by Sam Burnell
Mary stood with her ladies. The morning was icy, the air still pinched with cold. They were waiting to enter the Royal Chapel and Elizabeth was late. Mary was furious.
“Your Majesty, she comes now. Mistress Kate says she has been unwell.” Anne Boucherant bobbed curtsey in front of Mary before taking up a safer position behind the glowering Monarch.
“Ill? Really?” Mary spat.
Elizabeth appeared, leaning so heavily on the lady at her side the small girl was forced to weave under the heavy burden, her eyes filled with terror as she fought to hold the Princess up.
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth performed the curtsey due to Mary clumsily, clutching her rosary tightly to her breast as she did.
“It is not me you need to beg forgiveness from.” Mary snapped, her lips a thin hard line.
The royal party entered the Chapel and Mary’s scratched and raw nerves under the presence of her sibling bled anew as she had to sit and listen to the other retch behind her.
†
“She should not have come,” Kate was kneeling in front of Mary after she had been summoned for an explanation. “Elizabeth is most wholly unwell and we had begged her to remain in bed and send word to Your Grace, but she would not hear of it, and said it was her dearest wish to attend you in the chapel.”
Mary turned abruptly away. A skirt hem, heavy and jewelled, caught Kate harshly across her cheek, but she kept her place, eyes downcast staring at the cold marble flagging.
“You are too familiar with our sister, she needs a firmer guiding hand,” Mary spoke as she stared from the window. “I shall have Gardiner see to her household arrangements in future.” Mary’s hand waved behind her and Kate, sickened, left. There was no doubt in Kate’s mind what was about to happen, and indeed, before the day was out. her employment - ten years with Elizabeth was terminated.
†
The change in Elizabeth’s household took place seamlessly. Kate was removed from her rooms, her belongings packed, and she was out of Durham Place and out of Elizabeth’s company before the day grew to a close. There wasn’t time for appeal or reproach, no time was afforded for tears or temper. Kate was rewarded for her dutiful service with a small supply of coins and her servants had already found her suitable lodging within the city. Kate had taken rooms at an inn on the Strand, close to her mistress, should she be needed, and there she waited.
Richard left it for three days before he went to see Kate.
She rose as the uninvited man stepped into the room and closed the door quickly behind him.
“Richard!” Kate let the needlework slide from her lap to the floor, the shock plain on her face. “What’s happened to you?”
“Ah, do I still look that bad?” he smiled back and came to stand a little way in front of her.
“You seem like you’ve been…” she signalled for him to sit opposite her, and added tactfully, “unwell.”
Chapter Three
†
It had taken Jack another four weeks to retrace his steps and make his way back to London, though this time with a sense of purpose, and even hope. Near his skin, under his jacket, he kept the papers Richard had bequeathed to him proving his place in the world. Nestled next to them was a letter written in Roger Clement’s close-clipped characters: a note of introduction requesting that his brother Geoffrey hear his case.
Roger Clement’s words to him had been well-reasoned ones. If he could prove his claim then it was indeed worth a considerable amount. His father had a manor outside London, extensive lands, and also a London residence as well. More than that, he did not know of, but he assumed there would be other assets in the Fitzwarren name all adding up to a princely sum.
Roger Clement had insisted that if he could assert a right over the titles then the lawyer who helped him would probably never need to open the door to a client again, such would be the reward Jack could offer. There was indeed much sense in it, and Jack was for once not only hopeful but optimistic that the truth would be the easy victor in the face of the evidence he held.
The lawyer’s chambers he had not found easily. Geoffrey Clement chose not to keep company with his fellows and his office was some way out of Lincoln’s Fields where all the main legal firms clustered. A handsome and costly façade had been allowed to crumble, paint curled away like lichen from the sun-bleached woodwork. Moldering daub, weather softened, fertile and damp, husbanded the weeds, roots secured behind slatted panelling. Clement’s sign hung creaking on un-oiled brackets. The letters on the sign, once a neatly gilded calligrapher’s testament to the skills and services on offer, were now a pale barely readable grey.
Jack took in the setting and groaned inwardly. Hopefully, the lawyer within was successful and too busy to deal with such trifles as the appearance of his premises. He didn’t really have any other choices.
Approaching the door a sniping woman’s voice, argumentative and hostile, could be heard. The words became clearly audible as the front door opened, a woman backed out, her finger wagging menacingly in the face of a man firmly trying to expel her onto the street.
“The Devil take you! Five weeks I’ve been coming here and for five weeks you’ve been taking coins from me. I’ll be back, mark it, next week, Master Lawyer and you had better have what I need.” The woman was still issuing threats through the open door and backed into Jack as he was walking up the path.
“Don’t you be going in there unless you’ve money to waste, a fine tongue he has on him. But results? Ha! You’ll never be seeing any of those,” she spat in the road to emphasise her point and with a last shout of, “Next week!” over her shoulder, she marched off into the street.
The door was still open when Jack reached it and standing on the other side was a very distressed-looking servant.
“Mistress Taylor has high expectations and little patience, I am afraid,” he said, by way of apology.
Jack grinned, “Well, that would make her very much like most women I’ve ever met.”
His smile was returned. “Indeed it would; they do not appreciate that there are procedures, practices, timescales. All that the lady wishes is being done, but the law is not as speedy as Mistress Taylor would like. Woman are such foolish creatures, they lack the capacity to appreciate even simple processes. Why the law allows them a presence, I have no idea.” Jack, nodding in sympathy, let him finish, “Anyway, how can I help?”
“I have this for Master Clement; I would very much appreciate it if you could pass this to him. I have a matter that I would like him to advise me upon.” Jack saw the other assessing his worth as a client. Hastily he added, “This letter is from his brother.”
“Certainly I’m Marcus Drover, and you are?” Marcus reached over and took the offered letter.
“John Fitzwarren,” This was the first time Jack had ever spoken his given name, and he regretted it; it felt like theft.
“Please wait in there, and I will see if Master Clement is free,” Marcus gestured to a dusty room with a few sticks of poor furniture. He doubted very much that his Master would want to meet him. Only last year they had received two similar letters from Clement’s clerical brother, and this charity case looked, and very much smelt, like another waste of his Master’s time.
Pleased with his preparation, backed with written facts and bolstered by words from the lawyer’s own brother, Jack felt confident. It was a confidence, however, which decreased with time. Jack waited. Silently, he rehearsed the lines he would use, words he had composed on the slow journey south.
The story was, he knew, a hard one to believe. Aware of a need to convince, he’d made a tally of the facts and mentally prepared what he hoped was a believable and convincing summary. He paced the room, then waited, then paced some more. Eventually Jack convinced himself that, whilst his letter may have been delivered, Marcus Drover had failed to inform his employer that his newest client was waiting to be seen. He left the room, intent on tracking down the lawyer.
The building on the inside reflected
the exterior. It was dusty, with an air of disuse and another odour Jack didn’t care too much for: the smell of rot, but with a little too much edge, making it unpleasant on the nose. There were two doors leading off the passageway near the front door. A knock on the first brought no response, but a knock on the second gained him a reply.
“What is it, Marcus?” Jack chose to ignore the mistake, and impatiently stalked in like a hungry dog.
The door gave onto a large room filled with tables and shelves, upon every surface were piled sheaves of paper, all tied neatly. Even the floor had been employed to house the files; some in stacks had given way, the top bundles having slithered into untidy heaps at the foot of the mountainous piles. Jack stared about him open-mouthed: how anyone could find anything in here was a mystery.
“Who are you?” shouted the small hunched man from where he sat in the middle of the vast paper island.
“Fitzwarren, I passed a letter…”
The lawyer cut him off. “From my brother, the kindly simpleton of the family. Yours is not the first worthless case he’s passed my way. He seems to think I have nothing better to do than waste my life on God’s lost causes. I’ve read your letter and your hard luck story. So what do you want me to do about it?” He barked.
Jack was shocked, “You’re a lawyer, I’d hoped…”
“Yes, I am a lawyer. And a good one. And I cost money. Do you have any?”
“No, sorry, no…” Jack was lost for words, this was not the reception he had expected.
“Sorry! Indeed! Well sorry is not going to get you very far. You need to place a suit in Chancery, and that costs money. Lots of money. From the look of you, that’s not something you have, is it? What proof do you have? It says here -” Clement picked up the letter from his brother and scanned it briefly, “– a signed confession from your father. Really?” Clement scoffed.
“Yes, I do.”
“Sure it’s not something you’ve had written, eh? Let me see it,” snapped Clement, holding out his hand.
Jack’s reached automatically to the pocket where he kept the document, then he stopped. “No. I’ll thank you for that letter you hold there and I’ll trouble you no more. Your brother was sadly mistaken in his recommendation.”
The little man’s hand went to grasp the letter from Roger Clement but Jack was by far the quicker and before the elderly man could secure a tight hold on the sheet, it was snapped neatly from his grasp.
“I’ll say good day to you, Sir.” Jack turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him, the dust billowing from the walls and ceiling in a silent explosion in his wake.
The filth and unwanted contents of London sailed by under the bridge as he watched. Bloated and rotten, the distorted corpse of a dog rolled under the bridge. The pull of the current turning the canine over made it seem alive, the gas-filled stomach struggling to stay above the black surface of the river.
At least the dog is going somewhere – the mocking voice in his head was a familiar one.
What do you want me to do? Damn you.
Pressing fingers into his temples he tried to push away the pain that was starting to become a familiar companion.
The dog’s brown, slick furred back bared itself for a moment before the grotesquely stretched pink barrel of its belly beneath it spun it over once more. Further down the bank two boys, armed with stones, had the fetid animal as their mark. Even in death, the desperate creature had no peace.
I’ve been dragged along as well by this for far too long. I need an end.
Jack pushed himself away from the rail and set his steps on a dangerous path.
The Fitzwarren’s had a house in the Aldgate area of London in addition to manorial lands outside the city. With no idea why, and with nowhere else to go, Jack headed to it as dusk approached.
The house was a sizeable triple fronted, wooden framed structure, and on the end, a large gated arch led to the stables and yard at the rear. Upper floors protruded out over the ground floor and all were filled with neat square glass panes. Black timbers outlined the front, great oak beams framing the white-washed wattle and daub. On the ground floor, at street level, herringbone brickwork neatly flanked the diamond-paned windows, telling the visitor of the Fitzwarren wealth.
The house was in darkness on the lower floors; the only lights showing were through a few scattered windows on the second and third floors. As he watched, three men came out of the postern gate and set off down the street. Jack stepped back into the shadows.
“Come on Edwin, hurry up, my throat’s fair parched,” the men were within earshot of Jack.
“I’m coming, wait up. The old Master’s had me running round him all day, I’m footsore I tell you. Move that over there, pick that up, stoke the fire, wipe my arse,” the others all laughed at his parody of their Master’s voice.
“I’d like to say the old devil would not see the year out, but cantankerous, nasty, evil bastards like him seem to go on forever,” his companion quipped back.
“Nah, he’s a lot worse than he was at Easter, he can barely walk at all now. It takes me and Oswin together to lift him onto the close stool.” Edwin laughed. “If I ever, ever, need to be picked up and put on to the jakes, please Lord, strike me down with shame.”
“Well, that’s as might be, but his Lordship there has no shame has he? If you ask me he just does it to make us poor buggers suffer. Oh and the smell of it as well, it’s enough to make a pig gag,” the other man replied.
They passed Jack who loosened himself from the darkened door and began to follow them down the street, close enough to hear them still and yet far enough away to be masked by the gloom of the London night.
“Well lads, there are worse ways to make a living. At least these days he can’t catch us at his favourite malmsey, stuck as he is upstairs.”
“Can you imagine it when he goes? It’ll take half a dozen of us to carry his rotting carcass down two flights of stairs.”
“Maybe that’s why he smells so bad, he’s already putrid on the inside,” Edwin grimaced. “Come on, I need to get the smell of him out of my nose.”
Jack let their strides lengthen in front of him. He made no move to follow them: he’d learned what he needed to know. His father was still alive. Robert had lied. This did indeed change everything.
Retracing his steps he returned to the house. It didn’t take long to make his way to the back where the stables were and learn what he wanted to know. They were practically empty; none of the fine beasts Robert would have ridden were housed within, which meant his brother was elsewhere.
Two flights of stairs they had said, so that meant he needed to be on the second floor. It was an easy climb up the back of the house. The timbers and daub wore ivy at the rear, the tendrils fast around the wooden frame, the main branches thick, bearing his weight with ease. When he reached the first windows, he glanced carefully around the stone embrasure.
There was a corridor with rooms on both sides, and, in the end farthest from him, a stairway leading downwards. The corridor, lit by tapers, illuminated a makeshift bed and upon it a man curled in sleep beneath a blanket. Could this be one of his father’s watchful servants waiting for the bellow of orders from within?
Pressing his face close to the thick diamond panes, Jack peered into the room. Although the imperfect glass distorted the scene within, the view was still enough. A well-lit room, candles flickered in holders and sconces, the fire casting an orange steady light and it all illuminated the man who watched the flames. Resplendent with rugged knees, his father sat immobile but alive.
God’s bones. This is all your fault, everything is down to you. You’ve ruined my bloody life, Richard is dead because of the churl you raised in my place.
Jack’s ragged breath frosted the panes and his father was lost from view.
†
William Fitzwarren did indeed still live. He remained in his London house in isolation in his rooms, despised by his son, Robert, and hated by his househ
old servants. There would be few, if any, to mourn his death when it came. He was a man who knew his time was passed, and he grieved for the loss.
Fitzwarren had sat on the Privy Council, he had hunted with the King, his lack of personal morals and selfish ambition had made him many friends in the courtly circle. Fitzwarren was one who could be counted on to provide pressure when and where it was needed, and with a band of trained, well-skilled men on his staff, he had force to back up his words. All this was lost to him now: the muscles in his legs had failed him and now, trapped on the top floor of his own house, he was nothing but a prisoner to old age.
Robert stood in his place now, but he was a man with little ambition and saw all of William’s possessions only as toys for his own amusement. It grieved him greatly that his son would never take over the positions he had held at Court, that the Fitzwarren name would no longer be one spoken when there was a time of need. When Henry had died, the old Court, the old ways, which William understood, had gone to the grave with the old King. Under the Lord Protector, the Duke of Somerset, he had received only a passing acceptance at Court. Somerset had seen him for what he was: an enforcer from a bygone age, a man who would act out the King’s will without thought, a powerful tool, but one that, in the times of Edward’s young sovereignty, needed to be curbed.
When Henry died, his final will had listed the names of those to sit on the Privy Council William Fitzwarren was not one of those penned in the neat addendum to the lengthy document. Somerset, an ardent Protestant, had made sure of that. He wanted reformers and in particular, Protestant reformers who sided with the claim he would make to be Lord Protector during Edward’s minority; and William was no such man. He had worked for Henry, indeed he had been key to the fall of Wolsey and later More. He was a man treated courteously, but suspiciously.
However, Fitzwarren had powerful friends; thirty years in and out of Court circles meant he knew many, and he was willing to trade just about anything to sit once more on the Privy Council, that rare organisation that indeed steered England. He’d won his place back but it had been a fleeting reinstatement; like Henry age had taken hold of his once powerful and athletic frame.