by Sam Burnell
“Well, maybe we can help.” Father Andrew leaned across the table. “Often the paths are there, it just takes a little while to truly see what choices we have that God has laid before us.
“I haven’t got any bloody choices, and I told you before, I’ve no plans,” Jack took a long draught of ale and when he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. “Just let it be. I just want to sit in here, on my own, and enjoy an evening of peace.”
“I can see you are one in need of help, Jack, and I’m not going to leave you until I know you are set on a path chosen by the Lord.”
“You’re just another nosey bastard,” Jack set his drink down hard on the table; the other patrons glanced in his direction as the cups on the table danced. “I’ll not sit here and be your bloody evening’s entertainment, that’s for sure.”
Father Andrew was not in the least put off. “Now settle that temper; I’ll bet it’s been one that’s got you in trouble more than once.”
“If you don’t shut up, it’ll be getting me in trouble again very soon,” Jack retorted, wondering just how far Andrew was going to push him, and why on earth he’d dragged Roger Clement in here with him.
“You’d surely not hit a man of God?” Father Andrew admonished his eyes bright and a smile on his face.
“Try me,” Jack spoke through clenched teeth.
“Now there’s a challenge,” Father Andrew laughed and reached over to fill Jack’s cup from the pitcher, not at all unsettled by the mood of his companion. “Help comes sometimes to us when we least expect it so settle yourself, lad, and prepare to be helped.”
The chair behind Jack toppled, banging loudly on the wooden floor as he stood suddenly, “If you won’t leave, I will.”
“I think perhaps…” Roger Clement started to rise from his seat when Father Andrew’s hand stopped him.
“Will you sit down.” The command was aimed at Jack; the voice loud and steady was one used to being obeyed. “Now.”
Jack drew a loud breath. Damn the man.
“Pick that chair up and put your backside on it,” Father Andrew continued, pointing at the fallen furniture. Roger also reluctantly settled himself back into his seat.
Without taking his eyes from the cleric’s face, Jack leant down, and in one smooth movement, righted the chair and sat down, arms on the table in front of him, temper barely contained. “Is this going to take long?”
“That depends on how hard you decide to make it doesn’t it?” Father Andrew countered.
“I’m not the one making it hard, I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want to tell you anything and I don’t need your help,” Jack was exasperated.
“You need God’s help, and I’m His instrument here to guide you, and guide you I will.”
“Well, you’ll be guiding without any bloody teeth in a minute,” Jack growled. “My life’s my own business and none of yours, and it’s enough of a mess without having the likes of you picking over the corpse for your entertainment.”
“That bad, is it?” Father Andrew was not going to be put off, and Jack had unwittingly given him an opening.
“Yes, it is,” Jack retrieved his cup and he drained the pale ale.
“So tell me something of your family then; every man has a place where…”
Jack cut him off. “My family! We might share the same blood, but family I do not have.”
“So a falling out then? Go on lad, tell me what happened.” Father Andrew persisted.
“I wouldn’t know where to start, the tale’s too long and I’ve no stomach for it anymore.” Father Andrew saw Jack’s shoulders slump and knew that he was going to get the confession he wanted, in a little time, with a little patience.
“At the beginning, that’s always the place to start.” Father Andrew encouraged.
Jack rubbed his rough hands over his face; the cut on his hand stung another painful reminder. “In the beginning….” Jack told his tale, haltingly at first. The truth of the story had not been his for very long, he was still trying to get used to the reality of it.
“In the beginning, my mother was Lady Fitzwarren. She berated her husband, William, for taking her waiting lady to his bed while she was pregnant with me. The servant, who I always thought was my mother, gave birth to another son a few months or so after I was born. William Fitzwarren liked the child well and kept him in the castle. His wife told him she would never be well or able to leave her room while his bastard was under their roof. So, he got rid of the child to his brother’s household where it was raised.” Jack paused, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
“Go on lad…the child, left then what happened?”
“The child who went to his brother’s household was me. William switched the babes to spite his scolding wife. The child of her servant was Robert, who he kept in my place. I’d heard that he’d meant to undo the wrong but he never did. His wife, Eleanor, accepted the child in the crib as hers. The servant was sent to an Abbey and life went on. No-one, it seemed, knew the truth, and the few that did cared little.”
“Well, that’s certainly a beginning, Jack, I’ll give you that. So then what happened? How did you find out?” Roger Clement was now an extremely attentive listener.
“A long time later. I worked as a servant in Fitzwarren’s brother’s house all my life serving those bastards, cleaning up their mess, being made to feel grateful for the food in my mouth and the roof over my head even if most of the time it was the stable roof. William Fitzwarren had another son, Richard, and there was some great enmity between him and Robert. Robert tried to kill Richard during a hunt. I was there, and I know not why, but I helped him and gave him a horse to escape. I left England after that, and I stayed with him. He knew I was his father’s child raised in his brother’s house, and he knew the full truth of it as well: that I was his full true brother, not just a bastard by-blow. However, he didn’t choose to share it until the end.” Jack stopped suddenly, his expression distant.
“The end? What end? Jack, a moment ago we were at the beginning. You can’t just jump to the end.” Father Andrew snapped his fingers in front of Jack’s face when he didn’t get a reply. “Come on lad.”
“What?” Jack pulled back from his thoughts focused his eyes on his audience opposite him.
“We want the middle of the tale.” Father Andrew pressed, leaning forward.
“The middle is an even worse mess,” Jack said, and both men could hear the pain in his voice.
“Well then, get started and let’s see if we can smooth the past out for you,” Roger Clement smiled encouragingly.
“We came back to England. Richard had connections, he’d spent time working for Thomas Seymour,” Jack smiled when he saw that the name he’d dropped had raised both men’s eyebrows by a degree. “Well, he had connections and after King Edward died he lent the Lady Mary some help to secure the throne and we were rewarded with a manor at Burton. Not a big place, but enough, a start,” Jack paused reflectively.
“Well, you’re not there now so what happened?” Father Andrew prompted.
Jack placed his hands palms down on the table and met Father Andrew’s steady gaze. “When we were helping Northumberland, a young lassie lost her home and her family. To keep her safe Richard had confirmed that she too had died; it was safer at the time and later it was too late to do anything about it.”
“Ah,” Roger Clement nodded, considering the facts, “A little like your own problem?”
“Exactly like mine; the girl should have had a Manor, lands, servants. Her father was Mary’s man, but, when her family thought her dead, her uncle took over Assingham and nobody wanted a dead child resurrecting to change his recent inheritance.”
“I can see what you are meaning, lad, now. So where is the girl? Still with your brother?” Father Andrew asked.
Jack laughed harshly, “Well she’s with my brother alright, just the wrong one. She’s with Robert Fitzwarren, my bastard brother, who thought he’d seek himself a profit from he
r. Robert tracked down Richard to Burton and on a charge, he had him arrested. He’d helped Mary to the throne and he was involved with powerful people.” Jack knew exactly which powerful people he was involved with, but even though Richard was dead he couldn’t bring himself to say.
“They didn’t want him on the scaffold where he could publicly condemn them; they wanted him dead, quickly and quietly. They turned some of his men against him and arranged a trial by combat. But, with their own rules. There were an unlimited number of combatants and they just wore him down until one was lucky enough to get through his guard.”
“And you were there?” Roger sounded surprised; this was a tale indeed.
“Aye, I was there. I tried to help, but there was so little I could do, you see. He did make an escape, but not for long. It was a bad wound, and he was found dead, bled out.” Jack’s breath shuddered as he released it. “There was nothing I could do. Richard was dead. Robert came to see me before he left with Catherine and told me our father had died some months past and that he was now the head of the household.”
Jack rocked back in the chair, his eyes downcast. “So there you have it. I couldn’t stay; they had got rid of Richard on some false charges and it would have been only a matter of time before they came back and arrested me. Richard’s dead; Catherine, I know not where they took her, and although I’ve got the proof of my father’s crime against me who’s going to believe me? Do I look like a Lord’s son?” Jack was now thoroughly depressed.
“No, you don’t, I agree. What you do look like is someone who’s feeling right sorry for himself.” Father Andrew’s tone was not particularly kind. Sympathy he decided, was not what the man before him needed.
“Well, what would you do, eh?” Jack snapped back, “Richard left me the proof of it, but who would believe me? He might be dead but he left me with the curse of it.”
“Oh please. The man’s dead and you’re blaming him for your sorry situation?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“You’ve got choices; you’ve got a brain between those loppy, great ears of yours, so why don’t you use it?” Andrew continued sternly.
“He had the connections, he was the one with the plan. Me, I just followed him and…”
Father Andrew cut him off tersely “I can see that very well, you just followed him and now that he’s not here to lead you by the hand, that’s his fault as well.” He drew a long breath and folded his arms. “It seems to me you’ve got two clear paths: two choices, two roads to travel down.”
“Really?” Jack’s voice was resigned.
“Go and find this lass, the one who’s lost everything. Help her to regain her land and home, and, in doing that, you may gain her gratitude and a place for yourself. If she had a Manor and wealth perhaps she’ll look kindly on you if you could help her.”
“Assingham wasn’t exactly a wealthy place, you know?” Jack pointed out.
“Oh, and you’ve got gold pouring out of your backside, have you?” Father Andrew scoffed. “I’m betting it’d be worth more than the likes of you could ever dream of earning, even if it wasn’t a royal palace.”
“I suppose so,” Jack conceded grumpily. He lifted his eyes to meet the older man’s. “And the second path?”
“Go and claim your place. You say you have proof? Well use it and bring a suit against this man who calls himself Robert Fitzwarren!” Father Andrew proclaimed.
Jack straightened his shoulders. “I’ve met the bastard; he’d run me through and throw me in the gutter. I’ve not got the money for a law suit I don’t have Richard’s connections; he would have known what to do.”
“There you go again - the man is dead will you leave him be!” Father Andrew admonished again.
It was Roger Clement then who spoke, thoughtfully, “I know a little of the law: my brother, Geoffrey practices in London and has his own firm with lawyers working for him,” Roger spoke proudly. “Your case could be a lucrative one for you if you won, and any lawyer worth his calling would be able to see, that if they aided you in this, they would benefit mightily if they could place your inheritance in your hands, do you not think?”
“I suppose so,” Jack admitted a little sulkily.
“My brother, he was always father’s favourite and went off to the law and he’s done well, very well for himself. I can write you a personal letter of recommendation that you could take to Geoffrey and he could listen to your facts, as I am sure he would, and advise you.”
Jack was silent for a moment, then, “You’d do that for me?” He sounded shocked.
“Yes, I would,” Roger Clement stated solemnly, “You risked your life to save my child today, and I believe God means for me to help you on the right road. And I would like to help,” Roger leaned across the table and clapped the other man on the arm.
†
Why Jack went, he never really knew. Maybe it was just because it was somehow the end of the journey? Maybe like Paul he wanted help? Or perhaps it was just curiosity? Saint William was interred before the high altar in a shrine that towered above him. Wooden framework, adorned with winged angels and glossed with gold, was built over the entombed bones inside. Forever attended, William would never be alone: at each corner of the shrine, a kneeling monk watched over his final sleep.
A rope across the middle of the Minster separated the main crowd from the shrine. Waiting his turn, finally, Jack reached the barrier and saw before him the majesty of the Saint’s final resting place. Here, he did kneel. Jack was weary, so tired. Beyond the shrine, he could see the huge gilt cross standing on the high altar, smell the incense.
The candles, in gold and silver holders, burned into the back of his eyes; shafts of light falling from the painted windows were highlighted in the smoky air. There was noise and silence all at the same time, and Jack’s head spun. If there was a power in the world, if there was a God, then He would be here.
Jack felt his throat tighten. Why did you kill him? Why did you? Why did you let this happen?
There was nothing. No answer. Just the silence of the Church.
Jack breathed in heavily, the sickly smell of the incense almost too much. Then it happened. The words he heard were too clear to have not been spoken aloud.
“Pity is a man’s downfall. For your sake, Jack, let it not be yours,”
The voice mocking him was his brother’s.
Eyes wide open, he glanced about him for the speaker. A woman kneeling, hands tightly clasped, to his left, jumped in fright as he spun around. Jack mumbled something in apology and using the carved pillar to his right, pulled himself up and stumbled from the Minster.
Sitting on the paving outside, it took some minutes for his senses to begin to re-order themselves; the thick and sickly smell of the incense clearing from his head. His palms flat on the cold stone steadied him as he fought to regain a sense of the world. Swallowing hard, he rubbed his shaking hands over his face and felt an acute sting on his right cheek. His brother’s ring, that he wore reversed, had carved a livid line from the corner of his mouth up to his eye. He needed a drink!
Elizabeth took the prayer book she was passed and stowed it beneath the one she already carried. She didn’t want it: at the earliest opportunity it would be discarded on the church pew or on the floor. For now, though, she had them both. She sat on the embroidered, cushioned bench in the chapel, her eyes downcast and expression demure, as she knew she must appear when Lady Travers was near. Elizabeth realised she was starting fixedly at the book that had been forced upon her.
It was a simple book of common prayer: the cover was of calf skin and the pages crisp and creamy. What caught her attention though, was the green point of a dry leaf just slightly poking out from between the pages. She couldn’t see all of it and knew she couldn’t open the book while she sat in the chapel. Later, alone in her room, she opened it and watched as a green fingered chestnut leaf, dried and crisp from last summer, lay there tucked between the pages.
Taking the leaf from t
he hiding place revealed four words underlined on the two facing pages – oh thou goodly sinner. She quickly checked the smile that lit her face. The chestnut leaf, she lay out on the top of a coffer. Smoothing the leaf flat, she laid her hand on it, so much bigger than the span of her own small hand. She pocketed the psalm book until she could find the opportunity later to remove the telltale marks from the pages. Once done she left the book where she knew it would be found and inspected.
The message was no message at all, merely a reminder that she was not alone and to be of brave heart. A state of mind that was not easy to accomplish. In her few years, she had found out all too well what it meant to be a Tudor and – worse - a member of her father’s terrible household. Her own mother had ended her life with her long Boleyn neck slit by a sword when Elizabeth was only three. Her thoughts on that were her most private: whether from a deep sense of self-preservation or from a childhood terror, she never shared them.
From there, she had been welcomed and mothered and cosseted by Henry’s most loved and treasured wife, Jane Seymour. Jane, after fulfilling her royal duty to give him an heir, had perished, and Elizabeth was once again forgotten in the turmoil that ensued. As a young girl, Henry’s fifth wife had once again brought her back into the royal fold. Elizabeth and Catherine Howard had been close. The pain could not even be imagined when her friend, confidant, and ear to her father was taken from this world to the next on the block on Tower Green. Katherine Parr, Henry’s last wife, outlived the Tudor tyrant and married her childhood love, Thomas Seymour, and the pair took over guardianship of the Lady Elizabeth until poor Katherine had perished soon after giving Thomas a daughter. She had been fourteen.
The Elizabeth now, aged twenty two, was wise beyond her years. However, she had inherited from Henry a temper and a stubbornness that would not be checked. The message bolstered her flagging spirit to the point of recklessness.
Two days later it was Sunday. Elizabeth was to attend Mass, as she did every week, with Mary. All morning she had clutched at her stomach and wailed bitterly, but that it would not stop her attending her sister.