by Sam Burnell
He pulled the horse up and gave Catherine his arm so she could mount behind him. Eyes tight shut, one arm around the rider and another holding the bag with William Fitzwarren’s belongings, in she held on. Soon she was forced to shout for him to slow down before she either lost the bag or herself off the back of the horse.
Richard took the bag and tied it to the pommel. “Better?” he asked as the agitated horse circled below them. Her silence was enough and he pushed the horse on again until they were a safe distance from the house.
From the turns he made Richard had a destination in mind, and very soon they found themselves in the Bankside area where Richard had taken lodgings within the city.
He dropped Catherine without ceremony in the yard and took the horse into the stables where she heard a brief exchange of voices. Emerging a moment later, he took her elbow and guided her into the house, up two flights of stairs and into his rooms.
Depositing the pillowcase on a table, she spoke for the first time. “Jack’s in Marshalsea, we need to get him out. He was nigh on dead when I saw him,” she blurted.
“Marshalsea? How?” Richard questioned, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. They want another ninety pounds, or was it a hundred, I don’t know, I can’t remember,” Catherine wailed.
“Right, let us start at the beginning,” Richard calmed his voice. Standing, he took a hold of both her arms and reversed her towards a seat.
“No, I’ll not sit, we need to go,” Catherine protested pulling her arms free.
“A few more minutes will not make a difference. Now tell me from the beginning, I need to know everything,” Richard pushed her into the seat.
“He’s in Marshalsea…”
“I think I’ve got that fact now,” Richard spoke patiently, “Let’s start with how you found out he was there.”
Catherine looked up. “The horse, your horse, it was brought to the stables and they told me the man who’d had it was in the debtor’s gaol. His possessions were still with it: I recognised them as Jack’s. Walt helped me, and his brother took me across London to go and see him. He’s under the name of Kilpatrick and he owes a hundred pounds. He had no money and when I saw him he was so cold I swear he was close to death. I paid them over the money I’d found and gave them his belongings, and Master Kettering said they would be worth ten pounds, but I can’t remember if he needs another ninety or another hundred.” Catherine had tears on her cheeks and her nose was running.
“And why did they let you see him?” Richard asked.
“I told them I was his wife, and that he came from a good family in Newcastle who would surely pay his fines and debts,” Catherine sniffed loudly. “I thought to buy him a little time.”
“I’m sure you did.” Richard tipped the pillowcase out and the bags of coins thumped dully on the wooden table top. “Let’s see if we have enough.”
They did.
“Mistress Kilpatrick, how nice to see you again, and with you is…” Kettering asked gesturing towards the man at her side.
“James Kilpatrick, sir, at your service. I’ve come as soon as possible, his poor wife was quite sorry to find out what had happened to him,” Richard spoke in an accent that placed him firmly from the North of England and not far from the Tyne.
Kettering didn’t fully understand Richard that much was quite clear. “Yes well, Mistress Kilpatrick came to see us and assured us his family would be willing to help. It is a fair sum that is owing.”
“I’ll be taking it back out of his pocket, you can be sure I will. I’m fed up of helping the lazy idiot.” Richard shook his head sadly. Kettering nodded in acceptance of the man’s words even though he could make little sense of them.
“How much, Sir?” Catherine asked, and Kettering looked at her, thankful to be able to understand at least one of them.
“One hundred pounds plus,” he ran his finger down a column of neat numbers, “six shillings. You are looking to pay in full?” Kettering looked very pleased at the prospect.
“We are, yes,” Catherine smiled.
“My idiot brother can get out of here and get back to work the sooner the better, and pay me back for my kindness,” Richard pronounced and Kettering stared at him with a total lack of comprehension.
Catherine elbowed Richard hard in the arm. “The money for Master Kettering, if you please, Sir.”
“I’d like to see my brother,” Richard asked. Then, when he didn’t get a reply, he persisted, “My brother, you understand? I’d like to see him first before I part with any money.”
Kettering stared, totally baffled by Richard’s heavily accented words. Catherine quickly translated. “He’d like to see his brother first, if he may, sir.”
“Of course, of course,” Kettering’s voice was filled with relief, “I’ll have him brought up now.”
Jack was dutifully presented at the doorway to Kettering’s office, no longer manacled but still leaning heavily on Ross. The look on his face one of sheer disbelief as he stared into the room.
Richard marched up to his brother, saying loudly. “You useless idiot. If our poor mother ever got to hear of this she would turn in her grave. I’m only here for the sake of you poor wife. If it was not for her I’d leave you this time to rot. Mind you it’s still good to see you.” With that he flung his arms around Jack and spoke softly in his ear, “Keep quiet, say nothing.”
Richard stood back, a hand still on each of Jack’s shoulders. “Have you got nothing at all to say for yourself then?”
Jack just hung his head and sagged a little more against the gaoler.
“Yes well, if we can sort out the paperwork we can get you all out of here this morning,” Kettering spoke, regaining Richard’s attention.
It took no more than twenty minutes to complete the transaction. Richard paid and redeemed the belongings of Jack that Catherine had left. Richard and Kettering parted on good terms, and even though Kettering only understood one word in three it was enough, and he found him to be a likeable enough fellow. Catherine waited quietly, eyes downcast, while the payment was completed and recorded, money counted and stowed, receipts issued.
“Right well, that’s all I need from you,” Kettering closed his account book.
“Thank you for your time, Sir, and I will take no more of it from you. I'll collect my brother and get him home to his wife and back on the straight and narrow. I'll make sure you'll not be seeing him again,” Richard turned and neatly swapped places with Ross, adding a supporting arm around Jack’s body and they headed out of Marshalsea.
“Thirty more steps brother, and we are out,” Richard spoke quietly in Jack’s ear. His arm around him, he felt the convulsive shakes that ran through Jack’s body every few moments.
They came to the first door and paused while Ross fumbled with his keys before finding the right one. Jack leaned even more heavily on his brother and Richard pulled the other’s arm tighter around his own shoulders.
“Count in your head, Jack, just twenty paces,” Richard uttered under his breath. Ross finally got the door open, “Nineteen.”
Ross held the door open so they could make their way into the winter December sun.
“Sixteen.”
“Thank you, Sir, you have been most kind,” Catherine was saying to Ross.
“Twelve,” Richard was now bearing most of Jack’s weight; one leg had buckled and the other gave him little support.
“Eight, come on,”
Catherine ducked her head under Jack’s other arm and pulled his hand down round her neck so he could use her as support.
“Four.”
The horse and cart fortuitously hired by Richard, was almost in reach.
“No, Jack, no,” but Jack had lost consciousness before he could make the last steps.
Getting him into the cart was no easy task. With his collapsed body slumped on the end of the cart bed, they had no option but to drag him in by his arms. His face and chest gained a goodly number of splinters from th
e rough sawn boards, but there was little else they could do. Richard was intent only on getting all three of them outside of the confines of the gaol and back to the relative safety of London as quickly as possible.
†
Back in his hired rooms Richard stripped off the filthy clothes and surveyed the damage they’d done to Jack. His wrists, where the manacles had been set, were bloody, the skin gone and the flesh beneath red and weeping. All of his body was mired in the stench and filth of Marshalsea; he looked and smelt like he had just been pulled from the gutter. Richard gently rolled him onto his side to inspect his back where a row of ugly cuts twinkled at him through the filth.
“Where the hell did you get that accent from? It's bloody terrible,” Jack murmured as Richard let his body roll back on the bed.
Richard smiled broadly and said in the same thick accent he had used with Kettering. “It is indeed fair good to see you.”
Jack laughed but it ended in a choking cough that rattled his lungs.
“Rest, be warm, and I will look after you,” Richard’s voice was sincere.
Jack closed his eyes and turned his head away. “You can’t. You’re dead.” Were the last words he spoke.
†
Catherine didn’t seem to matter she concluded. Richard had been in the room with Jack for an age before he emerged, and when he did come out he announced briskly that he was going out, and that she should keep an ear open in case Jack woke up. She was advised not to go into the room and to leave him alone should he remain asleep.
Annoyed, Catherine pulled a face at his retreating back. She knew Jack as well as anyone, and she’d be damned if she’d leave him alone when she could offer him comfort.
The man she found on the other side of the door was not one she knew. Stripped of his clothes every cut, every mark, every hurt that had been inflicted upon him was visible; sores covered every part of his body from where he had lain on the ice cold floor of the gaol. Tears rolled from her eyes, she had her hand over her nose, the smell in the room was almost unbearable. Backing towards the door, she was closing it when a voice spoke behind her.
“I said, did I not fair lady, do not go in unless he calls?” Richard spoke from the doorway. “This is Lizbet,” he inclined his head to a woman stood at his shoulder, hands on her hips smiling broadly. Her painted face and a bodice barely covering her breasts betrayed her profession.
“Well then, where is he?” Lizbet asked loudly. Richard motioned towards the door and Lizbet sailed through. Her head emerged round the door a moment later. “Bloody hell, well I’m charging more, I can tell you that for a start. That’s going to cost you double, and I want half up front. You alright with that?”
“Not double, no,” Richard shook his head. “I’ve offered a fair price.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me he stunk like a Billingsgate gutter, did you?” Lizbet countered.
“I’m sure you’ve had worse,” Richard replied. “If it is not to your liking I’m sure I can find another.”
Lizbet wasn’t prepared to lose such lucrative work. “An extra sixpence for today then, and I’ll have him fit for a visit to the Pope in an hour.”
“We have a bargain,” Richard agreed.
“Right then, I’ll get myself started and you sort out some coin for when I get back,” Lizbet said, and flounced between Catherine and Richard to the door.
“Who the hell is that?” Catherine’s eyes were wide.
“I heard that,” laughed Lizbet as she descended the stairs.
“That, as I said,” Richard replied, “is Lizbet.”
“You told me that, she looks like a…” Catherine couldn’t finish the sentence.
“A whore? Undoubtedly, and she’s well acquainted with men’s bodies, and she’s seen worse than Jack so she’s going to help me to look after him. Unless of course, you want to go in there and give him a wash?” The look on Catherine’s face was answer enough. “I thought not. Lizbet would, I am sure, rather spend her days here looking after one man, than her nights on her back looking to the needs of many.”
Catherine was horrified. “She’s a whore. You can’t just leave him with her.”
Richard laughed. “I’ve left him with plenty of them before. Why? What’s she going to do to him?”
“I don’t know, but she’s a whore, she’s…” Catherine was stuck for words, “she’s unclean.”
“Well, I think he’s a bit worse than her at the moment don’t you?” Richard stepping aside as to let Lizbet enter with a basin, water, and cloths. “Even Aquinas said do not be too moral, you may find you have cheated yourself out of much life.”
“Did he indeed?” retorted Catherine, “I doubt very much that he was talking about whores.”
“She still moaning about me is she?” Lizbet elbowed her way between them to go back to Jack’s room. “Who is she anyway? Can’t be his wife. Under all that dirt I think I’m going to find a man, and I can’t say as he looks the type to tie himself to a church mouse. Excuse me.”
Catherine watched the door close and turned to Richard open-mouthed. Richard was laughing silently.
†
Lizbet insisted Richard sent for Lucy Sharp, a lady revered locally for her curative powers. Women in London were barred from practicing as apothecaries; Lucy’s late husband had been appointed one and no-one had seemed to mind when his shop continued to trade after his demise. Lucy, his more than capable widow, provided an efficient service much more to the liking of the ladies of the borough.
Lucy pulled the blanket back over Jack and sat back on her heels. “So your master has coin has he?” Lucy asked Lizbet.
“Lucy, he’s got money, he’s paying me a good sum to tend him. He can pay you, don’t you worry. It’ll be good for both of us,” Lizbet supplied confidentially. She needed Lucy’s help, without it she didn’t think the man on the bed would last overly long.
“Tell him it will be five angels for what he needs and for me to come every day this week.” Lucy said; it was a high price.
“Five angels!” Lizbet exclaimed, “That’s too much and you know it.”
“Well that’s what it is,” Lucy declared shortly.
The door opened. “It is five and you’ll come twice a day,” Richard’s voice was firm.
The women looked at each other.
“I will,” accepted Lucy, her eyes narrow. “Upfront mind you.”
Lucy was back in a half-hour, a basket laden with pots, creams, and salves. She held out a small bottle to Lizbet. “One spoonful of this in some wine, no more you hear me? Or he’ll be sleeping the sleep of the dead,” Lucy pushed the stopper back into an earthenware bottle.
“I hear you, one spoonful in some wine.” Lizbet accepted.
“This dwale is potent I make it for Chiswell, the sawbones, and it’ll put a man to sleep while you watch. So one spoonful no more.” Lucy’s warning was not idly made. Her concoction was indeed a potent mixture. Byrony root and vinegar gave it an acidic tang but the damage to a man’s senses came from the henbane, opium and hemlock.
Lizbet smiled. “I ought to buy a bottle of this from you, Lucy. I can slip it to the lads and they’ll never know whether they’ve had me or not.”
“Aye, and you will be known as a murdering whore and be in Billingsgate waiting to have your heels warmed before you know it. This lad is likely to die anyway. If he does it’ll be no fault of ours,” Lucy gave Lizbet a serious look.
“He might, but it’s yours and my job to make him last as long as possible,” Lizbet advised, then added, “Do you really think he’ll die on me?”
Lucy, her hands on her hips nodded. “That’s why I want my coin now, and make sure he pays you. He’ll not be so willing to settle his bills when he has a corpse to get rid of. Look at him,” Lucy gestured to the man on the bed. “That’s just the rags of a man, if the Lord hasn’t carried him off by tomorrow I will be surprised. Now remember, no more than a spoonful and I’ll be back in the morning.”
Lizbet looked down at the man on the bed. “You better not bloody well die on me, you hear?”
†
The women were with his brother, and Richard sought the peace of the stables at the back of the inn. Corracha sensed his presence before he spoke and the noble angular head appeared over the stable door looking for him. Agitated it stamped and snorted as it saw him approach
“Well I never thought to see you again,” Richard spoke softly to the horse and let himself into the stable. The Arab nuzzled his open hand and Richard rested his forehead against the strong muscular neck. The minutes passed and the stallion calmed and stood quietly, both of them enjoying the shared silence.
“It does not look like anyone has cared for you overly,” Richard said running his hands over the horse. The steel grey coat was full of shed hair; he’d not been brushed out properly for a long time.
Corracha was the best horse he had ever had. He had bought him when he had been in France. Arabian horses were rare in Europe and in England he doubted very much that there were any at all. The Ottoman Turks had ridden against Vienna in 1529 and when their cavalry were defeated their prized horses had been the first pure-blooded Arabian’s in Europe. From these ancestors Corracha had been bred. He’d paid far too much for the animal, and he knew it. Jack had choked in disbelief when he found out Richard had parted with twenty pounds for him, almost double the price of some of the best horses on the market.
He was thankful Jack had taken him from Burton. Riding the agitated and delighted beast out of the stable yard at his father’s house and through London with Catherine would forever be a memory that would make him smile; the horse’s excitement had been matched by his own.
†
“It’s not what you can see that’s harming him,” Lizbet reported to Richard later on when she’d done as much as she could for him. “Lucy Sharp has been and given me drinks he has to have. When he coughs it makes you want to cry for the pain he’s in. His skin is as hot as an oven,” she continued. “Lucy said to bathe him with cool water to lessen the burning, but he shivers and shakes so that I feel I’m being cruel.”