A Queen's Traitor

by Sam Burnell

  Lucy relented and squeezed her arm. “It was a good job Lizbet, and we both tried. Some things are just not meant to be.”

  Lizbet waited an hour, and, soon after hearing the bells strike, splashed water on her eyes, adopted a suitably mournful expression, and bolted from the room.

  “Master…master,” Lucy stopped. Richard was not in the room outside Jack’s.

  Well now, what am I going to do!

  Lizbet heeded well Lucy’s warning, and so she sent for both a Priest and Lucy to confirm the recent demise of her charge.

  When Richard returned he found the door to Jack’s room opened, a sullen Lizbet standing in one corner and a Priest kneeling beside the bed, muttering in Latin the words of the last rites. “Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam pissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid…”

  Richard stopped listening. The feeling was as if he’d taken a physical blow to the chest and he reached out a hand for the wall to steady himself. Lizbet saw him sway and quickly grabbed his arm. “Master, here,” she helped him step back to where a chair was. “I’m sorry Sir, he was very ill, I did try my best for him.”

  Richard waved her away and she was glad to step back. Jack was no longer hers to worry about and she liked not at all being within striking distance of Richard.

  Lucy Sharp bustled up the stairs. From the threshold she observed the scene within. “Well doesn’t look like I’m needed anymore,” she concluded, holding Lizbet’s gaze until the other looked away.

  “Lucy, come in, please. I would thank you for the care you showed my brother,” Richard had his hands over his eyes, and his voice was strained.

  Both women looked at each other; his brother? Neither had known of the bond between the two men. Lucy softened immediately. “You’ve had a shock, it’d be a good thing for you to sit a while and we’ll look after him for you.” Then to Lizbet, “Get him a drink will you?” Lucy squeezed Richard’s arm, adding quietly. “When the Priest is done with him we’ll get him ready, Sir.”

  The Priest took an age; he’d do a good job and expect Richard to show his gratitude in coin. Lucy and Lizbet both wished he would cease his Latin mumblings, pack up his Popeish trappings and get himself gone. The man was dead, a priest wasn’t much use to him anymore. Lucy, very much in charge, spoke quietly and kindly to Richard. He gave her the coins she asked for and she despatched Lizbet to go and buy a two-shilling shroud to sew him up in. When Lizbet returned with it nearly an hour later the Priest was just leaving and as she passed him on the stairs, he gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “Right then lass, bring that here and fetch a needle and thread,” Lucy instructed. Kneeling down next to the low bed, she prepared to roll the body on to one side so the two women would be able to wrap the linen cloth around him. She laid a hand on his chest; it felt cold, as it should, but the flesh was still soft. Using a thumb, she lifted his eyelids - the skin still peeled back, malleable to the touch. It was usual for the eyelids to succumb first to the rigidity of death, often refusing to close, leaving the living to deal with the stares of the dead.

  “What are you doing?”

  Lucy ignored the voice in the doorway.

  The jaw was also slack still. Lucy counted on her fingers; this meant he wasn’t dead last night when she’d called, the rigor should be setting in properly by now.

  “I said, what are you doing, woman?”

  Lucy reached over and pinched Jack’s nose closed between her fingers.

  “Will you…”

  “Hush, still your words,” hissed Lucy, intent on listening to something else. Then she heard it, faintly, the movement slight, but the mouth opened to take air into his lungs. Richard had dropped to his knees beside her, “Watch carefully,” and both of them saw the frail intake of breath.

  Lucy was on her feet in a moment. “Lizbet, get that fire lit, it’s as cold as a church in here.”

  Lizbet, wide eyed, hesitated on the threshold.

  “Girl, he’s not dead, but he soon will be if you don’t get a fire lit,” Lucy smiled triumphantly.

  “Are you sure? The Priest said…” Lizbet’s words trailed away her eyes flicking between Jack’s inert form and Lucy.

  “What do they know; he’s not very much alive, but a little, so are you going to stand there or help him lass?” Lucy reprimanded.

  Chapter Eight

  †

  Lizbet was getting a shilling a week for laundry and that, on top of what she had already negotiated for looking after Jack, amounted to a fair sum indeed. With coins in her pocket, a free roof over her head, Lizbet was indeed happy. She didn’t want to think about how long it would last, that just soured the feeling.

  Standing in front of the fruit seller, Lizbet eyed the apples. She wanted the biggest, rosiest, crispest one – but which was it? Her hand hovered over one, then another caught her eye. Smiling, she made her decision and bought the reddest apple she had ever seen in her life. The skin was shiny; its cool, hard feel told her of the sweetness within. Turning the apple over in her hand, Lizbet decided to eat it later - not wanting to bite into it in the street - and set off to walk back to the inn.

  Lizbet gasped. The apple left her hand, her eyes followed it, watching as it bounced first off the wall and then rolled onto the dirty street.

  “Well, lass, and where’ve you been this last week?” it was a voice she recognised, one that filled her with hate. Lizbet’s eyes, though, were still on her apple; it had come to rest near the wall and it looked un-spoilt.

  His eyes followed hers and saw what she was looking at. “Ah, you’ve even bought me dinner.” The man leant down, scooped up the apple and without a moment’s hesitation bit a huge chunk from the ripe fruit.

  “You bastard, Colan, that was mine,” Lizbet was genuinely upset.

  “Well then, lass, come and take it,” Colan waved the apple in front of her.

  “I don’t want it any more,” Lizbet’s eyes were wet as she looked at the remains of her apple, she continued. “That was mine, why did you do that?”

  “Ah come on, Lizbet.” Colan threw the half eaten apple in the gutter. “Put a smile on my face again, and I’ll buy you another apple.” Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around her.

  Lizbet tried to wriggle out of the unwanted embrace. “Get off, you oaf, let me be.”

  “Ah now, come on, Lizbet, that’s not how you are with me,” Colan tightened his hold.

  “Colan, I need to go somewhere, now let me be,” Lizbet said, trying even harder to push him away.

  “I don’t care where you need to be, this’ll not delay you very long,” Colan replied slyly. A hand in the centre of her chest, he rammed her back against the wall.

  “No!” Lizbet wailed, she dug her nails into his face until a hand to her throat persuaded her to stop.

  “Let her go!” It was Richard’s cold voice.

  Lizbet tried to look round but Colan’s hold was so firm she couldn’t move. Colan though had a fine view of the newcomer and he smiled maliciously. “This is mine. If you want it when I’m finished, then you can just wait your turn.” Colan looked at the man. He was slightly built compared to Colan’s bulk, and he doubted very much that he’d want to risk his fine clothes in a fight over a whore.

  “That wasn’t a request. Now, let her go.” Richard repeated calmly.

  “She’s yours?” Colan said incredulously. “She’s a bloody whore. When did anyone want to claim a right there?”

  Richard stopped looking at Colan and switched his gaze to Lizbet. “She looks likely to faint.”

  Lizbet took the instruction and dropped like a leaden weight; Colan’s hold was tight but not enough to support an unconscious woman. He looked at her for a moment then he dropped her and turned to face Richard. “What bloody problem do you have?”

  Richard ignored him and instead spoke to Lizbet, “Get behind me.”

  Colan heard the words and realised the trick. “So you think you’ll take the whore from me for your own use,
do you?”

  Richard regarded him coldly, waiting until Lizbet was behind him. “I do.”

  Colan’s advance was quick, his fists were balled and it was obvious he meant to use them. He stopped suddenly when he saw the blade flash in Richard’s hand, a guttural growl escaping from his throat. “Next time and there will be a next time.” Colan stepped back warily before turning and leaving them.

  Richard grabbed Lizbet’s arm. His fingers bruised her through the linen sleeve and he didn’t let go until they had returned to the rooms, where he roughly shoved her inside. Lizbet could sense his rage and backed to the wall rubbing her arm. She’d been on the wrong side of his temper twice before and wasn’t about to do that again if she could help it.

  His words, were light when they came and his voice didn’t betray the temper of a moment ago. “Don’t do that again.”

  Lizbet was silent for a moment. His eyes stared into her own demanding an answer. “I didn’t do anything. I only bought an apple.”

  Richard rubbed the back of his hand across his face. “Your clothes declare your trade,” he told her quietly, then, “how old are you Lizbet?”

  She hesitated, then, “Twenty, Master, last Easter.”

  Richard’s eyes still hold her own, “The truth.”

  Lizbet dropped her eyes from his, then quietly, “fifteen last Easter.”

  Richard closed his eyes and pushed his hands into his hair. Fifteen. “Just leave me. Go and see to Jack.” He should have known: her painted face with the whore’s ruby cheeks and red inviting lips disguised her age.

  As she made to leave he asked, “Why did you just lie to me?”

  Lizbet sniffed loudly, “You’d get rid of me if you knew my age. I’m doing a good job for you and for him, I am.”

  “Is that your only dress,” Richard asked, pointing at the one she wore.

  Lizbet pulled the sleeves straight, “Yes, Master.”

  Richard fished in his purse and put two coins on the table. “Well get yourself another. One that does not proclaim your trade.”

  Lizbet’s eyes lit up at the sight of the two coins, “Really, for me?”

  “No, it’s for me, so I don’t have to come between you and your bloody customers again,” he said with a little less anger in his voice. Now see to my brother and get me some wine.”

  When he saw Lizbet again a day later she did indeed look changed. The loose dress she had worn was two sizes too big and the slack bodice was now replaced by a linen shift with an over dress of dark brown wool. It was simple, laced at the front with a white apron tied at the back.

  Her hair, which habitually coiled long and loose over her shoulders, was pulled back and tied, and her head was crowned with a linen cap. She’d surprised him even further when she told him that the dress was one sewn by Lilly Tate, who was a friend and he received into his hand change in the form of two dark pennies. A day later, when she had turned down the blanket on her makeshift bed she had shouted out loud to the room in delight. There, red, cold and perfect, sitting beneath the blanket, was an apple.

  †

  It was ten days before Jack - with Lizbet’s help - sat up in bed and demanded something more than soup. In those days, Lizbet had watched his breathing strengthen and his senses begin to return. After four days his eyes were open and after six more he was sitting up and, with help, drinking and taking the soup Lucy was bringing for him.

  “Look at that,” Jack held out his right hand and watched it tremble, “Do you think that will ever stop?”

  “I’m sure it will; if you could have seen yourself a week ago, a shaking hand would have been the least of your worries, my lad,” Lizbet chided, as she sent another spoonful of soup towards his mouth.

  “Watch out, woman, it’s hot, you’re pouring it down my chest,” Jack protested, trying to get his mouth round the spoon she was holding just too far away.

  “I think, my bonny boy, you are well enough to do that yourself now.” She dumped the soup bowl and spoon in his lap.

  “But it tastes so much nicer when you do it,” Jack smiled. “Come here and give me a taste of you.”

  “Ah now no, Master’s told me I’m not to lay my hands on you,” Lizbet moved down the bed out of arm’s reach.

  “Why not?” Jack snorted.

  Lizbet leant forward, a serious look on her face. “Jack, there’s parts of you that are not that well held together, give yourself time.” She brightened, “I don’t want you bleeding all over me.”

  “Where’s Richard anyway? I want to talk to him?” Jack changed the subject away from his injuries.

  “He’s gone to visit that sour-faced cow, said he’d not be long,” Lizbet supplied, smoothing out his blankets.

  “Sour-faced cow?” Jack asked confused.

  “Aye, every time I see her she looks down her nose at me. He said she’s a cousin of his; all I can say is I’m glad she’s lodging somewhere else. No man’s type if you ask me. She’ll not keep a man that one,” Lizbet concluded, the edge of animosity in her voice.

  “Oh, Catherine,” Jack said, realising who she was talking about, “She is not too bad when you get to know her.”

  “She needs to learn a thing or two about life and men, is all I can say,” Lizbet countered haughtily.

  “I think she might have learnt a few hard lessons already, Lizbet. Leave the girl alone,” Jack losing interest in the soup pushed the bowl from him.

  A few minutes later he’d fallen back to sleep and Lizbet, pulling the piled pillows out, gently laid him back down. Lucy told her she wasn’t to use any more dwale, unless she herself personally said so. Instead she had crushed feverfew mixed with saffron and laudanum to make into a hot drink for him should he need it. Lizbet was sorry her patient was asleep again; in his lucid moments she was starting to get to like him. The body she was helping to heal would be quite a nice one when she was finished and if anyone was going to get some enjoyment from it, Lizbet was. Behind the paling bruises, underneath the reddened and scabbed skin, Lizbet was starting to see quite a beautiful face emerging.

  Quietly she cleared away the pots and jars. Taking out the soiled bandages, she walked straight into Richard as she left Jack’s room. The pair had reached a stable relationship of Master and servant. Lizbet, most of the time, kept her tongue civil, and Richard, recognising the good care she was giving his brother kept his temper in check. That Lizbet’s care of Jack was motivated by reward did not bother him. For the moment he was happy with the arrangement.

  “Well then, Master, he’s all asleep and needs me not at all at the moment, so if I can do anything for you,” Lizbet swayed passed him, banging him with one hip as she drew level, “you just let me know.”

  Richard ignored her, “How is he?”

  “Much better.” Lizbet dumped the bandages on the fire and watched them sizzle. “Even tried to get me in his bed.”

  “Are you sure the fever is not returning,” Richard remarked sarcastically.

  Lizbet ignored his comment. “A couple more days and I think he’ll be getting out of bed,” Lizbet put another log to the top of the fire to keep it alive. “He wants to talk with you,” she added, remembering Jack’s request.

  Richard spoke quietly to himself, “I want to talk with him as well.”

  “Any madness has left him now, he’s quiet, and I told him I’d ask you to come and speak with him.”

  Richard held out some coins. “We burnt his clothes, get him some new ones.”

  Lizbet’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coins and Richard’s hand snapped shut around them before she could take them. “I’ll know if you bought yourself something.”

  “I would never do that,” she held out an open hand for the money.

  “Yes you would.” Richard opened his hand and loosed the coins into Lizbet’s palm.

  “And what would you have me buy him? I know nothing about him.” Lizbet said; it was a reasonable enough question.

  “You only need to know one thing.” Richard s
aid. “He’s my brother.”

  Lizbet smiled broadly. She looked at Richard’s clothes, squealed with delight and dived past him to the door.

  “The woman is truly mad!” Richard said to no-one in particular.

  Richard got a full hour’s peace before his landlord stamped up the stairs.

  “It’s Lizbet. She’s been arrested!” Roddy gasped as he came spinning through the door.

  “And that’s my concern, why?” Richard asked looking up from the book he was trying to read.

  “She said to send for you,” Roddy said, then added, “are you coming?”

  “If I must,” Richard replied, wearily closing the book with a thud.

  †

  He could hear the commotion outside in the street where there was even a good sized audience gathered, peering through the windows. Ignoring them all he pushed the door gently open and applied himself to the door frame, taking in the scene inside.

  Lizbet sat on top of a packing box, on her shoulder the hand of a soldier was pressing her down to keep her seated. The shop keeper stood in front of her and, by turns, they traded abuse.

  Richard took two steps, allowing the door to swing closed with a loud bang behind him. All eyes turned towards the noise.

  “There, he’ll tell you,” Lizbet shrieked, her eyes bright.

  Richard raised his eyebrows and looked at them all in turn. It was the soldier who addressed him first. “Master Drew here says she’s trying to steal from his shop, that’s the pile there she’s being trying to help herself to. Do you know her?”

  Richard walked to the pile and lifted two shirts from it to reveal the fabric bales below and then started shaking his head.

  “Blue. Really!” turning to Lizbet he looked at her in disbelief. “You can’t imagine I’d wear blue could you? My eyes, my sweet, are grey; such a contrast would never work, what were you thinking? Blue is…” he paused, pulling a linen square from his sleeve and gently dabbed his face. “Blue is harsh…” He walked straight past Lizbet to a pile of folded bales of fabrics, “…Now this would make me look fine. He pulled a golden russet bolt of cloth to his chest and then turned so they could all admire the fabric. “See, this would be right: golden brown with grey, not too dark a brown, but just bright enough. What do you think?” he asked of his audience, generally.