by Paul Walker
Askham says to me, ‘We will walk from here at intervals and in small numbers. A company of armed and mounted men will attract too much attention on the quayside.’
I depart with the Captain as the sky in the east begins to show promise of a softening sun. The hour is near seven when we arrive at the North Quay. Darkness has gone, but my optimism for the weather was unfounded, as the light is greyed with heavy cloud. Askham cautions me not to gaze at the storehouses and we stride with purpose towards the moorings. It is an industrious scene, full of activity with the swinging of laden ropes, shouldering of sacks and shouts from carts seeking passage through the movement of men and piled cargo.
I follow the Captain over uneven planks of wood on to a two-masted merchant ship. It is a wide-beamed ship that sits low in the water. There are men working and the deck is scattered with wooden crates and a tangle of ropes. Our boarding is unchecked. A thickset man in a wide-brimmed hat and leather apron approaches. Askham takes him to one side and they exchange words which I cannot hear. I assume this must be the ship’s master. Askham hands him a small pouch, he unties his apron, places it on a pile of sacking, and then beckons to three men who gather around him for a few moments before they all disembark.
I say, ‘What of these other men?’ Four men remain busying themselves with the cargo.
‘They are mine. All have worked ships before and will convince in their labour, although their loading and unloading will be without purpose.’
‘Do we have sufficient men, all told?’
‘There will be more than forty when all arrive. Some have been here since the last night and others are due at ten bells.’
He inclines his head towards a storehouse some twenty paces from the ship’s stern. So, that is the place of assignation. The doors here are closed, while the stores either side are open and full of activity. He has placed men in these neighbouring stores, others act as cart men and more are housed at an inn down a narrow passage with its entry thirty paces to our left side. The preparations appear to be well set.
‘How will you control the actions of all these men in disparate locations?’
‘There is an arrangement of flags on the bowsprit. A white flag is for holding positions, a yellow for armed readiness and the red signifies that all should close to where I will confront our prey.’
I congratulate him on his meticulous planning. We adjust the arrangement of crates so that we are largely hidden, but can view the comings and goings on the quay. Now, there is nothing to do, but wait.
It is too cold to be still for long and we take turns to stamp feet, fist our hands and walk the few clear paces cleared on deck, while the other huddles, heavy-cloaked behind the crates. At ten bells I open my pouch and share bread, cheese and warming brandywine. Askham grunts his thanks, takes a mouthful of cheese, then stops suddenly and turns his back to the storehouse.
‘Do you recognise those men?’ He holds his hand to my chest and bids me to be cautious in my observation.
I move to one side and peer through a narrow space in the crates. Four men stand in front of Morton’s store. They are huddled in conversation; one raises his head to survey the wharf; to his left; then right. He bows his head and mutters something to his associates. One, with his back to me, does the same moments later. They remain there for some minutes, two break away and turn down the passage, then the others leave in the opposite direction.
I say, ‘I do not recognise them. They have dispersed, two to my right side and two to my left. Their intentions were unclear. It may be that they were waiting for someone unconnected to our purpose, or…’
‘They scout the area to ensure a trap is not laid for the midday assembly. I would do the same in their place.’
‘They had no swords.’
‘They would not be needed at this hour.’
He beckons to two of his men on deck, they confer briefly, leave the ship and walk quickly in different directions. Askham returns to my side and says that they follow those who gathered there and will report back. One returns in short time and announces two have adjourned to the inn down the passage. It is almost a half hour when the other is back to inform he observed his quarry enter a house by Ropemakers Field; a middling place; neither grand nor poor. He watched for some minutes and there were no others arriving or leaving, but he did see an unusual number of horses assembled in the courtyard. None of this is persuasive either way. Nevertheless, Askham avers it would be prudent to suppose they are connected to the conspiracy in some way and increase our vigilance.
The bustling activity has lessened somewhat, but workers, secondaries and their masters still ply their trade. My bones ache from the chill air and my feet are numbed with cold. I envy those that have completed their toil to seek warmth and Christmas merriment in the inn. The brandywine is finished, we exchange few words and our watch is keener as the time draws near. A wagon, half-covered and laden with barrels, stops outside the storehouse. The driver turns and appears to adjust an object behind him, then moves on. I glance at Askham and he nods his head slowly as if he corresponds with my suspicion. A small, hooded figure walks briskly from the passageway, past the store and continues. There is something familiar about his gait. Some minutes later the small man returns, hesitates briefly at the storehouse and walks with short, quick steps back to the passage where he disappears.
‘Yellow flag,’ I say, half-whispered, but with some certainty.
‘Why now?’
‘I am certain that was Sir John Forester who traversed the frontage back and forth. He should be at Greenwich. Why would he be present if not for a devious connection to Oxford? Or Wensum, perhaps,’ I add after a short pause.
Askham signals to his man at the bow who pulls on a rope to change the flag. He touches the hilt of his sword and mutters words of prayer. We wait for the time to act. The midday bells toll. Nothing. Was I mistaken about Forester? More minutes pass. My mouth is dry and my breathing loud and shallow. I flex my shoulders and clench my fists to ease the icy stiffness. The same wagon appears and comes to a halt outside the storehouse. Half a dozen armed men emerge from the passage, one is at least a head taller than the others, covered in black cloak with a cowl hiding his face. More follow; perhaps another ten. My eyes catch a splash of colour in the other direction. It is Capton leading yet more men. Askham gestures with sharp movement of his hands for the red flag. The hum of voices quietens, labourers, sailors and others about their business stop and make way for the converging forces.
The Captain straightens, mutters that I should stay until it is near done, signals to his men on deck and they leave the ship. He draws his sword as he crosses to the quay. He seems to unbalance on the wood planks, stumbles and sprawls on the quayside. His men attend him. He is slow to rise. The big, hooded man shouts a command and raises his sword. Askham is clearly injured as he cannot stand. His men appear uncertain what they should do. I cannot stand and watch a calamity unfold. I unhook my cloak and stride quickly to join Askham. I brush past his men, point my sword and shout, ‘In the name of our Queen, you will release your weapons and be still!’
I am barely ten paces from over twenty heavily armed men clustered around the wagon. They will surely outmatch my fighting skills, yet I am strangely calm. Askham’s soldiers are gathering in a semi-circle around me. Our enemies are trapped and we have the numbers, but our advantage is not great. I see Capton in their line; and Perse. Oxford has stayed away, or is he disguised. And where is Wensum?
The large man in the centre pulls back his cowl and his black cloak crumples on the ground. He is younger than expected. I am struck by a handsome face, whose unblemished features are almost feminine in their delicacy; made more remarkable by a patch over his right eye. He bares his teeth – a smile, or a snarl? He lifts both his arms, throws back his head and screams at the sky. He stretches his right arm and directs his sword at me.
‘Constable, I rejoice at the death I will give you.’ His speaks English with a thick French accent.
There is a moment of stillness before he rushes at me swinging his sword. He is on me too quick. I raise my sword, lurch to one side and my arm trembles as his steel catches mine near the hilt. I turn, but am slow and his blade comes at my throat. This is it. Helen. I sense a profound sadness at my imminent death. Too much is unfinished. His eyes widen, he moans, his right side bends as though deflated. I swing my sword in a fierce arc at his neck. It cuts; blood spurts; he drops to his knees with an expression of surprise. I hack again and feel his skull shatter under the weight of the blow. Why did he not kill me? Askham is on his knees, with bloodied sword. He must have slashed the man’s leg from behind. He points to my side and shouts a warning. A man steps over a body and thrusts his sword. There is a sting in my shoulder, but he is open and I slash, swing and slash again until he falls. There is no method in my fight. I swing, jab and thrust wildly. I hear my voice roaring, cursing, screaming; all curiously disconnected from my body. I close on the next man. My whole body is seized by warmth and fierce energy; my senses filled with exhilaration and joy of the moment. Time has slowed. I see eyes; fearful; shocked; mouths open; silent screams. How long has it been? I am slowing; my body becomes heavy; breathing laboured… My arms are grabbed from behind.
‘It is over.’
Two of Askham’s soldiers hold me. One slaps my shoulder, then walks away laughing. A harsh sound reaches my ears. It is heavy gasping for air – mine. All was quiet a moment before, but now there are echoes of moaning; cursing; threatening. Time has quickened and regained its clamour. On the ground before me is a man, bent and disfigured; the skull is broken and oozes red and grey; an arm is near severed and hangs loose with shattered bone. Did I do this?
Askham limps by with a foot in the air; his arm draped around another’s shoulder. He is directing the disarming and securing of our prisoners. I hang back and survey the scene. There are between a dozen and fifteen bodies, some tended, others ignored. Our captives are ringed by Askham’s men. There is no sign of Oxford. Capton I see with his head downcast and a rope fixed around his neck. Where is Wensum? I scan the bodies. I see Perse laid out by the wagon with his middle soaked in blood. His head moves. He lives, still. I walk to him. His eyes stare and there is a gurgling deep in his throat. It will not be long.
‘Who do you act for?’ I lower myself stiffly on to one knee.
He tries to speak, but his lungs fill with blood and he gasps for breath.
‘Is it Oxford?’
He moves his head, struggles for more breath, but blood flows from his mouth and nose. He is still. I sigh and my whole body sags. I am weary; uncommonly so. Askham and his support man come to me. I enquire after his injured leg.
‘It is my ankle.’
‘Shall I attend…?’
‘There will be time for that later. We must get our prisoners to The Tower.’
‘Oxford?’
‘No.’
‘Forester?’
‘He is not here. He will be taken and questioned with the others.’
‘Wensum?’
‘Yes, he was on the wagon and taken as he tried to run.’
*
We are back the barn where our horses were rested. I walked here beside the wagon that I learned is Wensum’s. Askham rode in the wagon, which also contained four of our number who were wounded and three who died. A cart led our procession with the bodies of nine killed conspirators and another two near death. We brought up the rear, following the sorry line of our prisoners, who were tied by the neck and arms shackled behind their backs.
I help Askham down from the wagon and take him over to a half-barrel where he can sit while I tend his ankle. A man joins us and Askham introduces me to Surgeon Dexter who will attend the wounded. Dexter asks if he should examine the Captain. He thanks him and says his friend, Doctor Constable, will see to his injury. I remove the boot with some difficulty, roll up his woollen hose and place my hands on his hot and swollen ankle. I play with his toes, then gently rotate his ankle. He takes a sharp breath and grunts.
I say, ‘It is badly twisted, but I do not believe it is broken. I will get some linen from your surgeon and wrap it tightly. You will need a crutch for several days, as it should be rested.’
Dexter has an ample supply of linens. I return and begin to wind strips around the ankle. I find the task soothing and helps to blank my thoughts.
‘You fought well, William.’
‘And you Captain… I owe my life to your persistence, despite your accident. I was certain of my death until you hacked at the legs of the large man.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘I too, regard you as a friend, but do not know your given name. I should like it if you would allow me to be familiar in our exchanges.’
‘For certain. My given name is Hector. My mother was fond of stories of the ancients.’
I smile at his unusual name. It suits a man of arms and I wonder if his mother imagined a soldier’s calling for her babe.
I say, ‘Was our action as you expected?’
‘I regret the loss of men and their forces were greater in number than I anticipated. Nevertheless, the fighting was done in short time and we have sixteen captives. The outcome is good.’
‘We do not have Oxford, but the answer to his message will surely condemn him.’
‘Yes, I do not know how Sir Francis will confront the Earl, but questioning of this wretched band will uncover the truth of it all.’
He points a dismissive hand at the roped prisoners lined against a wall. They present a pathetic picture; their bowed heads, no doubt full of dark thoughts of the dreadful and prolonged end that awaits them. Wensum is one of only a handful that show any aspect of defiance. His head is straight and his bearing suggests a measure of belligerence. I finish the binding and make towards him. He sees my approach and meets my gaze.
‘Master Wensum, it does not please me to find you in this situation.’
‘Ha, I think you delight in it.’
‘I understand this sentiment, but I find no joy in the manner of your treatment to come, only that the conspiracy has been arrested.’ He sets his face grim and does not respond. ‘I would know if your part in this was persuaded by your faith, or merely coin.’
A faint smile shows on his face. ‘You would have me ease your conscience, William Constable. I know your intellect is strong, but your spirit is soft to be coddled and caressed like a child. I must disappoint you. I am a devout follower of the true faith and will meet my maker boldly, knowing that my actions will be embraced by His grace. I had no thought of financial gain. Your triumph will be confined to a short and unfulfilled earthly existence with promise of eternal suffering in the next life.’
He reads my troubles too openly. I turn my back and return to the Captain. I tell him I have no stomach to accompany him to The Tower. I will return home and wait there for any news that may follow the interrogations. The next day is Christmas, I must try to be merry for my household and put the thoughts of today behind me. And Helen. When and how will I be able to mend my offence to Sir George and hold his daughter in my arms again?
Thirty-Nine
Our Christmas has been a muted affair until now. Mother continues to chide me for my brooding, but I have been unable to rouse myself from a listless and quiet introspection that has infected the household. I returned home on Christmas Eve unaware that my doublet was soaked in blood from a cut on my shoulder. It is a small thing, easily mended, but serves as a reminder of the action on the North Quay. It was the first time I killed a man – perhaps it was two or three lives I took in my screaming madness. I related the happenings that day to Mother and John in bare detail and unexcited manner. Mother was horrified at first, then thankful, and eventually joined with John’s fulsome congratulations and contentment at a glorious conclusion to our work and the ending of this threat to our state. I have no sense of glory. In my mind it was a scruffy and dream-like conflict that failed to knot all the loose threads of the conspiracy. Where was Oxford? What part did Fores
ter play? How does a man like Wensum hold such certainty of faith? I cannot dispel reflections on the strong questioning in The Tower and wonder how I would endure such treatment. All these imaginings are mixed with a longing for Helen.
It is the fourth day of Christmas and I am in the parlour with John, when Mistress Hilliard enters in a breathless rush and announces that a procession has arrived. I had anticipated that Askham may call with some men, but it is odd that she describes this as a procession. I follow her to the front of the house. She is truthful in her account. There are fifty or more horsemen with colourful flags and pennants atop their spears. Two men have dismounted and approach. One is Walsingham and the other… it is Lord Burghley.
‘My Lord, Sir Francis, you do my house great honour.’
‘William, please excuse our unannounced visit,’ says Walsingham, ‘My Lord Burghley was insistent that we break from our revels at Greenwich to meet the architect of our recent success.’
I am pleased that he is in good humor and his appearance shows a recovery from whatever ailed him at Seething Lane. I am too surprised to utter an appropriate response and simply bow my head a little lower. I am joined by others.
‘Ah, Doctor Foxe,’ exclaims Burghley, ‘I was told I may find you here with Doctor Constable. My pleasure is doubled at the end of this chill and bracing journey.’ He walks stiffly and is bent with age, but his eyes are bright and enquiring.
John greets our notable visitors and introduces my mother as a dear and welcoming companion. I lead them through to our receiving room where Mother and Mistress Hilliard fuss over the arrangements for building the fire and refreshment. Burghley asks if we have met before and I mention my presentation with Doctor Dee at Whitehall. His memory of that time is hazy and he bids Walsingham explain the reason for their visit.