by Sam Burnell
“He’s here Brom, we’ve got him!” the grinning man yelled, and that brought the third pursuer to the street.
Jack knew he would stand little chance, but he’d be damned if was going to go down easily. A lucky punch as Brom was moving in broke the man’s jaw and he reeled backward from the fight screaming. But the other two were on him at the same time: a choking hold around the neck held him fast while repeated punches to the stomach and head rendered him immobile.
“Stop, lads,” it was the quiet but muffled voice of Bartholomew, walking up the street, his face partly hidden behind a bloody cloth, disguising what was left of a nose that never would again point forwards.
The man behind Jack still held him tight whilst the one in front stepped back to allow Bartholomew space. Pulling his feet back together, Jack braced himself for what he knew was coming. He was, as it happened, luckier than he could have guessed. Bartholomew knew only too well that he could, with a single punch, send Jack’s mind spiralling into blackness but that had, on occasion, ended with the rather messy situation of a dead bad debtor and a dead debtor was no good to anyone. Instead, he snarled into Jack’s face, “you bathtard, we could have gone eathy on you, but now we’ll drag you there on your arth.”
Jack laughed at Bartholomew’s new lisp; he’d lost a tooth or two to the table, it seemed. He didn’t mean to, but the gurgle of laughter escaped his throat nonetheless. Bartholomew’s fist, when it came, sank into the ill-prepared stomach and sent him to his knees, retching. His hands wouldn’t support him and he ended face down in the dirt and vomit.
“Pick him up” Bartholomew commanded.
“Oh for God’s sake, he’s been sick on me now,” one of his attackers complained, wiping his hand on Jack’s jerkin. “I only just got these boots and now bloody look at them,” He slapped Jack hard across the face but Jack didn’t care anymore. Between them, they dragged him back to the inn where Bartholomew had a waiting wagon, neatly tied him and hoisted him onto the back.
They took him south of the river to the Marshalsea prison in Southwark. He was pushed, kicked and beaten until finally they opened a door to a large room where he swore there was no light at all and thrust him inside. Jack landed on his knees, his hands went to his face and he wept tears of pure frustration.
†
The day was closing when Catherine started her evening ritual: bringing in firewood for the various rooms that would be heated during the night. Today there were only four, as Robert was away, so wood was needed only for the fire in the Lord’s room, Ronan’s room, the one in the kitchen and the one in the room that the servants all shared at the back of the house.
The wood for the Lord’s room was the worst, as several baskets of wood needed to be hefted up to the top of the house where William lived. If she was lucky, Edwin would be on duty. He was kindly and would let her leave the firewood outside and he would take it in. William Fitzwarren hated everyone, it seemed, especially serving wenches who were too slow, or too clumsy, or too useless.
There was snow on the woodpile the icy crystals had frozen on the wood. Her fingers were numb by the time she had carried in enough wood to keep the upstairs fire fuelled for the evening. The only solace was that it was pine, and the smell, that pungent green aroma, reminded her of home.
Pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders and lifting the heavy basket she was heading back to the yard at the back of the house when she heard the commotion.
“Will you get its bloody bridle and hold it still,” Hal, one of the stable lads was struggling with a horse that was dragging him backward and his companion was no help as he clutched his sides, laughing.
“Go on Walt, give Hal a hand and stop laughing at him, how would you like it?” Catherine scolded Walter, good naturedly.
“I will in a minute, I just wanted to see if the beast would drag him all the way to the street; look, his breeches are coming down!” Walt was doubled up in mirth. Catherine could not resist a giggle, for indeed the unfortunate Hal’s clothing was descending and he dared not leave hold of the horse to retrieve them.
“Oh come on, help me you bastard,” shouted Hal, a fair portion of white backside now plainly visible.
“I can’t, I can’t,” Walt managed between howls of laughter.
Catherine dropped the pail and, laughing, went to help. “Whoo there, come on.” Reaching up, she caught the horse’s bridle and added her steadying hold to that of Hal’s. “I thought the Master was away?” she said to Hal.
“This isn’t his horse, it’s just been brung in for me to look after and it doesn’t like the stables. I got it halfway in, then it started to drag me back out again,” Hal provided.
“It looks like it’s got a right evil temper on it as well,” Walt added.
“Typical bloody Arab, they are all like that. Might look good, but they are a right handful,” Hal still had one hand holding his breeches up.
Catherine ran her hands down the horse’s neck, she was sure she recognised it. “Where did it come from?” she asked, her heart in her mouth.
“I dunno, someone working for the Master brought it. Said we were to look after it, that’s all I know,” Walt answered.
“When?”
“Just now, I was out here and they handed it over,” Hal said helpfully.
“Which way did they go, I must see them. Hal show me, I know who owns the horse, I have to see him, please.” She had hold of his jacket and was pulling him to the open gate.
“There, Mistress, look,” Hal pointed at two men walking away.
“Those two, are you sure?” Catherine asked, and Hal told her he was sure. Hoisting her skirts, she set off after them.
“Please Sir, wait,” She called.
Both men turned, “Well hello to you, this one’s fair throwing herself at me, come on here darling,” he opened his arms wide, grinning.
“I’m with Lord Fitzwarren’s household,” she said tersely, coming to a halt.
“Well you dinna look like it, sorry,” He replied, disappointment evident in his voice.
“You brought a horse, I know it’s owner,” Catherine spoke quickly.
“That bloody wild thing, we are glad to get rid of that. Bit Stan on the backside and I’ve got a bruise or two I didn’t need.”
“The owner though, where is he?” Catherine pressed, her hands together nervously twisting her apron.
“Sorry, love, if you knew him, but he’ll not be coming a-calling on you anytime soon, he’s in Marshalsea.” Stan smiled, apologetically.
“The debtor’s prison?” Catherine exclaimed.
“Shut up, Stan. Bart will have our hides,”
Stan gave Pete an angry look. “It’s only a lassie for God’s sake, quiet your noise, Pete, man.”
Catherine had learned well. “No, he never told me he owed money, he was to take me to the fair near the river on Sunday. We’ve been walking out for weeks.”
“Aye well, he’ll not be coming for you again, sweetheart,” Stan said with some compassion.
“Oh no,” wailed Catherine, “he was to take me to meet his mother after.”
“Ah, now you’re better off finding this out now, rather than later on when he’s led you a dance,” Stan said. “I’ve a girl about your age and I’d show my fists to the fellow who led her along.”
“How much did he owe?” Catherine sniffed, her apron to her wet eyes.
“I canna rightly say, sweetheart, but it must have been a lot to get Bart…”
“Will you shut up,” Pete’s teeth were clenched, “Lassie or no, it’s not her business.”
“Aye, he’s right, I’m sorry for you, but I canna help.” The men retreated from the distraught girl quickly.
After a moment she raised her dry eyes from the apron and watched them go. This was news indeed. But who was in Marshalsea. Was it Richard? Was it Jack? Or had someone else bought Corracha, Richard’s horse? How on earth was she going to find out? Catherine turned her step back to the house.
> “Walt, where are you?” Catherine shouted as she entered the yard gate.
“Here Mistress,” replied Walt from the stables.
“I caught them, but they were not much help,” Catherine watched as Walt, with some satisfaction, slammed the bolt home on the stable housing the Arab.
“Thank the Lord for that,” Walt said with feeling. “I’m not sure what we are going to do with that beast.”
“Master will most like sell him, he’ll be worth a bit in gold, a horse like that.” Hal replied inspecting the horse from over the safety of the stable door.
“Good, well as long as we don’t have to look after him that will be fine with me,” Walt agreed. “Life is hard enough without having to deal with the likes of him every day.”
“I’ll put his tack and saddle on the stand,” Hal spoke to Walt.
“He didn’t have a saddle on,” Catherine, looked but couldn’t see one anywhere.
“No, it’s outside along with a saddle bag I’ll pass that on to Ronan,” Hal replied.
Catherine would swear she had never moved quicker in her life. The saddle was dumped in the wet yard and next to it was a bedding roll. It took but a second to release the knot on the roll; the blanket unfurled to reveal Jack’s sword. He’d never be parted from it. The family motto stared at her from the quillons.
Catherine gasped. Jack must have kept Richard’s horse and now he was in Marshalsea and his possessions were here. She’d travelled with him. He had little more than the clothes on his back, and… she stooped and shook out the blanket. The sword clanked heavily on the cobbles, and a small bag followed it. The sword she left, the bag disappeared into the folds of her skirts.
It took Edwin most of Friday morning to track down Christian Carter. He had easily found his house, a well-appointed one indeed, and had asked for the Master. The Master, he had been informed, was at the docks; a cargo had come in and it was his custom to be on hand. Master Carter, he was told, had a head for figures and facts and liked to make sure all that arrived was in agreement. If there was a message, Edwin was told he was more than welcome to leave it with Coleman, who was Christian Carter’s steward.
Edwin kindly turned the offer down and smoothly told him it was an urgent message he was to deliver, and his master would much prefer to know it had indeed been delivered in person: there may, after all, be a reply to return. Coleman agreed and summoned one of the kitchen lads to take Edwin down to where the Master was likely to be.
“Cuddy here will show you where Master Carter is. He works with him sometimes too so he’s acquainted with the docks and he’ll find him for you easily,” Coleman pointed to a small boy standing behind him.
Edwin thanked him and in the company of Cuddy, set off to the docks.
“I’m in the kitchen, Sir, but soon I’ll be workin’ for Master Carter proper like. He needs people who can count and I,” Cuddy pronounced proudly, “can count.”
“Really!” Edwin was genuinely surprised. The boy could be not more than ten or eleven, but he was good humoured and Edwin had warmed to him as they walked along.
“Aye, let me show you.” Cuddy held up the fingers on his left hand. “You see,” he began seriously. “There are five fingers on this hand and five on the other hand, and Master Carter says the key to everything is ten. Which is this hand and this hand together.” He held out all his digits and wiggled them expressively. “So they could be ten, or if needed, they could be a hundred, or even a thousand. Each finger,” he waved them up and down again to emphasise the point, “having a different number.”
“Get away with you,” Edwin grinned, “A boy with a thousand fingers! Are you trying to tell me a tale.”
“No, Sir, not at all, this is how it works Master told me. This finger here,” he wiggled a little finger, “could be one hundred, and this finger here could be another hundred.”
Edwin aimed a good natured blow at the boys head. “Well I don’t know how all that works but you have fair baffled me.”
“It’s easy, Sir, let me show you,” Cuddy continued, not easily put off. He had a genuine desire to share his knowledge. By the time they got to the docks Edwin was fairly impressed by the lad who had indeed taught him to reckon up to one hundred.
“Master Carter is down there,” Cuddy pointed, “I can see him easily.”
Edwin strained to see and there, through the debris of the quayside, was indeed a well-dressed man arguing loudly with another.
“We’d best wait,” suggested Cuddy, “Master’s not one who likes to be interrupted.”
Wait they did, and for some time until Christian Carter reached something close to satisfaction with the answers he was receiving. There was much doffing of caps and hand shaking, the two seemed to have got over their earlier argument.
“It’s always the way,” Cuddy sounded confused, “they start out hating each other, then end like brothers.”
“This is how men are, Cuddy, when they are seeking to strike a bargain; you’ll learn,” Edwin said. “Now go and fetch your Master, and tell him I have a message for him.”
Christian Carter, receiving Cuddy’s message, reached out and ruffled the youngster’s hair before heading in Edwin’s direction.
“He’s a bright lad, that one,” Edwin smiled at Cuddy, and Christian beamed broadly, “he’s taught me a thing or two I didn’t know on the way here.”
“Indeed, as bright as a pin. A few more years and he’ll be working for me once he has all his letters,” Christian agreed. “You have a message?”
“Indeed My Master, William Fitzwarren, bid me to tell you that he wishes for his son to visit,” Edwin hoped that these obscure words would mean something, and that he could adequately report back to the old goat that he had done as he was bid.
If Christian Carter was surprised he didn’t show it. “I will pass on your message, thank you. Now, Cuddy, do you want to guide Edwin back, and on the way, you can teach him to count to ten thousand?”
“Why would anyone need to count so high?” Edwin laughed.
“You’d be surprised,” replied Christian Carter, smiling.
Cuddy did indeed attempt the feat on the return journey but Edwin’s brain could not accept the fact that his thumb, in Cuddy’s new game, was worth now a number as high as a thousand.
Christian Carter watched them go and thought for a few moments before deciding what to do. He wrote the briefest of notes on a square of paper and, yelling at one of the men unloading the cargo, sent him instead to deliver his message. No doubt he would find out soon enough what was happening and he returned his thoughts to the cargo of the Lavant and his check sheets.
†
The note from Christian Carter was delivered to Richard’s lodgings. The words were few, inviting him simply to call at his own convenience. Sending the paper to the back of the fire, he set off. Edward had offered to help him locate a safe passage to Holland; a wealthy merchant with a booming business importing wares from Europe, he was well placed to find a vessel to engage for Fairfax’s plan. Or it could be that his father had seen fit to contact him. Long standing friends, they had studied together at Trinity College in Cambridge for a year before Richard’s father saw the folly of his ways and withdrew his funding.
†
“So, father wishes to see me?” Richard was sitting on a barrel in the dimly lit warehouse.
“That was the message,” Christian replied. Richard had little of his attention, occupied as he was on finishing the inventory of the Levant. The cargo was accounted for and stored safely in his warehouse. Now his mind was on the task he loved: of numbering and arranging the boxes, barrels, and bales in ordered stacks. Each row had a number, each stack a letter, and numbers and letters were matched to quantities and entered neatly into Christian’s inventory records. Empty columns would be completed as sales were made and the stocks diminished. Christian was very proud of his system: oldest went out first, waste was minimal. He knew he was ahead of his competitors and his love of detail
turned him a high profit.
He didn’t look up from the column he was completing, “It would seem so.” He paused, then satisfied with what he had written, added, “How long is it since you saw him?”
“Not as long ago as you’d imagine,” Richard replied, “I went to see him about a week ago.”
Richard received only a grunt in reply from Christian. So he said, “There is a snake on that cask behind you. If you stay still, it might not strike.”
“What!”
“You are busy, I’m sorry,” Richard apologised folding his arms.
“I was listening; the only snake in here is the one sat in front of me. I have to get this finished whilst it’s fresh in my mind,” Christian tapped his head with the pen. “Otherwise I make mistakes, and mistakes…”
“Cost money,” finished Richard, “tell me what I need to do.”
Christian smiled and threw a wood board through the air. Richard snatched it before it sailed past him. On the board were white sheets with neatly marked columns, all awaiting new entries.
“It’ll be quicker if I call out the quantities and you note them in the columns, and for God’s sake make sure I can read it, and if you make a mistake…”
Richard didn’t reply, but the look he gave his friend was enough.
“Sorry, but some of the clod-heads I’ve had working for me in the past you would not believe. It’s taken twice as long to undo their work as it took to mark it down in the first place. That’s why I do this myself now; a mistake at this stage is costly indeed. Only last year we showed six kegs left of English wine. I sold the lot at a goodly price and then found the idiot should have marked it as Rhenish wine. Cost me a penny or two, that one.”
“Can we get on with it before I open this keg I’m sat on and drown my sorrows,” Richard said testily.
It took three hours. Christian hunched over his piles of neatly penned sheets showing the shipping quantities, called out numbers, letters and amounts. They transferred all the information into a neat and workable inventory. Christian took the board from Richard and inspected the sheets with approval.