Howton had given him something – a gold angel – and learnt a little more from him of the man Thorne, the aged mariner who had taken up residence in the city some years ago. Thorne accorded well enough with Thorpe: the name he had learned from the late master shipwright Roger Byrd, alias Arthur.
‘This is fine wine, Mr Thorne,’ he said, smiling over the rim of the cup at the old man, who lay in a heap on the floor, blood pouring from a gash on his brow. He had gained entry to the fine house on Stour Street easily enough. His story had been that he and his clerk had heard that Thorne had been a man of the sea, and they were considering investing in a future trading venture, and would he have any advice.
Not without a little doubt, of course, the fellow had allowed them entry. He was a spare man, looking quite the gentleman he must have pretended to be, with a mane of silvery hair and whiskers. Only the deep lines in his face and the weathered skin belied the veneer of gentility; he had the look of a man who had been burnt by foreign suns in his time. He’d given them a pair of cups and gone to fetch some wine, leaving them in his fine front room. Howton had eyed it with distaste. It spoke of provincial wealth, with its cloth hangings and dull carpet. But, more worryingly, it suggested that the mutineers of the Sparrowhawk might have gleefully been spending their stolen gold these past years. He had been considering this, frowning at it, when Thorne had returned with the bottle. Fray Nicolas had felled him with a stone before he’d had a chance to speak.
Howton sipped, settling himself on the chair before the unlit grate; he’d turned it so that it faced the fallen mariner. ‘We know everything, you see,’ he said. He felt sure the old man could hear him, though he lay groaning, making futile attempts to touch his head. ‘We know that you stood as purser on the Sparrowhawk. And that that ship carried stolen Spanish gold.’ Fray Nicolas, he noticed, flexed his knuckles. Howton hurried on; he didn’t want the friar overcome with patriotic zeal quite yet. ‘You are a thief, Mr Thorne. A mutineer, you and your fellows. We no longer care what you did on the Sparrowhawk. We can guess well enough. We wish to know where the stolen treasure lies now.’
Thorne groaned again.
Howton sighed. ‘You were the purser. You have been handing out money to your fellow mutineers these past years. I do not a little marvel that you thought to live well without being discovered eventually. Living here under a false name – a weak one, I think, Mr Thorpe. You have robbed Queen and country.’ He gestured around the room, lifting his fingers to the high ceiling. ‘Is this where the ship’s lost gold has gone? Keeping you and your friends in houses beyond your station?’ Lewgar picked up the bottle of wine and sniffed at it. ‘This is Tuscan vernage. The finest, eh, for you, Master Thief!’ He poured the remaining liquor to the carpet. It fell in a thin, reddish column. And then he swore, tossing the empty bottle at the old man. It bounced off his side, eliciting another groan, weaker this time.
‘There was a great treasure aboard that ship,’ said Howton, propelling himself off the seat. ‘El Sol Dorado. Where is it? Have you sold that too, to fund your lavishness? To feed your want?’
Thorne grumbled. Nicolas stepped towards him but Howton waved him back, stepping over and bending to the man’s head himself, mindful of his healed ear being bitten at. The fellow was trying to speak. ‘You … you … are a cruel beast. A monster in the state.’
Fury rose. ‘Me? Me? You filthy, sea-wetted filth! You old serpent-shitten thief! I am a monster? The state is a monster! The Queen is a monster. The world is monstrous!’ He looked down. The creature had lived longer than the state had allowed his own father to live. ‘Tell me where the Sparrowhawk’s treasure is. Tell me of El Sol Dorado!’
Thorne’s eyes were watery. But they remained sharp. ‘You’ll never have it. Captain Benham saw it buried with the Mary Rose.’ Howton looked up, over to Nicolas. The same thing had been told to him by the boy they’d whipped to death in Wembury.
‘The Mary Rose again,’ said the friar. ‘Captain Benham. He was the captain of the Sparrowhawk? Where is he?’
‘Dead,’ croaked Thorne. ‘Long, long dead.’
‘You killed him. Mutinous old dog! Did you sink El Sol Dorado? Did you?!’ And then something registered, dimly, on the edge of his memory. Before he could grasp it, the old man made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a burble and a gasp. Howton leant in. ‘What? What did you say?’
It happened too quickly. The wine bottle, the old man’s pasty hand clutched around its neck, was flying up. Howton saw only a shape coming towards his face.
And then he fell backwards, rocking on his knees.
Pain flared, burning up through his nose. Blood invaded his mouth. His eyes burned with unbidden tears. His hands rose, clutching at his nose. He tried to speak, to cry out, but blood seemed to be pouring in from his nostrils. Dimly, he heard Nicolas shout, ‘he counterfeits!’
The old bastard had been counterfeiting, to be sure. He’d taken hold of the bottle and swung it, broken – perhaps broken – Howton’s shapely nose. ‘Kill him,’ he mumbled, blinking, crying, slurring.
Fray Nicolas skipped towards the old man, who hurled the bottle at him. It struck the friar on the chin before thudding to the floor. Howton watched as through distant from the scene; he watched as Nicolas stood, looking almost comically affronted, and as old Thorne got lightly to his feet, disappearing through a door into the back room. ‘After him. Get him!’
Nicolas stepped forward.
And then he paused, half-turning, frowning.
‘Take him! Old dog!’ mumbled Howton, swaying on his knees now.
And then he heard it too.
Bang. Bang. Bang-bang-bang.
At first, he thought the old man was up to something upstairs, finding some weapon, barring a door to them.
But no. The insistent banging was coming from outside. ‘Thorne?’ The voice was muffled. A lighter, sharper rapping began at the glazed windows. Through the leaded panes, a face appeared, stared back, and then as quickly vanished.
‘It’s them,’ said Nicolas. ‘Lewgar and Marlowe. They seek to trap us.’
Howton briefly closed his eyes. The pain in his face had begun to wax and wane, making him dizzy. Trapped they were, he thought. Unless someone might turn their attention away.
24
‘They’re in there,’ said Lewgar. ‘Both of them.’ He had seen the two men – the richer one’s face was bloody – and backed away from the window, into the well-kept strip of lawn which edged the front of the house.
He joined Marlowe in surveying the place. ‘What the devil?!’ The smaller man was looking up. ‘Is that – is this Thorne?’
It was a large house, of lime-washed wattle and daub with stout, tarred timbers crossing it. The upper floors jutted out over the street. A window stood open. Out of it fell a knotted sheet, forming a rope. It reached to just above the ground and hung there, swinging. A pair of legs in grey hose appeared, followed by squat rear encased in breeches. The fellow swung down, hand over hand, not pausing. Only when he was within a few feet of the ground did he drop. His energy spent, he lay in a heap. Marlowe leapt over to him. ‘Thorne?’ But it seemed the wind had gone out of him. A cut on his brow was crusting over with blood. More of it drew wavering lines down his face.
‘He’s escaped,’ cried Lewgar, punching one fist into the other palm. ‘By God – and they’re trapped. Trapped like – ow! Ow!’ Something hard struck the back of his head, followed by another hitting his shoulder. He turned. Yet a third bounced off his forehead. His hand flew up, shielding his eyes.
He felt rather than saw the little shape of Marlowe darting by him, and only lowered his hand when he heard a woman’s cries. When he saw her, he remained rooted to the spot – seeing, seeing, but not understanding.
Marlowe had thrown himself at Cecily Gage.
Only she wasn’t Cecily – or she was only half Cecily. Her dark hair and its restraining mobcap had fallen askew. Another coif was bound underneath, so tight it resembled a skull c
ap. Some golden blonde strands escaped it. She struggled wildly. Stones fell from her open palms, as Marlowe grappled her around the waist.
Lewgar stepped towards them. His mind refused to believe what he was seeing. This, surely, was not Cecily. This was some intruder, some imposter guised as her and now losing the disguise. ‘Cecily?’ he asked. His voice came out small, too small to be heard by either her or Marlowe.
‘Help – me,’ gasped Marlowe. He looked like a cat climbing a small tree. Cecily swiped at him and he twisted his head away, holding on still, repeating his plea. ‘Get her to the door!’
Dumbly, without thinking, Lewgar obeyed. He heard the words stream from his mouth but they were not his, lacking in sense and meaning. ‘Come, Cecily. To protect you.’ He took her arm and together he and Marlowe moved her from the centre of the street – people were now gathering to watch – to the door. Beside it, the old man had sat, his back to the wall, his chin on his chest.
‘We have your wench,’ shouted Marlowe, beating on the door with his free hand. ‘Howton? We have your wench. Give yourselves up to us or we shall cut her throat!’
Lewgar’s blood froze. He opened his mouth but could make no sound. Between her captors, Cecily bucked and shook.
No sound came from the door. Instead, the window Lewgar had looked through opened a crack. A rich, cultured voice drifted out, lowered to a nasally, muffled whine. ‘Then kill the worthless sow – she’s an alehouse whore I’d soon be rid of. You shall be doing me a service.’ The tone lightened; something like laughter lined it. ‘Farewell, Bess. Go with God.’ The window clicked shut. Cecily ceased struggling. She fell like a damp sack between them, so that they had to hold her up.
25
‘Well? Where does it lead?’ asked Howton. His nose had stopped bleeding, but still he kept his head tilted backwards. It swam a little. He had drawn his sword, but the invaders seemed content to remain outside. Bess, usefully, had had the wit to distract them. He had already sent Nicolas to scout out the fine house; a door at the rear led to a garden.
‘Down to a steam of the great river. It passes through a breach in the city wall.’
‘Can we get through?’
‘Yes.’ Nicolas stood. ‘And the wench? They have the wench.’
‘To hell with her. I would as soon be rid of her.’
Nicolas said nothing. He had not approved of him sending Bess – in one of the periwigs she had always fancied – to The Tabard. Yet she had done them good service. Not only had she freed the two men from the gaol to win their trust – though not the name of their master, as far as he knew – but she had told Nicolas of their plan to visit the docks in search of intelligence the next morning, when out fetching them breakfast. Only by Bess – she had selected the name ‘Cecily Gage’ herself, for some romantic, feminine reason or other – had they been able to follow, to track the man Lewgar, at least, to the Byrd house and its small key to the many locks of the Sparrowhawk affair.
But the foolish wench didn’t matter now. Better, in fact, if they killed her, and spared him the trouble of buying or securing her silence. She knew too much. The shiftless whore probably knew who employed the two rascals – knew, and had made no effort to get word to him.
No one else mattered now but himself. Even the old bastard Thorne or Thorpe didn’t matter, though it would have been a pleasure to kill him.
He knew now – he had recalled – what had plucked at his memory.
He knew, or suspected, where El Sol Dorado must lie – and the thought of it, the stupidity of it, nearly made him kick out.
He looked towards the front of the house. Their attackers had fallen silent. Probably they were finding some means of securing the house or bidding the people of Canterbury to rally to it. There was little time. Thorne might live yet – might tell the pair in clear English what he knew. ‘We must away.’ He chanced lowering his head. No fresh blood flowed, but he sipped at the air through his mouth.
It would be no easy thing to travel alone, injured.
‘Come here, Fray Nicolas. See if they have broken my nose – look.’ He tilted his head back as the friar stepped towards him. He had given up the brown jerkin and breeches he’d taken to wearing in London and returned to his guise as a clerk. He swept forward like a great crow, his head on one side.
‘It swells. I cannot … move your head to – uhh!’
Howton hopped back.
Nicolas looked down.
The friar’s eyes widened in amazement. There was no sign that he felt pain. He looked simply astonished. His hands rose and fell upon the sword blade that was skewering him. With one jerk of his wrist, Howton withdrew it. It came away bloody. A gout of blood followed it, disappearing in the blackness of the gown. Fray Nicolas slumped to his knees, still staring downwards.
Howton felt his heart quiver with excitement.
At length, Nicolas’s wobbling head lifted. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. It was a lethal wound, of course. He would be dead before he even knew it. His big, dark eyes looked back in appeal. And then he folded backwards, hitting the carpet with a soft whump. He fell, Lewgar noticed with detached amusement, beside the bottle which had earlier struck him.
It would have to have been done sooner or later, of course – and better now, when it might be blamed on the pair of attackers, or even on the old mariner, Thorne. Fray Nicolas had been a useful irritant. If Howton had to write to his Spanish masters that the fellow had been slain by English spies, so be it. The Spaniards would believe anything of the English.
He knew, he now felt sure, who exactly had last touched the mysterious El Sol Dorado, and exactly where to find her. The rest of the treasure might have been frittered away in feathering the nests of the crooked mariners, but it had been kept back, kept hidden. Because it must offer some great value beyond honest gold.
And he had no intention – had never had any intention – of letting the prize, whatever it was, fall easily into the hands of Spain. Only if he could not sell it himself would he engage again with King Philip, and then he might name his price, with an added sum attached to compensate for the loss of his dear friend and confessor. Perhaps he would keep it in reserve until Elizabeth finally died, when it became apparent that every man would have to take his chance and back a successor – and quickly win the favour of the new sovereign.
Without a backwards look at the body, he wiped his sword clean on a wall cloth, sheathed it, and fled through the back of the house and out the door.
He had a long ride ahead of him and he would have to patch himself up and find horses outside of the city before it.
26
With the help of the Canterbury constables, Marlowe had the door of the Thorne house broken open. Lewgar let Marlowe deal with the civic authorities. How much he told them of Howton he didn’t know; but the fellows brought out the covered body of the attack dog and left. Probably he had used Walsingham’s name and scared them off. Thorne himself had roused, but he remained, a woollen blanket over his shoulders provided by neighbours, looking grey and spent in the street.
Lewgar, as Marlowe invited him to, had remained outside with an arm clamped around Cecily Gage, or whoever she was.
Bess? He thought Howton had called her Bess.
Her coif and wig lay forgotten on the ground at their feet, already gathering insects and dust. She had said nothing; she didn’t look at him or he her. Instead, she seemed to have gone into a state of shock. She felt cold under his arm, stiff, in the way a person might after learning of the sudden death of a loved one.
Lewgar didn’t care. Very little seemed real to him anymore. Very little seemed to matter. Around them, the air shifted. Voices dimmed. The afternoon wore on, people coming to stare, others going off to tell others.
He looked up as Marlowe passed him, moving away from the house into the street. The little man was a whirl of industry, but he clapped him on the shoulder lightly and shot Cecily – Bess – a nasty look. He returned a moment later, Thorne on his
arm, as they passed back towards the house. ‘Bring her.’
Heavily, Lewgar moved. The woman came with him, without sound, without protest.
When the four were in the front room of the house, Marlowe closed the door. The carpet was stained with blood. A bottle lay on the floor. Otherwise, the place looked pleasant enough.
Silence ticked over for a while, perhaps five minutes. Eventually, Lewgar released the girl by a chair. She collapsed into it, as though boneless. She might have been blind; her eyes stared blankly ahead. Her lips had turned almost blue.
‘Well,’ said Marlowe. ‘I think we might have some answers of you, Mr Thorne. Or Thorpe, I should say.’
The old man was clearly unwell. Tutting, Marlowe went into the back of the house and emerged with a stool, its three legs pointing forward threateningly. He set it down and pushed Thorne gently onto it. ‘We are not you enemies, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m a son of Canterbury. You might know my father – Marlowe the shoemaker.’
Thorne turned a colourless face up to him. ‘Marlowe,’ he repeated. His voice was wind-blown, without strength or vigour. He’s finished, thought Lewgar. Slowly enough, perhaps, but the fellow was on his way out. The blow to his head had merely sped it up.
‘As you can see,’ said Marlowe brightly, looking up, ‘our little bird Howton has flown. And left behind his dead crow.’
The woman looked up. ‘Dead.’ She said the word flatly. ‘Fray Nicolas. Dead. He killed him.’
‘Hark,’ said Marlowe. ‘She is not a dummerer.’ He swallowed. ‘I suspected you, mistress, as soon as I began to consider how this Howton creature knew where you and my good friend Thomas were going. How did he know to follow you from Southwark to the docks? Because he learned it of you. You were his slave. You approached us as a friend, you won our trust. And you were playing the traitor.’
Lewgar’s head sank. He moved away from the chair.
The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller Page 24