Chaos

by A D Swanston

  ‘The blade with which you cut Fossett’s throat.’

  ‘Fossett was a prick. He deserved it.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Gabriel laughed. ‘Not money, if that is what you think. You took but a fraction of what Simon had hidden in the house. Nor the lute, lovely though it is. No, I have come to reveal to you the truth.’

  ‘The truth is known to me. You did Simon’s bidding and helped him to end his own life.’

  ‘The latter, doctor, I cannot deny. The former, however, I do.’ In his manner of speech, it was as if he was transforming himself from servant to master.

  Christopher stared at the face, now lightly scarred by a line on each cheek. ‘How can you deny it?’

  ‘Are you comfortable, doctor? I have a story to tell.’

  ‘Another story? I rather tire of them.’

  ‘This story is true and I shall tell it to you while I can.’

  ‘While you can? Will you be taking hemlock or will you be using your blade on me?’

  ‘That you must wait to find out.’ Gabriel settled himself into the chair often occupied by Wetherby and began. He spoke without much emotion, without hurrying and in a low, clear voice. ‘My story begins in the year 1530, when I was born. My mother died giving birth to me. My father was in the employ of Caroline Lovelace’s father and I was brought up in their house, doing menial jobs in the kitchen and the garden. When he died, I was kept on. I gave little thought to it, just accepted life as it was and thanked God for a roof over my head and a full belly. There were many who had neither.

  ‘Caroline was born four years after me, so I knew her for all of her short life. I seldom strayed far from the house and knew little of the outside world. When I was nineteen, however, word arrived of camps appearing around Norwich and Cambridge. That was the beginning of the popular uprisings led by the Kett brothers. They quickly spread throughout East Anglia and as far as the western counties. Without telling my father where I was going, I left the house and made my way to the nearest camp at Thetford. I wanted to find out for myself what the uprising was all about.

  ‘I soon learned that it was about poverty and injustice. Wealthy landowners enclosing good grazing land, poor folk dying of starvation, no one listening to their complaints or offering help.

  ‘One day, the camp was attacked by a force sent by the Lord Protector, Lord Somerset. It was led by the Earl of Warwick and two of his sons, Robert and Ambrose Dudley. When they left, the camp was a heap of ashes and bodies. I saw Robert Dudley pierce the throat of an old man with his sword and his father slice off the arm of a boy of no more than twelve. I was sickened.’

  ‘Yet you escaped.’

  ‘I did, and swore one day to take revenge.’

  ‘For all his fine words, it was revenge that Simon Lovelace sought.’ Christopher coughed and tried to wipe his mouth with his bound hands.

  ‘Indeed, but revenge of a different sort. He was born two years after the uprisings were suppressed, leaving the people even worse off than they had been, in the year that the bear and staff testons appeared.’

  ‘Was Leicester his father?’

  ‘Ah, the sharp legal mind cuts to the chase. Of course, there is no way of being sure. Robert Dudley did visit the house often and he did have an affair with Caroline Lovelace. That I know. She was very beautiful, you know. But as to his being Simon’s father, who knows? She had many admirers.’

  ‘Were you one of them?’

  Gabriel snorted. ‘I was a servant. If I loved her, it was from afar. The point is not who was the child’s father but that Caroline believed it to be Dudley. That, in her mind and Simon’s, made it true.’

  Christopher’s head still throbbed. ‘I tire of this story. If you are going to kill me, make haste and do so.’

  ‘No, doctor, there will be no haste.’ Gabriel moved a chair and sat facing him. The blade was still in his hand. ‘You were foolish not to kill me when you had the chance. Are you capable of killing, I wonder?’

  ‘I have killed before.’

  ‘Have you now? I did not know that. Who was he?’

  ‘I will not speak of it. I am defenceless. Why not use your blade and be done with it?’

  ‘Patience, doctor. I have spent much of my life waiting for another man to die. I will not be rushed now.’ Christopher moved a little to ease his back and saw the blade twitch in Gabriel’s hand. Gabriel would not make the same mistake again. ‘I was almost as much a prisoner as Simon. At Caroline’s request I took care of Simon and kept him safe from prying eyes. I wanted the monstrous child to live, although at the time I could not have said why. Only later did it become clear to me that he might one day help me vent my festering anger at the Dudleys.’ He paused. ‘If you have killed before why did you not kill me?’

  ‘I could ask the same of you.’

  ‘Touché, doctor.’

  ‘It was an accident.’ Christopher regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  ‘Oh, not killing at all then. Merely a mistake. I did not think you would be able to look a man in the eye while you thrust your blade into his heart.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I wanted to know more about the man who risked his own life by not taking another. Know thine enemy.’

  ‘And know thyself: γνῶθι σεαυτόν. It was written on a wall in the temple at Delphi.’

  ‘Alas, doctor, I did not have the benefit of schooling in the classics so I must take your word for it. I am merely a humble retainer.’

  ‘You are a wealthy man. Find a wife. Take your money and go. The Low Countries, Denmark, even the New World. Why not?’

  ‘I have of course asked myself that question.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have no answer.’

  ‘In London you are in danger. If Leicester or Warwick learns that you are here you will not be allowed to live.’

  ‘Will you tell them?’

  ‘Will I have the chance?’

  ‘That I have not yet decided. I should kill you as you should have killed me, and I probably will. But first, allow me to finish my story. You will not learn your fate until I have done so. When his mother died – just another mad soul trapped in Bedlam – Simon began to speak of ending his own life. I did not discourage him and gradually an idea formed in my mind. It took a little while but I eventually persuaded him that his death could have purpose and that we could work together to achieve it. The plan – the testons, the slogans, the plague crosses, the capture of Wetherby, Simon’s death – was mine. Simon merely agreed to it. Now he is dead and the Dudley name has been blackened in front of the queen. The plan worked.’

  Gabriel stood up, threw some kindling on the fire, gave it a poke and moved his chair a little nearer its warmth. ‘Now, doctor, we will sit quietly, each of us with our own thoughts, while I consider what to do for the best. Are you comfortable?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is unfortunate. Now let us be silent.’

  What was this about? Was Gabriel really undecided about what to do? Surely the planner had not come here without a plan. Or was he simply prolonging the agony? That was more likely. Gabriel would leave Christopher to contemplate what was coming and then, when he was ready, he would cut his throat and go. He would do it when it was dark and he had a good chance of slipping away unseen. The silence was no more than another bluff, another deception. If he was to think of a way to escape, he had better do so while it was still light. Take his chances and hurl himself at Gabriel as he had before? No, he might as well cut his own throat. If Roland called, he would die too.

  Isabel Tranter was dying. Soon Katherine would leave London and return to Cambridge where she would be able to choose from an army of young admirers. Unlike Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return from Troy, she would not spend her days at her loom, waiting for Christopher to join her. She would find a man with no interest in becoming a fellow and marry him. A young noble, perhaps, or a wealthy wool merchant.r />
  John Young wanted him to return to Pembroke Hall. Leicester seemed ambivalent. Should he not go where he was wanted? If he ever had the chance, that was. More likely he would never leave the house again unless wrapped in a shroud.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened his mouth but before he could utter a sound, the tip of Gabriel’s knife was under his chin. Gabriel shook his head and put a finger to his lips. ‘Not a squeak, doctor,’ he whispered.

  The visitor knocked again, this time with more force. Ell? Roland? A messenger from Whitehall? Whoever it was, he willed them to hammer on the door and keep on hammering until Gabriel lost patience.

  But there was no more. His visitor had given up and gone. Slowly, Gabriel withdrew the knife and sat back on the chair. ‘Very wise, doctor,’ he said. ‘If you had so much as coughed, you would now be dead.’

  Christopher closed his eyes. There must be a way. ‘In your position, Gabriel,’ he asked, without opening them, ‘what would Simon have done?’

  ‘That is exactly what I have been asking myself. Simon knew that you would find the house but he did not tell me what to do with you when you did, so I planned to dispose of you and disappear. Unfortunately, you thwarted that plan.’

  ‘Why not the same plan now?’

  ‘The light is fading. I shall decide soon.’

  ‘Why wait? I am ready.’

  ‘But I am not. Be silent.’

  In the distance, the clock at St Martin’s struck six. The curfew had begun. Surely Gabriel would act soon. Christopher waited, trying in vain to work his bindings loose and wondering what was going through his captor’s mind. The clock struck seven. The streets would be all but deserted. If Gabriel wanted to avoid the watch he should go now. At that time, the constables would believe a story of being detained or lost or drunk. Much later and they would be less accommodating.

  He heard Gabriel stand up and opened his eyes. The knife was in his hand, its tip pointing at Christopher’s eye. He rolled to one side to protect his face. Gabriel laughed. ‘That will do you no good, doctor,’ he said. ‘A throat is more easily cut from behind.’ Christopher clenched his teeth and readied himself for the touch of the blade. Let it be quick.

  ‘However,’ went on Gabriel, ‘I have made my decision. Today is not the day upon which I shall kill you. Today I shall let you live. When I have gone, make as much noise as you like.’ He paused. ‘But, and it is a but you would be unwise to ignore, do not suppose that you are free of me. When you are summoned to Whitehall, I shall be watching. When you go to Smithfield or Cheapside, I shall be close by in the shadows. When you visit Mr Brewster’s shop I shall see you walk down Fetter Lane and return here with your music.’

  Christopher rolled back to face him. ‘And how will you do that? Even you must sleep.’

  ‘The eyes that watch you will not always be mine. You will never know which child, which beggar, which vagrant the eyes belong to but I will always know. Simon’s money will be put to good use.’

  ‘Why do this?’

  ‘Deception, ignorance, fear. You will never know who is behind you or when they might strike. You bested me at the house. Think of it as my revenge.’

  ‘You are mad.’

  Gabriel’s voice rose. ‘Take care, doctor, lest you talk yourself into a swift grave. I can easily change my mind.’

  ‘At least let me lie in my bed. I will freeze to death here.’

  ‘If you can crawl up the stair, you may lie in your bed. I will not untie you.’

  Christopher pushed himself on to his elbows and knees. With wrists and ankles tied, movement was slow and painful. He reached the bottom of the stair and crawled slowly up on his knees and elbows. Gabriel followed him. In his chamber he managed to scramble on to the bed and lie flat, trying to catch his breath. Gabriel produced two more lengths of rope with which he attached Christopher’s bound hands and legs to the bed posts, leaving him almost no room for movement. Then he covered him with a blanket.

  ‘There, doctor,’ he said, as if speaking to a child. ‘Warm enough, I hope? Such a pity if the cold takes you and my eyes have no one to watch.’ Christopher did not answer. ‘I shall leave you now. Be sure to look over your shoulder.’

  Christopher heard the door close. He wriggled his hands in the hope of finding slack in the ropes. There was none. Nor was there in the ropes around his ankles. Gabriel knew what he was doing. And he had brought the ropes with him. He had known all along what he was going to do.

  For most of the night he had been in that strange place between sleep and wakefulness. Dreams, if they were dreams, had come and gone; half-formed thoughts had slipped in and out of his mind. He had seen Simon Lovelace kissing Katherine Allington and heard Joan Willys cursing Roland Wetherby for calling her a witch. He had struggled against the ropes that bound him and tried, unsuccessfully, not to piss in the bed.

  With the dawn came the early morning sounds of voices and beasts and carts. He tried shouting but after his voice became hoarse he realized that it was useless. He could not be heard.

  He could not be sure if he was asleep or awake when he heard the voice. It seemed to come from within the house but it was an odd, quiet voice. He turned his head to the wall and ignored it. It would go away.

  But the voice came again. What was it saying? It came once more, a little louder. ‘Dr Radcliff, are you here?’

  His throat was like tree bark. ‘Here.’ It was a croak. He tried again. ‘I am here, Joan.’ He heard footsteps on the stair and Joan’s face appeared. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I cannot move, Joan. Untie my hands.’

  Joan was shaking as she fumbled with the knots, squealing when she broke a nail. At last she freed one hand and then the other. With a groan, Christopher sat up and reached down to his ankles. ‘Dr Radcliff, who has done this?’ she sobbed. ‘Are you hurt?’

  The ropes fell away. ‘I am unhurt, thank you, Joan.’ He rubbed each wrist where the rope had chafed the skin, grimacing at the pain, before gingerly feeling the back of his head. The lump where Gabriel had hit him was excruciatingly tender and about the size of a small plum. When he stood up, he stumbled. ‘Give me your shoulder, please. I am a little unsteady.’ With his hand on her shoulder, they went down to the kitchen.

  Joan was still weeping. ‘Sit down, doctor,’ she said. ‘You need food. I have brought honey and oatmeal.’

  Christopher massaged his red, raw wrists again. ‘There is ale in the jug,’ he said. Joan filled a beaker and handed it to him. He took a gulp and the fire in his throat eased. ‘I am sorry to shock you, Joan. I was attacked last night. He has long gone.’

  ‘Who was he, doctor? Did you know him?’

  ‘I do not think so. A thief, I daresay, who hit me from behind, tied me up and ran off. No doubt my purse has gone.’

  Joan looked doubtful. ‘How did he get in, doctor, and how did he get you up to your chamber?’

  ‘He hit me hard. I remember little. Perhaps it will come to me.’ He took another gulp of ale. If Joan knew that he was being watched, she would be afraid for him and for herself. ‘Honey porridge should refresh my memory.’

  ‘Yes, doctor. Drink your ale and I will make it.’

  He sat while she mixed the oatmeal with water, heated it over the fire and added a good spoonful of honey while it was simmering. When it was ready she put a bowlful on the table. ‘There, doctor. Try that. I will clean your chamber while you eat.’

  While she was in the chamber he slipped into the study. His purse was on the table. He hid it under a stack of papers.

  ‘Excellent, Joan,’ he said when she came down. ‘I will stay here while you clean the study and set the fire. Be careful with my papers, please. Best not to move them.’

  ‘As you wish, doctor.’ Poor child, he could tell she was confused. He waited until he heard the fire before leaving the kitchen. ‘I was right. My purse has gone.’

  ‘Should you not report it to the magistrate, doctor? Or shall I fetch a constable? A hue and cry could be raise
d.’

  He put a hand on her arm. ‘I would rather not, Joan. There was little in the purse and I shall recover from a sleepless night. Better to forget it.’

  When Joan looked directly at him, the cast in her eye made it appear that she was looking over his shoulder. ‘Seems wrong, doctor, me being in prison and a thief going free. Not right at all.’

  ‘No, not right at all. But we cannot make everything right.’

  ‘No, doctor. If we could, Alice Scrope would be the one in gaol.’ Joan put on her coat. ‘I will go to the market tomorrow and I will bring a salve for your wrists. Lock your door tonight and open it for no one. Thieves often return.’

  ‘I will, Joan. Thank you.’

  Lie upon lie. Should he have told her the truth? What truth and how much of it? No, the lies were necessary and served their purpose.

  CHAPTER 38

  ‘The Maiden’s Lamentation’. A mournful song which could have been written for Caroline Lovelace. He wondered where Simon had found it. The words of the verses had gone but he remembered the refrain. How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?

  It was worth a try. He opened the lined music book bought from Mr Brewster, sharpened a pen, and played a few notes on the lute. The tune came slowly, very slowly, but when he thought he had a passage right, he wrote it in tablature form in the book, until he had the verse.

  He put down the pen and played. And suddenly the words of the last verse came to him. He wrote it down quickly and played the tune again. He knew his voice was weak but, with no one listening, he sang as he played.

  Beware, good maydes,

  Of all such braydes,

  Before all other thing e;

  Or all in vayne, As I complayne,

  Thus wepyng shall ye syng e.

  How showld I rock the cradle, serve the table, blow the fyre, and spyn, a?