Chaos

by A D Swanston

  Christopher stepped out from his hiding place in time to see a hat he recognized disappearing back down the lane. He shouted in vain for the man to stop and sprinted after him, hoping to catch him before he reached the safety of Cheapside.

  It was a forlorn hope. Christopher was not the only one to sense the presence of another. In the lane, his shadow had sensed him. By the time Christopher reached the corner, the hat had gone.

  Once again he had come close but the man who watched him had escaped. He went back to retrieve his bag.

  The bread and the cheese had been not less than two days old and he had left the chicken to cook for too long. Even washed down with a decent claret it had been a poor affair. Damn the shadow and damn Katherine. Leaving him to fend for himself was like throwing a man who could swim only feebly into the sea, and she knew it.

  He swallowed the last of the wine. Was she mocking him? Was she waiting to see how long he stayed afloat before rescuing him? Or would she let him drown? Should he fight against the waves or pretend to sink below them?

  He sat up straight. Through the fog of drink, a thought was trying to find expression. Fool that he was for finishing the bottle. The thought was elusive. Something to do with order and disorder. He tried to concentrate but it was no good. Whatever it was would have to keep until his mind was working better.

  He spoke aloud. ‘Next time, sir, whoever you are, next time, you will come too close and I will snare you and find out who you are.’

  That night it was not burning witches or screaming babies but the Petit Pont in Paris where he and Sir Francis Walsingham had found themselves trapped by mobs of blood-crazed Catholics in search of Protestant prey. Sir Francis had bravely faced down their leader and they had escaped. In the dream he was not with Sir Francis but Katherine and they did not face down the mob but threw themselves off the bridge and into the Seine. He woke, his forehead damp with sweat, struggling to take a breath of air. Before Paris he had never suffered from such night terrors. Now they plagued him whenever they pleased.

  It was too early to rise. If Katherine were beside him, they would make love and go back to sleep. Without Katherine, sleep would not come and he could only wait for dawn. At least, since the window had been mended by Joan’s cousin, the bed chamber was tolerably warm. The thought jogged his memory. Joan might indeed know of a remedy for his hand. He would ask her. No more duplicitous apothecaries would gain from his ailment but Joan would surely give him honest advice.

  Order and disorder. Bluff and deception. Why had the words given him pause? He remembered the blind frustration of being unable to play a piece properly until he realized that the composer had written the music on five lines instead of six. The result had been chaos.

  Chaos. The word came from the ancient Greek for what existed before the world began. Or was it an empty void between the world of the gods and the world of man? Or both? It was certainly Greek. He could visualize the letters. Chi, alpha, omicron, sigma – ΧΑΟΣ.

  It jumped at him. The first letter, chi, was formed in the shape of an X. Was his memory playing tricks or had chi been used by the ancients to signify a state of chaos? Why did that suddenly matter? Because what he had thought was a cross might just as well have been the letter chi. The slogans were marked with it, as was the Book of Martyrs in St Paul’s church. A cross signified plague yet had been daubed on healthy houses, and it had been carved into the dead man’s face. False coins, plague crosses, the writer’s mark – all intended to cause panic, fear and chaos?

  He abandoned the warmth of his bed, pulled on breeches and shirt and went down to his study. There was a flicker of life still in the fire. He threw a handful of kindling on it and gave it a poke. The ashes sparked and the kindling caught. He lit a candle and sat and watched as the flames took hold.

  Was he being absurdly fanciful and too clever for his own good? How many men in London would recognize a Greek letter? And what would it mean to those who did? Nothing.

  Yet the idea nagged at him. He thought about Warwick’s advice. If their enemy was playing a game, the letter could be the connection between his moves. But why chi, not alpha or omega? Because his purpose was chaos. And he was willing to use violence to achieve it. The attacks on Isaac and Wetherby could be explained, that on Ell’s gentleman could only be guessed at. Perhaps he had been a piece that had to be sacrificed. Perhaps.

  His mind was too active to return to the bed chamber. He was beyond sleep. He sat in the study, examining the facts, as a lawyer should, considering the evidence, and searching for flaws in his argument. He found none but that was not enough. He must test his ideas on another. Not Warwick, he was not ready for Warwick, and he doubted Katherine would speak to him. Roland Wetherby would be his sounding board.

  Daniel Cardoza arrived at dawn. ‘Dr Radcliff, my father died last night,’ he said simply. ‘My mother wished you to know at once.’ The boy’s face was drawn with exhaustion and he had been weeping.

  They had eaten together and given thanks for Isaac’s recovery but even so to a Jewish family sympathy would have been inappropriate. Christopher blinked away a tear and put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. ‘Your father was a good man and my friend. I shall miss him and respect his memory.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. He will be buried today. Although we will receive visitors of our faith during our period of mourning, my mother asks that, as a Christian, you do not call until the seven days of shiva are over. It is her wish.’

  ‘Of course, Daniel. Tell your mother, please, that I will call after you have observed shiva and that your family will be in my thoughts.’

  ‘I will. Good day, Dr Radcliff.’

  Two murders now, one of an unknown gentleman, the other of a dear friend. More pain, more death. More chaos?

  CHAPTER 19

  Dr Mendes had warned them but still it was a shock. When a man is alive, however sick or injured, there remains a spark of hope. When that spark disappears with the spark of life, the finality is brutal.

  Christopher had never dealt well with death. He had watched both his parents die from plague and in Paris he had seen death in terrible forms. And in a fit of anger he had killed a man in a brawl. But without the comfort of prayer – a comfort he had forsaken – he found it difficult to accept loss. He had learned, however, that the best remedy for grief was action.

  Unable to face Fleet Street, where he must pass Isaac’s shop, he took a wherry from Blackfriars to Whitehall steps and walked from there up to the Holbein Gate. For once, he paid no heed to the river – his thoughts were on Isaac and Sarah and their family. Daniel Cardoza was not much younger than he had been when his father died. Unlike him, however, Daniel had a grieving mother and two younger siblings, for whom he would now be responsible. Not in law – he was too young for that – but in practice. For all the support of the Marrano community, it would be a heavy burden for him.

  At that hour, Roland Wetherby was barely awake. ‘By Jesus, Christopher,’ he protested at the door to his apartment, ‘may a man not wash and dress before receiving visitors?’ Then, seeing Christopher’s expression, he reached out to take his arm and his tone became serious. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Isaac has died.’

  ‘Come in, my friend, and tell me.’

  Christopher kept his account brief. When it was done Wetherby cursed. ‘May the man who did this rot forever in the depths of hell. I did not know Isaac Cardoza well but I know he was your friend and our world will be a poorer place for his loss.’

  ‘It will and I will find his killer. Also, there is a matter upon which I need your advice.’

  ‘Anything if it helps us find Isaac’s killer.’

  Christopher told him about his encounter with the shadow and the thoughts that had come during the night. ‘Am I being fanciful, Roland?’ he asked. ‘Or might there be some substance to the idea?’

  Wetherby considered. ‘Not fanciful and we have no better explanation for the marks. But even if it is so and our enemy
is playing a game whose purpose is simply to confuse and frighten, we do not know why. Nor does the idea lead us in any direction other than the one we are set on. Have you heard any more from Ell Cole?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then we must try again and this time we must succeed.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘If you mean that we will set another trap, I forbid it, Roland. Our watcher knows you and will be on the lookout for you. I do not wish to lose another friend.’

  ‘What else do you propose, Christopher?’ Wetherby’s voice was suddenly shrill. ‘Or are we to do nothing?’ Christopher stared at him. ‘Forgive me – that was unfair.’

  ‘So it was and I will not put you in danger again. Next time the blow may kill you.’

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘Or me or Ell or, for all we know, our gracious queen.’

  Wetherby threw up his hands. ‘God’s wounds, but I pray not. The French and the Spanish would be in London within the week.’ He paused. ‘Could they be behind all this?’

  ‘I have considered it, of course, and they may be. Chaos and insurrection in London would certainly suit their purpose. But for now put your mind to it from the safety of this palace.’

  ‘Must I remind you once more of the bullet that struck down the traitor Berwick?’

  ‘I am serious, Roland. You are more use to me safe and thinking than in danger on the streets. Think of Isaac Cardoza if you believe otherwise.’

  At the door Wetherby asked, ‘Did you know that Leicester returned last night?’

  ‘I did not. Thank you for the warning.’

  Katherine too must be told, much as he would prefer not to call at Wood Street and half hoped that she would not be at home. Then he would be able to leave a message with Isabel Tranter.

  Katherine was at home. ‘Christopher, have I not made my feelings clear?’ she asked, barring the door.

  ‘Abundantly. Isaac Cardoza is dead. I thought to tell you.’

  ‘Well, now you have and I am sorry for it.’

  ‘The prices in the markets are rising. I paid two and a half pennies for a small loaf.’

  A glimmer of a smile crossed Katherine’s face. ‘I trust it was fresh.’

  ‘It was not. How fares Joan Willys?’

  ‘Better than her mother who does little but weep and curse the Scrope wench.’

  ‘Should I visit her?’

  ‘No. I will see that Joan and her mother are safe. You be about your business.’ Katherine made to close the door.

  ‘One thing more, Katherine. Unless Alice Scrope has a hoard of coins hidden in her house, someone gave her the money for the hearing and will have to give her more for a trial. If we can discover who that is, we may be able to help Joan.’

  ‘I have thought of that. Is there anything more?’

  It was not the time. ‘No.’

  ‘Then I shall bid you farewell. And buy fresh bread in future.’

  Thinking he would do just that even if the price was another halfpenny, he made for Cheapside. Approaching the market, he knew there was trouble. The sounds were not those of bartering voices but of timber breaking and iron crashing against iron. He hurried towards them.

  Cheapside was in disarray. Stalls were being overturned and smashed. Apprentices picked fruit and stones from the ground and pelted the stallholders, who were battering them with lengths of wood and iron bars.

  A boy went down screaming and clutching his leg. Another bent over him to help, only to be laid out with a blow to the head. Two stallholders picked him up by the ankles, shook out his purse and dropped him on to the cobbles. Blood was streaming from his head. Christopher barged into the mêlée and dragged him out.

  Crouched over the stricken boy, he looked back over his shoulder. The battle was raging. A tall youth thrust a buckler into a trader’s face, which spurted a fountain of blood. A stallholder jabbed a stick into another apprentice’s groin, watched him collapse and landed a heavy kick to his head. In no time, the street was strewn with wounded bodies and the remains of broken stalls. There was no sign of a constable.

  The apprentices began to gather up their wounded and with-draw. The traders watched them go, brandishing their weapons in triumph and shouting abuse. Christopher approached one of them, a vendor of sweets and confections from whom he sometimes bought Katherine’s biscuits.

  ‘What has happened here, fellow?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the prices we are having to charge, sir,’ replied the confectioner, struggling to regain his breath. ‘Some can no longer afford to buy from us, although we try to explain why a halfpenny bag of almond sweets now costs more than twice as much as it did two weeks since. The young men will not accept the need for it.’

  ‘That is no surprise but why so sharp an increase? Are almonds suddenly dearer now than they used to be?’

  The confectioner wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘No, sir. It is fear of the coins we take. A busy trader cannot examine every one and must protect himself against the bad ones by increasing his prices. What else is he to do?’

  ‘Are there more bad coins about?’

  ‘The word is that they are breeding like maggots.’

  ‘Have you suffered many?’

  ‘I, sir? No, I confess that I have not but others say they have and I am expecting the worst.’

  Christopher picked an almond biscuit from the cobbles and wiped it on his gown. ‘How much for this, goodman? I will not pay full price for a biscuit that has lain in the dirt.’

  The confectioner looked at him and smiled. ‘Seeing as it’s you, sir, there will be no charge. Enjoy the biscuit, but next time you come I fear the price may have risen again. So don’t leave it too long.’

  ‘Thank you. I won’t.’

  Nibbling at the biscuit, which truth to tell was too sweet for his taste, he made his way through the debris scattered down the street and the vendors struggling to rebuild their stalls from the wreckage the apprentices had left behind.

  Perception and reality. Fact and rumour. In the matter of currency, one could be as damaging as the other. Once the earl had spoken with his brother, Christopher would be summoned. Would that he had better news to report. Finding a quiet time simply to think or play was not so easy in the employ of the Earl of Leicester, whatever Warwick had urged him to do. There were ever matters to be dealt with, often urgent, sometimes important matters, and the mood on the streets of London was both.

  Leicester had been to Kenilworth to oversee arrangements for the queen’s progress, although it was still more than twelve months away. What was it about her progresses, that were considered so important to the good government of her realm and which occupied so much of his time? To be sure, they gave her people – not many, but some – the chance to see their queen in the flesh rather than in a painting or on the face of a coin, but upwards of a thousand men and women travelling from town to town had to be billeted and provisioned and equipped with mounts and carriages and all manner of household necessaries. The cost to the exchequer was prodigious and a considerable burden to the landowners with whom she and her courtiers stayed. Leicester, not to be outdone by anyone, was planning displays of jousting, bear-baiting, archery and fireworks, hunting trips in the Warwickshire countryside, and feasts with enough meat and drink to feed half of London for a day. He had spoken of his plans not boastfully but with pride at being able to serve the queen with such splendour. Yet could the cost really be justified? Or could it not? Elizabeth, of course, was very far from the first monarch to set store by such displays of extravagance. A hundred years earlier, Philip the Good had turned the quietly prosperous town of Bruges into a haven for artists and writers as well as for wealthy merchants and bankers by going to extraordinary lengths to create an illusion of even greater opulence. A golden throne actually made of wood, for example, and unproven stories of a treasury bursting with gold and silver. And the queen’s grandfather, King Henry VII, had been among those who had followed Philip’s example and passed th
e tradition on to his son and thence to his granddaughter.

  There had been a purpose to their illusions, of course, just as there was to Elizabeth’s. They were designed to impress the impressionable and the bigger and bolder they were, the deeper the impression of a country secure and at peace. A progress of the queen, a dozen courtiers and a small troop of guards would hardly have the same effect.

  Were the coiners of the false testons up to the same trick? Were they intent upon creating exactly the opposite illusion to that intended by Leicester – one of an unreliable currency, a state of unrest and an impotent government? The traders at Smithfield and Cheapside had spoken of their fears but none had claimed to have held a false coin in his hand. Their fear was that of the unknown, of what might happen, of consequences only guessed at. Spanish ships in the Thames could be seen and sunk by cannon. This was hidden, secret, insidious and just as dangerous. England’s enemies across the narrow sea would be watching closely.

  And the questions remained: who and why?

  CHAPTER 20

  The summons to Whitehall came by messenger the next day. Christopher ran a razor over his face, rubbed his teeth with a rag, combed the knots out of his hair and put on the cleanest shirt he could find. Damn that magistrate for his stupidity. Joan Willys should be at home with her mother and looking after him. As it was, he would have to find a laundress.

  This time there was no waiting in the antechamber. He was shown straight in to Leicester’s apartment, where both earls were waiting for him. ‘Dr Radcliff,’ said Leicester without preamble, ‘I am grieved to learn from my brother that since my departure you have made little progress. Indeed, I hear stories of riots in the markets and an attack on Mr Wetherby. Are they true?’

  ‘They are, my lord. The market traders are much alarmed by rumours of false coins and the losses they will have to bear.’

  ‘Rumours, I suppose, caused by the treasonous testons bearing our family emblem, a bag of which now rests in a secure place in this palace.’