had terrified me, even though I had a sword and he no weapon other than his hands. I would possibly have died at his hands. He was one of those brutes who seems specifically created to injure others, whereas I am designed not to harm any creature. This is a failing in a supposed assassin.
For these reasons, I was tempted to refuse the offer of a position when John Blount originally proposed it to me. If he had not threatened me at the time, I would not have accepted. And then, when I realized the value of my contract – a house, annual suit of clothes, access to money, to women, to society – well, by then it was hard to admit to the truth, that I could not murder on command. Instead, I hired Humfrie, who was father to a maid I was seeing at the time, and he agreed to take on the dirtier side of the business for a share of my fee. Since those early days, we had been jointly responsible for a number of deaths, but I was careful always to ensure that I was far from the actual murders, and with many other people, so that I always had a firm alibi.
Humfrie now peered at me over the top of his leathern tankard with a frown. He had the sort of face that was like a roadway map that has been used too often. There were creases within creases, and wrinkles that flourished like branches and twigs on a tree. Just now his expression was bleak, and he set his drink on the table and leaned back, the candlelight throwing his face into shadow. Only the glint of his eyes flashed occasionally.
‘Describe them again,’ he said.
‘The two brutes were cast from the same mould. Both tall, about five feet eight or nine, with faces like statues. Their arms were strongly muscled, and they had short brown hair, caps, jacks and threadbare hosen. The other was their leader, I think. He was skinnier, but with strength, you know? Like a blacksmith. He said he was called Perkin Bagnall.’
He shook his head, indicating the name was unknown to him.
‘Hair colour?’
‘I don’t know. Mousy, I suppose. He had a thin face, sort of like a man who’s not enjoyed the very best of food all his life.’
‘Describes half the scrotes in the city,’ he said pensively. ‘Did he have a scar or birthmark? Anything to distinguish him?’
‘Not that I remember. But his eyes – they were very keen. Fierce, even. He scared me.’
‘And you kicked him hard?’
‘Oh, yes. He won’t forget that in a hurry.’
‘You should stay at home a while.’
‘Which home?’
‘Either. They know where you live, don’t they? They can keep an eye on both houses with ease, and go after you wherever you try to hide from them.’
‘What should I do? I can’t just sit in the house and wait for them to come and kill me!’
‘I can come and help you,’ he said consolingly, but with a certain edge, as if he thought I was being unreasonable. I thought my panic perfectly reasonable.
‘You’ll come and guard me?’
‘I will come by and see that you are safe, and remove any of those who seek to hurt you.’
And beyond that, he would say no more. It did not calm my concerns.
This was not ideal. I confess, I would have preferred to think that I had ten or fifteen men to come and guard me at all hours, rather than one who would appear occasionally, when there was nothing better for him to do. A full-time guard was preferable.
Yet Humfrie was different. He was a professional in every way, a cool, collected assassin who would take infinite efforts to remove those whose continued presence was thought unnecessary, but with the minimum of fuss and as little pain as possible. His intention was to bring his victims to their end, ideally without their even realizing they had died. In addition, I knew him to be as effective as a guard. He has protected me before, you see.
So I left the tavern with a little more of a spring in my step. I felt considerably happier to know that Humfrie was to be on hand, were I to need him. I suppose it was that which made me feel confident enough to change my mind. After all, the man who had followed me the day before had been washed away with all the other garbage in the Thames. I was presumably safe for a while.
Mark had suggested talking to the three men. Now there were two, but I didn’t feel it would be sensible to visit them and attempt to explain how the third would not return to them. He had also suggested talking to Lewan de Beaulieu, and other competitors to Vanderstilt. He could have a point there. But how should I introduce myself? It would take some thought to consider how best to conduct an enquiry there. And so, I considered it preferable to wander up to where Alice lived and see if she was prepared to arrange another assignation. I had a need for her young body again.
However, first I returned to my own house. The giant who had followed me was gone, and it would be a while before his comrades realized he had disappeared, but I saw no advantage in being quite so prominent and obvious. I went to my closet and clad myself in poorer, meaner clothing.
With a cowl over my head, and rough, workmanlike shirt and hosen, I was sure no one would recognize me. It was embarrassing to be clad in such demeaning garb, but these were troublesome times, and it was better not to be clothed in a higher-quality suit.
The house where Alice lived was north of mine, and I walked up Bishopsgate with a spring in my step in hope of a pleasant afternoon in store. She was a succulent little strumpet and, with her sweetly innocent expression and boundless enthusiasm, she was just what I needed.
Walking with my head bowed like an old man, hooded and thus concealed, I felt safe. Certainly, no one took the trouble to glance at me a second time.
Alice’s house was just along the city’s wall from the gate itself.
Now, believe me or not, I had not actually thought much about whether she might be free for an assignation. After all, she was a working servant, and it was possible that her master, George Loughgren, might deprecate her disappearance for the afternoon. Still, I felt it was worth a try. I leaned against a tree just inside the wall, and gazed at the house, wondering what might be the best approach to get to her. In the end I decided that the best route for me would be to wander to the rear door, where the kitchen should be, and enquire after her there.
The door was a half-and-half stable type, with the top open, the bottom closed. I stood there with my cowl over my head and knocked respectfully.
A maid came to the door. ‘Yes?’
She was not terribly pretty, with a face rather round and a dumpy figure, but she did have an appealing expression, and I gave her one of my special smiles that never fails to win over a maiden’s heart. ‘I’m here to see Alice. I haven’t heard from her, and thought I should drop by and make sure she was well.’
My winning smile was not working. Hers fled like sticks washed away downriver. ‘Alice?’
‘Yes. She told me she lived here. Is she busy?’
‘I … Alice is your friend?’
‘She and I have an understanding,’ I said, with one of my milder leers, the sort to indicate that I knew I was a bit of a rogue, but had a heart of gold and meant to marry her. You know the sort of look. ‘She may have mentioned me – I am Jack Blackjack.’
To my distress her face crumpled like her ragged apron, and she began to bawl.
‘Hush! Hush! What have I said? What is it? Is she not here?’
‘Alice is dead! She was murdered in the roadway only this last week!’
There have been times when I have been lost for words, and this, I would say, was about the worst of them. It did not seem credible that Alice, lovely Alice, could be no more. I shook my head with a fixed grin of consternation on my face, but I was unable to make a sound as she wept and wailed. Soon a stern-faced old knave appeared and pushed himself between us, glaring at me. ‘What is this? Buckle your mouth, child. You – what have you said to distress Marge? Who are you?’
‘He was Alice’s swain, sir! He was asking after her because he’s heard nothing from her since she – since …’
That heralded the next onset of misery, and her steward flapped at Marge to shoo her away like a goose. ‘Begone, child. I will deal with this. You go and dry your eyes and make yourself presentable. In God’s name, go!’
He returned to me. I was standing somewhat glassily, the smile still fixed to my mouth, but I know that my features displayed my utter confusion at this ghastly turn of events.
‘Master,’ he said, ‘I suppose you were keen on young Alice? My condolences. She was taken this Thursday past, and I do not suppose there is anything I can say that will make your loss any the easier. Certainly, she was a pretty little thing, and a good worker. I do not know that we shall be able to replace her with any girl as willing and eager.’
I almost responded that I doubted whether I could either, but reconsidered. It might have been considered in bad taste. Besides, I still had Susan. I nodded and grunted in agreement.
‘If it is any help, she was not … ruined before death. I … well, whoever did it was cruel, but the coroner was convinced that she was not spoiled in … that way. Very sad, but I’m sure it’s a consolation to know she wasn’t … um …’ he trailed off, plainly unsure whether I was relieved or not. In any case, he put aside my feelings for the nonce and began to bustle. ‘So, you will need to be about your business. I am sorry not to be able to help you, but her death has left us all with a lot more work.’
‘But who could have …?’
‘I am sorry. My master is returning,’ the man said, jerking his chin to point at a large fellow clad in expensive-looking clothes who was now approaching. ‘I must go! Good day to you.’
He turned and was about to shut the door when perhaps he caught sight of my expression. I do not think it was particularly friendly towards him. He pulled a face and offered me a cup of wine to help reinvigorate me, but I refused it and turned away, off down towards St Paul’s. On the way, I passed his master, Loughgren, but turned my gaze away from him.
I had a feeling of sickness deep in my stomach. In my mind’s eye I could see Alice’s smile, the way she looked as I lay back and she squatted over me, the way she raised an eyebrow after making the most salacious proposals, her filthy laugh … The thought of wine was enough to make me want to hurl up all the ale I’d drunk in the tavern with Humfrie.
No, I didn’t want wine. I wanted to avenge her. It was so wrong that someone could have taken her. And why? She was a mere servant girl. She had no money to make her worth attacking or killing. Why would someone have murdered her?