A Queen's Traitor

by Sam Burnell

  “Another week and I’ll be as good as I was. It’s just this.” Jack held out his hand, Richard saw it tremble. “If I held a sword with that I’d be as likely trip over it as make a strike.”

  “Well if you’d not drunk quite as much I’m sure it would be as steady as a rock.” Richard reached over and took his hand; he felt it shake even when he held it. “What about the other one?”

  Jack held out his left. “It’s just as bad. And sometimes…” Jack wanted to tell him about the nights, the terrors, but in the bright reality of day they somehow didn’t seem that real.

  “Give it time, Jack,” Richard released his hand.

  “Aye and in the meantime don’t fill my cups so full. If Lizbet sees me spill any more on this bloody russet, shaky hands will be the least of my worries,” he laughed.

  Christian didn’t hear the man come into the warehouse. He was far too absorbed by the figures on the sheets before him.

  “You shouldn’t be alone at night here: anyone could get in.” It was a familiar voice, but still Christian jumped.

  “Richard! Christ! Was there really a need to try and scare me half to death?” Christian exclaimed, then, “How did you get in? I locked the doors from the inside.”

  “Ah, now your precious chattels are in danger you are interested,” Richard laughed.

  Christian was not to be put off. “Tell me how?”

  Richard looked upwards. “Through the roof; the timbers a that end are rotten where the thatch has come away.”

  “Good God, I’ll have to get that fixed,” Christian sounded worried. “I have men in here at night, but they don’t come for another hour, I dare not leave this place at night unattended. We live in sad times. Only two weeks ago Mercher, a good friend, lost half a warehouse full of brandy. It must have taken them half the night to carry it out. And can you believe it, not a soul saw a thing.”

  “Sad times,” echoed Richard, smiling.

  “Stop laughing at me. I know that tone,” Christian chided.

  “I’m not, there is much in here that you would not want to lose,” Richard had wandered down one of the closely packed aisles. He reached a pile of long wooden crates, wrapped in linen and sat himself down on the top one.

  Christian’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing.

  “What did you say to me when I was here last?” Richard mused. “Oh yes, I remember, attention to detail.”

  “Well you didn’t say much last time you were here,” Christian countered defensively.

  “I was, if you remember, in a hurry. Now I’m not, so satisfy my curiosity, if you will; tell me why a wine merchant would have nine boxes of flintlocks in his warehouse?”

  “Ten actually,” Christian corrected him smiling, “I will tell you, but only if you’ll come to dinner.”

  †

  Christian’s wife never quite knew how to take her husband’s friend. Charming, attentive: as a guest he was perfect always taking the time to include her in the conversation. Regardless, she just wanted the evening to reach that point when the meal was done so she could retire. There came from him an air of danger, of recklessness; she knew from Christian some of the antics they had been involved in before he had wed her. She was quite sure she did not want her respectable merchant husband involved in anything less than legal.

  This time was worse. Christian had even told her before their guest arrived not to use his name in front of any of the servants, also not to mention his visit either, in passing, to any of her women friends. It seemed that Christian’s charming guest was, at the moment, wanted for some crime, as yet she could not persuade her husband to reveal what it was. Closing the door on the two men, she left them, feeling for the first time that evening that she could breathe easily.

  The latch on the door clicked loudly and the pair were alone, the only noise for the moment the crackle of the fire and sound of wine pouring as Christian filled their glasses.

  “This is very nice,” Richard said, genuinely appreciative.

  “One of the benefits of my trade: my house shall not want for good wine,” Christian sounded pleased.

  “Or flintlocks,” Richard added. “Everyone’s house should be well supplied with those don’t you think?”

  “You don’t waste any time do you?” Christian responded reproachfully.

  “I’m genuinely interested. Come on tell me.” Richard pressed; Christian had his full attention.

  “It’s not as exciting as you might think,” Christian said, knowing that in fact the tale would be one Richard would find most interesting, it was also one Christian was going to most wholeheartedly enjoy telling. His anticipation was heightened because, as yet, it was a story he had been forced to keep very much to himself.

  “I’ll take the risk,” Richard leant back comfortably in his chair. “Come on, begin. I can see you are bursting to entertain me.”

  Christian smiled; it was a tale he wanted to tell. “Alright. It’s quite simple really. They were ordered for the King’s army by Northumberland when Edward was King, he ordered flintlocks and crossbows. Northumberland was preparing to bolster himself and his cause should Edward fail…”

  “As he assuredly did and Northumberland had plans of his own, had he only known where they would lead him,” Richard mused.

  “Who is telling this tale?” Christian reprimanded him.

  “Sorry, you were saying?” Richard replied apologetically.

  “As I said, Northumberland, allied to the Greys was trying to consolidate his position. A force well supplied with Italian arms would have been an asset when Edward died. So he had ordered the arms, the purchase had Edward’s backing and the royal seal approved by the Council. A part payment was made, with the balance due upon satisfactory delivery of the order, a common enough transaction. They came in from Italy by ship all the way, but by the time the whole order had arrived here Edward was dead, Northumberland had been dispatched to the hereafter by Mary. The current Crown wanted nothing to do with an expensive arms order from Italy.”

  “Right, so what happened next?” Richard was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, all his attention on Christian.

  “Well, the order arrived and a part payment had been made, as I said, with the balance due on delivery. The shipment was accompanied by a Frederico Monsinetto. He arrived here with the order and hoped to take back payment with him; however, when he landed England was in turmoil, and he didn’t know who to press for the balance. Northumberland was trying to secure the throne for the Greys and Mary was gathering her supporters and setting out for London. Monsinetto did not know where to turn, and he had a need to find somewhere to store the order until he could find out who the buyer would be.”

  “Ah, so you offered your warehouse and stored it for him. How kind of you Christian,” Richard interjected smiling.

  “Well I didn’t do it for free. So I have Monsinetto’s cargo, and he waits until Mary has taken the throne and tries to complete the deal and get payment for the order. But they want none of it, telling him that the order was placed by Northumberland and Mary will not honour it. So poor Monsinetto can’t take it all back to Italy; he hasn’t the money to secure a ship to return the cargo. So he sets off back to Italy, alone, and leaves his cargo secure in my warehouse.”

  “This is what, two and half years ago?” Richard commented.

  “Will you leave me to tell the tale?” Christian admonished again. “So, he set’s off back to Italy, and after about six months I hear his boat floundered off the Spanish coast and all lives were lost. The ship sank about two and half years ago and his cargo has been sitting in there ever since. I’m sure that people have been looking for it, but obviously Monsinetto was the only person who knew where he had left the cargo. So far no one has knocked on my door to ask me about it. If the truth be known, and they did come looking for it, everything is there, and I would be handing them a large bill for storage I can tell you. There are forty two boxes in total.”

  Richard choked on hi
s wine. “Forty-two?”

  “Aye, that stopped you in your tracks didn’t it,” Christian smiled with some satisfaction.

  “This time you have amazed me. I only saw ten, though,” Richard was puzzled.

  “I’ve had the rest repacked, so they looked like wine casks, just in case anyone took too much of a close look,” Christian supplied.

  “Do you know how much it must be worth?” Richard asked.

  “Not much; I can’t sell it. If I start trading in Italian flintlocks and crossbows, then it won’t take too long before someone finds out where Monsinetto left his cargo. There are forty-two cases Richard, all full. You need an army to take that kind of a consignment. It also need’s to be one that is not going to ask too many questions about where they came from. So as you can see, it’s not the gift it looked like it could be,” Christian concluded sadly.

  “I do see your problem.” Richard agreed. “I’m assuming, because I know you so well, that you indeed know exactly what you have?”

  Christian feigned a hurt expression. “Of course.”

  “Do you want to show me?” Richard asked.

  “I might,” Christian accepted. “And I know you so well, that I can practically hear your mind working even from the other side of the table.”

  Richard smiled. “Well then, perhaps between us we can find a new home for Monsinetto’s cargo.”

  “I have records; I’ll share them with you later. Anyway, tell me, the meeting with your father, did it go well? Did you find your brother?”

  “I did, or at least what’s left of him. They had got him into Marshalsea on some charge, he has had a fairly rough time,” Richard didn’t want to speak of Jack’s torment.

  Christian grimaced. “Marshalsea is indeed a Hell-on-earth, especially for those with no coin. Did you get him out?”

  “I did, I thought him likely to die, but it seems he is made of stubborn stuff and isn’t finished with life just yet.” Richard changed the subject as he did not want to dwell on recent events. “Now stop trying to divert me, tell me more about this cargo. I want to know everything.”

  Christian relented and produced the inventory of Monsinetto’s cargo. Richard committed the inventory to memory. It was indeed, a huge opportunity.

  Christian smiled. It was not often that he had the opportunity to impress his friend; it was indeed usually the other way around. Richard was still staring at the neatly-penned inventory.

  “Two and half years! In that time no-one has come to look for them?” Richard was shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Non-one. Where would they look? I’ve been very careful - I’ve sold none. Save yourself, no-one else knows, they are all, bar two, safely in the warehouse,” Christian had a wide pleased smile on his face.

  “Bar two?” Richard repeated carefully.

  Christian, hands on the table, pushed himself up from his seat. “As beautiful as my ledgers are, they cannot compare with these,” he gestured at the coffer behind him. Lifting the lid, he reached in and removed a long, cloth-wrapped flintlock. He lay it on the table in front of Richard, then next to it he placed another, shorter bundle.

  Richard smiled and set his fingers to the wrappings. “Christian, you know me too well.”

  “I knew you would want to see them.” Christian watched with undisguised pleasure as Richard unpacked the weapons. The careful knots holding the cloth in place undid neatly, soon Richard had set the long flintlock musket and its matching pistol on the table. Christian stared at them; to him they were beautiful in their own right. Innovative and heralding a new era, their power and supremacy, proclaimed by the craftsmanship were etched into every aspect of the guns.

  “Do you know how it works?” Christian couldn’t help himself from asking, “I’ve seen them before, of course, but never in action.”

  Richard stopped turning over the musket he held. “Sometimes, something simple can be very effective. This is the hammer.” Richard showed him the intricately carved ‘S’ shaped lever on the side. “In the clamp at the end would be a thin sharpened flint; this screw here holds it fast. You half cock this,” Richard clicked back the hammer until the lever stood proud of the barrel, “then a set amount of gunpowder goes into the barrel, after that you push down a lead ball wrapped in paper. The paper makes sure the bullet holds tight and the charge remains fixed behind it.”

  Richard pushed up a second lever next to the hammer. “This is the frizzen. Push this and the pan is open and in there you pour a small amount of gunpowder and then put the frizzen back down to keep it contained in the pan.” Christian watched closely.

  Richard hoisted the musket to his shoulder as Christian watched. “Now you fully cock the hammer” - there was a metallic click as the flintlock armed - “then press the trigger.” With a loud clunk the hammer sprang forward. “The flint would strike down the frizzen and spark as a fire steel does, then it forces open the pan, the sparks light the powder. The powder in the pan ignites the charge in the barrel and fires the shot.”

  “How does lighting the charge in the pan on the side fire the powder in the barrel though?” Christian tipped the gun towards him to view the mechanism more closely.

  “Here, look.” Richard pushed the frizzen back. “The pan is made like a dish, and if you look carefully there is a small hole at the back leading to the inside of the barrel. When the flint ignites the powder it flashes through this hole.” Richard pointed, and Christian peered closely at the metal workings. “Can you see it?” Christian nodded. “Then it lights the larger charge in the barrel.”

  “When you explain it like that, there’s very little to go wrong with it.” Christian picked up the pistol. “And does this works the same?” He half cocked the hammer and pushed the frizzen forward as Richard had.

  “Much the same, though I believe this” - he hefted the musket in his hand - “is quite a bit more accurate than the pistol.”

  “Stands to reason, I suppose, as that one has the longer barrel,” Christian fully cocked the hammer; trapping his thumb behind the mechanism he swore loudly.

  Richard laughed, “Remind me, what was it we used to call you.”

  “I remember well.” Christian sucked at his thumb where a blood blister was forming. “Clumsy Carter, I suppose not without reason.”

  “These are extremely fine; are they all the same?” Richard asked, running his hands over the beautifully polished wood stock.

  “All the same,” Christian confirmed, holding his thumb out so he could examine the damage, “and there are two cases with what I take to be spare parts in as well.”

  “You do know there are enough here to outfit a small army?” Richard ventured, gauging Christian’s reaction.

  “Well that is what they were ordered for. Northumberland pledged the Crown’s money; these weapons were to have been decisive in keeping him in power. Not that they did him a lot of good.” Christian mused. “The problem is they are so distinctive: if they could speak it would be in Italian.”

  “They are, you’re right,” Richard ran his hands over the elaborately decorated mechanism on the pistol, “Venete e lasciatemi fare l’amore con te.”

  “They speak to you of money, that’s why you love them,” Christian scoffed.

  “Well, they might be the closest I shall ever get to a wealthy wife. We need to find a buyer, there must be one,” Richard said thoughtfully.

  Christian leaned across the table, a serious note in his voice, “Now be careful Richard. I’ve kept this quiet a long time, I don’t want the wolves at my door.”

  Richard met his eyes. “Trust me, I would do nothing to harm you or you family. And I’ll take no action without your full agreement.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” Christian refilled Richard’s glass and then partially missing his own, leaving a mulberry stain spreading across the table between them.

  Richard considered Christian’s news when he was back in his own room later on. It was indeed a huge opportunity. The cargo was worth nothing
less than a fortune. Christian had not been able to resist placing a valuation on the cargo. The pistols and muskets were worth 40 shillings a piece, the crossbows 20 shillings each. There were thirty cases of muskets with fifty per case. Plus five cases of pistols with one hundred per case. The value of these alone was over seven thousand pounds; even if they sold for half of that, the total was still a staggering figure.

  On top of that were seven cases of crossbows with thirty per case, Christian had a value on these of another six hundred pounds. These figures did not include the spare parts, powder holders, rods, bolts and moulds for shot that were also stored in Christian’s warehouse. It was these extra cases that made the cargo so valuable. Anyone spending such an amount in munitions would want to know they could support them and that their investment would be a long term one.

  Richard lay in the dark, listening to his brother snore in the other room. He was, for once, not jealous of Jack’s ability to sleep. He had a puzzle, a challenge, but more importantly an opportunity; he would be damned if he was going to let this one go. If he could sell Christian’s cargo it would provide enough gold, even when split between them, to make them both wealthy beyond imagining. His father, and his bloody family name, he would then have little use for. If Mary died in childbirth then there was a good chance that England would fall to Elizabeth, if this happened would not need to hide away. Richard cursed himself silently; he knew better than to indulge in wishful thinking: that was a fool’s pastime. Mary was Queen and, until that changed, there was little point dwelling on what the future might or might not hold.