A Tudor Turk

by Rehan Khan

  He walked past Cow-cross, trying to recall where he should go next. It came to him. There used to be a well, with a brass bell over it. He turned right and found it. A stout woman was pulling up a bucket of water. Will strolled past her then veered right to enter a narrow lane where open sewage-channels ran down the middle. The smell reminded him of a moment from his childhood. It was the day he and his mother had returned from the heath at Hampstead, where the air was fresh, and he had realised for the very first time that his own home was in a place that stank.

  The memory still hurt.

  When he reached the end of the lane, he instinctively turned left. This was it - his house was here. The fourth dwelling on the left-hand side. He came to a stop outside his home. It was tiny. The doorframe was lower than his full height. There was a small window, which had appeared so high when he was a little boy. Now it came up to his chest. It didn’t matter, his mother was inside. Will knocked on the door.

  No reply. He tried again. Still nothing.

  ‘Hello!’ said Will.

  Silence.

  ‘Oi, what’s your game?’ demanded a woman’s voice from a house behind him. The dwelling was so close to his own, that if he reached out, he would be able to touch her walls.

  ‘I’m looking for Anne Ryde.’

  ‘And you are?’

  He wasn’t prepared to divulge his identity to someone he didn’t even know. ‘A relative, from the east.’

  ‘God’s light, she’s getting a lot of family turning up today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Will asked.

  The neighbour’s stare was sharp, lips pursed as though she was weighing up whether to tell him anything else. ‘Two fellas turned up earlier, asking about her. I’m thinking to myself, they must have found her down at Smithfield ’cause otherwise she’d be at home this time of the day, sewing.’

  Two fellows! Who else was looking for his mother? Nausea rose from the pit of his stomach. ‘What did they look like?’

  ‘One was the biggest bloke I ever set my eyes on. Like a giant, he was.’ The woman grimaced. ‘He had a nasty scar over his right eye too, as if an eagle had attacked him. Right rude he was an’ all, when he spoke to me. Treated me like his ruddy servant. The other one was a bit scrawny, reminded me of a mouse. If you ask me, they were trouble. I didn’t give nothing away - didn’t like the look of ’em, see.’

  Stukeley. Will felt his head spin, his legs wobble. Had they found his mother! What were they going to do to her? Damn it. He should have come straight here, rather than going to Chancery Lane. He would have reached her before Rathbone’s men. How did they know? Then he recalled the conversation he’d had with Rathbone when crossing the Adriatic. Foolishly, Will had trusted the man, had chatted on, told him where he was from, where his mother lived.

  ‘You all right?’ crowed the woman. ‘Looks like the blood’s been drained from yer face.’

  ‘How long ago were they here?’ Will asked, his voice quivering.

  ‘Couldn’t ’ave bin more than two hours since.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Will turned back to his house. The door was locked. He reached down, lifted up a brick under which was a clutch of pebbles. Rummaging through them he found the key. His mother still kept it in the same place.

  ‘’Ere, how’d you know Anne keeps her key there?’

  Will ignored the neighbour. He turned the lock and entered. The room was dimly lit, with a small hearth against the far wall. To one side was a bed with an old rug at its foot. On the bed lay a set of garments and in a wicker basket was a bunch of needles and threads. There were two chairs against the opposite wall, with a tiny table in between. Thank God his mother wasn’t here. Will’s legs gave way and he sank down on one of the chairs. He had dreaded finding her as he had found the two corpses at number 12, Chancery Lane.

  He looked around. So this poky room was it - his home. A room he could cross in four strides. It struck him how poor he was. He had travelled so far, experienced so much, to return to this. No. He had journeyed here to find his mother - and whether she lived in a house the size of a shoe box or a palace, he belonged with her.

  And now he would find her - before anyone else did. Placing the key back amongst the pebbles, Will strode off in the direction of Smithfield Market.

  43

  SMITHFIELD

  A DELUGE OF RAIN ENGULFED Smithfield. It was as though a flood was being sent from above to calm the anger boiling within him. He stalked up and down past the market stalls, scanning all faces, eavesdropping on conversations. While the Londoners took shelter under canvas, he marched on, aware of the strange looks he was receiving. He didn’t care. Let them know, Will Ryde had returned. Gradually his rage did cool, and his training took over. He was a Janissary, Will reminded himself, and he would use the skills he had learned to hunt down those who were seeking his mother.

  The rain eased off and buyers returned to the stalls, the banter and barter starting anew. It was then Will noticed a woman sitting sewing between two stalls that sold fabric. Her head was down, she had a scarf covering her hair, her fingers moved with great dexterity. Will hastened towards her. They hadn’t found her! She was safe all along, tucked away in this place, oblivious to the danger posed by Stukeley. His heart beating fast, he was almost there . . . then the woman looked up and Will stopped dead. She was a seamstress, but a younger woman, not his mother.

  Seeing his stricken look, the woman asked: ‘Are you well, master?’ He saw that her top middle teeth protruded rabbit-like over her bottom lip.

  Will shook himself out of his daydream. ‘Yes,’ he said dully.

  She went back to her sewing, but he didn’t move. She eyed him once more. ‘You lost something?’

  He had, but how could he explain it? ‘I’m looking for someone, thought it was you.’

  The seamstress began to adjust her hair. ‘Might be.’ She smiled.

  ‘No, I don’t mean like that.’ Will blushed. ‘I’m looking for Anne Ryde, she’s also a seamstress.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I know who she is. Look, I can stitch anything she can, just as well. She’s getting a bit old; her hands don’t work so quickly any more.’

  Old. His mother? Will still imagined Anne as a young woman. He couldn’t for a moment picture what an older version might look like. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘No, love, not since the morning. Oi, Pete, you seen Anne about?’ she called out to the stallholder standing on the other side of the path. He was a corpulent fellow, selling loaves of bread.

  Pete slapped at a fly, trying to think. ‘Oh yeah, that’s right - I did see her ’bout an hour ago. She was headed over to St Paul’s. Got a customer down in Godliman Street or something, I dunno.’

  Will thanked them both and made to head off to Cheapside and St Paul’s, when he noticed two men, dressed rather smartly in black and dark blue, standing near the edge of Smithfield. They looked out of place. Were they watching him? He made eye-contact with one, who hastily turned away. Two other men, dressed in similar attire, were pretending to converse at the far end of the market close to the cow-crossing. He was being followed! Were they the Earl’s men, or more rogues sent by Rathbone?

  The thought of that ogre Stukeley manhandling his mother twisted like a knife in his guts. What type of homecoming was this, when the son endangered the parent?

  He reached St Paul’s Cross and found the area around the cathedral busy with worshippers, clergy, hawkers and beggars. There was very little room to move close to the building itself, so Will skirted around the edges, trying to remain inconspicuous. Having been around St Paul’s Cross a number of times and not seen his mother, or the more easily noticeable Stukeley, Will decided to find a place to wait. Picking up an old wooden crate, he placed it beside an outer wall and sat down. Think, he told himself. What other resources were at his disposal? Who else did he know in this city? No one. Without Awa and Gurkan, he was working alone.

  A young lad came to a stop before him. ‘Master?’ the l
ad said.

  ‘Yes,’ Will replied, sitting up.

  ‘You Master Will Ryde of the Jan - Janiss something?’ the boy said, stumbling over the words he had memorised.

  Will braced himself for whatever was coming next. ‘Yes, I am he.’

  ‘Got a message for you.’ The boy handed him a sealed piece of paper.

  Will broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. It read: Tonight. Nine. Pike’s Head, London Bridge. If you want to see her alive bring the Staff. No tricks.

  The messenger was about to depart. ‘Wait. Who sent you?’

  ‘Dunno, didn’t give his name. Warned me I’d better say the right words or else.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Biggest fella I ever seen, nasty scar down his right eye.’ The boy swallowed and looked around nervously.

  Stukeley.

  ‘When did he give you this message?’

  ‘Just now.’

  What! Will jumped to his feet, knocking over the box. ‘Where?’ But the boy had run off. ‘Hey, come back!’ Will gave chase, but it was no good. The lad had vanished in the throng.

  Will ran towards where the boy had glanced around fearfully. He reached the pavement, stared off to the right - and was just in time to see a carriage shoot off towards the river. In the back seat, he could make out the large form of Stukeley. Sitting between him and another fellow was a fair-haired woman.

  Was it his mother? If so, at least she was alive. He would finally get to see her, even if for a moment. He felt the Staff on his back. His mission was to return it to the Topkapi Palace, but his mother’s life was more important to him than this piece of wood. Yet by failing to bring the Staff back to Istanbul, Konjic’s life would be under threat. His head was spinning.

  Pocketing the letter, Will headed back to St Paul’s. He needed to go in and pray for God’s guidance.

  44

  PIKE’S HEAD

  SEVERED HEADS DIPPED IN TAR, then boiled to preserve them, were impaled on pikes on London Bridge. The striking stone bridge, stretched out across the Thames, was crammed with buildings, some seven storeys high: houses, eateries, workshops, catering to all needs, habits and dispositions. It was, in effect, a bridge-town within a city. Even at this late hour, the bridge was teeming with Londoners, though most appeared to be up to no good.

  Will made his way onto the bridge, the road narrowing, laden with carts kept outside tall narrow edifices, some of which hung off the edge of the bridge, balancing on supporting struts. Rats scampered by, oblivious to the people on the bridge, as much as the Londoners were unmindful of the rodents. Cooking pots warmed on hearths placed on the street. Clothes billowed overhead, hanging from lines thrown between buildings on either side of the bridge, so that when Will gazed up, they materialised like a cobweb. Passage was tediously slow, as some walked on the left, others on the right.

  ‘Pike’s Head?’ Will asked a crabby fellow with a bushy beard. He waved Will along, gesturing to the right side of the bridge.

  It was just before nine in the evening, the allotted time in the note. He was alone, he had brought the Staff of Moses, strapped to his back, and he eagerly anticipated seeing his mother. Will reached the Pike’s Head and was about to enter, when he belatedly spotted two men dressed in black and blue, about ten yards behind him: the same ones who had been following him earlier in the day. He squinted through the window of the inn. Sir Reginald Rathbone was seated at a small circular table, a glass of wine in front of him. He was dressed in a grey cloak. Only his fine supple boots distinguished his status.

  Some instinct told the man that he was being watched. Rathbone looked up, caught sight of Will and smiled.

  Will pushed open the door and entered, pausing to check to his right and left. As expected, a number of tough-looking men were seated at tables. They were loaded with weapons and pretending not to notice him. Rathbone came with muscle. Was he expecting a struggle? Will knew he wasn’t going to leave safely with his mother by trying to fight his way out; he was completely outnumbered. He needed to use his brain instead.

  Rathbone gestured for him to join his table. Will strode over and sat on the rickety wooden chair opposite.

  ‘Wine?’ Rathbone asked.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Will.

  ‘Haven’t adopted the ways of the Mahomet, have we?’ Rathbone asked in an unctuous tone.

  ‘Where’s my mother?’

  ‘All in good time, Will Ryde.’ Rathbone sipped from his glass, then made a face. ‘I wouldn’t recommend the vintage in this place.’

  Will glanced about and felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him. None of the men were drinking. Their glasses were empty. He had walked into the wolf’s lair without any support.

  ‘Life is tough - tougher if you’re a dim-wit like these brutes.’ Rathbone gestured to the heavies he had assembled. ‘Yet you, Will, have proven yourself to be quite a resourceful fellow. I admire your tenacity and foolhardy courage. They have served you well. Perhaps you’re just lucky and maybe your good fortune is about to run out. Who knows? Either way, I have a proposal to make to you.’ Rathbone stared at him, his eyes piercing.

  ‘Work for me,’ said Rathbone. ‘I need a man in Istanbul, an informant, in the Palace.’

  ‘You want me to be a spy?’

  ‘You already are! Employed by Konjic as a Janissary, what do you think that makes you, a scholar? Hah. You are naïve. Look, let’s put all this behind us. You can say the Staff was taken forcibly from you, we send you back to Istanbul, you resume your duties, and every now and then, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘We’ll take good care of Mistress Ryde. I’ll even find her a cottage in the countryside, with some land and livestock, enough for her to live off. She’ll never need to struggle on pennies as a seamstress again. Whenever you come back to England, you can visit her.’

  The offer was tempting. His mother would get a new life. ‘Why do you want the Staff?’ Will asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘The Earl of Rothminster is an ambitious man. He has a point to prove to his backers in England and on the Continent. The theft of the Staff symbolises the reach of his power. Besides, as a religious artefact, it’s always a nice trophy to have, should we need to bargain with it in the future.’

  ‘Who are his backers?’

  Rathbone chuckled. ‘Enough questions, Will Ryde. You are in no position to demand any more information from me. Now: are you with us?’

  Will bit his lip. Wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. Life was made of moments like this. ‘I want to see my mother first.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rathbone waved to a fellow who had been standing next to the bar. The man disappeared and returned with Stukeley, who was gripping a woman by the arm. She had a black hood over her head.

  Will’s eyes widened as he stood up. Rathbone nodded and Stukeley removed the hood.

  ‘Mother!’

  For a moment she blinked, then her eyes searched his features, seeing in them the dear little boy who had been stolen from her on that terrible day. ‘Will?’ she said in wonder, her voice a whisper. ‘My Will. Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Stukeley let go of her arm. Will rushed to his mother and embraced her, holding her as tight as possible. Tears poured down his cheeks. He had longed for this moment for eleven perilous years and now here he was. Mother and son, reunited.

  ‘Will, dear, who are these people?’ Anne asked, holding both his hands.

  ‘All will be well, Mother, I just need to give them something.’ Will removed the Staff, which was wrapped, handing it to Rathbone, who received it gleefully and strapped it across his own back.

  ‘What is it going to be, Will?’ said Rathbone.

  ‘The deal was the Staff for my mother.’

  ‘Are you refusing my offer?’

  Will hesitated. He didn’t like Rathbone’s tone. Stukeley loomed before him and Rathbone’s men circled him.

  ‘Yes, I refuse
to work for you.’

  ‘You are the outcome of your decisions,’ said Rathbone. Turning to Stukeley, he said: ‘Kill them both.’

  45

  NEARLY

  STEEL GLITTERED IN THE LAMPLIGHT. Rathbone’s men drew their weapons, as the fiend himself departed. He stopped to glance back at Will, as if to say something - then decided against it. He vanished out of the back of the inn, two of his guards following.

  ‘Let my mother go!’ Will demanded. ‘She doesn’t have anything to do with this.’

  ‘No!’ Stukeley growled.

  Will drew his weapon and retreated, his mother beside him.

  ‘Will . . .’ She clung to his arm. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

  Men crowded around them from the side and rear, blocking the exit. Crash! The glass frontage of the Pike’s Head shattered as an object came flying through. No, not an object - it was a person. The assailant went straight for Stukeley’s throat, daggers drawn. Stukeley grabbed the attacker in mid-air, before they could plunge their weapon into his neck. Will gawked up and beneath the hood he saw:

  ‘Awa!’

  Stukeley threw her into the pack of men, but as he did so, someone else burst through the door, slicing the back of Stukeley’s leg with a razor-sharp scimitar. Gurkan! Stukeley stumbled and fell, bleeding heavily. In the next moment, the Pike’s Head was full of men dressed in black and blue, like those who had been following Will earlier in the day. They seemed to be fighting Rathbone’s men. Will didn’t have time to puzzle over it, as knives were being pulled, punches thrown, noses broken. Tables were smashed, chairs were used as weapons, glasses shattered and brandished, lethal.