I woke to pain.
There are a few rules to which I will adhere through my life, and one of the key ones is: do not go to sleep with a handgun shoved into your belt. It felt as if I had been stabbed with a halberd, and at the same time slammed in the backside with a heavy maul. I rolled to my right, trying to escape the agony, but it only seemed to exacerbate things. Giving an involuntary yelp, I was forced to rest on all fours, head dangling, while I caught my breath.
It was some while before I could struggle slowly to my feet, feeling like a man three times my age and ready for the coffin. It took a lot longer for me to manage to deploy and descend the ladder, and even then I was forced to stand clutching at a convenient pillar for some time before I could walk. I pulled the gun from my belt and moved it to the front of my body, considering that I really ought to draw the ball and replace the powder and priming, but just now I had other things on my mind. First among these was the matter of Vanderstilt’s body.
He must surely have been discovered by now, had he been murdered. It was not as if a body could go unnoticed by the roadside, and there had been plenty of time for anyone to notice if a body had been thrown into their yard. Yards in London were not enormous, after all. The gardens of the palaces and massive houses further along The Strand were big enough for a body to get lost, perhaps, but not the usual little hovels and gardens here, towards the east.
Of course, a body thrown in the Thames would be lost forever, but a footpad coming across Vanderstilt would have the problem of carrying his victim’s body to the water. Vanderstilt had left Sir Edmund’s house, according to the knight, and headed homewards. He might have taken the route eastwards, but he would have to turn up along the wall at the latest, and there were not that many alleys leading to the water.
It struck me that many of those that did exist between houses did not have regular passersby. Perhaps a murderer could have stabbed him and slung him into the nearest alleyway? It would save him the effort of dragging or carrying the body to the water’s edge. And if it were a quiet, unobtrusive alleyway, maybe no one had seen him. If they had, of course, they might have decided to ‘unsee’ him. The first finder of a body was invariably fined to ensure he would appear before the coroner and justices for future investigations, and many chose to walk by hurriedly rather than be exposed to the inevitable cost.
Thus it was that I made my way back towards the river, carefully noting how far I was from Sir Edmund’s house, and determined to avoid any risk of seeing him. From Tower Hill, I started methodically searching all the little byways that led away from the main road, those heading towards the river, and those heading away. I found trash and garbage of all types: broken barrels, animal bones, old and worn leather buckets, several broken tools of different types, a number of dead rats – and on one notable occasion a body, which reeked of putrefaction. But it was that of a dog, not Vanderstilt.
I was almost at Sir Edmund’s house, and about to return the way I had come, when I heard shouting and turned to see Sir Edmund in the street, while a man stood shaking his fist at the knight. Sir Edmund appeared unimpressed by the display, and shortly afterwards raised a hand. One of his men stepped forward immediately and slammed his fist into the stranger’s stomach. I could hear his gasp of anguish as he folded up like a poorly constructed chair. Sir Edmund stepped over him and continued on his way to where a groom held a horse for him. He mounted and trotted past his agonized victim, ignoring him in much the same way that he ignored the three urchins who were playing farther along the street again, this time throwing stones to hit a target – I could not see what. I slid myself back into the alley, out of his sight.
When the knight and his small retinue of four men had passed by, I peered out after them, and was relieved to see that they were already disappearing around the next curve in the street. I quickly hurried out and along the way to the man, who was now on his knees, dazed.
‘Master, are you well? Can I help you up?’ I said.
He declined my offer of a physician, but was grateful for my hand to support him. ‘What was that about, master?’ I asked as he tottered with me to the nearest wall. I was keen to lead him away from Sir Edmund’s house, and away from the Tower, since that was the direction Sir Edmund had taken, but the fellow was not in a condition to rush. His breath came in painful little gasps and whistles. Besides, my own back was hardly up to a mad scramble from the place.
‘He owes me money. Usual thing: rich bastards think they can get away with thieving from the small fellows like us. Can’t trust these nobles.’ He made it sound like a very rude comment on the knight’s birth. ‘Not one. They all think to steal just because they have men behind them who’ll enforce their thefts!’
‘What is your profession, master?’
‘I am a master armourer. He had weapons needing work, and I dealt with them, but now he refuses to pay my bill. Well, I’ll never work for him again, and I’ll tell the others in my guild to avoid him too.’
‘What did he want done?’ I asked, trying to manoeuvre him away from the wall. ‘Look, there is a tavern over there. I could do with a refreshment – what of you?’
He graciously assented. I had already had an opportunity to weigh his purse – it was my old profession, after all – and before long we had entered the Wherryman’s Retreat, a lively little drinking house at the top end of London Bridge. I knew this place from many years before, and I knew it to be frequented by cheerful workers from the docks, boats and wherries. It was the sort of alehouse where a fight could break out at any moment, and many faces would be bloodied and noses broken, but owing to the size of the landlord, a short but broad Scotsman with a temper so vile none would gainsay him, all fights tended to end swiftly, with those desperately keen to fight soon knocked on the pate by the owner and slung from the door.
My companion, William (‘call me Bill’) Paynter, was a shortish, sallow-complexioned man of some four- or five-and-thirty years, with shrewd, dark-brown eyes that measured and assessed a fellow while he spoke. He accepted a pot of ale from me with a show of reluctance, since, as he said, he owed me the drink, but we agreed that he could provide the second drinks, and with that arrangement we settled to discuss Sir Edmund.
‘He’s a vile, paltry bastard with the makings of a second-level peasant,’ was his considered opinion of the good knight. ‘He spends his time in that house, riding off to see the nobs, and trampling ordinary folk on his way.’
‘What nobs?’
‘Oh, he is very keen on all the big families. Stuck-up, arrogant arse-wipe!’
‘I suppose you meet many men like him.’
He grunted, sank a quarter pint. ‘Not like him, no. Plenty of men want good weaponry now, but most pay cash on the nail. Him? Never.’
I murmured sympathetically.
‘There’s a man up near Bishopsgate, Master Loughgren, I was working on some items for him until last week, and he paid without muttering. Hard cash. Thought de Vere’d be the same, but oh, no! No, he said I was late, and he’d wanted his things earlier. I told him, I was held up by this other contract, and he went all sniffy with me, the God-poxed …’
He hesitated and gave me a sideways glance. No doubt he had been about to curse the man for being a Catholic. Since the queen’s crackdown on protestants, and her father’s new church, which he’d only created to ensure he could throw her mother from his palaces and take the younger Boleyn woman to his bed, I suppose Mary’s dislike of the church was unsurprising – still, it seemed over the top to keep burning the religious to death to avenge herself on her father. He’d been dead some while.
I gave a quiet comment, indicating that I was also not enamoured of the latest experiment in religious zeal, and Bill nodded. ‘A man’s faith should be his own, and not punishable by any,’ he said, glancing about him truculently. ‘Master Loughgren thought the same, so he said. This de Vere was from a different mould. Always changes with the wind, that sort. Carried his rosary like it was tied to his wrist, but go to good King Henry’s religion, and he’d be all for breaking the altar stones and melting the chalices!’
He went on: ‘Used to be only the queen whom de Vere cared about, but now he’s keen on seeing all the high-ups. The Earl of Pembroke, John Boxall … all those important to the queen. He ingratiates himself with them, visits them. Even now, he is on his way to the Tower for a meeting with someone. Probably Boxall, the queen’s secretary or whatever it is he does.’
I knew of Boxall, the Secretary of State. Not a man I had ever met, but he was well enough known up and down the country as a keen ally of the queen, and busy imposer of the harshest laws. In the same way, the Earl of Pembroke was counsellor to the queen, and implacable foe to Lady Elizabeth. These were men who would be problematic for Elizabeth at any time. It made me wonder what de Vere was planning. Clearly he wanted to advance himself in the queen’s estimation, I guess, since he was trying to get close to her supporters.
‘You know the queen’s health is despaired of?’ Bill said. Our second drinks arrived and he paid before laying a podgy finger aside his nose and narrowing his eyes. ‘I’ve heard she won’t see out the week.’
I was sceptical of that. ‘You know how many times I’ve heard her life is despaired of in the last year? If the woman sneezes, she has the plague; if she stubs her toe, she has leprosy – if you listen to the rumours.’
‘Aye, you can scoff, but this time ’tis different. She has a babe, so they say, but we know what happened last time. She lost it, didn’t she? And now rumour is, she’s made a new will. Must mean she thinks she’s going to peg out. Maybe childbirth will do it. A childbed is often a deathbed, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ I agreed. After all, who didn’t have a friend or relative whose mother, sister or daughter hadn’t died in labour? It was the curse of women, and not something I begrudged them. The thought of nurturing a babe in the womb was curiously repellent, and the pain involved in birth … well, I was happy to be a man.
‘How will you get the money you’re owed?’
‘I doubt I’ll ever get it back. All that work – sharpening, strengthening the staves, oiling and ensuring they were all ready for use … It was a lot of work.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said. I had bought a third round of ale, and we were getting on famously. I liked this fellow Bill. He was a good man, friendly and open, I thought. The sort of man with whom it would be pleasant to while away some hours. We chatted; we drank. He ordered a fourth round.
‘Why did he want so many weapons?’ I mused when I had bought the fifth. ‘He doesn’t have that many men about him. Is he going to sell them to the Tower armoury?’
‘Nah, I heard one of his men talking, saying they needed the arms for when the queen dies,’ Bill said. He yawned, blinking rather owlishly, and looked offended when I chuckled, but then he began to laugh as well. He bought the sixth round; he really was a splendid character.
‘When she dies? Why?’
‘Oh, in case of rebellion or war, I suppose,’ Bill said with a light shrug. ‘It would be hard to avoid, I suppose. I mean, all the nobs now, they won’t want to give up everything, will they? What’ll they do? Invite the queen’s husband back here? A bleedin’ Spaniard? You reckon London would let him in? The nobs, they’d want Philip back, just so they can keep fleecing us all, like Sir bloody Edmund.’
I think it was about now that I bought the seventh round, but I confess our conversation was too involved for me to be absolutely certain. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’
‘Oh, well, there’s only Lady Elizabeth now, ain’t there? Who else could take the throne? She’s Henry’s blood, God rest him. No one else, now his son’s dead already. No, I reckon it’d be down to a fight ’tween Lady ’Liz’beth on one side and the nobs on t’other. And all of us in the middle.’
‘I don’t want another war,’ I said plaintively.
‘Nor me neither.’
‘I was in the fight over Wyatt’s revolt. I didn’t like it.’
‘Me too.’
We clasped hands then, and even had a brief, manly hug, as befitted comrades-in-arms.
Bill looked at his pot. ‘Think we’d better have one for the road, eh?’
When the pail of water hit me, I was startled to full wakefulness in an instant. Standing over me was the ape-like features of the Scottish landlord. There was a kind of vicious grin on his face at the sight of me with water dripping from my upper body. ‘Are ye awake, ye drunken sot? Be off wi’ ye! Ye’ve been snoring like a sow in shit since noon.’
I would have liked to have passed comment on him, his ancestry and many of his vile attributes, but just at that moment, I discovered I required something to moisten my mouth. My tongue was apparently cloven to my palate, and I found speech difficult. At least my purse was still on my belt. I clambered to my feet, making free use of the assistance offered by a stool and table, and at last stood, swaying gently in the breeze from the open door. My hearing appeared to have dulled, as had my brain, and I lumbered over to the bar with the gait of an eighty-year-old stevedore bearing a heavy bale of wool. Have you ever tried to lift a bale of wool? Trust me, the buyer gets value for his pennies.
‘What?’ the landlord demanded.
I managed to indicate, by degrees, and with the croaking harshness of the thirsty, that I would appreciate a pint of his finest beer, and soon I had a mug of strong, dark ale before me. I sank the first quarter swiftly, but the remaining liquid took rather longer. For some inexplicable reason, I felt desperately thirsty, but at the same time my desire for ale was heavily diminished. Finishing the drink was mostly an exercise in determination.
Outside a thin drizzle had begun to fall. It was, I suppose, mid-to-late-afternoon, and all I knew was I had a desperate need of a comfortable bed. I made my way, rather haltingly, to London Bridge, over the new drawbridge, built to replace the one demolished during Wyatt’s rebellion – although I personally reckon they retrieved all the timbers they could, and supplemented those which had fallen into the Thames with any old rotten spars they could find, while charging the city for the best oak.
Aldermen and officials are quick to see any opportunity to pocket a profit.
Still, I managed to avoid the carts and horses coming over the bridge, and kept on going to the south bank, where I wandered along the river to the bear pits and thence to the Cardinal’s Hat, where I gratefully made my way to Piers’ chamber in the roof, and collapsed on his bed roll.
In my time I have often heard it said that the best drinking sessions tend to be those which have not been planned, but which evolve after a chance meeting. I can certainly confirm that my lunchtime drinking with Bill had been immensely pleasant, but it had depleted the energy with which I am usually so filled. As soon as I closed my eyes, I was out like a pole-axed bullock, and it was not until Piers appeared, some little while after dark, that I woke again, this time with a pounding in my head as if someone was cudgelling me unmercifully.
‘What’ve you been doing?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got eyes like piss ’oles in snow, and you’re almost see-through, like a ghost.’
I expressed my gratitude for his loud welcome, and slowly swung my legs to the ground, showing the caution of a prudent man. I did not want my head to fall from my shoulders.
‘I had a meeting with a man,’ I said. ‘I helped him when he was attacked, and he insisted on treating me to a drink.’
‘A drink, or a barrel?’ he asked rather snidely. It was jealousy, of course. ‘Who was this fool?’
‘A man called Bill.’ I swallowed. ‘He’s an armourer,’ I added.
‘And he was attacked by footpads?’
‘No, by a respectable knight – Sir Edmund de Vere.’
‘You be careful with ’im,’ Piers said suddenly. I was surprised to see that his face was serious.
‘Why?’
‘De Vere’s the sort who’d pull your fingernails out, not to torture, but just to see ’ow you’d react.’
‘He’d best not try it with me,’ I said. I had left my pistol this time on the floor by the bed, and now I picked it up and patted it.
‘You think that’d scare him?’
‘It did,’ I said smugly, and told him about the meeting in Sir Edmund’s house.
‘I think the ale ’as addled what brains you had,’ Piers said uncompromisingly. ‘Are you moon-struck? He’s rich, he’s got the ear of lords and all, and—’
‘I know, and he’s got a huge armoury of weapons he’s collecting in his house,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what I found when I went to talk to him. He has a large armoury he’s collecting. Bill reconditioned some of them for him. Vanderstilt brought them over from Holland, so I suppose they were old weapons. Bill is obviously good at his work. He has other clients, like a man called Loughgren, he told me, and—’
‘So what?’
His words made me feel a little flat. ‘I just thought de Vere might be planning to sell to the Tower’s armoury, but maybe he has another buyer?’
‘Or perhaps ’e hasn’t,’ Piers said. He was frowning now, concerned.
‘What?’
‘You ’ave the brain of a mayfly, don’t you?’ he said. He picked up a small cask, shook it mournfully, and let it fall. ‘No more brandy,’ he said.
‘At least you won’t get charged like the gulls who come here to nail the wenches,’ I said. The last time I had been here, I had been appalled to be presented with a normal client’s charges.
‘All I was thinking was, if he didn’t have someone else to sell to, what would he need all those weapons for?’ Piers continued. ‘Change his name to Wyatt, and what would you think?’
‘Wyatt? Why would I change his name to Wyatt?’ I said, somewhat confused. ‘Wyatt the rebel, you mean?’
He looked at me sadly, as though mourning the man I had become.
My mouth fell open. ‘Oh!’
Because, although this may not have occurred to you, there is little doubt that Piers might have had a point. It was quite possible that Sir Edmund de Vere was collecting weapons so that he might himself start an insurrection. And perhaps he had learned from the past. When Wyatt tried to raise the kingdom against the queen, he managed to have the men of Kent join him, and anticipated that London would also rise with them – but he was wrong. His rebellion, and life, ended when he reached the gates to London. His little army had achieved much, but that availed them nothing because, with no siege machines, there was no means of breaking into the city, and with the citizens’ determined defence, Wyatt could not enter. Instead, his force broke on the walls like waves on the shore.
It was not a thought that gave me any pleasure. But it did have the merit of making sense.
‘He wouldn’t dare. The queen would have him beheaded in the blink of an eye,’ I pointed out.
‘Do ye walk the streets with eyes and ears closed? What if the queen were not on the throne? ’Ave you not heard the rumours of ’er illness?’
And of course, that made perfect sense. As Bill had said in the tavern, if it were true that the queen was dying, or that she was expecting to die in childbirth, there would very likely be fighting again to resolve the succession. Spaniards invading, English Catholics fighting the Church of England congregations, perhaps even the French coming to take part – they always enjoyed a chance to tweak the English tail – or the Scottish?
I sat back with my head in my hands. ‘Oh!’
Bill had mentioned some men – Boxall, the Earl of Pembroke and Cardinal Pole, I think. They were all enthusiastic supporters of the queen – and of the Catholic faith. If Mary were to die, the three could perhaps use arms from someone like de Vere to wrest control of London and Parliament, preventing Elizabeth from taking her rightful place as heir to the throne. Suddenly my belly roiled with acid.
‘You need to tell your master. John Blount will know what to do,’ Piers said.
‘Yes. Yes, I should.’
But what I was really thinking was that I needed to escape London. Much though the thought was anathema, I wondered whether I should depart and make my way back to Devon. At least that was a long way away from any possible fighting, even if it was equally far from a decent tailor, barber, cook or brewer.
There are times in every life when the simplest of plans goes slightly awry.
In my life I have often experienced that kind of problem, from the time when I managed to pick a purse and discovered that its bulging contents involved solely wooden counters; or the time when I sought to protect a fellow proposed as my victim, and the fool stepped backwards from a jetty and drowned when I tried to save him; or the time when I was looking after a Spaniard, and the fool had himself murdered before me; or …
But you take my meaning. There are times in everyone’s life (very commonly in mine) when events conspire to throw a man’s life into extreme danger, with no reason that is obvious to the poor fellow involved. He is merely the unwitting victim of events that are outside his control.
That was the situation today.
Leaving Piers, I went down to the bar. I had need of refreshment, and something that would help me plan my escape from London – for it was clear to me that I must escape, and make my way elsewhere. Not only for the dangers of a revolt in the city, but also because I was wary of the risk of becoming imprisoned once more. Justice can move slowly, but on occasion it can prove effective.
The Hat had a large hall below, where the doxies all displayed themselves for the clients. Some were fussing over a man in a seat, while others, in various stages of undress, were chatting quietly in a corner, no doubt discussing the more foolish gulls they had entrapped and fleeced. All I saw immediately, though, was the man at the bar, a thickset fellow who was set to pouring drinks and opening flasks for clients. The girls were expected to stay as sober as any of them were capable. It didn’t always work, but they were not supposed to drink too much of the wine unless the gulls were paying. The profit on such drinks was one reason why I had often thought of opening my own brothel. It would prove a useful investment for some of the money I had acquired in the last few years with my alternative career.
I spoke with the barman, gaped at the price of one cup of wine, and paid. Turning, I sipped the drink just as the two harpies about the man in the seat moved aside, and I almost dropped my drink.
Their client was Sir Edmund de Vere.
Choking as the wine was sent along the wrong channel, I turned back to the bar quickly. I would finish this drink speedily, I decided, and leave. I could make my way out towards the river, and disappear among the alleyways there. Sir Edmund need never know I had been here.
What misfortune was this, that he should arrive here on this evening? It was so unfair, so unreasonable, that it was tempting to run to a church and complain to Him. I mean to say, we are told always that we have free will, and thus those who behave sinfully are fully responsible for their own actions, but take my situation here: it was hardly my choice that Sir Edmund should follow me to my favourite brothel. How could anything happening here be my fault? No matter: I would leave, and quickly at that.
I gulped the wine, pulled my cowl over my head, and made my way from the room, head down and trying to move as swiftly as possible without attracting any attention.
In this I was successful. I stopped in the doorway to make sure, and when I glanced back, I saw that the knight was fully engaged in a spirited communication with a red-haired whore whom I recognized: Rose. I confess, I was a little put out. She was one of my favourite tarts in the establishment, and I would have liked to spend an hour or two with her myself, but it was plain enough that Sir Edmund intended to monopolize her that evening.
With a little sigh of regret, I turned and sped on my way.
Or would have. Unfortunately, my swift movement meant I was unaware of the young apprentice goose who was at that moment entering bearing a metal tray full of drinks. I turned, felt a soft body with one hand, heard a gentle scream, stumbled over a long leg, and tumbled to the ground, my fall heralded by the brazen clatter of a metal sheet striking the floor just before five expensive glasses and goblets and a silver jug all joined it.
The pleasant aspect of this was that the young wench had rather delightfully fallen over me. The more immediate, and unpleasant, aspect was that she prevented my swift escape. She was a delicious little strumpet, but even delicious little strumpets can be moderately heavy when lying across a fellow lying on the ground.
And even a delicious little strumpet can be forgotten when a face like Sir Edmund’s appears above a fellow.
‘Oh, er …’ I spluttered, and gave a smile of welcome as the wench climbed off me, naturally with a show of reluctance. Perhaps her apprenticeship had begun? Or, perhaps she was not keen to leave me because that must involve a discussion with the madam who owned the Cardinal’s Hat, about who was going to pay for the spilled drinks and broken glasses. I have met the madam of the Hat, and I would not wish to upset her – but then, I am a fellow who is reluctant to offend the fairer sex. Perhaps she would be better and kinder towards a young trainee.
The chit scurried out, and shortly afterwards I heard a slap and a yelp. Perhaps the madam was not so gentle and kindly, after all.
‘Master Blackjack. How pleasant to see you once more,’ Sir Edmund said, and took a step nearer.
I would have scrambled to move away, usually, but just now I was painfully aware of broken shards of glass lying on the floor, and I was reluctant to put my hands on the ground in case I slashed myself. I can stand almost any pain, it should be said, and my courage knows few bounds – but there is no reason to inflict additional pain when it’s unnecessary. I climbed to my feet cautiously, wary of a blow from the knight, but it seemed that he was on his best behaviour, and did not wish to assault me in the brothel.
‘Come with me, Master Blackjack,’ he said. ‘I should like to refresh you. There is no need,’ he added as he led the way to his table, ‘for us to be enemies. I understand your desire to find Vanderstilt. I had not appreciated your position, when you came to visit me. You should have said that you had been accused of his murder. I thought it was purely your concern, as his landlord, for the wellbeing of your tenant. If I had realized that you had another reason for finding his body, I would have offered to aid you, rather than protecting myself by removing your weapon. When you retrieved it, and did not kill me, I realized that you were not just an assassin sent to kill me.’
‘Why would you think me an assassin?’
He chuckled. ‘Master Blackjack, I think we can set aside pretence? We are two gentlemen discussing matters of importance to the state. You have a certain reputation amongst the lower classes of the city. They talk about you behind their hands, quietly, and with great respect. Obviously, when a man like you appears in my house, I am going to suspect your reasons for coming.’
Well, put like that, there was a degree of common sense.
He continued: ‘And, of course, when I discovered you possessed an assassin’s weapon, I felt sure that my suspicions were confirmed. As a wealthy man, I have, alas, built up a considerable array of enemies. As you saw, I have been forced to accumulate weapons for my own defence. If it were to come to pass that a small force decided to attack my house, I am confident enough that I could defend myself and my people. Not that I anticipate any large assault, of course. The queen’s peace must not be infringed. Hah! Especially when she is close to her lying in!’
‘If she is to have her child, she and the boy may well need protection,’ I said.
‘Boy? You feel sure that it will be a boy?’
‘It is the rumour,’ I said. ‘I have no more knowledge than my butcher, but we can hope that the succession will be secure. The country needs a strong hand to guide it, and a man would obviously be preferable. Women,’ I added slightly owlishly, for my host had provided me with a goblet of strong wine, and on top of my previous imbibing the fumes were enough to make my head whirl, ‘are altogether too flighty and flippant. They seek fripperies, not fighting. Hah! Look at how quickly Queen Mary lost us Calais!’
‘Yes. Quite,’ Sir Edmund said, rather coldly, I thought. ‘I was there.’
Hastily, I added, ‘And I have little doubt but that you were courageous and fought like a lion – like all the other defenders of the queen’s lands – but to fight when you know that your mistress … Well, if you were fighting for our old King Henry, that would be different. That would put fire in the belly of any soldier in his army.’
‘You think we lacked fire in our guts?’
‘Yes … no! I’m sure you were all keen to best the Frenchies. I mean, they are hardly fearsome, are they? The French are the sort to turn and flee at the first sight of English steel. It was …’
I became aware that I was painting the English army at Calais in a less than favourable light and quickly clammed up, staring at my goblet miserably.
‘The men were brave enough, but we were unfortunate,’ Sir Edmund said quietly. ‘I was in one of the outlying forts, and the French moved past us, to take the town itself. It was terrible! Like watching the sea enveloping a castle built of sand. But we stood strong and determined. And I will never again see the queen’s wishes thwarted. I know how grievously she felt the loss of her French territories, and if possible, I will ensure that she never suffers like that again. While I breathe, I will support her and her legacy. And if she were to have a boy child, I would see it as my duty to protect and serve him, too. Were she to be attacked, I would be in the first line of defence – and damn all God-foresworn traitors!’
I nodded emphatically, indicating my total agreement.
‘What of you, though, Master Blackjack? Whom would you support?’
‘Me?’
‘Yourself, I suppose. In your profession, the most important person has to be yourself.’
‘I am a loyal subject,’ I protested. And it was true, to an extent. My loyalties were occasionally divided, since I suffered from my attachment to Lady Elizabeth, but I saw no need or reason to upset my queen.
‘Well, I am sure that you will want to continue to support her, then.’
I am no fool. While Queen Mary was maintaining her teams of experimenters dedicated to seeing how much effort was needed to break a man’s body as well as his will in her famed chambers at the Tower, I was never going to argue with a comment of that kind. ‘Of course.’
‘Good. You may soon have an opportunity to prove your support of her. One never knows when such opportunities may arise.’
I left him relieved that he so obviously saw in me a useful ally. It was, after all, vastly preferable to be a friend to a man who could see to my destruction in a moment. He had not tried to hurt me, nor even steal my gun, but instead had behaved perfectly reasonably, as one gentleman to another.
Admittedly, looking down at my clothing, it was hard to believe that he had recognized in me another man of equal status, but I suppose my innate courtesy and obviously cultured manner persuaded him immediately that I was the perfect example of a gentleman. It takes a gentleman to recognize an equal, of course. It’s not something a tradesman would understand, but fellows like Sir Edmund and I can instantly spot someone of similar position.
Then again, he might just have been disinclined to start a fight in his favourite brothel. The madam might have banned him from returning, should he start a brawl.
I left the room and went outside to get some fresh air. For some reason, after the day’s exertions, I felt more than a little light-headed. Perhaps it was the impact of the young wench hitting my belly, but I was aware of a definite queasiness. I was glad to have made peace with Sir Edmund, but could not leave this odd feeling of discomfort. Perhaps it was just the amount of wine and ale I had drunk, I reasoned. Certainly, I had not drunk quite so much in some little while, what with lunchtime drinks with Bill, then more with Piers, and now wine with Sir Edmund. Perhaps it was tiredness. Maybe I needed more sleep.
Piers was once more back on the door, guarding the way to the wenches. I decided to go for a walk along the river to clear my head a little again, and then go to bed with a fresh perspective on things.
I walked up, past the bear pits and the slobbering brutes held in the mastiff cages, before reaching the shore and turning west, following a little track that took me along the edge of the river. It must have been an unpopular path, for there was no mud or unpleasant pools along it. Mostly I had to negotiate my way past the detritus of broken ships: spars, barrels and other garbage that had collected at the river’s edge.
If I could, I would have left the path and taken a more inland route, but just here there was a thick hedge at the side of the path, and I had no option but to continue.
The smell was foul, it has to be said, but there were many people living in London, and the excrement was enough to create its own river. Which is to say that the majority of the Thames was just that. The waters were grey and dismal in the dark, and the occasional candle or rushlight in the houses on the opposite bank only served to emphasize the grim scene. It was enough to make me shiver, and I turned to return to the Hat, when I saw something I had not expected – nor hoped – to see.
Emerging from the gloom was a monstrous figure, a terror from the dreams of Satan himself. I gave an involuntary start, and was about to run, when a voice behind me said, ‘Wait, Jack.’
I span to find myself facing the blackmailer. When I looked back, I realized that this monstrous figure was in fact the second brute from the day when these two had threatened me with blackmail.
‘Master Blackjack, wait. We ain’t goin’ to hurt you – I think we can help each other.’
You may be assured that I was not of a mind to trust him. His words were honeyed, but honey can be used to trap animals, and I had no desire to be a victim of this pair. Besides, if they knew that I had been responsible, sort of, for the death of their comrade, they might well change their tones.
However, we were all on the same path. The hedge was a barrier on one side, the river on the other. The thought of diving into those befouled waters was, believe me, thoroughly unappealing. Yet it was plain enough that I would not succeed in passing the blackmailer or his tor. Both were aware of my speed, agility and courage after our last little battle in the alleyway.
He bowed and offered his hand. I took it reluctantly. He still had his troll behind me, and I was not going to try to pick a fight with a monster that size. Not unless I had an escape route available.
‘What did you do to Alice?’ I managed at last.
‘Who?’ Perkin Bagnall said, and he looked frankly baffled as he spoke. When I explained, he shook his head. ‘I heard she’d died – that was when the coroner was called – but I swear on me mother’s grave we had nothing to do with her. When we saw you last, we wanted to talk to you, that was all. We’d been watching you for some little while, and it seemed the best way to gain your attention, to mention her, but I assure you we had nothing to do with assaulting her.’
‘You want to blackmail me.’
‘No!’ he said, but gave me a sly glance that seemed to disprove his denial.
‘What do you want with me, then?’
‘Look, you’re a sensible fellow, ain’t you? We want your help.’
‘How?’ My head was beginning to hurt. The nausea that had afflicted me before had returned with full force, and I felt sweaty and uncomfortable. And chilly. I wrapped my arms about my upper chest.
First, he gave me a straight look. ‘I’ve heard you was loyal to the queen in the rebellion.’
‘Of course,’ I said. That was an easy one. I didn’t see the need to mention that now my loyalty had been bought by her half-sister.
‘You’d do whatever necessary to protect her?’
This was much like my conversation with Sir Edmund. Everyone seemed to want to confirm my allegiance. ‘Of course,’ I lied. Whatever was a very large and deeply unsatisfactory word for me. I did not intend to risk my life, after all. But saying such things can be hazardous.
‘So you’d be happy to assist her, protect her?’
‘What do you want of me?’ I snapped at last. The nausea was griping at my stomach now.
‘Her heir is soon to be born. Many of us want to see he can inherit his realm, but others don’t. They want to see him lose it. People like that Sir Edmund de Vere, who plots to overthrow the queen’s wishes. We need to show her officers he’s a threat to her, that he wishes to take over the throne.’
‘No, he wants to protect her and her baby. He is collecting weapons so he can guard her and the boy.’
‘He’s collecting weapons, yes, along with others, to take over the throne.’
‘He has told me that he wanted to defend her.’
‘He lied.’
‘How can you tell?’ I demanded. ‘He seemed convincing to me.’
‘I know he lied because we’ve been watching him for many months, ever since we first suspected he was plotting against the queen. Sir Edmund de Vere and his men think that because the queen is unwell, they can usurp her throne for their own purposes.’
‘He told me he was entirely loyal to the queen,’ I said heatedly.
‘What else would a traitor say, eh? He protests his undying loyalty? Of course he does! Else he risks the rack, and any one of the other interesting pastimes the torturers can dream up. Yes, we’ve been watching him and his house for an age. That is how we knew you were here. We have followed you from the moment we saw you today, when he left to visit the Tower.’
‘If he had reason to fear the torturers, why would he go there?’
Bagnall gave me a very straight look. ‘He is not known to be under suspicion, yet. He is thought of as a loyal subject still. His plotting has not been bruited abroad – yet.’
‘But I have heard that he regularly meets with the queen’s own counsellors – Boxall, the Earl of Pembroke and …’
‘All them, yes.’
‘You mean they too are involved?’
‘De Vere and others will sell the throne for a great purse and titles. He has persuaded the queen that he’s supporting her and her child, but when she’s gone, the child will disappear and de Vere’ll sell the crown to the highest bidder. If he waits for her to die.’
‘You mean …’ There was no need for him to spell it out. I was fully aware of the implications: regicide. ‘What do you want of me?’ I said wearily.
‘We know you, master.’ A sly sneer returned to his face. ‘You ’ave been into his house. We can show he’s planning her overthrow, that he and other plotters ain’t to be trusted, and he ought to be arrested at once.’
There have been times – many times – when I have found myself in danger through no fault of my own. On such occasions I have always found that a certain icy clarity springs into my mind. I can see things, understand things, more readily than most. It is a particular asset of mine, and a great advantage when dealing with thieves and vagabonds who are, obviously, not so fortunate in their mental capacity.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You’ve seen the weapons he’s collected, ain’t you? Your words’ll carry weight.’
‘I don’t want to get involved! You know the man well enough – you report him!’
‘How can we? She don’t know me, nor my loyalty. You, though, you could explain to her. You is known to ’er.’
Yes, I thought. Of course I was. I met her once, briefly. She might listen to me – at least for as long as my head remained on my shoulders.
Trying to denounce her chief advisers was a short path to pain and the Tyburn tree. I had met Mary the queen, and she was ever devoted to her religion and her legacy, and denying the religious choice and legacy of her own half-sister. Some hundreds had died in the flames for disputing her view on religion, and many others died while in prisons. Then again there were almost a thousand who had fled the realm and her reign. From the little I knew of her, I felt sure that she would be as determined as ever her father was to punish those who sought her harm. And if they threatened her child too, that would only exacerbate matters as far as she was concerned.
However, a man informing her that her chief advisers were all corrupt and determined to overthrow her child’s inheritance as soon as she was dead – that was suicide. Her advisers would be consulted, and I doubted that their evidence would support my own.
I had a vision of red-hot brands, of a rack, of pincers and other means of destroying bodies, and swallowed hard. Once more the acid in my belly started to roil like water in a copper, and I had to fight to control a shudder that threatened to overwhelm me.
‘Of course,’ Bagnall mused, ‘it’d also mean you’d have all charges against you quashed. You could plead clemency, and she would be certain to give you a fair hearing, was you to convince her of the truth of your accusations. And you’d once more be a free man. No suggestion of murder hangin’ over you.’
‘No.’
‘You’d be doin’ the queen a service. And the country.’
‘No.’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘There’s somethin’ else. That maid what was killed, Loughgren’s maid. Looks like de Vere had somethin’ to do with her death.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because he thought she could tell him what her master was up to, mayhap. Loughgren was workin’ with another Dutchman, Lewan de Beaulieu, bringing weapons. De Vere didn’t want competition against his own plottings.’
I recalled Vanderstilt talking of this man. He had said that his ships were late because another Amsterdammer had held them up, and that was why he couldn’t pay me. And de Vere’s weapons were in those ships. Could he have captured Alice and tortured her to find out what her master was doing? Piers had said he would pull out my fingernails to see how I responded …
I felt seriously queasy again.
It was a most tempting vision: the chance to escape the threat of arrest, to be able to return to my past life – this time, quite possibly, with a large sum in my purse as a reward for my loyalty and reliability – but also to avenge poor Alice.
Still, the reality was, I was going to throw myself into a maelstrom of danger. Better by far to leave London and escape the nets of these plotters and other political fools. And perhaps I would have fled, were it not for Piers.
I returned slowly to the Hat, thoughtful and perplexed. The only information I had about Sir Edmund was the view of the weapons in his armoury, and the allegations made by Bagnall and his walking mountain. Bagnall himself had declared his utter devotion to the queen, as had Sir Edmund. For that matter, so had I, although I was sworn to support John Blount, and through him, Sir Thomas Parry and Lady Elizabeth. For all that I knew, my Lady Elizabeth was herself planning to overthrow her half-sister, and it would be no surprise to me whatever, were she to have hired Sir Edmund de Vere to find the weapons, the men, and the opportunity to take the throne for her.
But there was that niggling sense at the back of my mind that something was wrong. My stomach had the same impression, and it was only a short period after Bagnall left me that I had to succumb to the insistence of my belly and vomit up everything in it, adding to the foul contents of the river. Wiping my face afterwards, I was left with the absolute conviction that either man could be telling the truth, but in all likelihood both were lying.
There were some aspects of Bagnall’s story that did ring true. Sir Edmund de Vere did not seem like a man to fully submit to a woman – even a queen. It was easier to believe that he had a plan to steal the kingdom from both half-sisters. The weapons meant he had gathered, presumably, a small force of men who would also support him. Who were they? Mercenaries from abroad? More Amsterdammers? His own men from his estates? He must have lands to have earned his title, surely. Or perhaps the men were to be provided by his accomplices – Pembroke and Boxall and others. The armourer, Bill, had spoken of the man Loughgren, and how he had also accumulated weapons – perhaps Loughgren was a second man involved in this plot? Or were they competitors? Did De Vere guess that Loughgren’s supplier was holding up his own weapons, and suspected Loughgren was deliberately putting de Vere into a difficult position by accumulating weapons while de Vere’s were still in Holland?
But Bagnall himself probably had ulterior motives. Perhaps he had a grudge against the knight? Was there something that drove him to want to see de Vere destroyed? Or did he have his own plan to destroy the queen and put himself in her place? It was hardly likely, for the man was only a lowly fellow. But he might represent someone else of a higher station. Or was he himself an agent of Elizabeth, perhaps? Her agents rarely knew of each other – that was a simple means of protection for all, ensuring that we should all have our identities concealed so that even were one of us uncovered, the others would all remain safe.
I did not know. And that was enough to make me throw up again. I was a poor reed on turbulent waters, thrown this way and that, and unable to force my own route to safety.
Well, the one thing that Bagnall had said was that, at least with the queen, my courage in informing her of his suspicions might lead to a pardon for my accusation of murder. Not that I was guilty, but with accusations of that sort, there was always the likelihood that a poor lawyer might perform such a bad job that I would be hanged in any case. That was unappealing.
It was a reluctant Jack who came to the conclusion, but it seemed obvious to me that it was the only one I could come to.
I would have to accept exile to escape the accusations of murder, and ensure my safety from men like Bagnall.
With that thought, I was sick again.
At the door to the Hat, I saw Piers. He looked relieved to see me, and bustled me indoors. Ignoring my protests, he shepherded me up to his room, and once inside, pushed me in so that I fell with a thump onto my backside.
‘Did you see him?’
I stared at him goggle-eyed. ‘Who? Bagnall?’
‘Is that his name? De Vere sent him after you as soon as you were out of here. Said he had a message for you.’
‘Yes, we had a long talk.’
‘A “talk”?’
‘Yes.’
He stared at me. ‘This Bagnall, is he about my height, broader in the chest and shoulders, wearing a long ballock knife and green jack with a stain at the heart?’
‘No, he’s a—’
‘De Vere’s man was looking for you, and if he found you, you’d not be here now,’ Piers said with conviction.
That was when I realized that trying to merely run from the city would not be enough. De Vere intended to remove me before I could share news of his plotting with others.
The only safe route for me was to gain an audience with the queen and persuade her that de Vere was not her loyal subject, but a man determined to wrest the throne from her and her son.
I felt sick again.