Low Treason

by Leonard Tourney

“It’s the fever,” nodded Abraham. “It’ll fetch the boy off soon enough.” _

  “Perhaps I can see that Ralph’s last hours are with friends. There must be a possibility of bail.”

  “Bail!” cried Abraham as though Matthew’s statement had contained some subtle wit. “If he could have had bail, so it would have been done. I tell you the keeper’s a hard man to do business with. Don’t show him the inside of your purse unless he holds a knife to your throat or some piperly pickthank has put a snake inside it. He won’t leave you a penny, I warrant.”

  When Matthew returned to the prison lodge he found the keeper alone and dozing in his chair. Matthew’s entrance awakened him; he sat up with a start and fixed Matthew with his narrow eyes, as though he had never seen him before. The keeper asked, “You found your man?” remembering.

  “Not Julian,” replied Matthew dryly.

  The keeper’s expression did not change. He stared at Matthew.

  “It’s Ralph Harbert I sought and found at last,” Matthew continued, deciding not to press the subject of the keeper’s little joke about Julian. “I found him in what you call the Hold. It’s a great wonder to me that he should be there, since he has been accused of naught but a theft.”

  “It’s a crime to steal,” replied the keeper matter-of-facdy.

  “I don’t deny it,” said Matthew. “But the Hold?” He tried to keep his voice level, but he heard it trembling and uncertain. It was always thus when he was excited about something, when his sense of injustice was aroused and raw. The inequity of Ralph’s imprisonment was too palpable.

  The keeper said he would look in the charge book. He rose, walked with obvious reluctance to the cupboard, and selected a heavy, leather-bound volume which he first made room for on his desk by pushing a great many loose papers aside and an empty bowl that went clattering on the floor. He turned the leaves methodically while muttering beneath his breath the names of persons Matthew took to be present and former inmates.

  “Hamshaw, Hanley, Hanson.”

  He came to Harbert and paused. Of that name there were two, Stephen and Ralph. They were unrelated, the keeper supposed, since Stephen Harbert was of Lincolnshire and Ralph Harbert was of London.

  “That’s my man, Ralph Harbert, apprentice to Mr. Castell of the Basilisk’s Eye.”

  The keeper read from the book, then he closed it and looked at Matthew. “The boy was charged with theft of a gold ring. He was to be held for the next session.” The tone of the keeper’s voice, leaden and curt, suggested that was the end of it, except of course for the hanging. That went without saying.

  “He has also been labeled a dangerous man . . . prone to quarrel. I have a few enough men to help me here should riot break out in the yard, so to the Hold with him I say and there he shall abide until the sessions and good Justice John Popham send him to hell.”

  “All that is in your book?” Matthew asked, incredulously.

  “More is than is written, Mr. Constable,” the keeper said cryptically, tapping one stubby finger on the side of his skull, as though to indicate the precise location of his information.

  Exasperated, Matthew thought to ask: “How much is the bail?”

  “No bail.”

  “No bail?”

  “No bail,” the keeper repeated, leaning back in his chair and preparing himself to resume his late morning nap.

  “Wherefore?” inquired Matthew, sure now that something was amiss.

  “No bail. No bail,” said the keeper impatiently, brandishing his arm at Matthew. “I have that on a great one’s authority. Your Ralph Harbert is a malefactor of no mean order, his smooth girlish countenance notwithstanding.” “I thought you told me you didn’t know Ralph Harbert!” Matthew exclaimed, his exasperation now on the verge of anger.

  “Well, so I said and the truth it was,” replied the keeper, beginning to redden in the face. “But now that I know of whom you speak I tell you that he must remain here in his present condition until I have other word.” “But from whom?” exclaimed Matthew in what was more a protest than a question, for he knew there would be no answer, not from the stony-faced keeper.

  “That’s for me to know, sir. Now if your business with us is done—”

  “No, sir jailer, my business is not done,” Matthew heard himself declare. “I too have friends in the City— great ones, as you call them. I hope I will have no need to call upon them for assistance in this cause. Ralph Harbert’s punishment clearly exceeds his crime and that’s a fact. Besides, the boy is dying.”

  The keeper rose slowly from his chair, his face a mask of rage. “You may call on whomever you please and be damned,” he roared. “I know my duty. As for the boy, may his corpse rot for all I care.”

  The tone of the conflict had drawn two of the keeper’s men from the next room, and they came lumbering into the office like cattle heading for water. Matthew noticed they were armed with the heavy truncheons sheriffs’ men sometimes carried at their sides when they patrolled the City.

  Disgusted and fearful for his safety, Matthew asked if he could have his knife.

  “What knife?” replied the keeper in a voice totally devoid of expression.

  “The knife I left with you. You said it was the customlike the shilling you had of me for admission.”

  He had been ironic without quite intending it, but the irony had no effect. The keeper stared at him stupidly, as though Matthew had just spoken in an alien tongue, and his two burly companions stood as stiff as boards and as expressionless. He realized that he represented no threat to these men now. They had him where they wanted him.

  “A shilling?” said the keeper at last, looking with wonderment at his assistants. “Why, sir, charging admission to Newgate is expressly forbidden by law. Rest assured, if you had left your knife or other weapon with me before entering it would have been returned promptly and in good condition upon your departure.”

  “I see,” said Matthew, working hard to suppress his outrage.

  “Good day, sir,” said the keeper brusquely, resuming his chair with a thud while his companions grinned savagely. Matthew saw that one of the men wore a knife at his belt. Matthew thought it was very like his own. The keeper’s man saw where Matthew’s gaze fell but rather than move to conceal the weapon he seemed actually to -invite Matthew’s inspection of it, as though daring Matthew to claim it.

  It was Matthew’s knife, he could see that. It would have his initials carved in the whalebone handle.

  “I see your man has found my blade. See, now, he wears it at his side, so as not to forget to return it to me.”

  Matthew said this to the keeper, who now was perusing some yellow papers on his desk. The keeper ignored the remark and kept reading.

  “You are mistaken, sir,” said the keeper’s man. “The knife is mine. I have had it since I was a boy. ’ ’

  “Indeed,” said Matthew, looking very boldly at him. “Then you will explain how my initials came to be on it.” “There is nothing on the blade or handle,” he said. “Show me.”

  “I have said.”

  “Then let eyes confirm it.”

  The man stared at Matthew threateningly. “Are you man enough to take it from me? If you are, do so. If you are not, hold your peace and go your way.”

  Matthew looked at the keeper, but the man was paying no attention. It was as if Matthew had already gone. The keeper would say nothing, hear nothing. Matthew realized he could be beaten within an inch of his life and the keeper would do nothing.

  There was a long painful silence during which Matthew, humiliated by his helplessness, stood watching the keeper as his two confederates waited with insolent smirks. Now he knew his importunities were futile. Surrounded by thieves and knaves, imbeciles and other wretches wanting reason or justice, he would not have Ralph Harbert and he would not have his knife.

  All things considered, he would be lucky to get out of Newgate with his pate unbroken and his purse intact.

  Coldly, he bade the men goo
d day and had not taken two steps from the lodge when he heard the peal of derisive laughter behind him.

  Five

  DENWOOD ROLEY had spent most of the afternoon on the Strand, waiting for Sir Jeremy Parr to materialize from one of the great houses that lined the street and proceed to his lodgings in Westminster. Now in the late afternoon, amid the throng of pedestrians, Roley maintained his vigil with a solemn dutifulness. Observed from one of the houses that fronted on the street or by one of the persons of quality who strolled there on warm summer days to admire the occasional view of the river or enjoy its air, Roley would have appeared to be exactly what he was: a nondescript manservant about his employer’s business, for he was, after all, a very unremarkable fellow with his thin arms and legs, his long pale face festooned with blotches and pimples, his drab, sweat-stained doublet and patched hose. Yet despite his inconsequential appearance Roley was a man of many talents which his master had been quick to recognize and reward, and one of which he was about to put to good use.

  At the moment Roley was tired of walking but because he knew well the cost of displeasing Castell the thought of his simply giving over and returning to the house on Barbican Street never crossed his mind. So he continued to walk, his face set stolidly before him, and his eyes shifting secretly to take in the variety of faces and figures that the gala scene offered to his eye. He had seen the object of his quest on but two other occasions: once in Paul’s, once at a bear-baiting in Paris Garden on the Bankside, all melancholy with his arms folded. But he was sure he would reqognize the knight when he saw him again. He hoped only that when Parr did appear—as Castell had assured Roley he would—the knight would be unaccompanied. Contact would be easier that way.

  Later, about the time Roley was preparing to risk Castell’s displeasure and return to the City, he spotted his man, emerging from one of the houses and marching confidently toward Westminster.

  Roley quickened his pace, weaving deftly through the mob of porters, serving men, and gentlefolk bravely attired. The better quality of men wore satin suits and short cloaks, and the women, in the height of fashion, gowns with trunk sleeves, bounteous farthingales, and elegant taffeta hats with gold and silver bands to shield their complexions from the rude sun.

  When Roley had his quarry within earshot, he slowed his pace to a walk, mopped the sweat from his brow with his silk handkerchief, and ran up to pluck the knight by the elbow.

  Parr turned sharply about and glared at Roley suspiciously.

  Roley made a very mannerly low leg, bending himself neatly double and sweeping his hat off and through the air in an elaborate flourish. His obeisance done, he stood erect and looked respectfully at the knight, who waited now with scarcely concealed impatience to see what was wanted of him. Parr was a large man with ruddy cheeks and handsome dark eyes and a neatly trimmed beard flecked with gray. He was dressed most elegantly in a brown velvet doublet, white hose, and a black felt hat with a high crown adorned with some rich jewel the size of Roley’s thumb. Roley looked at the jewel enviously and then framed an obsequious countenance. He extended the letter he bore in his hand.

  “If you please, sir. You dropped this letter some way back.”

  Parr gave the paper a cursory glance, then looked at Roley contemptuously. “I lost no letter. You are mistaken.”

  The knight began to turn away.

  “If your honor please. I saw it fall from your side, not twenty yards behind.”

  Parr scowled. “I said I dropped no letter. I had none about me. Be off now, sirrah. You trouble me.”

  Parr turned away and proceeded at an even faster pace than before. Roley scrambled after him, calling out the knight’s name. At that Parr stopped and turned back. He glared at Roley menacingly.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “The letter, sir. It is signed by you.”

  “Let me see it,” he said, snatching the proffered letter from Roley’s hand.

  Roley looked about him. None of the pedestrians on the Strand had stopped to notice them. That was good, he thought. Their meeting would appear nothing more than a master conversing with his servant over some trivial domestic matter.

  “It is not in my hand,” Parr snapped after a moment’s perusal.

  “But it is signed by you. Sir Jeremy Parr. See, so it does say just here.” -

  Roley showed Parr his signature.

  “This is not in my hand.” Grimacing, Parr began to read the text. His handsome face paled, his perturbation changed to astonishment. He looked hard at Roley. “How did you come by this?”

  “As I have said, Sir Jeremy, I found it where you mislaid it.”

  “You devil,” Parr hissed angrily, reaching out to grasp him, but Roley danced out of his reach and at the same instant the knight seemed to remember where they were and regained his composure.

  “This is some foul practice,” he said. “Who did this, made this copy? Is it money you want?”

  “Money, sir?” Roley asked with an expression of calculated innocence. “Why, do you take me for one who peruses the pockets of others for gain? I should hope not, sir, for upon my honor, what so little a serving man may have, I never intended such.”

  “Well, what is it that you want, then? You do have the original letter, I presume?”

  “Not I, sir. However, I can put you in touch with him who would be more than happy to deliver up the lost article.”

  “For a price?” Parr asked.

  “For a price,” said Roley.

  “You said even now that you didn’t want money—you evoked your honor as you called it.”

  “Why, so I did and do, sir. But you do equate price with silver. Let us say rather that it is a good turn my master requires—for which in recompense you shall have your missive to the Lady Alice to do with what you will and no man, nor woman, shall be the wiser.”

  “You give me little reason to trust your discretion.” Roley protested. “You will find me in all things most confidential.”

  Parr laughed grimly. “Well, where can I find this master of yours? What is his name?”

  “Our first point of confidentiality will be my employer’s name,” said Roley.

  “As I thought,” Parr replied sullenly.

  “Do you know the tobacconist’s shop in Fleet Street, the sign of the Indian?”

  Parr said yes. He knew the shop, and the alley behind it, a filthy lane with an open sewer.

  “Come round, then, tonight—say at eight o’clock or soon after. Not to the shop but to the alley. About midblock you’ll find a plain door, much weathered, with cross and scepter sign. The sign is faint. You must look sharply for it.”

  “Cross and scepter,” Parr murmured.

  “You have it,” replied Roley. “Come alone.” “Wherefore?”

  “For your protection, Sir Jeremy, as much as mine. The whole matter will be done before you know it.”

  “I know not why it should not be done here in the

  open.”

  “Ah, sir, we must do what we must, not what we would,” Roley reflected philosophically, a broad grin spreading over his ruined face.

  “Well,” said Parr, “I will be at your tobacconist’s backsides at the appointed hour, alone as you insist, but I promise you short shrift at the end of a rope if my letter to Alice Farnsworth is not then forthcoming. I make no idle threats. Do you understand?”

  “Most assuredly,” said Roley without seeming much discomfited by this threat. “Trust me. I have been most plain and open. You shall find him who has the letter of like disposition.”

  “We shall see,” Parr answered doubtfully. Some of the color had returned to his face but his arrogance was gone now. His broad forehead was wrinkled with concern and his eyes smoldered; it was obviously difficult for him to hold his anger in check. “May I have the copy in your hand,” he asked Roley in a flat, deadly voice.

  Roley handed Parr the letter. Parr took it, shoved it beneath his belt in a sudden violent motion, and turned on his hee
ls without saying another word.

  Roley stood watching Parr until the knight was lost in the traffic around Charing Cross. He noticed that Parr did not carry himself as proudly now. The knight’s loftly looks had gone; he walked as one ashamed to be seen. Fear had made a mortal of him, a mere mortal, thought Roley with great satisfaction.

  Castell’s manservant began walking himself, taking his time, back toward the City. He was in no hurry now; he always enjoyed walking on the Strand and at the moment he was experiencing a marvelous sense of well-being that made him much pleased with his little world of service. His employer, too, would be pleased, he thought, and, as important, the jeweler would be generous, for it is a foolish servant that does not come to know the ways and whims of his master, and Denwood Roley was no fool.

  Beyond the houses and gardens that lined the south side of the street Roley glimpsed the river. He could see the barges and smaller craft plying the great stream and, beyond, the roofs and towers of the Bankside where he hoped that night to frolic with a pretty little wench he had recently taken upon himself to console for her elderly husband’s neglect. As he walked he thought of her face and form: her high arched brows as black as coal, the little mouth and sharp nose he loved to kiss, her lecherous rolling eye. Smooth and plump she was in every part and when the old man should die . . .

  Yes, Castell would be very pleased, thought Denwood Roley, and he would be generous.

  Matthew had some trouble finding the milliner of whom Ralph had spoken. There were so many shops in the neighborhood of Ludgate, so many signs. He stood before them in confusion. Do you know Margaret Browne, he asked of passersby, she who keeps shop at the sign of the Needle and Thread, she who sells lace and ribbons? But no one knew, or would tell. Most of those in the street were craftsmen of the baser sort—cobblers and curriers and tinkers. They rushed to and fro, had no time to guide a stranger in his way. Finally Matthew was set on his course by a blind man seated cross-legged in the street. Marveling, Matthew thanked the man for that information he had not found among those who could see and put a penny in the tin cup the blind man held before him.