Darkness Divined (Dark Devices)

by Gregory House

  Wolsey’s face made a play at surprise as his eyebrows arched and he shook his head in feigned confusion. “Why, haven’t I? Oh yes how remiss. Pray forgive me Master of the Toils. It is the distraction of the many duties for our royal master that has me befuddled.”

  But of course Wolsey still hadn’t given out a clue. Francis recognised this and with an inner sigh, spoke his line like a tavern player. “And the task your eminence?”

  “Of course, of course. Why, it is to discover the particulars of the terrible slaying of one of the Court’s servants this last night!”

  Thus to Francis’ fallen angel, the sound of a trap snapping shut reverberated by his soul.

  “My liveryman, Smeaton, will give you all the details. I bid you a good day, Master of the Toils.” Without another word or backward glance, Wolsey left him in the smirking care of his minion and took his accustomed seat on Lord Chancellor’s chair of judgement.

  Francis would have cursed or raged, but what was the point? Wolsey had him by the bollocks. But he knew the games of court—Lady Fortuna favoured the Cardinal today. Tomorrow though, well…

  ***

  Chapter 2: Servant or Service—Westminster

  Francis angrily strode into his room, jerked the cloak from around his neck and threw it down on the wooden chest. Then with a good deal of savagery he kicked the chest with his riding boot. “May that cursed priest be buggered by Satan’s great blackened fiery prick!”

  That grovelling, turd–licking measle had put him in the fucking jakes all the way up to his nose. Damn Wolsey to all the levels of Hell and further. Francis, giving up on the unresisting chest, longed to break something—Smeaton’s ferreting fingers first. He’d start slowly, just one joint at a time afore he’d go for the whole finger. Old Chandos, his father’s liveryman, had been very instructive in how to cause the most pain and discomfort to a prisoner if one required information. Then after the rat had squealed and whimpered sufficiently he’d finally have something on that bloated bastard of a priest. By God would he love to see Wolsey dance the jig at Tower Hill, his tongue sticking out and his face going purple as he struggled for that last breath afore the noose and his kicking dragged him down to Satan’s loving care!

  That was for later. Now…now he needed a cup of sack and thus he headed towards the gilt pitcher and cup sitting on the small table in the corner of the room. He picked it up and considered its lack of weight. Damned suspiciously light. In forlorn hope he peered down the neck. Christ on the Cross, it was empty! Rage spiralled up his spine, and given the hint, his fallen angel urged encouragements. Give into the passion. Feel it. Destroy and revel in the power of the act!

  Francis carefully put the vessel down before he gave in and hurled it across the room. No. No, he wasn’t a slave to his passions though his fallen angel wryly suggested otherwise. It wasn’t so. Francis Bryan was no mere brute driven by lusts and bound by superstition. He was learned in the New Knowledge, a gentleman born and most of all it was high choleric passions like anger that provided his fallen angel too much chance for control…and pleasure.

  Anyway there was another factor. The chief steward was Wolsey’s man and he’d hot foot it to his master and thus to the King. No, Francis would save up this anger for Wolsey and his trap. Calm, he needed calm. Striding out of here in a towering rage would only give him into the hands of that bloated prelate. He had to think this through and according to his old friend, Carew, Francis Bryan at his best was the very devil for inventiveness. Now as for intelligence versus cunning, he was more learned than Wolsey. A year of so at Oxford had giving him a decent review of the classics and honed his skills of intellect, rhetoric and dicing, while his travels to Paris, Rouen and the coasts of Brittany hunting pirates, gave a man experiences no fat priest could equal.

  Now thanks to Wolsey he was removed from the King’s presence for the foreseeable future. Francis pulled up the small joint stool and plonked himself upon it, back resting against the wall and put his mind to the task.

  His first conclusion wasn’t so helpful. A challenge was out, as was murder. Wolsey had a retinue of some three hundred liverymen and servants. In truth the Lord Chancellor was better protected than the King, and probably for good reason. Many a gentleman like him would praise the day Cardinal Thomas choked out his last breath. Gifts and bribery were usually a common route for knowledge and he’d won over a few serving girls for the task. Though at this point his fallen angel abruptly reminded him of the last occasion, and he quickly dismissed it with a shiver. No, Wolsey had chests brimming with coin. In any bidding war he’d be tapped dry before Wolsey so much as noticed the loss of some minor belt purse. There was always blood and familial associations. His mother as a Bourchier and as governess to Princess Mary had influential links. There were still many who respected his family from when his father had been alive and a senior judge of the Court of Common Pleas. So if given cause and time it was possible to raise enough support to frustrate Wolsey. It was a workable plan up to a point. He’d need time and gilt for that, and well, Wolsey wasn’t a fool mores the pity. With this little problem, time was not a luxury he had. One more dead end.

  His fallen angel whispered another suggestion. Approach Wolsey quietly and…and make an arrangement. Francis covered his eyes and shook his head. No, he couldn’t be that desperate could he? Make Wolsey his patron? Lick the fat arse of that preening cleric? Consideration didn’t even take a moment. He’d rather be a bare bummed rent boy to the heathen Turk than call Wolsey lord! The fallen angel slunk back into its lair, momentarily rebuffed. No, he was going to fight this machination. If he wanted any sort of future at Court he had little choice. Wolsey and his pursuivant of prurience, Smeaton, had him boxed in like a deer in the hunt. As befitting the trap, it would have to be some method that was sly, underhanded and unexpected with a heavy flavouring of the unscrupulous.

  Francis gave what any observer would have called a very cold edged smile. Hmm, unscrupulous, dishonest, cunning and with the morals of piss–channel scourer—that string of adjectives immediately brought to mind one other fellow, his worthless liveryman, Bottoph! The measly wretch had to be round here somewhere, either cadging food and drink or trying to fumble underneath a scullery girl’s skirts. The rat hadn’t emerged in the morning and Francis had to beg assistance from one of Brandon’s servants afore he, as had been originally planned, left on the morning’s hunt.

  That miscreant Bottoph fit the measured bill as if it had been sewn on as a second skin. He was lazy by inclination, sly as a weasel, and maybe half again as trustworthy. However that tended to be amongst the normal sins of servants. For Jasper Bottoph they were but minor accomplishments. Ol’ Jasper had a notorious reputation as poacher, lifter, foister and rogue. There was little in the way of crime or affray that he hadn’t committed. There were a number of writs and bills outstanding against him back in Bedfordshire. Several sheriffs and Justices would dearly love to have Jasper Bottoph in their hands for an hour or as much time as it took to run through a trial and fit the rope around his neck.

  Those were just his temporal failings. As for secular, well he’d done over the ten commandants, most of them broken so badly that it was a wonder his shoes didn’t catch alight whenever he walked into a church or shrine. Not that many prelates, if they knew him, would let Ol’ Jasper past the door, even for extreme unction. If any of Adam’s children was destined for an end at the crossroads gibbet, it his loyal and faithful liveryman. It was in fact that last set of attributes that had Francis so suddenly keen to find his minion. In this particular matter Bottoph’s talents were about to shine, whether he wanted to not.

  Chapter 3: Bottoph’s Repose – The Strand

  Francis pulled his cloak a little further round. He’d passed the last shielding row of houses on King Street leaving him exposed to the cold winter wind blowing through the open fields to the north. Some four weeks to Easter and the breeze still had the full bite the mid winter chill. Thank the saints he’d swapped his c
ourt hunting apparel for his heavier grey workaday toils cloak and a worn leather doublet. It’d be warm when he swung onto the Strand past Charing Cross.

  For once he’d given into the whispered suggestions of his fallen angel and dressed for discretion, though not so much in an attempt at disguise. That’d be useless. The court was packed fuller than a miser’s chest with watchers and spies, and he’d place any stake that too many called Smeaton master. His exit must have been observed and even now there’d be a trailing minion back some ways.

  As the church bells boomed and chimed the two o’ clock hour the traffic seemed to double. Heavy carts, pony trains and the common ebb and flow of Westminster jostled with each other for space. Just in time Francis dodged the slewing path of a heavy cart as it bumped from rut to unbroken cobbles and splashed ankle deep into a muddy pothole. Francis returned the carter’s curse in kind while only casting a brief scowl towards the audience of loafing apprentices and their braying laughs. It was opportune that he’d kept the long riding boots. The rains of the previous day had left the road from Westminster a treacherous course. The road, despite the closeness to His Majesty’s seat of government and the courts, was in a pitiful state. The cobbles were broken and decayed thanks to His Eminence’s latest building frenzy at the Archbishop of York’s old residence. Apparently Wolsey could spend like a drunkard on his own palace and gatehouse, but not a clipped groat could be scraped up a step beyond there for maintenance of the royal ward.

  Along the Strand if anything the press was worse, though it not surprising with this being the midst of the Hilary law term and some three weeks till the festivals of Our Lord’s Sacrifice and Resurrection brought an end to sessions. For him it was a boon. Any trailing watchers would be hard pressed to keep up. Taking his chance in the crowd he slipped down an almost hidden lane beside the church and hospice of St Mary Rounceval, heading towards the river and then worked his way by crooked bylane and narrow passage between wattle–walled buildings to Harts-horn Lane.

  While in the Liberties past Temple Bar there were hundreds of small and large establishments for a passer–by to quench their thirst and maybe grab a bowl of pease pottage or a pie, this section only boasted some dozen ale houses and a few taverns. Of those Jasper Bottoph’s welcome could only be assured at four. In an overheard aside to one of Brandon’s retainers, Jasper had let slip that the Hart’s horn was his especial favourite and this fellow need only mention his name to be assured of a hearty welcome.

  Francis came to a stop in front of the three story building on the eastern side of the lane. As law decried it had an almost green bush lashed to a pole projecting out from the base of the second storey. This was the ubiquitous sign of a ‘legal’ alehouse, though as he knew, ‘legal’ was a broad term that only the Guilds in the city chose to enforce. This building was better than some he’d seen claiming the right. It at least wasn’t a ruin or a tumbled hovel with doorstep liberally coated with puke and stinking of pisswalls. The front was freshly whitewashed and the timber shutters were un-weathered. At a guess the ale wife had good custom and didn’t need to rely on dubious patronage of rogues, vagabonds and beggars. Giving a last inspection to the near empty street he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  The interior was one large room extending back some thirty feet, with a spread of several trestle tables, and a modest fireplace crackling away at the back left corner. The open shutters at the front gave decent light to the front two thirds and several tallow rushes generously lit the rear. To his eye and nose it was as clean and as well presented as the exterior. The floor rushes still had that sharp fresh tang from recent picking and all the tables looked recently scrubbed. In fact at his entry the one by the door was being worked over by a pair of small boys holding a wad of rush stalks bundled in their small hands and alternately dipping into a bucket of wet sand.

  Francis gave a short nod of satisfaction. This place would even gain the approval of His Majesty’s chief steward. He knew from long association that Henry was a stickler for cleanliness wherever he stayed. As for the alehouse patrons, from a quick scan some twenty souls were in residence, and ranged from a few scruffy apprentices to modestly dressed tradesmen and a scattering of clerks in their dark gowns.

  To Francis this was a little surprising. From his knowledge of Ol’ Jasper’s usual haunts this was almost palatial—and sedate. Commonly he’d find his liveryman in the worst sinkholes of depravity, where an evening’s entertainment was split between a knife brawl and the public humping of a harlot. Oh and of course a bout of dog and rat baiting. Ol’ Jasper though wasn’t in evidence, not even slumped snoring in a corner. Francis entertained a moment’s doubt. Perhaps his worthless minion was somewhere else. This couldn’t be the place. Why, over to his left two clerks were playing a friendly game of what looked to be ruff and honour with nary the shadow of a cony catcher or cross biter. Where were the foists, nips and lewdsters that were so commonly Jasper’s companions?

  Perplexed Francis walked past the tables to the back of the common room, where the long serving bench and stacked row of barrels stood. Guarding this and watching over the toil of her servants was a stout hard–eyed alewife, dressed in a simple blue kirtle with her hair gathered up under a linen cap. From the breadth of her shoulders she probably didn’t need the added authority of the bearlike tapster, currently moving full barrels, to keep the peace.

  Usually Francis would walk into a place like this and commanded attention. This time however he heeded his fallen angel’s discretion and doffed his cap politely towards the wary alewife. “I give you good day mistress. I’m after a fellow, Jasper Bottoph, lanky with a narrow face and red beard. Have you seen him hereabouts?”

  The dark eyes of the alewife narrowed as she examined him at length, no doubt taking in his modest gentleman’s apparel and sword. Finally her hard edged squint settled on some point past his head and reluctantly she gave out a short answer. “Mayhap…what’s it to yer?”

  Francis paused a moment and reached inside his doublet to where his purse nestled and pulled out a groat coin before placing it on the bench. “A friend needs to give him a warning.”

  The alewife skimmed the silver coin away with practiced ease and waved her thumb over her left shoulder. “Up the stairs then third door on the left side.”

  Francis returned a polite nod, and under the watchful stare of the alewife and the tapster, strode quickly and quietly to the stairway set in the common room’s corner behind the serving bench. From the patches of moulded and painted stucco and carved shield on a stair post he could tell that as with most of these buildings, the alehouse had been reworked from a prior incarnation. This had once been the residence of the senior retainer for the Bishop of Durham. This situation made him prey to some strange fancies. Francis sometimes wished he, like Odysseus, could sacrifice a ram and converse with the shades of the dead. The stories from this place would be fascinating. Though idle and flitting as it was, the first shade he’d summon up if he had the power would be his dear father decades in the earth now. With a shiver he dismissed the fantasy. He had enough trouble with the dead right now.

  The corridor at the head of the stairs was narrow and what little light there was trickled in through a small shuttered window. Francis counted along to the third door. As expected it was closed. For a moment he stood there in thought then pulled out his dagger and slipped it up his sleeve. Cony catcher’s traps for guests weren’t uncommon. Prepared he pushed at the door. Slowly it eased open to reveal a small cubby of a room almost taken up by the three pieces of furniture it contained. The largest by far was a rough timber framed bed shoved into a corner. along one wall, at its foot was a common chest and stool. This was both the bulk of the contents and the space, with the possible exception of the two figures snoring away under a strangely familiar coverlet. Hmm that was supposedly being repaired at a tailor’s on Fish Street. Francis shook his head at the errant knavery. So typical of Ol’ Jasper, though the sight gave him a sparkle of inspira
tion.

  Silently he edged along the tight gap betwixt the wall and bed, then bent over the more attractive of the two figures and placed a hand over her nose and mouth. A few seconds later and with a muffled snort a pair of sky blue eyes shot wide open in alarmed surprise. He ensured that the first sight of those very pretty eyes was fittingly attracted to the glittering silver of a four pence groat. That gained her instant and appreciative attention. Francis held up a silencing finger and waved her towards the door. With a pleasing lack of modesty the punk slipped out of the bed, and squeezing to get past, rubbed her rosy nipples across his chest. His fallen angel immediately surged to the fore demanding its due. Returning her impish smile and lingering passage, Francis helped her past with a steadying hand on silk smooth buttock. The demands of his fallen angel had their effect on his cods which leapt to the challenge. Regretfully he shook his head to the implied invitation in those light eyes. Taking his servant’s leavings wasn’t a temptation no matter how attractive the girl.

  Instead he settled down on the vacant and still warm half of the bed and slipped the dagger out of his sleeve. Ol’ Jasper hadn’t noticed a thing. He was still lying on his side snoring away fit to serve as the Last Trumpet. Francis paused a moment to consider his tactics. Bottoph had a nasty reputation as an instinctive brawler, with the lightening reflexes of a startled wildcat. He didn’t want to end up with a knife in his belly.

  So he pulled a long piece of straw out of the mattress and began to use it to tickle Ol’ Jasper’s ear while he made the gentle teasing sounds of a lover. “Jasp’r sweeting, wakey. Time’s for play Jasp’r.”

  His response was a flicked hand at the annoying straw and a grumbled complaint, of ‘leave orf’.