by A D Swanston
‘I had thought of that, of course,’ replied Christopher a little testily. ‘Our best strategy is to come as close to the truth as we can. We will say that we are officials of the Royal Mint, looking for John and Hugh Pryse who we believe moved to the town from London a year or two since, because a new mint is planned for Guildford and will be in need of experienced workers.’
‘What about the circumstances of their departure from the mint? They may be known.’
‘Our need is too great to let that stand in our way.’
‘How many mints are there outside London?’
‘Seven, I think.’
Wetherby rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose it might work. Or the Pryses might take fright and disappear.’
Christopher had not yet recovered from the journey and his backside still ached. ‘Unless you have a better idea, it will have to work. We will begin tomorrow by speaking to the justice and asking about in the market and the inns. If the word spreads that the Pryses are being sought, it will reach them.’
‘In a town of no more than fifteen hundred souls, it should. If they are here.’
Christopher stood up. ‘If not, we will return to London empty-handed. Now I am going to my bed in the hope that it will afford some comfort.’
‘And I will finish my ale and follow shortly.’
Christopher locked the chamber door carefully, undressed and lay on the bed. They had spent the best part of a day in the saddle and had little reason to suppose that the journey would prove worthwhile – just a guess that the Pryses were involved in the false testons and the word of a Southwark doxy that Hugh Pryse had left London for Guildford more than a year since. Hardly proof incontrovertible.
The justice, Richard Lovell, was as different from Gilbert Knoyll as he could possibly have been. In appearance he might have been a prosperous farmer – ruddy-faced, well fed and dressed in a plain black coat and grey hose. In manner, he was cheerful and welcoming.
When a servant showed Christopher and Roland into his parlour, he rose to greet them. ‘And what service may I perform for two gentlemen of the Royal Mint?’ he asked after they had introduced themselves. He spoke well, in a deep baritone with a hint of Hampshire or Dorset.
They needed Lovell’s help and it would be a mistake to deceive him. Christopher explained the true purpose of their visit and the deception they had agreed upon. ‘I fear that the name means nothing to me, Dr Radcliff,’ he said. ‘Pryse is certainly not a name common in the county and I would have remembered it if the men you seek were here and their name had been mentioned. Could they have moved on?’
‘They could, Mr Lovell,’ said Wetherby, ‘but if they have, we hoped that someone would know where they have gone.’
‘Then let us make your search more widely known,’ replied the justice with a wide grin. ‘I will have a notice printed asking for information on their whereabouts on a matter to their great advantage.’ He paused and chose a pen from the box on his desk. ‘Would you care to offer a small reward to the provider of such information? I do find coin of the realm to be a powerful motivation.’ Realizing what he had said, he laughed. ‘I intended no jest, sirs. Coin of the realm, money, the mint. Merely a turn of phrase.’
‘Have no care of it, Mr Lovell,’ said Christopher. ‘And, yes, I believe we can offer a small reward for information that leads us to the Pryses. I suggest two pounds.’
Lovell made a note on a sheet of paper. ‘Splendid. Leave it to me, gentlemen. If the men you seek are in Guildford, I have no doubt that we shall find them. Did you know that there was a mint here in Norman times?’
‘I had heard this,’ replied Wetherby without hesitation. ‘But did it not close long ago?’
‘It did. I do not even know exactly where it was.’
They thanked Mr Lovell and took their leave. ‘How did you know about the Norman mint?’ asked Christopher as they walked back to the Prince Harry.
‘I did not. I merely thought that as senior mint officials, we should have known.’
They checked on the horses, which appeared well cared for by the stable boy, and found a quiet corner in the taproom.
‘At least we have an ally in Mr Lovell,’ said Christopher. ‘Another Gilbert Knoyll would have sorely tested my temper.’
‘This afternoon, if I visit the inns and taverns of Guildford, will you go to the market?’
‘Beer and wine for you, Roland, sheep and vegetables for me, is that your plan?’
‘It is. Let us take dinner and then be about our work.’
Once fed and watered, they went their separate ways, Roland to the nearest tavern, Christopher to the market, where a weeping woman in the stocks was a sharp reminder that Joan Willys was still in Newgate and if sent by a grand jury to the assizes and found guilty of practising witchcraft, she would suffer the same fate. A monstrous injustice which he had so far been unable to prevent.
The market was small compared to Smithfield or Cheapside – merely a dozen or so stalls – but he checked that his purse was safely under his coat and the poniard in his belt. Even here, in a town that seemed peaceful and law-abiding enough, there would be foisters and nippers about, ready to take advantage of an unwary stranger. He started with an unsmiling baker, who shook his head at the mention of the name Pryse and returned his attention to his loaves. It was much the same at the next stall, a cheese-seller, who tried to persuade him to pay two pence for a round cheese with a touch of green to it and which he claimed came from the finest sheep in the county. He too knew nothing of the Pryses.
Conscious of curious eyes on him, he went up and down the lines of stalls, asked the same questions at each one and received the same answers. No one knew of the Pryses or could suggest anyone who might. No one, indeed, was much interested, as soon as they realized that the tall, yellow-haired stranger in a black coat and soft academic cap was not there to spend his money. After two fruitless hours, he returned disappointed to the Prince Harry.
Wetherby had fared no better. ‘I have never before visited six taverns in one afternoon and taken not a single drink,’ he complained. ‘Nor did I learn a thing about the Pryses. The best I got was a silly jest about “Pryses rising”. If they are here they must live the lives of hermits.’
Christopher sighed. ‘A day spent learning nothing. Let us hope for better tomorrow.’ Damnation. It began to look like Ell’s intelligence had been wrong and that the Pryses had never been anywhere near Guildford. A journey wasted and, more importantly, they were no further forward in finding the coiners.
CHAPTER 22
‘I have thought more about the good Earl of Warwick’s suggestion,’ said Wetherby the next morning, ‘and I believe he is right. Someone is playing a game, or at least enjoying a jest at our expense.’
‘Killing Isaac Cardoza was no jest, Roland. I think of him every day and every night.’
‘Indeed not. But Mouldwarp and Hempe, the testons – a bag of which were left outside the house of the Cardozas – the crosses which may or may not signify chaos: all in all a strange confection with no obvious meaning. Shock, confusion and obscurity.’
Christopher waved a finger at Wetherby as a schoolmaster might to admonish a pupil. ‘I do believe that you have been reading too much Rabelais. Damned Frenchman.’
‘I have. I brought him with me and the more I read of his fantastical creations the more I see of our enemy in him. Stories about giants should be simple tales for children but they are not. The vulgarity, for example, and Rabelais’s grievances against the Church are hardly fare for the young. Both Pantagruel and Gargantua are full of such outbursts. Odd, often incoherent, sometimes funny, sometimes instructional.’
‘Are you suggesting that Rabelais is our enemy?’
Wetherby laughed. ‘You know perfectly well that he has been dead for twenty years.’
‘His son, then?’
‘He was a monk. As far as I know he had no son.’
‘Then let us please abandon Monsieur Rabelais and turn our mind
s to the task before us. One of the men I questioned at the mint claimed to have seen Hugh Pryse with a rosary. Let us begin by asking the excellent Mr Lovell if he can suggest where we might start in that direction.’
‘How goes your search, gentlemen?’ inquired Lovell. ‘Have you heard any word of your quarry?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Christopher. ‘Neither market nor taverns proved fruitful. However, we do have a further request to make of you.’
‘Of course, doctor. And how may I be of service?’
‘We believe that the Pryses are inclined to the old ways of worship.’
Lovell frowned and pursed his lips. ‘Catholics?’
‘Just so.’
‘And you wish me to direct you to those of a similar persuasion?’
‘We do.’
Lovell sat back in his chair. ‘Of course, as a magistrate, I have taken the oath of allegiance to Her Majesty and am conscious of the grave threat posed by Jesuits arriving from France. I have no sympathy with the trappings of papism or outlandish popish pronouncements, never mind the monstrous papal bull calling on Catholics to rise up against our queen—’
‘But?’ interrupted Wetherby.
‘But, Mr Wetherby, there are men and women of the Catholic faith who worship privately and serve our community well. They are good people who cause no trouble and I would not wish to cause them any.’
‘Rest assured, Mr Lovell, that we are not here to seek out Catholics, still less to prosecute them for their beliefs.’ Wetherby glanced at Christopher. ‘Neither Dr Radcliff nor I hold strong religious views. The coiners we seek, however, are guilty of treason and they must be found and brought to justice before they can do further damage. For this we need your co-operation.’
Lovell nodded. ‘Counterfeiting is indeed a serious crime, but still I am reluctant to put anyone in danger on account of their beliefs. Before her excommunication, did our gracious queen herself not say that we all worship the same God and that how we choose to do so is mere detail?’
‘She did, Mr Lovell,’ replied Christopher, ‘and I am wholeheartedly in agreement with her. However, having found no trace of the Pryses by other means, we must try what we can.’
The magistrate’s face betrayed nothing and he did not reply immediately. At last he said, ‘Very well, gentlemen, with your promise that no harm will come to any man or woman simply on account of their faith, I will speak privately to a friend who may be able to help. Do I have that promise?’
‘You do, sir,’ said Christopher. ‘And we thank you for your co-operation.’
Lovell stood up. ‘Return this afternoon at about two. I will do what I can. But remember – I promise nothing and I want no blood-thirsty pursuivants in this town.’
‘No more do we,’ replied Wetherby. ‘And we thank you for your help, sir.’
‘A good man,’ remarked Christopher as they left the magistrate’s house. ‘Would that all justices were cut from the same cloth. Now, how shall we occupy ourselves until two?’
‘Unless you would like to discuss why it is that Rabelais tells us that Gargantua emerged into the world from Gargamelle’s ear, in the same manner as Minerva from the head of Jupiter, I suggest we see that the horses are being well taken care of before dining on the best our landlord has to offer at the Prince Harry. A pity you did not bring your lute. You might have passed yourself off as a travelling minstrel and paid for our dinner with a song or two.’
‘You try my patience, Roland. Horses first, then food.’
They were back in Richard Lovell’s parlour on the stroke of two. He wasted no words. ‘I have explained your purpose and given my personal guarantee that you are to be trusted. With that assurance, although today is Sunday, Lady Paulet has agreed to meet with you at her house.’
‘Lady Paulet? The name is familiar,’ said Wetherby.
‘You are too young to have known her, Mr Wetherby, but she was at court during the reign of Queen Mary. A notable beauty by all accounts. Perhaps you have heard the name at Whitehall. Lady Paulet is now past her fiftieth year and feels the passing of time. Her body is frail but her mind is still sharp. She will know at once if you are in any way dissembling and will tell you nothing.’
‘There will be no dissembling, Mr Lovell,’ replied Christopher, ‘and Lady Paulet will be treated with the respect her age and position merit.’
‘Good. You will find her house half a mile south of the town on the Portsmouth Road. It stands alone and set back from the highway. It is an old house, built a hundred years ago, and reached by a narrow path between two rows of elms. She is expecting you this afternoon.’
‘We are in your debt, sir,’ said Wetherby. ‘And have no fear that your confidence in us is misplaced.’
‘I have no such fear, sir,’ replied Lovell, ‘but I cannot say that Lady Paulet will be able to assist you. In the meantime, do you wish me to proceed with the notices we discussed? It did occur to me that they might have the opposite effect to that desired and frighten your quarry away.’
Christopher nodded. ‘Let us hold them back until we have spoken to Lady Paulet. A more discreet approach is probably better to start with.’
They took their leave. ‘Ride or walk?’ asked Wetherby outside.
‘Walk. It is only half a mile.’
‘I thought you would say that.’
They saw the grey-slated roof of the house through the bare branches of the elms as they turned a corner. It stood well back from the highway and without any other dwelling in sight. They turned up the path towards it.
It was two storeys high, the upper storey overhanging the lower, stone- and timber-built, with shuttered windows and an oak door that looked as if it would resist any amount of battering. In its day a grand house, but now old and strangely sad, as if it knew that the end of its life was near. Christopher used the handle of his poniard to rap on the door. Almost immediately they heard the clatter of shoes on a stone floor and the pulling back of bolts.
The door was opened by a white-haired servant, rheumy-eyed and slightly stooped. ‘Dr Radcliff and Mr Wetherby?’ he inquired and, without waiting for an answer, said: ‘Lady Paulet is in her library. Follow me, if you please.’
The library was not a large room and was made smaller by the shelves of books that lined three of its walls. A round table stood in the middle, with four plain chairs around it. On one of them sat Lady Paulet.
Past her fiftieth year, Mr Lovell had said, yet she might easily have been past her sixtieth. A narrow face, deeply lined around the eyes and from nose to chin, grey hair drawn back from the forehead and partly hidden by a black coif, a grey gown, and tiny hands resting on the table. Like her house, the beauty of youth now gone. ‘Be seated, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘I know who you are.’ The voice, however, was clear and precise – the voice of a lady accustomed to giving orders.
When they sat facing her, Christopher noticed her eyes. They were the palest shade of blue, unblinking and unafraid. ‘Lady Paulet,’ he began, ‘we are indebted to you for agreeing to see us, the more so on a Sunday. Be assured that we mean you no harm and are concerned only with finding the men we seek. Their name is Pryse, a father and his son.’
‘Why do you seek these men, Dr Radcliff?’
‘We believe that they are involved in treasonous coining.’
‘And why do you think that I can help you?’
‘We believe that they left London for Guildford between one and two years ago, and if they continue to worship in the old way Mr Lovell thought that you might be able to direct us to them.’
‘So he told me. Richard Lovell is a dear friend and if these men are counterfeiters, they must be found. False coins benefit no one, whatever their faith. I am old enough to remember clearly the problems caused by King Henry’s debasements. Silver coins were so contaminated that every man with a hammer and a fire seemed to be making them. I am not sure, however, that I can help you in your search.’
‘Coining of any sort is an act of treason,
madam,’ said Wetherby, ‘whether by Puritan, Protestant or Catholic.’
The blue eyes held him in their gaze. ‘I am aware of that, sir, but I cannot direct you to two men of whom I have no knowledge. The name Pryse is unfamiliar to me.’
Christopher cursed silently. Why had she agreed to meet them if she could not help? Mr Lovell would certainly have mentioned the name. He stood up. ‘Then, madam, we will trouble you no further.’
Lady Paulet waved him down. ‘Be seated, doctor. I would not have entertained you without reason. Mass is said here for those who wish to take the sacrament in the true form of the body and blood of our saviour. Very few people are aware of this and Richard Lovell chooses not to interfere. It must remain so.’ Again he felt the blue eyes looking deep into his soul.
From somewhere inside her gown, Lady Paulet produced a rosary, which she twisted around her fingers as she spoke. ‘Almost two years ago, I was approached by a man who claimed to have recently settled in the area and wished to worship as I do. I do not know how he learned of me. His name was Jack and he claimed to have travelled here from London. He said little but I believed him if only because he did not have the wit to dissemble. He did tell me that he had no wife, but a son, Henry, who did not care to worship with us. Their name was not Pryse. It was Brooke.’
Christopher cursed himself for a fool. Of course a stranger might give any name and be believed. ‘What more can you tell us about Jack Brooke, my lady?’ he asked.
‘Not a great deal. We do not encourage conversation here other than with God and I do not know where they lived.’
‘Lived, madam?’ asked Wetherby.
‘I have not seen Jack Brooke these past six months. I assumed that they had moved away. I do remember, however, mention of a forge. One day Jack came with his hand bandaged. He had burned it in the forge.’
‘Did he arrive on foot or on horseback?’
‘On foot.’
How far might a man walk to attend Mass? A mile? Two? ‘At what time are your Masses held?’