Chaos

by A D Swanston

  ‘He came from London. That’s all I know.’

  ‘How did he know about you and your father?’

  ‘Don’t know. Might have had friends at the mint.’

  ‘Did you wonder why Fossett wanted a hundred testons stamped with the Dudley bear and ragged staff each month?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘No. Didn’t care as long as we were paid.’

  ‘Why are you so frightened of Fossett if you never so much as met him?’ Pryse closed his eyes and said nothing. ‘What did he tell your father?’

  ‘He told him what would happen to us if we were discovered or spoke of our work to anyone. He said we would not be able to hide.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘Father said Fossett would cut off our balls and throw them to the pigs to give them a taste. Then he’d set them on us.’

  ‘And you believed he would do this?’

  ‘Father believed it.’

  ‘Your father died six months ago. Why were you still there?’

  ‘I liked it there.’

  ‘What did Fossett look like?’

  ‘Tall, black hair, black beard. Wore fine clothes.’

  Christopher and Roland exchanged a glance. It was just as M. l’Église had said.

  ‘We thought as much.’ said Christopher. ‘Take him down, gaoler. That is enough for today.’

  ‘And if you have more to say,’ added Wetherby, ‘the warden will send for us.’

  CHAPTER 26

  Leicester sat with his elbows resting on his huge desk, listening quietly, not interrupting and showing no emotion. Only when Christopher had finished did he speak.

  ‘You have not told me everything, of course, Dr Radcliff, and you are wise not to,’ he said. ‘You have found the source of the false testons and one of the coiners who has revealed a little of what we wish to know. I do not want to know how you persuaded him to do this.’

  ‘The prisoner is unharmed, my lord.’

  ‘Good. The Privy Council is sensitive about such matters, as, indeed, is Her Majesty. Worryingly, however, it seems that a large number of these coins have not yet appeared. How are you intending to find them?’

  ‘I do not think the prisoner knows where they are. We must find them by some other means but as yet I do not know how.’

  ‘My brother the Earl of Warwick believes that we are pieces in a game of chess, being moved by an unseen hand. Are you of the same opinion, doctor?’ Christopher hesitated. ‘I think that the testons and the slogans and the plague crosses are all connected, my lord, but we have yet to discover their true purpose.’

  ‘You have spoken of chaos.’

  ‘Chaos, yes. But chaos with a purpose – and that the purpose of a man of considerable resources.’

  ‘Mr Wetherby, I understand, believes that we are the objects of some sort of Rabelaisian jest and that if we wait long enough something unexpected will occur and order will emerge from the confusion.’

  ‘A coq-à-l’âne, my lord, a sudden change of direction. He has spoken of it.’

  ‘And your opinion, doctor?’

  ‘Mr Wetherby’s imagination is itself almost Rabelaisian, my lord.’

  Leicester smiled. ‘Quite so, doctor. Well put. And we will not be waiting at our opponent’s pleasure. Even if the plague of testons is over, the culprits must be caught and punished. Take care with the prisoner but do not allow him to keep anything from you. A delicate touch, doctor, but a firm hand.’

  ‘I understand, my lord.’

  Christopher left the palace through the Holbein Gate and strode down the Strand. The bitter winter cold had abated and he felt the tiniest hint of warmth on his face. With a shock, he realized that it was the first day of March. The Easter assizes and the London sessions were fast approaching and Joan Willys was still in Newgate. The church clocks chimed four. There was time enough to call on Ell before returning to the prison, where with a firm hand and a delicate touch he might get something more from Hugh Pryse.

  He had to wait in Grace’s parlour while Ell finished entertaining but it did not take long and the stew owner gave him a glass of strong Rhenish to help pass the time. When Ell appeared she was fully dressed and looked as if she had just woken from a long sleep, refreshed and smiling. The lovely whore never failed to bring a grin to his face.

  ‘Dr Rad,’ she said, laughing, ‘how did you guess? I was coming round later, as soon as Grace said I could. I’ve been watching that Alice Scrope’s house.’

  Christopher put a finger to his lips and spoke quietly, lest Grace could hear them. ‘I hoped you would. Have you seen anything?’

  ‘I have, doctor. Comings and goings from morning to evening and who do you think’s been coming and going the most?’

  ‘The coroner, Clennet Pyke?’

  ‘Good guess but wrong. Ugly bugger, isn’t he? He’s been there, sure enough, but there’s one I’ve seen more.’

  ‘Who, Ell?’

  ‘The magistrate, Gilbert Knoyll.’

  ‘Knoyll? Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as I’m sitting here. No mistaking him, the fat-bellied pig.’

  ‘Ha. Now there’s a thing.’ There were whores all over London. Why would both the coroner and the magistrate choose a raddled hag like Alice Scrope?

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, doctor,’ said Ell, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘It’s not just how a whore looks but what she does. I daresay Alice Scrope does things that even I’ve never been asked to do. If one of them told the other, she’d have two happy customers with the coins to pay for what they want. Good way to make money if you can bear it. I couldn’t.’

  Christopher took her hand. ‘Pleased to hear it, Ell. Keep yourself clean and fresh and you’ll always be beautiful.’

  Ell’s smile lit up her face. ‘Thank you, Dr Rad. You’ve a way with words.’

  ‘No, Ell, thank you. I think you might just have saved Joan Willys from gaol and me from having to find a new housekeeper.’

  ‘Any time, doctor.’ She held out her hand. ‘Half a crown will do, as it’s you.’

  Christopher handed over the coin without protest. Like any whore, she had to make a living as best she could. ‘I’ll be paying Mr Knoyll a visit tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t be gentle with him, doctor. Make sure he gets what he deserves for locking up Joan Willys and frightening her half to death, the poxed prick.’

  ‘That I will, Ell. Be good.’

  ‘Always.’

  Outside the stew he huddled into his coat and looked up and down the alley. His being seen there would be as much a danger to Ell as to him. But apart from a single beggar, the alley was deserted. He set off for Ludgate Hill.

  Pryse could wait until tomorrow, too. Ell’s news had lifted his spirits and he did not want to dampen them with a visit to Newgate. What he did want was a beaker or two of ale and a good dinner. He would sleep well with Clennet Pyke and Gilbert Knoyll to look forward to in the morning.

  The girl on Ludgate Hill selling beer from a jug for a penny was new. Christopher reckoned he would have noticed her if she had been there before. The usual vendor was a crabby old woman with a squint, whom he avoided. This girl was pretty and he was thirsty. She took his penny, filled a wooden mug with beer and handed it to him with a smile. ‘Drink it up, sir,’ she said. ‘It’ll do you good.’

  ‘It will.’ He downed the beer in one and smacked his lips. ‘Excellent.’

  It was only a few paces up the hill to the house but by the time he got there and was trying to unlock his door, his legs were heavy and his eyes would not focus. He fumbled with the key and dropped it. He slumped down outside the house and shut his eyes. The beer had brought this on but it would pass. He would take a minute to settle and then go inside.

  He heard a voice – a man’s voice. ‘Are you well, sir? Do you need help?’

  He looked up and tried to see clearly. The voice jogged a memory. Had he heard it before? Must be a neighbour. His mind was fuddled. He laid his head on the cob
bles and closed his eyes again. Within seconds he was asleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  Christopher awoke with no notion of where he was or how he had got there. His head throbbed and his mouth was as dry as dust. His first, muddled thought was that he was in the Tower. He fought back a moment of panic, lay still and listened. There was only silence. He turned on his side, stretched out his arms and felt cold stone. He was lying on a thin mattress, covered only by a woollen blanket. Probably not the Tower, but a prison of some sort.

  He remembered buying beer from a girl, struggling up Ludgate Hill and lying down outside his door, unable to stay awake. He had been drugged. There must have been something in the beer – dwale probably, from the foxglove. A strong dose could knock a man out in minutes. Surgeons used it. Some said witches used it. The beer-seller had used it.

  When he sat up his head swam and he had to lie down again. He put his hand to his belt. The poniard had gone but his purse was still there. Not a thief, then; not a cutpurse with an accomplice. The girl selling beer could hardly drug every one of her customers, so why him? And how had he come to this place, wherever it was?

  Gradually, very gradually, his mind began to clear and he could make out the room he was in. He stood and felt his way around the walls. They too were of stone. The room was not large – four of his paces in one direction, six in the other.

  There were no windows but he found a door. It was wooden, with iron fixings and a heavy round iron handle. He tried to turn it but it scarcely moved. Locked from the outside, he presumed. He tried to prise open what he thought was a spyhole but again to no avail. Apart from the mattress and bedding and a bucket in one corner, there was nothing in the room. He was in a cell.

  What could he do but wait? His head ached and he was still drowsy. He lay on the mattress and dozed.

  Sometime later, he was roused by the squeak of the panel over the spyhole being drawn back. He twisted to one side and pushed himself up. A dim light filtered through the hole and a voice spoke. It was a deep voice, the uncultured voice of a working man. ‘My name is Gabriel. I have food and drink for you. Stay where you are and do not do anything foolish. I am armed and you are not. Is that understood?’

  It might have been the voice of the shadow who had whispered in his ear but Christopher could not be sure. He managed a croak. ‘It is.’

  A key was turned in the lock and the door was pushed open. The man calling himself Gabriel took a step into the room. In one hand he held a candle. By its flickering light, Christopher could see that his hair and beard were unkempt. His nose was broad and his eyes deep-set. It was the face of a farm worker, perhaps, or an artisan. In the other hand the man held a pistol. ‘It is primed and loaded,’ he said, ‘and not with hemp seed.’ He put the candle on the floor and took a step backwards through the door, keeping his eyes on Christopher. Crouching down, he slid a wooden trencher into the cell. Christopher saw a jug, a beaker and a plate of food. ‘I will leave you the candle. There is another by the plate,’ said Gabriel, standing up.

  ‘You are the one who has been following me. You attacked Roland Wetherby and me. Did you kill Fossett? Did you kill Isaac Cardoza? Where am I and why am I being held here?’ demanded Christopher, his voice still hoarse. The question ended in a rasping cough from deep in his throat. From Gabriel there was no reply, just the sound of the spyhole being closed and the door locked.

  Being careful not to allow the candle to flicker and die, he collected the food and took it to the bed. The beaker and the jug were full. He drained the beaker, refilled it and drained it again. The beer was strong and yeasty and it eased his throat. On the plate were bread with butter, a slab of cheese, four slices of beef and the other candle. He nibbled the bread and realized that he was starving. Like the beer, the food was good – the bread freshly baked and the beef lean and well seasoned. He did not allow himself to think but concentrated on eating and drinking. In Norwich gaol he had soon learned that it was a foolish prisoner who did not take the opportunity to keep up his strength when he could. He ate everything and emptied the jug.

  Time passed but he could only estimate how much by the candle. It was a thick wax candle, such as a wealthy man might have in his library, and had been about six inches in height. When it began to gutter, he lit the second one from it. He reckoned that had been two hours, so he had two hours more of a little light.

  The second candle was half done when the spyhole was opened and Gabriel spoke through it. ‘Simon wishes to meet you and I am to take you to him. Remember that my pistol is primed.’

  ‘Who is Simon?’

  ‘That you will soon discover. Stand up and face the wall. I will tell you when to move.’

  Christopher did as he was ordered. He heard Gabriel enter the cell and for a moment thought of hurling himself at the man. The thought quickly died.

  ‘Turn around slowly, doctor,’ said Gabriel, his voice even and calm. ‘Pick up the candle and leave this room. I will be close behind you.’

  Following Gabriel’s instructions, he walked along a dark passage and up a short flight of steps. At the top, he turned right. A door barred his way. ‘Open the door,’ ordered Gabriel, ‘and go through.’

  Christopher turned the door handle and stepped into a great hall. There was more light here than in his cell but still it was gloomy. A feeble fire at the far end of the room gave off little light. He held up the candle. The hall was bare but for a table, a few plain chairs and a single high-backed chair set to one side of the fire and turned towards it. On it sat a hooded figure with his back to the room. He was playing a lute – a tune that Christopher did not recognize.

  ‘Stand still and do not move. Simon will speak when he is ready,’ said Gabriel in a hushed voice. Still holding the candle, Christopher stood and waited.

  The music ended and the figure put down his lute. He did not turn around. ‘An old piece, Dr Radcliff,’ he said, ‘but one of which I am fond. “La Vilanela”. Do you know it?’ The voice was that of a young man and, like the tune, light and musical, quite different to Gabriel’s.

  Christopher cleared his throat. ‘I do not. Nor do I know you. Who are you and why am I held here?’

  ‘All in good time, doctor. Do you play?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Simon. That is all you need to know at present.’

  Christopher took a step towards him. ‘No closer,’ warned Gabriel. ‘The pistol is pointing at your back.’

  Simon spoke again. ‘I regret having to put you in the cell. It is inhospitable, I know, but alas it is the only secure room in the house. It was once a food store. Are you comfortable enough there? Is Gabriel’s fare to your taste?’ Christopher did not reply. ‘No matter. I quite understand your reluctance to speak. If we were to change places, I too would be cautious. Do be seated, doctor.’ Christopher sat. Gabriel stood behind him.

  ‘I regret also the need for a pistol. I dislike firearms but Gabriel persuaded me that it was necessary. I warn you not to cross him. He is a loyal friend but his temper can be fierce.’

  ‘The pistol is pointing at my neck. What do you imagine I might try to do?’

  Simon laughed. ‘Who knows, doctor? Strangle me? Hurl me into the fire? I prefer not to find out.’

  ‘Why do you not show your face? Are you a leper?’

  ‘Simon of Bethany, Simon the leper? Very good, doctor, but I must disappoint you. I am not diseased. And I will show my face when I choose to.’ The soft voice took on a harsher tone. ‘Do not ask me that again.’

  ‘How long am I to be held here?’

  ‘That is in part up to you, doctor, although I do not anticipate that you will be here long. I merely wished to meet you to discuss with you an idea I have.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘That you will find out when we know each other a little better. Now I am tired and Gabriel will escort you back to your cell. We will speak again tomorrow.’ Christopher rose. As he reached the door, Simon said, ‘I regret also the death
of Isaac Cardoza. It was unnecessary. His killer has paid the price for his stupidity.’

  ‘Did Fossett kill Isaac?’

  ‘He did.’

  Christopher started back into the hall. He was stopped by the pistol at his cheek which turned his head. But not before he had seen Gabriel’s face clearly. If there had been any doubt there was none now. Gabriel was his shadow. And had killed Fossett. And did the bidding of Simon. But who was Simon and why had Christopher been brought to this place?

  CHAPTER 28

  That night he dreamed not of burning women or slaughtered children but of Norwich gaol. He was locked in a windowless cell with headless creatures and limbless corpses. He cried out for water but there was none and he was forced to drink the blood of a dead man. When his own scream awoke him, sweat was dripping down his face and he was shaking. He dared not close his eyes for fear of the dream returning and lay wide-eyed until he heard the spyhole being opened.

  Gabriel opened the door and put the trencher on the floor. ‘Simon will see you when you have eaten. Make haste.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  Gabriel did not reply. The door was closed and Christopher fetched his breakfast – sweet ale, good mutton and fresh bread. It took his mind from Norwich.

  This time Simon was playing Thomas Tallis’s ‘Like as the doleful dove’, a tune that really needed a voice to lift it above its doleful melody. Christopher had never liked it. Thankfully, the hooded figure put the lute aside when he heard Christopher enter the hall.

  Without being asked, Christopher sat on the chair that had not been moved since the day before. ‘Fossett killed Isaac Cardoza, your servant Gabriel killed Fossett and it was Fossett who collected the testons from the Pryses, was it not?’

  ‘Does it matter, doctor?’ Simon did not move and spoke as gently as a man might to a lover.