by Glenn Cooper
“I do indeed. You led us to believe that this defect could be assuaged by utilizing the iron from the Norse mines.”
“Yes, that iron has the lowest phosphorous content and phosphorous is the enemy of good steel. In the nineteenth century an Englishman named Bessemer invented a process for turning any iron ore into the highest quality steel and he made iron very inexpensive to produce. This book teaches how to make Bessemer steel. It’s the third leg of your stool.”
Like a greedy boy, Henry wanted more.
John asked Emily to present the fourth book.
“This book was written by another Englishman,” she said. “It does not teach how to make weapons or engines or indeed anything you can hold in your hand. It teaches you how to hold things in your heart. It is meant to inspire, to make you laugh, to make you cry. It is food for the human spirit, something you need dearly here, in my humble opinion. I give you the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, the greatest poet in the history of mankind.”
Henry received the heavy book with two hands and opened it to one page then another before his eye was caught by a familiar name. “Behold! He writes of my ancestor, King Henry the Fifth!” He paused to read a passage to himself then said, “Listen all to these fine words, as fine as I have ever seen: ‘And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember’d; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks, That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’”
A tear ran down his cheek.
“And now for the last book,” John said.
“I am glad you saved it for the last,” Henry said, reaching for the torn pages he’d received. “For it is the greatest of them all. Though I have forsaken God, as there is no salvation to be had any longer, I have often tried to remember the sweet passages I learned in my youth. But memories fade, though flesh fadeth not.”
The fifth book was the Bible, and not just any edition but the English bible, prepared by Myles Coverdale, under commission by King Henry, to be used throughout his realm by his new Church of England.
Henry said, holding out his hands, “It is the Great Bible, my bible.” The cover page had an illustration of Henry, seated on his throne, watched over by God, disseminating copies of his new Bible to his Protestant clergy. “It looks like my very copy. See this Cromwell? Do you see this?”
“I do, Your Majesty. I remember the Great Bible well. It was I who devised the edict that every church in your land possess one copy.”
“This is the book which I will presently read and study to the exclusion of the others,” Henry declared. “I will refresh my memory of the word of God and see what use there is of His divine words in such a place as …”
A retainer rushed into the bedchamber in a dead run and slid to a halt on the stone floor.
“What is the reason for your haste?” the king said with obvious irritation at the interruption.
“It is the queen,” the man almost shouted. “She is gone!”
John and Emily looked at each other in alarm.
“Gone?” Henry asked. “What mean you, gone?”
“She and her retinue have departed the palace.”
“When was this and why was I not told?” the king shouted. “Cromwell, did you know of this?”
“I knew not, Your Majesty.”
“They left some four hours past,” the servant said. “They sailed off on the queen’s barge.”
“The children!” Emily cried out. “Did she take the children?”
“None are left behind in her royal apartment,” the retainer said. “All are gone.”
“Does her barge have black sails?” John asked.
“It does,” Cromwell said. “How did you know this?”
“We passed it on the river. With the wind and the current they’ve got a huge head start. The deal was, the books for the children. You’ve got the books, we don’t have the children.”
“It is not the fault of his majesty,” Cromwell countered. “The queen has undertaken this action of her own accord.”
“Did she know she had to hand over the children?” Emily said.
“She was so advised,” Cromwell said.
“Where did she take them?” Emily asked, choking back tears.
“Perhaps to London,” Henry said. “My palace in Whitehall pleases her.”
“I beg of you, sire,” the servant said. “I had occasion to question a palace guard stationed in the corridor outside the queen’s chambers. He heard one of the queen’s ladies complaining of having to go to Francia.”
“Where in Francia?” John demanded.
“I do not know,” the servant said, cringing.
“She might be making for Normandy,” Cromwell said. “She has an affinity for the region and knows the Duke of Normandy well. She died in Rouen, you know, and in Hell she made her return to Britannia.”
“There is also Strasbourg,” Henry said. “Do not eliminate Strasbourg from consideration.”
“Yes,” Cromwell said, “she may elect to go to Strasbourg,” Cromwell said. “She also has ancient kinship to this region and in years past, when we had alliances with Francia, she was entertained by the duke of Alsace who has a fine castle there.”
“We’ve got to leave immediately,” John said. “We’re getting our people and we’re leaving. Your majesty, I’m counting on you to keep your word and let us go.”
“I will do so,” Henry said, “though I would have you leave your physician behind to minister to my person until I am healed.”
“We all go together. I’ll have him see you before we go and leave instructions with your own physicians.”
“Very well,” the king said. “You may leave.”
“One more thing,” John said. “If we don’t catch up with her, can her barge make a channel crossing or will she need to transfer to another ship?”
“It is well capable of making full passage,” Cromwell said.
“Well our barge isn’t. We need a ship.”
“The Duke of Suffolk will accompany you downriver,” Henry said, “and he will sail with you to Francia if need be. Now take your leave so I may read my Bible.”
Cromwell had to churn his legs to keep up with John and Emily and by the time they arrived at the guest wing, he was dangerously out of breath.
Bursting through the door, John immediately saw that something was wrong. Charlie was nursing a split lip, Alice was crying, and Martin and Tony were fitfully staring out the windows.
John didn’t see Tracy. “Where is she?” he asked.
“Some men came for her,” Charlie said. “I tried to stop them. I did try but they popped me one.”
“Where did they take her?”
“To William Joyce.”
“Cromwell!” John shouted. “Take me there.”
Cromwell nodded, too breathless to speak.
“When I get back, we’re leaving,” John said.
“Did you get your niece and nephew?” Alice asked.
“The queen ran off with them,” Emily said. “We’re going after her. John, I’m coming with you.”
They hurried off, with Cromwell panting and leading the way through the labyrinthine palace.
There were guards outside Joyce’s private rooms but at the sight of the chancellor, they melted away.
John tried the door but it was locked and Cromwell had to muster enough breath to announce his presence.
The door unlatched and a shirtless Joyce opened it, but at the sight of John he tried to slam it shut. John put his weight against it and set the door slamming into Joyce’s chest, bowling him over.
John put his boot on Joyce’s neck and shouted for Tracy.
Hesitantly, Tracy emerged from another room, clutching a
torn shirt to her nakedness. Emily ran to her and Tracy began wailing pitifully.
“Here, take my robe,” Cromwell said, shedding his outergarment. John saw he had a dagger on an inner belt.
Emily took the robe, put her arm around Tracy, and shut the door behind them.
“Can I have that?” John asked Cromwell.
Cromwell nodded and gave him the knife. “You may put it to good purpose, Mr. Camp. To be truthful, I never liked or trusted this man. The king favors recent arrivals, thinking it gives him certain advantages, but I could not see the merit in giving this man high office. It is now out of my hands and into yours.”
John removed his boot and Joyce stood up, rubbing his throat.
“What are you going to do?” Joyce asked.
“What do you think?”
“I bedded her. So what? That’s what men do here. Whenever and wherever they want. I’m a member of the privy council. You can’t touch me.”
John closed the distance between the two of them with one long stride and plunged Cromwell’s dagger between his third and fourth ribs just to the left of his breastbone. Heart blood welled from the chest wound. Joyce went down gasping, and lying on his back he searched John’s face, then Cromwell’s.
“Is there a rotting room around for this piece of trash?” John asked.
“As it happens, we have a particularly large one close by,” Cromwell said with a smile.
17
Hathaway’s brother, Harold, got very drunk on gin and kept blubbering about how he couldn’t get his head around what was happening.
“You was dead. I was at your funeral. I can take you to see your grave. It’s just down the road. I tackle the weeds from time to time. You was dead and now you’re in my lounge.”
“Don’t want to see my bloody grave,” Hathaway hissed.
The three other rovers, Talley, Youngblood, and Chambers sniggered and kept tucking into the meat sandwiches rustled up by Harold’s wife, Maisey, and passing around his last bottle of gin.
“I like the grub here,” Chambers said, mayonnaise dripping onto his shirt.
“Where’s she gone?” Youngblood asked.
“She’s upstairs,” Hathaway said. “She’s not too keen on us, that’s for damn sure. I cut the phone line so we’re all right.”
“What’s a phone line?” Chambers asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Talley got up and wobbled on his feet. “I’m going out back for a shit,” he announced.
“I’m going to teach you about indoor plumbing,” Hathaway said. “Prepare to be amazed.”
When he returned from his tutorial, Hathaway asked Chambers where Youngblood had gone.
“Dunno,” was the boozy reply.
Hathaway ducked into the kitchen and came back empty-handed, mumbling, “Bloody hell.”
Just then Maisey screamed.
Hathaway bounded up the stairs to find Youngblood, trousers around ankles, on top of Maisey on her bed. Youngblood was a powerful brute, nearly half-again the size of Hathaway, so Hathaway shied away from anything resembling a fair fight. He grabbed a crystal ashtray and slammed it into Youngblood’s head. The blow didn’t knock him out but it stunned him and allowed Maisey to roll off the bed onto the floor.
Crying hysterically, she began to crawl to the door but Hathaway warned her not to leave the house.
“Leave me be!” she shouted. “He tried to, well you know what.”
“I just saved you, you old cow but I won’t save you again if you try to leave. Now put some clothes on and keep your mouth shut, all right?”
Talley called up the stairs and asked what was happening and Hathaway told him to make sure that the woman didn’t try to escape. She collected some clothes from the wardrobe and stumbled across the hall to the bathroom.
Youngblood lay on his back, holding his head and spouting invectives. When he tried to sit up Hathaway clobbered him again, this time splitting the ashtray in two and opening a gash in his forehead.
Talley and Chambers climbed the stairs to have a look.
“What’ve you done to him, then?” Talley asked.
“He was raping,” Hathaway said.
“What’s the matter with that?” Chambers asked.
“Nothing if it weren’t my brother’s wife.”
“Where is she?” Talley asked.
“In the loo.”
“With the indoor shitter?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t see the worth of it,” Talley said. “Plot of ground serves the same purpose.”
Downstairs, Talley and Chambers finished off the gin and the few cans of beer on the sideboard and began trashing the place looking for more. Harold told them to stop but then, in his drunkenness, decided to join in, rummaging through the pantry for a bottle of good whiskey that may or may not have already been consumed on his last birthday.
Hathaway shook his head and tried to figure out how to switch on the strange, flat television but he got ready for a scuffle when Youngblood came stumbling down the stairs. The big man was too woozy for a fight and seemed to forget how it was that his head got split open. The blood ran down his face and onto his clothes and Talley tossed him a sofa cushion to hold against his gash.
“Where’s Maisey?” Harold asked, returning to the lounge empty-handed.
“She’s gone to bed,” Hathaway said.
Harold grumbled, “Always the death of a party, get it? I’m unable to find one more drop of drink. What to do, what to do?”
“Is there a tavern about?” Talley asked.
“There are some excellent establishments,” Harold said, wagging a finger to make the point.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Hathaway said.
“Well I do,” Talley disagreed.
“We’ll be courting trouble,” Hathaway said.
Talley laughed. “When have we ever turned from trouble? I say we go to the tavern.”
“When’s closing time?” Hathaway asked his brother.
Harold squinted at the mantel clock. “Half eleven on a good night. It’s past last orders but the landlord’s a good bloke. He’ll serve me.”
“You’re staying here with your wife,” Hathaway said. “Got any rope?”
“In the cupboard,” Harold said helpfully. “Why?”
With Hathaway shaking his head at the insanity of showing themselves and with Youngblood still pressing a cushion to his bloody head, the four rovers shut the door, leaving Harold and Maisey behind trussed up but very much alive.
The Carpenter’s Arms was only around the corner on Sneinton Dale, a deserted commercial street. Hathaway remembered it from the old days, and while the block was studded with unfamiliar shops with unfamiliar names, at least from the outside, the pub looked much the same as he remembered.
Before crossing the threshold he asked Talley if he was sure he wanted to do this but Talley only swore and pushed on through the door.
It was a weekday and nearly closing time and the patronage was light. Three young men stood at the bar, chatting with the publican. Another two older gents sat at a table nursing the last of their pints. Another young man was dropping pound coins into a fruit machine that was banging out an inane, synthesized tune.
Everyone turned and stared at their entrance.
One of the men at the bar, a cocky lad with two full sleeves of tattoos, said to his mates, “Would you get a look at these geezers?”
“Bring us ale,” Talley barked to the landlord, finding a seat at one of the many empty tables.
The landlord had thick arms bulging from rolled-up sleeves. He looked at the four men quizzically and said, “First of all, we don’t do table service. Second, it’s customary to specify which ale you want.”
Hathaway intervened, pointing at one of the taps. “Four pints of Fullers.”
The landlord nodded and began pulling pints while the young men whispered and giggled among themselves.
“That’ll be thirteen po
und, twenty,” the publican said.
“Say what?” Hathaway answered, staring at the pints incredulously. “Thirteen pounds! Have you gone mad?”
“Me? Have you gone mad, mate?” the landlord flung back. “What do you think beer costs?”
Hathaway drifted back to his day; in 1985 beer was about seventy pence a pint. “I don’t know, about three quid?”
All the locals were hanging on every word and the youth closest to Hathaway, emboldened by the whispered proddings of his mates, said, “Who are you, Rip Fucking Winkle come back to winge over the price of beer?”
“Was I talking to you?” Hathaway said.
“I dunno, was you?” the kid said, puffing his t-shirted chest.
Hathaway decided to ignore the provocation. He pulled the twenties out of his pocket and reluctantly peeled one off.
“Oooo, twenty quid,” the youth said. “Surprised you’ve not got a pocket of pennies.”
One kid chimed in, “Why don’t you take the change and buy yourself some clothes to replace the rags you’re wearing?”
Followed by another’s comment, “And a proper bandage for that bloke so he don’t have to use a cushion on his face.”
“Knock it off,” the landlord said, seeming to sense a nasty situation brewing. “Let ’em drink their pints in peace.” But then he apparently couldn’t resist piling on himself and said with a smirk, “Especially pints which weigh in at three pound thirty a time!”
To the sound of laughter Hathaway carried two pints back to the table and returned for the other two.
“Mister, did you know you smelled like shit?” the first kid said, finishing his own beer and putting the mug down hard on the mat.
The kid on the fruit machine came over and sniffed hard. “He does smell like shit don’t he? It’s customary to wash the pong off before coming into a public house.”
“Maybe they’re pig farmers and the smell’s permanent,” the other kid said.
Hathaway had enough. He delivered the remaining beer to the table and watched Talley and the other rovers drink them down in powerful gulps.