If Clement Naylor was the murderer, as Bianca thought, he might very well return--either for Fisk, or for the printed sheet drying in his shop. Perhaps he had scouted St. Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe to make sure he could use it for his next murder. The posted guard might have put him off, but only temporarily. Strangulation with a paternoster followed the murderer’s pattern. And now with Father Foxcroft missing, it made her wonder.
“I may need your help,” she said. “I’m sorry I can’t take you home just yet.”
Fisk had barely answered before they heard a sound at the shop’s entrance. The padlock was being worked.
***
Bianca and Fisk ran up the stairs of the print shop just as the padlock scraped and the door began to open. At the window, Bianca reached for the rope on the ring and handed it to Fisk.
“Hang onto this and walk down the wall,” she whispered. “Wait for me between the two buildings at the end of the alley.”
Fisk got up on the windowsill and looked down.
“Hurry!” Bianca waved him on. “And don’t jump!”
The downstairs door clicked shut and footsteps crossed the room. Bianca glanced toward the stairs then leaned out the window to watch Fisk rappel down the side of the building. He got within five feet of the ground and let go, landing harmlessly on his rear.
Bianca grabbed hold of the rope, just as the bottom stair groaned with weight.
“Who goes there?” Clement Naylor had overheard their scrambling.
Bianca gathered up her skirt and got herself onto the sill. The ring and the rope were in poor condition from the evening’s use, but with no choice in the matter she had to entrust her weight to the rotten hemp. If she could get halfway down without it breaking, she could survive the fall without too much injury. With a final glance over her shoulder, she swung herself outside, feeling for the grooved timber with the toe of one foot.
Luckily, it didn’t take her long to find it, and she began scaling down the wall. Her hands burned from sliding down the rope in her haste to reach the ground. She was halfway down when the rope soundlessly frayed at the ring and the whole thing gave way. The strands of rope suddenly went slack and Bianca landed on her back, the wind knocked out of her. She lay there, surprised, blinking up at the sky, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then she remembered Clement Naylor. He would notice the missing shutter. She couldn’t let him see her on the ground next to it. She got her breath and rolled up against the building.
Seconds later, Naylor stuck his head out the window and looked down the alley in either direction. He pulled his head back in, and Bianca thought he was done, when half his body suddenly leaned out, looking for the missing shutter. Spotting it in the alley, he gave an audible, “Hmmph”, then disappeared.
Bianca got to her feet and flattened herself against the wall. The shadows would give her cover if she clung to them, and she ran for the corner.
“Did he see you?” asked Fisk when she ducked in beside him.
“I think not, but I don’t want to wait and find out.” She crept to the other end of the gap and peeked around the corner at the front door. It was still closed but she expected Naylor would open it any second. “We need to get out of here, but we can’t let him see us on the road.” Bianca pulled Fisk after her, back into the alley. “Naylor will see that you’re gone. He’ll put it together about the noise and the missing shutter.”
“Why does he want to kill me?”
“Fisk, I do not know if that was his intent. Understand that it has nothing to do with whether or not he liked you. Now, follow me.” Bianca ran down the alley with Fisk close behind, then broke across the road to hide in a dark alcove a distance from the shop. From there they could keep the front door in sight. “I have a sense where Naylor may be going, but I don’t know for sure. We’ll need to follow him.”
They didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and Clement Naylor appeared. He secured the padlock and started walking down the street. One hand rested on a messenger bag slung across his chest, and the other swung freely at his side as he hurriedly strode down the lane.
Bianca and Fisk retreated into the alcove and watched him pass.
The two cautiously stepped from the doorway. They trailed him at a safe distance, dashing from shadow to shadow along the periphery of the lane, careful not to expose themselves in the conspicuous middle. Naylor turned towards Paternoster Row heading in the direction of St. Paul’s.
With the other parish churches previously targeted and by now hopefully guarded, there were no other religious buildings left in Castle Baynard Ward but the massive cathedral. But Bianca didn’t expect that Naylor would necessarily attempt a murder there. How could anyone hang a body from its formidable exterior without some sort of scaffolding or crane?
However, if the printer was determined to stage his next spectacle at St. Paul’s, he would have no choice but to use the church grounds to gain access. At the corner of Paternoster Row, Bianca and Fisk stopped and watched the printer cross the churchyard, a lone figure in a sea of stretched shadows from nearby buildings.
“He’s heading for the Cross,” whispered Bianca.
Paul’s Cross was an open-air pulpit built of timber on stone steps and covered with a lead roof. Affixed to the roof’s peak was a large lead cross. The circular pulpit was the site of weekly sermons given by priests appointed by the bishops of London as well as a venue to announce royal proclamations. Of course, it was also known for a tumultuous history where men voiced their opinions and incited riots. Curiously enough, thought Bianca, the buildings lining the Cross yard contained an ever-increasing number of publishers.
Bianca turned to Fisk. “I need you to find Meddybemps,” she said. “He should be at St. Benet’s Church. I’ve asked him to follow Father Wells. But I need him here. Can you do that?”
“What do you think Master Naylor is about?”
“Whatever it is, I do not think that it is to much good. Now hurry!” Bianca pointed the way and gave him a gentle push.
Fisk hesitated, as if resisting her request. Bianca was about to scold him when, without warning, he wheeled about and hugged her around the waist. Bianca’s eyes widened in surprise. She stiffened, not quite knowing how to react, but the boy had weaseled his way into her heart long before this awkward show of affection. Before she could lay her hand on his back, or return the gesture in kind, Fisk took off running, his young legs pumping and his worn shoes pounding the ground beneath his feet.
***
John felt suddenly ill. He had more respect for his enemies—the Scots—than he did for this man, this English brother. How many times had he wished Roger dead? And now here he lay, murdered by his own hand.
He vomited in the soft sphagnum and retched until nothing more came. Well, he thought, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, what is done cannot be unmade. For now, he must finish burying him.
Using peat and moss was futile with the wind blowing ever stronger. Instead, he ranged the immediate field collecting stones and laid them on top. Once he had finished, it would look like an obvious burial site. Mayhap the stones would be removed and the body discovered, but there was the chance the site would be left undisturbed out of respect for the dead.
John laid the last stone just as the sun broke above the horizon. He stood over the grave. A prayer might speed Roger’s soul on its journey. But John didn’t bother saying one.
The war had changed him.
***
Clement Naylor disappeared behind the pulpit’s low wood walls. Bianca wanted a closer look, so she dashed from one of the buildings to a tree within sight of the front of the pulpit. Once there, she made herself slim against its trunk and took a peek.
Naylor’s head bobbed up and down as if he was securing something hidden behind the enclosure. Finished, or perhaps taking a rest, he stood up. Bianca ducked behind the tree trunk. When she dared to look, she saw Naylor standing on the short wall in f
ront of the sermon dais which served as a narrow divider, a dangerous height if he fell. But from the ease with which he moved, Clement Naylor appeared unconcerned with its possible peril.
He held a coil of rope in one hand, and in his other an attached metal bar. Naylor stepped along the short preacher’s wall, angling for a better look. He stopped and wound back his arm, tossing the metal bar onto the lead roof. It made a dull thud. The printer hopped off and disappeared inside the enclosure.
Bianca could see movement on the opposite side, but she couldn’t determine what he was doing. If she could reach St. Paul’s eastern transept, she could get a better look. She studied the placement of trees staggered across the church yard. If she was lucky, she could sprint the short distances between them and work her way over. Then she could creep along the transept to the pulpit.
Bianca lifted her hem and draped the gathered fabric over one arm. With Naylor engaged, she ran for the first tree where she caught her breath and peeped toward the pulpit. Nothing indicated that the printer had noticed her. She then set her sights on the second tree and ran that distance without issue. She could have become too bold, but Bianca had learned not to let success soften her diligence. Caution had come with maturity.
Another few dashes and she made it to the cathedral where she clung against the building hidden in shadow. Once she’d caught her breath, she began making her way toward Paul’s Cross.
She was nearly halfway there when she heard a second dull thud on the roof of the pulpit. The printer had returned to the front and was again standing on top of the sermon’s wall. This time, he was on his toes reaching for the metal bar. He finally caught hold of it and pulled. He had made a loop around the cross decorating the peak.
Bianca slid silently along the cathedral wall until she reached the side of the pulpit. But the structure’s height and her close proximity made it impossible to see what Naylor was doing. She moved on, keeping to the building’s dark cover, and circled behind Paul’s Cross to a set of stone steps leading up to its base.
It would be foolish to climb the steps and try to stop Clement Naylor without help. She only wished for a better look. As she placed her foot on the first riser, she saw the printer pull the rope. She heard a groan, followed by the sound of something being dragged across the stone floor.
She kept to the side of the stairs and took another step, pressing herself flat against the stone. Again, Clement Naylor reached over his head taking hold of the rope and Bianca, still hidden in the shadows, wagered another step. Naylor pulled on the length, bending at the waist to make the most of his effort.
A groan of agony came from the pulpit floor, and there lay Father Foxcroft, his wrists and ankles bound, his face smeared with black ink and a gag in his mouth. A noose hung around his neck—the same rope being used to drag him across the floor.
Bianca drew her dagger. She felt no particular duty to risk her life to save Foxcroft, but this was a cruel way to kill a man, even if it was to prove a point—which Bianca believed was Naylor’s intent. Constable Berwick was as good as gone, and for that matter, so was Patch. All she could do was hope that Fisk and Meddybemps might return in time to help.
But she could bleat louder than a blaring bagpipe when she needed to, and the church yard was rimmed by shops whose masters slept content in the upper stories. These men, so accustomed to their peace and quiet, would surely run to their windows if she made a ruckus.
Meanwhile, Clement Naylor continued pulling the rope and ignored Foxcroft’s thrashing and whimpers. The whites of Foxcroft’s eyes shown large and wild as every tug worked to compound his pain. If he survived being dragged across the floor by his neck, his ultimate demise was still to come.
Why had the printer not strangled the priest if his intention was to hang him from Paul’s cross? It would have made his work easier, thought Bianca. Apparently, the numbing effect of the printer’s ink had worn off. Perhaps Naylor wanted Foxcroft to fully grasp his impending death. Naylor wished to send a message hanging Foxcroft from the cross atop Paul’s pulpit.
Another yank, and the printer pulled the priest to his toes, straining Foxcroft’s neck to take the burden of his weight. His chin tipped up as he fought against the noose and this awkward stance. His eyes bulged trying to see Naylor.
The printer tied off the rope, then reached down into his bag, removing a sheet of paper. He smoothed it out and pinned it to Father Foxcroft’s front.
“Would you like to know what it says, sirrah?” said Naylor admiring the message. He began to read, “Here hangs the body…”
Bianca had heard enough. “Stay, you,” she said stepping out of the shadows.
The printer turned and his eyes dropped to the dagger in her hand.
“I remember you,” he said with a slight wondering tilt of his head. “We once had conversation.”
“We did,” said Bianca. “We spoke very near here. You sold pamphlets and a broadside of Robert Barnes’s Supplication to the king.”
“Your memory serves you,” Naylor answered.
Father Foxcroft desperately tried to see who had so boldly intervened. His garbled moans and whinnies redoubled.
Bianca nodded towards Naylor’s captive. “Methinks you have a personal score to settle with this man.”
“I do,” said the printer. It was as if he was discussing a matter of no particular import. He could just as well have mentioned the weather, or the way the moon shone on the steps. “I should like to get on with it.”
“That cannot happen.”
Clement Naylor flashed an indulgent smile. “This man must atone for his crime.”
“His crime? Sir, it serves no purpose to avenge a man’s poor judgement with his subsequent murder.”
Clement Naylor jerked the rope attached to Foxcroft and the priest squealed in pain. “Then you know.”
“I have learned that Foxcroft gave over Robert Barnes to be punished as a heretic.”
“A charge unjustly proffered,” said Naylor. His eyes slid sideways to Foxcroft, who continued making a fuss. “This man is an unconscionable liar. He is made of the stuff of air—he puffs to condemn others, then disappears like a gust of wind, refusing the burden of his false conduct. His whims, his beliefs, his faith are as changeable as our king’s vacillating desires. He is a dissembler--a rascal. He is a poltroon…”
“He gave over your friend,” said Bianca.
“That, he did.” Naylor nodded. “He subjected my friend to a humiliating and cruel death. No one deserves such an end--to be burned alive.” Naylor pushed his satchel away with his foot. “The king had listened to Barnes, once,” he continued. “He nearly adopted Luther’s ideas for reform. But then, as the pope and the continent turned against our king, Harry could no longer stomach their criticism, and so he took out his frustration on Barnes.” The printer pointed his finger at Bianca in warning. “Do not protest too much, for you shall be licked raw by flames.”
“It is the punishment for heretics,” said Bianca. She wished Meddybemps and Fisk would return.
“He was not a heretic,” insisted Naylor. He fixed her with an angry stare. “Barnes and I met years ago at the White Horse Tavern when I was at Cambridge. A group of us often discussed the church, the bishops, the blatant corruption. Martin Luther’s writings were of great interest to us and we embraced his ideas for reform. I followed my friend to London and learned my printing skills from Thomas Raynalde. There were several wealthy patrons who wished for reform and who believed it was important to disseminate printers throughout the city. While I worked with the printed word, Barnes bravely urged reform from this very pulpit. He gave many a rousing speech from here.” Naylor’s eyes surveyed the enclosure with fondness. “But one day he was arrested and placed under house arrest. I continued to work clandestinely with him to distribute Tyndale’s translation of the New Testament.”
Naylor straightened the note on Father Foxcroft’s front, ignoring the priest’s continuing st
ruggles. “After two years, Barnes was released, but his incarceration did not stop him from spreading his ideas. He continued urging reform until he learned that the authorities were planning his execution. He fled to Wittenberg where he studied under Martin Luther. It was there that he wrote his supplication, the pamphlet you saw in my satchel.”
The printer sighed. “The king and Thomas Cromwell suddenly realized how he might be useful. Barnes knew Martin Luther personally, and they wanted him to convince Luther to accept Henry’s divorce from Catherine. But Barnes failed to secure Luther’s approval. He also failed with the German princes. The king’s use for Thomas Cromwell and Robert Barnes had come to an end. When the king executed Cromwell, my friend lost his sole protector. The rest you know.” He ran his eyes around the vacant courtyard, then looked at Bianca. “You have delayed me.”
Bianca played for time. “But why murder young boys?” Foxcroft still balanced on his toes, finding a position that allowed him to breathe. “They were innocent of these deceits!”
The printer remained unmoved. “Their innocence assures them everlasting peace,” he said as if it should be obvious. He untied the rope holding Foxcroft hostage. “I should be commended for saving them years of suffering under this erratic king. Their deaths attracted attention—did they not? They were easy victims and their deaths made the priests uneasy. The paternosters twined around their necks are the perverse symbol of a deceptive religion and of those who practice it.” He interpreted the expression on Bianca’s face and continued, “Come now, be not sad. I saved these boys from the king’s muddled religion and from the pope’s corrupt one. Fear not, they will experience their reward in heaven.”
“But our king shall not live forever. He grows more infirm by the day. He must be carried from room to room. The man is mortal. Another sovereign will rule, perhaps one more just.”
“I have grown weary,” said Naylor. “There is no justice in the courts. This time, it is left to me to set the balance right.” He gestured to the knife in Bianca’s hand. “It would be better if you left now, while you still can.”
The Lost Boys of London Page 29