by Paul Walker
Askham puts his hand on her shoulder, draws her to one side and says in low voice, ‘We would meet with Master Tomas Gore who lodges here.’ He slips a small coin into her hand.
‘There is no-one of that name here.’ She glances quickly at the group of five men.
‘Do not obstruct me, Mistress, or it will go badly for you and others in this place.’
She opens her hand. A half-penny sits there. Askham places a penny beside it. She turns again to the men seated at the barrel, her eyes begging forgiveness for the hopelessness of her position. He strides towards the men.
‘I am the Queen’s man under orders of Mister Secretary. Should any of you dare to hamper my enquiries, this place will be torn down and all in here will twitch at the end of a rope.’
The muttering ceases and the air is stilled. He returns to the woman who answers with head bowed. ‘Master Gore lies in a room above. I will lead you there, but must caution that he is fevered and his body wracked with illness.’
The stairs are broken and we follow up a ladder to a dark corridor on the next storey. We are taken to an opening at the end that is framed by a torn curtain of grubby linen. She draws this aside and Askham gestures that I should enter, saying that he will wait for me below.
The chamber is small, cold and bare, save for a cot in one corner with a jumble of rags and a leather bag laid by its side. The straw bedding is scattered and soiled. The stench of waste, piss and decay causes me to gasp and cover my mouth. A man’s head pokes above grey linen sheets, eyes sunk deep into mottled, greying skin.
‘Are you Tomas Gore?’
His mouth moves; a hoarse whisper brushes past his dry, cracked lips. I leave the chamber, go to the top of the ladder and beg for a jug of ale and a cup to be brought. I return to the bedside and place the back of my hand against his forehead. It is too hot. His throat crackles and there are dribbled stains of saliva and blood on his chin. He has consumption and by the look, does not have long to live. I lift the covers with care and place my ear to his chest. The noise of congestion and laboured breath is unmistakeable.
The young woman is at the door with a jug and cup. I pour ale and offer the cup to his lips. He sups greedily, spilling most, and then jerks his head in a request for more.
‘I am Doctor William Constable, here to seek information from Tomas Gore. You are that man?’
He nods his head in confirmation and says, ‘Lift… my head.’
I grab his shoulder, raise him as best I can with my good arm and stuff some of the rags between his head and the wall. I hand him another cup of ale.
‘You recall a time in the employ of the Morton family?’
His eyes flicker with a show of surprise, but he does not answer.
‘You will be rewarded for information on the matter of my enquiry. There is coin, or I can arrange for your comfort.’
He waves his hand. ‘What use do I have for coin?’
‘This is a poor place to rest your illness. You could be moved.’
His chest heaves as he tries to suppress a cough, but his body is feeble and he lifts the sheets to cover his discomfort. When his sheet falls back the deposit is shown to be mostly blood.
‘You were a tutor to George Morton’s niece?’
He purses his lips and appears to consider before replying. ‘You must wonder how a scholar is fallen to this.’ I do not answer and he continues. ‘I understand the matter of your enquiry. It was a different age; so many years past; the happiest of times; an ending in despair; and the start of my descent to this foul house for an unremarked death.’
‘What can I do for your comfort?’
‘Nothing in this world, Doctor Constable. I have heard your name spoke before. You have the reputation of familiarity with the stars and mathematics, I understand.’
I mutter some words about my learning, then, ‘I intend no harm. Nothing you tell me will be used against you.’
He scoffs at my offer, then descends into another bout of hawking and expectoration. He subsides.
‘What injury could you offer to this frail body that would not bring a swift and welcome death?’ He hesitates. ‘I will tell you my story and time with the Morton family on a condition.’
‘What might that be?’
‘I would be cleared of my torment and at peace when I leave this body.’
What can he mean? ‘You wish to confess your sins… to a priest?’
‘Ha, I have no liking for Rome. I would speak with a holy man who follows the true religion, so that I may know more of how God will greet a sinner. I expect no absolution; simply guidance for my journey and an understanding of His grace.’
I am confounded, but only for a moment. I see a way through this.
‘Do you lean towards Her Majesty’s high church, or perhaps a spare and more direct position of the Puritan view?’
He waves a weak hand. ‘I care not. The man must be near God and not corrupted by earthly distractions.’
‘I shall endeavour to meet your demands. It will not be easy.’
‘And it must be quick. My life spirit drains. I feel the coming of a darkness.’
‘Shall I arrange for your transport to a better place?’
‘I cannot be moved. This body will not bear it.’
‘Then I will instruct your greater comfort here, with some food and drink.’
‘That… would be a kindness.’
His eyes close and he sinks down into his meagre bedding. My company has tired him and I am sure he is right. He has only days or hours to live.
I retrace my steps down the ladder to an uneasy quiet. Askham stands with arms folded, leaning against a barrel. I beckon the young woman to draw near, delve into my purse withdraw a florin and hold it between finger and thumb before her eyes.
‘We will return tomorrow. Meanwhile, you will take this coin to provide Master Gore with wholesome food and clear ale. Do not light a fire in his chamber, but renew his covers with clean linen and warm covers. You will see that he lives until our return. If he should die, you will all answer for his neglect and be subject to harsh punishment.’
My threat does not have the force of Askham’s, but the Captain stands square and tall by my shoulder to add his intimidating presence to my warning.
There is no conversation between us until we cross to the north side of the river. He enquires if my questioning yielded anything of benefit and why I had talked of a return.
‘He is near to death and will not talk openly unless I can bring some comfort to his dying spirit.’
‘How can that be done?’
‘I must beg Doctor Foxe’s understanding and cooperation in the matter.’
*
There is no other way. I must take John and Captain Askham into my confidence, or at least some of the way down the path of my discoveries and suppositions. John is with Mother in the parlour taking a light supper, although it is barely dark. There is some surprise to see the Captain at my side, quickly hidden in a warm welcome and offer to join with refreshment. We are both of the same mind; politely declining food and accepting wine. I briefly consider begging Mother to excuse us so that we may adjourn to another chamber, before a realisation that there will be benefit in her attendance. She will understand my interest in Helen’s history and offer a reason to be circumspect about other, wider matters. We pass some minutes in light conversation about the merits of sweet wine, the steadfast nature of the soldiers lodging here and enquiries into the health of Askham’s wife and children. Finally, it is time to broach my request to John, but he speaks before me.
‘Is there any news of our attackers? We gather nothing from your men here, Captain.’
‘It is a regret that none have been taken and our search continues.’
‘And is the one killed so bravely by Master Chap identified?’
‘His person is unknown, but there are indications…’ Askham hesitates, no doubt for fear of disclosing too much to my mother.
John glances at Mother
, then says, ‘You should know that I have informed the lady Amy of our assistance to Sir Francis on a matter of Her Majesty’s security. I trust her discretion and it is fitting that she should know something of the likely cause of the evil assault on her household.’
Mother pats John’s arm in thanks for his trust and adds, ‘It would be unusual, would it not, for an attack on a private house to attract the interest and protection of Mister Secretary’s men. I am not completely unaware of the dangers to our state, although I understand that you would not wish to trouble a lady with the fine details of this threat.’
Askham bows his head and explains the reasons for suspecting the killed assailant was of Hispanic origin. John utters a low growl and asserts that this would confirm his thoughts that papists were behind the attack. Mother turns to me and asks whether I still harbour a notion that my work on the mathematics of ship navigation could be at the heart of it.
‘No, I am sure John has it right. The attack here is bound up in the plot upon which Mister Secretary sought our counsel. But of the particular cause on that night, we cannot be sure.’
There is a lull in the conversation as we take food and drink and consider what has been said. I drain my glass and breathe deeply to steady my nerve.
‘There is a lighter matter that troubles me and on which I would seek your assistance, John.’
He raises his head, meets my eyes, then leans back in his chair and strokes his beard. ‘I would be delighted to aid my friend and colleague, if I can. Does it concern the merits of apple tart or nettle soup, perhaps?’
I ignore his small jest. ‘It is connected to a consideration of religion and the easing of a troubled soul before a meeting with God.’
He tilts his head in an expression of surprise. ‘We do not talk of your faith, surely?’
‘No, it is not me.’ I hesitate before choosing my next words with care. ‘I have begun in the wrong place, forgive me. I have formed an attachment of the heart to a lady. It is Helen Morton. I believe there is a mutual liking, but there is something unspoken between us.’
I see Mother and John exchange glances, then she smiles and praises Helen for her steady humor, intellect and beauty. John nods his head in agreement.
I continue, ‘There is something in her history that troubles me. It is nothing that would alter my respect and affection, but I cannot settle until it is resolved.’
‘Oh, William, what can it be?’ I have shocked Mother with this statement.
‘Some twenty years past a niece lived with the Morton family. The niece was fair and much loved, but her character was not strong enough to resist improper advances. She died in childbirth and the living child was adopted by Sir George and his wife. The event was hushed to avoid disgrace to the family name.’ I pause and see the faces of Mother and John hold expressions of concern from this unexpected disclosure. ‘The wrong-doer in this unfortunate circumstance was likely the niece’s tutor, one Tomas Gore. This man has been found through the good offices of the Captain. His fortune has fallen exceedingly low in the years since the birth of the child and he is lodged at an inn in Southwark with heavy and mortal illness.’
John says, ‘This is indeed, news for disquiet, William. But I do not see… how I can help.’
‘I would have his confirmed and clear account of the events around Helen’s birth. He will only give this on condition that he can consult with a holy man; an incorruptible man who is close to God.’
‘You do not expect me to hear his confession and absolve his sins.’ John is quick in his indignation.
‘No, John, he is no lover of the old religion. He is a Protestant with an inclination towards your way of thinking. He has no wish to be forgiven his sins, merely to understand how he can best prepare for his encounter with God.’
There is a moment of quiet and Askham joins, ‘Indeed, we would all wish for such enlightenment.’
‘His end is near. He suffers from consumption and has only days or hours left on this earth. I have said that I would return to his bedside on the morrow, God willing.’
John clasps his hands together and bows his head, perhaps in silent prayer or simply to consider how easily this request sits with his beliefs. We wait in silence for his response.
‘Very well, William, I will accompany you to this man in Southwark. I will do my best to meet his condition and ease your troubles. We will require guards on our journey in view of recent events.’
Askham confirms that he will escort us with two of his men.
Thirty-One
We depart early in the morning – me, John, Askham and two soldiers. The sky is low and heavy with cloud; dark, grey and purpled. It has a threatening air and I must hope this is not an omen for an unfortunate end to our journey. We may be too late to catch the promised words from Gore; his senses may be addled; or John may be too direct and unforgiving in his questioning. My depressed humor appears to be shared and we exchange few words on our progress to the ungodly borough of Southwark.
It is a relief to find the Silver Bell stands with no further loss of its fabric. Askham’s men take the horses through a crooked arch to the courtyard at the rear, while the Captain and I guide John through the door. The young woman stands two paces before us as we enter and bobs a brief curtsey. She will have been warned of our coming. Her hair is covered with a white bonnet and her appearance altogether more becoming than our first encounter. Two men sit at a table, but there are no others to be seen.
She says that her name is Della and asks if we will take refreshment. Askham declines her offer and says we will go directly to Master Gore’s chamber.
She turns to me and exclaims, ‘He lives. He has had the best of our care and wants for nothing save a relief from the foulness in his lungs.’
I thank her, but will not offer more coin until we see the proof of her telling. Askham is first up the ladder followed by John who climbs with some difficulty. I wait for a misstep while the Captain offers a hand to help him to the passageway on the next floor. They stand aside for me to enter Gore’s chamber. It has been cleaned and his bedding arranged as instructed with a sprig of lavender on a small table by the cot. His eyes meet mine as I pull back the curtain.
‘So, Doctor Constable, your word is sincere and… I must thank you for the kindness you have… forced upon my hosts.’ His words are faint and spoken with some difficulty through the mucus in his breath.
‘I am relieved to find your situation improved and your health no poorer than the last day.’
‘Indeed, you may have bought me an extra hour or two in this world.’
His eyes move to those behind and I introduce Captain Askham as my friend and guide.
‘This is Doctor John Foxe. I think you will know of his name.’
Breath escapes his open mouth. ‘I could not have expected such eminence. I… I have read your Book of Martyrs. Who, that truly believes, has not?’ He turns to me and narrows his eyes. ‘Do you speak truth, or… or is this trickery played on the feeble mind of a dying man?’
‘You will discover, soon enough,’ claims John who moves to his bedside and sits on the only stool in the chamber. ‘You have read my account of the martyrdom of Anne Askew?’ Gore bows his head in confirmation and John proceeds to give a detailed report of his research into the infamous torturing of this brave woman and his reading of her account in the book of Examinations. It is plain that John’s display of scholarship satisfies Gore.
‘We will talk of your death and how you may be received into His grace soon, but first you must give a narrative of the circumstances around your departure from employment with the Morton family. Doctor Constable here will write as you speak and then you will add your name to signify a true account.’
I take out paper and writing material from my leather bag and clear a space on the table to prepare.
John says, ‘I understand you were tutor to a niece of Sir George and his wife.’
‘Sheldon – her name was Sheldon.’ He closes his eyes a
nd pauses as if guiding his thoughts to younger days. ‘She was the fairest of face and spirit. Her father had land in Essex; broke his neck falling from his horse and the mother died of the sweats when she was a babe. We were bonded from the start; knowing each other’s thoughts; delighting in the other’s happiness and sharing the burden of each sadness. The movement of her hands and the soft hairs on her neck made my heart tremble. I…’ His eyes dart quickly to each of us. ‘I know I cannot expect forgiveness. The error was mine, all mine. I was too fevered; not thinking or caring for my… my… beautiful Sheldon.’
‘You coupled with her. How did Sir George manage the discovery when she was found with child?’
‘I owned it was mine. There was commotion, anger, tears and some talk that we should wed. The learning of her state was late and before indecision could be overcome, Sheldon began…’ He tries to raise a hand to his face, but fails through weakness. John takes his handkerchief and dabs at the corners of his eyes. Even tears are too insubstantial to flow freely from his frail body.
John breaks the quiet. ‘She – Sheldon died from the birthing complications?’