Chapter Twenty-Two
The prisoner was lashed to a light wooden hurdle, dragged by two horses from Newgate to Tyburn, its boards scraping the cobbles. It was not a cold day and a gentle sun smiled as if all was right with the world, but it had rained in the night and the stretcher’s open frame was bespattered with the softened mud and muck London collected in her gutters. The prisoner’s face and body were soon clogged with the slime of animal piss and the garbage of a thousand emptied chamber pots, the bloody slops washed down from the Shambles, and the steaming excrement of the horses pulling ahead. Roland’s eyes were closed, the sunshine gleaming on the streaks of filth and lines of pain.
He wore only an unbleached shirt reaching to his knees. Beneath it, his legs were bare, and the neckline, ready for the noose, was pulled well open and a little torn.
Dragged without wheels, the stretcher jolted, bumped and shuddered across the cobbles. The prisoner swung with each movement and was slung to both sides, though his ties did not loosen nor his shackles fall as they clanked, rubbing tight to his ankles. Some folk watched from the roadside. Thieves and ruffians were often cheered, but this was a prisoner who confused the crowd. They watched in silence, or turned away.
The scaffold was set high, with only one noose of the three available spaces being needed today for only one prisoner, and the hangman waiting beside his ladder, patient in the sun. No priest accompanied him, for this traitor did not warrant the chance to repent, nor earn a place at Heaven’s gates. The rope was already slung over the cross bar, and the boards already laid below for the quartering. A group of guards was chattering at the base of the scaffold, another two stood bored on the platform.
As the horses drew up, the guards came forward and Roland was untied from the stretcher, his hands released and the shackled unlocked. Though shaking and weak from the hurdle, he was pushed forwards at once to climb the ladder. He stumbled, the ladder swayed, he clung a moment and then climbed again.
Gerald and Ludovic stood directly before the scaffold, gazing up. There were others around them, but no great crowd. This was no famous offender nor popular local. But a traitor’s death held charm for some and a few had gathered. Roland looked down, saw the two men standing prominent, and smiled. Gerald’s eyes were filled with tears but he smiled back, barely seeing his friend’s face. “He has seen us,” said Ludovic, “and has the answer he wanted.” And, briefly removing his hat, Ludovic stepped forward, looked up at the man on the platform above him, and bowed.
The hangman had climbed the crossbar and now placed the noose around Roland’s neck, arranging the knot to the back where it pushed against the top of the spine. The captain of the guard held up his parchment, loudly proclaiming the charge. “One Roland Fiddington found guilty of heinous treason as charged, and condemned herewith to death. To be hanged, disembowelled and quartered, and his head to be placed on the Bridge as a warning to all traitors. The sentence to be carried out forthwith.”
The guard who still held the prisoner, muttered, pushing at him. “Your last chance to speak now, lad. Confess your crime, and plead for the good Lord’s mercy.”
Roland smiled but his voice was a little lost, cracked by thirst and exhaustion. “I confess only to loving my true king,” he said, speaking directly to Gerald and Ludovic, who now stood very still, gazing back. “My king is Richard IV, held at present as a prisoner in the Tower. I have committed no crime, as he has not, nor am I ashamed of anything I have done, except failing to bring the rightful king to power.”
The guards grinned, shaking their heads. A condemned man was entitled to his last words, but they’d be reported back, and would not please the king. One nodded to the hangman. He tested his rope again, repositioned it slightly, and with a quick glance up, pulled away the ladder. It fell clattering to the platform, and the prisoner dropped, and swung.
Roland’s face, deeply flushed, began to swell and his eyes, although closed, seemed to protrude. His legs kicked a little, though feebly, and his body contorted. He made the gulping involuntary sounds of slow strangulation, the gurgle from the constricted gullet and escaping air from the lungs. Then, streaking through the filth already coating his bare legs, the trickles of hot urine dripped as his bladder lost control. The guards and the hangman watched, counting time. Finally the captain nodded again, and the hangman leaned forwards, caught Roland’s body and stilled its relentless swing. Then he reached up and cut the rope. The body fell slack into his arms.
Roland heaved, gulping in new breath. He rolled over as if reclaiming life and force, but the guard bent down and held him firm.
“Oh don’t, my dear friend, don’t try to breathe,” Gerald whispered. Ludovic put one arm around his brother’s shoulders, saying nothing.
One guard held Roland’s ankles, stretching them apart and strapping them firmly to the board on which he now lay. Another caught his flailing wrists, and lashed them to either side. The hangman flung up the filthy shirt, exposing the prisoner part naked. One of the guards was lighting a small fire, a few inches from the board beside the prisoner’s head. Without wind, the sparks spat little, one flame rising suddenly, painting Roland’s face vivid. The hangman leaned between Roland’s legs. He held the curved metal pincers used to geld horses, reached forwards, and clipped. Roland screamed.
The hangman threw the wedge of dark bloody flesh onto the fire. The flames sizzled, almost extinguished, then flared. The hangman laid down the gelding irons, and took up the knife. He waited for a count of three, then put the point to Roland’s belly, just above centre. He pressed, and the skin split and parted. He ripped downwards and the body opened.
Roland had stopped screaming. As he was eviscerated, his intestines cut from his belly, thrown to the fire and burned, the prisoner made only one small choking sound, for he had fainted. Spared the final pain, he did not see his own entrails coil amongst the flames and turn to soot and stench. He was dead before they sliced him further.
“Come away now, my dear,” said Ludovic softly. “He has no further need of us.”
Gerald was staring, unable to move. He still watched as Roland’s body was sawn into quarters and his head hacked from his neck. The blood poured out across the boards to the heaped sawdust below. The hangman, his sleeves rolled up, was bloody to the elbows. The man neither smiled nor frowned, brisk in his work, eager to prove efficient, and be done.
Ludovic pulled Gerald away. Gerald turned, bent over, and vomited in the gutter, heaving and sobbing. “Hush, hush my dear,” Ludovic said softly. “We are too conspicuous, and must be gone. There is nothing more we can do here.”
Gerald wiped his mouth, stumbling forwards. He looked up at his brother, red eyed. “How does any man bear a torture like that, Ludovic? How can a good man be made to suffer such a death?”
The rest of the small crowd still stood watching. Ludovic pushed past. “He fainted. He felt only the first cut,” Ludovic said. “And was dead long before the end. They say a hanged man will dangle alive for near to an hour, if unlucky. This was far quicker and perhaps there’s some mercy in that. Now he’s in God’s hands, and will be healed, the pain forgotten. And we must hurry.”
Gerald gulped. “You don’t mean to get back to the inn for dinner? Surely not, for pity’s sake, not to eat?”
Ludovic shook his head, pushing Gerald onwards and into the shadows. “I doubt I’ll be eating anything for several days. But I mean to keep you alive, my dear. Both of us if possible. And that means away from here before attention moves from the entertainment to the spectators.”
The alleys took them into the warmth of the darkness, quick steps back to where their horses were left saddled. Ludovic kept one hand to the hilt of his sword, the other clasping his brother tight. Within the hour they were back at The Rose.
Ludovic did not see Brice until the evening.
He was standing alone in the small courtyard that enclosed the stable block, and was staring up at the stars as if expecting answers there. Ludovic had avoided bo
th dinner and supper, both his father and his brothers. He had not travelled to the wharves to oversee his business as he was apt to do when in London. Instead he had kept strictly solitary, and his thoughts in check.
Now Brice came behind, his hand hard on his brother’s shoulder. Ludovic jumped. “Escaping, my beloved?” Brice said. “I imagine you did not enjoy the spectacle this morning?”
Ludovic frowned. “You’ve an uncanny knowledge of what goes on these days, my dear. How is it, I wonder, when your previous acquaintance with the city, with court practice, and with politics, was always proclaimed to be – so disdainfully slight. Have you changed professions, perhaps? Or maybe, nothing has changed at all.”
“Too subtle for me, my beloved,” Brice said. “Or are you implying, I wonder, that my secret supply of wealth has more to do with our glorious king, and less to do with my own ingenuity?” He yawned, shaking his head a little. “I am saddened, my dear, to discover you as obtuse as the rest of the family after all. I had always considered you just a touch – not much you understand – but just slightly – more intelligent. Indeed, I am now quite bored by the prospect. I think I shall go to bed.”
But he made no move back towards the tavern doors, and Ludovic stood a moment, watching him closely. Then Ludovic said, “Gerald, for all the danger of his questionable choices, was always honest with us. He told us his beliefs and his business. You never have. Will you tell me now?”
Brice chuckled. “Why? For you to scald and criticise? I do now what I have always done, my beloved, a profession I took up when I was bare seventeen years of age, just back from the knight’s apprenticeship, and wearily impatient to go my own way. But you don’t tell your own source of riches either, little brother. Why expect such honourable verity from me, my love, when you keep your own improprieties close?”
“Oh, mine are dull enough. I’m into trade, with some small evasion of the customs when possible. When the embargoes were in full force, life was profitable. Wool out and wine back. Now my ships bring me less, but risk less too.” Ludovic smiled. “But I’ve an idea you knew all this already, big brother. I’ve an idea you know it all.”
“I’m hardly invincible, beloved.” Brice nodded, smiling back. He stood close though being somewhat shorter than Ludovic, looked up. “But perhaps I knew, or perhaps I simply guessed. No matter. I don’t delve into our family secrets as you think I do, having my own interests to absorb me. But your other improprieties are even more evident, little brother, and perhaps even less salubrious.”
Ludovic blinked. “You imagine me involved in Gerald’s conspiracies perhaps, because I went to see a brave man unjustly slaughtered this morning?”
“Oh, no, my beloved, hardly that.” Brice laughed. “You are far too self-important to endanger your hide for a false claimant to the throne, and far too pragmatic to put your ideals before your comfort. I meant your little scullion back at the castle. Improprieties galore. I envy you your hedonistic indulgences, little brother.”
“You’ll not tempt me into angry denials,” Ludovic said. “I believe you know the truth of that business as well, and if you care to slander both myself and the girl, then it’s your own dignity you wound.” He turned, hiding his temper, and began to cross the courtyard again, striding back towards the light at the open tavern doors. He turned back only once, speaking half over his shoulder. “And this from a man who has already sired his own brother’s heir? Your own self-indulgences, big brother, seem far less salubrious than mine.”
Ludovic heard Brice’s chuckle behind him as he swung back indoors, quickly climbing the stairs up to his own chamber. He shared it with Gerald and Gerald appeared to be asleep. Ludovic was quite, quite sure that Gerald was fully awake, and would remain so most of the night, but he had no wish to talk or to relive the morning’s hideous events. Ludovic climbed part dressed into bed and closed his eyes to the shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alysson had been awake for some time. She was not sure how late it might be, but knowing she had already slept, though remaining sleepy and a little heavy headed, believed it must be the small hours, so turned, pulling up the counterpane, hoping to sleep again. Then she realised what had awoken her and opened her eyes at once. The sounds were over her head, repeated and persistent. Footsteps, forwards six paces, then back. A tapping, then roused to banging. Then silence. Then beginning again.
It was not Alysson’s usual bed, though she had no place specifically her own. Sometimes, especially since her mistress’s pregnancy had progressed, she slept in the huge curtained bed with Jennine snuggled close, for the lady liked her back and shoulders rubbed when she was disturbed by the child moving, or when troubled by other pains. However Alysson usually slept in the truckle bed in Jennine’s chamber. It was narrow and low to the ground, but it was a proper place for a lady’s maid.
If she was out of favour, and her mistress was angry with her which now occurred more often, Alysson slept on a hastily made up pallet in the garderobe. This was the least pleasant option, and one she avoided.
However, when the Lord Humphrey instead of sending for his wife came instead to her rooms at night, Alysson was bundled onto another mattress dragged into the lady’s outer solar. Here she was sleeping now, although Humphrey had not come. It seemed Jennine had been expecting him and, in any case, this was Alysson’s favourite bed. Not so deep, not so soft, but gloriously private, and it was here that she slept best. Though not tonight.
Alysson knew exactly who her mistress was. The secrets had been divulged, not all at once, but not reluctantly. And now nearly nine months after her wedding, the lady, huge with child, seemed more friend than mistress except when she was angry. But Humphrey was a subject Alysson refused to discuss. When he occupied Jennine’s bedchamber, Alysson closed her ears. The walls were massive stone, thicker than her thighs, and only a little sound crept through with the draughts.
This time the sound travelled. Not silenced by stone, but echoing through wooden floorboards, the noises were heavy and pronounced. Alysson had not even realised there was a chamber above. The winding staircase that led to the Lady Jennine’s apartments stopped at her own door and appeared to go no further up. Alysson pulled the counterpane back over her ears. The disturbance continued for a long time. Footsteps in one direction, always six. Then in the opposite direction. Tapping. A furious banging and then silence. And then, as Alysson sighed, preparing to sleep, they would start again.
Discovering his new page curled up cheerfully beneath the sunny window in his own bedchamber, Ludovic threw his gloves, hat and surcoat at him and scowled. “Fine job you’re doing, brat. I haven’t employed you to keep my cushions warm.”
Clovis made no attempt to rise. He received his master’s clothes and rolled them into an unceremonious bundle in his arms. He grinned over the top of them, chin resting on the soft tan leather of the riding gloves. “Got plenty for the telling, though,” he said. “Bin busy, right inuff.”
“I have ridden all day,” Ludovic frowned. “I need a hot bath before anything else. No doubt it will surprise you to learn that as my page, arranging this is one of your duties. When I am submerged to my shoulders in extremely hot water, I will listen to your stories. Just tell me this first. Is she well?”
“Oh, yes,” said Clovis, hopping down from the cushioned seat and dumping Ludovic’s clothes in a heap on the bed. “Fair, fine and fancy, I reckon. Though I don’t rightly know wot you sees in the wench, meself. Bloody bad tempered bissom, she is.”
Ludovic smiled faintly. “You are quite right, she is. However, you will not say so again, either in my hearing or out of it. Now go and see to the bath.”
Within a little less than half an hour, he was naked and sitting not quite to his shoulders in the simmering water required. The small chamber on the lower floor, reinforced beneath to support the weight of water, held little else beside the standing bathtub. Not the usual barrel shape but both wider and longer, this was cooper built in thick wood, brace
d with copper rings and lined in soft linen. It took a deal of filling and scullions with buckets of water boiled over the kitchen fire, had been known to spill half their burdens before arriving at the proper place.
Ludovic rested complacent in the luxury he had been dreaming of all day. He leaned his head on the shaped backrest, cushioned in wads of linen, and closed his eyes. Steam spiralled above him into a soggy haze, the upper ceiling beams dripped with condensation, and Clovis, perched upon the chest of linen and towels, complained about both damp and heat. “If you persist in being irritating, my urchin,” Ludovic said, “I shall make you wash my back. Now, instead tell me what you have discovered.”
“I ain’t washing no one nor nuffin,” objected Clovis. “Would make me well nigh wet as you, and barves is wot I don’t hold wiv. Besides, you can prance round nekkid if you wants, but I ain’t touching your nekkid bits, so forget it.”
Ludovic sighed. “Naked or not, brat, I shall leave this bath and thrash you if you persist in annoying me. Now – the news – or the thrashing. Take your pick.”
“Well, don’t look like I’m gonna get no gratitude,” sniffed Clovis. “But might as well tell it, now I’ve gone and got it.” He paused for affect, but receiving no answer except a faint splash of the sponge, continued his story. “For a start, your Mistress Wotsit don’t leave them chambers much, so it’s mighty hard to know wot she’s up to. Does the odd errand, and is mighty friendly wiv her mistress, but not much else to say. An’ won’t talk to me, just gives shitty looks when I sees her. Mind you, I followed her when she got a day off, and she never seen me at all.”
Ludovic raised an eyebrow. “You were supposed to be watching her for her own protection, not simply for the purposes of spying.”
“An’ how’s I expected to do one wivvout the other?” demanded Clovis, much aggrieved. “You listening or just griping?”
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