by Sam Burnell
Jack pressed his hands into his eyes. “What are you trying to do?” he yelled.
“I’m trying to make you bloody well think, Jack. Is that so very hard?” Richard was infuriated. “If you had, you might not have ended in Marshalsea.”
It was too much. Jack couldn’t stop himself. “The fault of that was yours. You bloody well left me!”
“For God’s sake Jack, I was half dead with the last rites ringing in my ears. What would you have had me do?” Richard knew that they had finally reached the argument Jack wanted to have.
“You’d already left me, for her,” Jack delivered the accusation quietly, his anger white-hot. “Her and the damned Reformist cause.”
Richard’s face darkened.
Jack couldn’t stop, nor did he want to, his words sharpened by the cold pain of rejection. “And when you could, you came back here, to London, for her. You left me. Damn you to Hell for that. Damn you to Hell.” Jack swung his fist at Richard; it was a blow he had wanted to deliver for a long time. Richard, seeing it coming, trapped Jack’s wrist before the fist made contact. Then he dragged Jack forwards, pulling him off-balance. An arm locked around his neck and he had Jack kneeling before him, caught in a hold he could not escape.
“And that, little brother, I didn’t learn at university,” he released Jack roughly pushing him away.
Jack wasn’t finished. Richard thought he was about to speak, but instead, catlike, he sprang. Jack brought all his weight to bear down on the other man, bringing them both sprawling to the floor. On top, an arm jammed across Richard’s throat - Jack had the upper hand. Richard fought back but Jack’s brutal hold kept him down.
Releasing his grasp on Richard’s arm for a second, Jack grabbed his brother’s wrist in a vice-like grip, he forced his arm back towards the floor and onto the outstretched leg of the stool. Jack knew what he meant to do. Press the arm against the raised wooden rail, and then push it on harder until the bone snapped. Richard knew, as well, as soon as he felt the pressure of the square leg in the back of his arm, then he began to fight back with every ounce of strength he had.
Jack’s hold was a savage one, his arm restricting his brother’s breathing. Richard realised he was going to lose consciousness before the bone broke. Silently he congratulated himself on doing such a good job of raising the bigger man’s temper. Then there was screaming; at first he didn’t realise it was his own voice.
Jack released him as if he had just been burnt. Richard had screamed and then stopped suddenly as he blacked out. Jack’s face was wet; he smeared away the angry tears, breathing raggedly.
That was how Lizbet found them as she sailed through the door, a song on her lips abruptly dying.
“Oh my God, what’s happened?” The basket she held dropped to the floor. She fell to her knees at Richard’s side, a quick glance between the prone man and Jack kneeling next to him gave her the answer. “For the Lord’s sake, have you killed him?” Lizbet slapped Richard’s face and was rewarded with a groan. “Thank the Lord for that.” She slapped him four or five more times until his eyes unwillingly opened and focused on her face.
“Lizbet, stop please,” Richard croaked.
“Help him up, you bloody dolt.” Lizbet shoved Jack hard to revive his attention.
Jack moved automatically to help; grasping hold of Richard’s jacket, he pulled him to a sitting position.
“Can you stand?” Lizbet asked, receiving no reply. “Jack get him under one arm and I’ll get the other, we’ll put him on my bed over there.”
Jack lifted him easily; he was surprised by how light his brother was until he remembered Richard telling him of the weeks of illness he’d suffered. Jack realised shamefully that he was not the only one to have been so unwell. Richard also had still had not fully recovered. Through his clothing he felt bones with little flesh on them and something else as well. Laying him down on the bed, he pulled open Richard’s doublet and saw what he had felt: blood. That was why Richard had screamed; the hold he’d had on him had torn open the sword wound and blood was trickling down his arm.
Lizbet was on her feet, panic on her face. Had Jack used a knife on his brother? “I’ll get Lucy right away, you stop here.”
“Stop, Lizbet, please, help me get this off him.” Jack was pulling the doublet from over the bleeding arm and Lizbet helped, holding the inert body up while Jack pulled the material free. “Get me a knife.” Lizbet looked at him askance as he met her eyes. “I need to cut this linen free.”
The cloth removed, Jack viewed the extent of the wound. The flesh hadn’t knitted together, the wound was a raw purple, swollen and angry.
“Let me get Lucy, please?” Lizbet pleaded, moving already towards the door.
“Alright lass, you get her, but before you go get me some water, needle and thread.” The wound was a mess, but Jack’s assessing gaze was already working out how he could piece it back together.
“You can’t touch him; what are you going to do? What do you know about healing?” Lizbet protested.
“I’ve not stitched men back together, but I’ve healed up many horses in my time. I don’t care what the Church says, they are skin, flesh and blood on the inside, same as we are.”
Jack, bent to his task, didn’t see Lucy Sharp watching him from the doorway. The flesh was swollen and it was hard to see where the cut needed to mend. The gap closed as he working along the wound, drawing the soft edges together with the thread. Eventually, all that was left was a neat line of black stitch marks.
“Well, I’ll not be letting you loose with my mending, lad, but that’s not too bad,” Lucy commented when he rocked back on his heels, the job done.
Jack rubbed his bloody hands over his tired face. “You want to try doing that when there’s a hoof at one end and a set of teeth at the other set on paring you to the bone. Then it’s not so easy.”
“You get out of the way. Lizbet fetch me that onion and hazel balm we used on this big lout will you. I’m sure there’s some left,” Lucy instructed, Lizbet all the time eying Jack suspiciously.
When Lucy was gone, Lizbet took his arm in a surprisingly tight hold. The relationship she had with the elder brother was entirely different from that she had with Richard. “What the hell have you done to him?” she demanded.
“Let me be.” Jack roughly pulled his arm from her hold Lizbet swore as two of her nails bent painfully backwards.
“I’ll not. He’s had you cared for, I saw how he was when he thought you were dead. What did you do that to him for?” Lizbet was not going to be put off. “You could have killed him; it looks like you tried.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Jack had the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes.
“Christ, well I’d not like to see you when you mean to then!” Lizbet picked up one of the still wet, red stained cloths Lucy had used and threw it in his face.
It was too much for Jack to bear and he caught Lizbet’s arm in a vice-like grip. Jack saw the fear on her face. He released her realising what he had been about to do. Turning his back on her, he left her alone with his brother.
Lizbet sat back on the edge of the bed and admired her friend’s work. Lucy had wrapped the wound in linen layered with a poultice to draw out any poison. Then she put half a spoon of dwale in some warm wine. He slept silently now, his head on the pillow turned away from the injured shoulder.
About to draw the cover up over his chest, she stopped. Lizbet was, quite properly, wary of him: he’d hit her twice and she knew he’d think nothing of doing it a third time. He demanded obedience and she had learned her lesson. His body, like Jack’s, spoke of a violent past. When Jack had stripped him she’d seen his back crisscrossed with the imprint left by a whip. She had been shocked; some of the tacks deeply marked the skin while others were just fine white lines. There was another old scar tracing a white line over his breast up to his collarbone in a straight line - a sword or knife cut she guessed.
Awake she would not dare, but drugged and slee
ping was a different matter and her curious hand couldn’t help itself. It hovered, indecisive only for a moment, before she gently drew her fingers along the line of the scar. The ridge, where the thickened skin had healed, led her hand across his collar bone and onto his shoulder; once it had been a deep cut. Lifting her hand away, she made to raise the blanket over his chilling body.
“Don’t stop.”
“Oh Jesus Christ,” Lizbet gasped under her breath.
“Be quiet, don’t stop,” was all he said.
Lizbet hesitated, her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering in her chest; she couldn’t have been more afraid if she’d been caught stealing.
“I said, don’t stop,” the voice was barely audible.
A shaking hand resumed her delicate exploration of his body. She heard his breathe escape, recognised the senses behind it and realised he didn’t intend to hurt her. Careful still, Lizbet increased the pressure at her fingertips as they travelled over his skin. Confidence growing, she raised her fingers so now her nails gently raked his skin, their passage releasing a ragged gasp from his lips. With his good arm he reached up, his eyes still closed, found her neck and drew her to him, kissing her softly, gently caressing the side of her face and neck with his hand.
Lizbet’s body was as taut as that of a startled cat. She sorely wished he would let her go.
“You’re kissing me but thinking of another,” Lizbet whispered. Maybe her words would break the spell.
“Be quiet…” An arm around her shoulders, he pulled her face to his neck. Her long hair lay across his chest and as she brought her lips to kiss him, she was rewarded with a sharp intake of breathe. Nervously she continued, sometimes kissing, sometimes caressing, breathing just hard enough for his skin to sense the passage of her breath.
She heard the step on the stairs outside the room and sat back up with a look of pure relief on her face, pulling the rough blanket over him. He was quiet and his breathing shallow and even; perhaps now he was asleep. Lizbet knew the medicine he needed and resolved to get it for him - she’d rather not have to get that close to him again. Feeling very much like she had just had a lucky escape she left him, hoping the dwale would keep his memories from him.
Chapter Eleven
†
Gardiner did not like Phillip. He hid his dislike behind an austere mask of deference and bowed low. “You wanted to see me, Your Majesty,”
“Yes I did, come and walk with me,” Phillip replied. Gardiner gratefully straightened and joined Phillip in the long gallery overlooking the wet and misty gardens. The wide corridor with its marble diamond floor and tapestry-hung walls provided an indoor space when the weather outside was inclement. Windows running from floor to ceiling every few paces admitted the poor winters light, the fires set in the walls warmed the air.
Gardiner knew better than to speak, he walked silently next to Phillip waiting for him to break the silence. He was a slight man who burned with nervous energy. His confinement within Mary’s palaces, whilst waiting to see if his Queen could secure the throne with an heir, was nothing short of a prison sentence. His father, Charles, had been heir to three of Europe’s leading dynasties: among his titles were King of Spain, Holy Roman Emperor and Duke of Burgundy. A lifetime of struggle and dynamic rule had left his father a hollow shell.
Dispatches between Spain and England passed and re-passed as the lines of communication between Phillip and his father remained open. The earnest wish his father had once held, that they add England to the empire Phillip would inherit was now lessening. The distance between Spain and England was too great and his father was failing.
The last letter Phillip had read with both excitement and shock: his father wished to abdicate. Phillip longed to be at his father’s side. His father was world weary; Phillip knew his place now should be at his side. There were others waiting and Phillip greatly feared that his father’s brother, Ferdinand, may move to take his titles. Phillip lay awake night after night; it could not have been more painful if he had been chained to this miserable damp country.
There was now too much at stake. It was known amongst Phillip’s nobles that he would return to Spain as soon as the issue of the child was finalised. Mary and Phillip both counted the weeks and days, but for very different reasons. Politics were now the daily bread of the Spanish at Mary’s Court and it was becoming increasingly obvious that the custody of Mary’s sister was a key issue. Phillip’s own father had mentioned that if Mary remained childless then Phillip should bring Elizabeth back to the Spanish Court. There he could look to secure the lady a good Catholic husband, but in reality it would mean that they held the English heir to throne should the need arise. It had been mentioned more than once that Phillip marry the younger sister.
“My Lord Bishop,” Phillip spoke at last - they had already travelled one full length of the corridor in silence. “Her Majesty will go into confinement soon and I’ve a mind to bring the Lady’s sister, Elizabeth, to Court, I am informed you are in charge of her household?”
“Her Majesty did leave me with the task of organising her household, I believe I have done as she asked,” Gardiner said a little guardedly, wondering where this was going.
“Indeed, I am sure all is correct. I am aware that you have been taking time to educate the lady on spiritual matters as well?” Phillip questioned.
“I have, Your Majesty.” Gardiner was wary indeed now: he had no idea how much Phillip knew of Elizabeth’s reformist views.
Phillip smiled, detecting the note in Gardiner’s voice. “I am aware that there are,” he paused before continuing, “difficulties between the ladies; however is this not always the case with sisters?”
Gardiner declined to answer. He saw the religious divide between them as more than mere ‘difficulties’, but he inclined his head anyway in acceptance of Phillip’s words.
“I have only met with the Lady a few times and then you understand, they were high state occasions. Soon she will come to Court when Her Majesty goes into confinement and I would like to meet with Elizabeth before then.” Phillip concluded.
Gardiner wondered what this had to do with him. “I’m sure the Princess Elizabeth would be honoured.”
“I’m sure she would be,” Phillip accepted, then continued to the reason for Gardiner’s summons. “However Her Majesty does not think it is such a good idea. I thought that, as one of her foremost advisors, you could ensure that the Lady looks favourably on the idea.”
Gardiner grimaced inwardly, but knew he could say nothing against the suggestion. “I will indeed raise this with Her Majesty.”
His request placed, Phillip had little more use for Gardiner and he found himself swiftly dismissed. Making his way back through the myriad of corridors of Hampton Court Gardiner bleakly considered how he was going to carry out Phillip’s request. Mary, he knew, had been at pains to keep her new husband away from Elizabeth, it had been a tactic he had wholeheartedly agreed with. This change of heart was going to be a difficult one to convey to Mary.
He continued to grumble under his breath as he made his way back to the boat moored on the Thames that would convey him back to his own lodgings. Mist clung to the banks and the water; soon it began to penetrate the folds of his clothes to add physical discomfort to the mental one he was already suffering.
Richard could never be sure whether he made a conscious decision to enter the Church or not; walking down Charterhouse Street he’d slowed, his feet had turned towards the great wooden door. St Etheldreda’s was dedicated to the Anglo-Saxon saint and was one of the oldest religious houses in London. Wide and open inside, the wooden-beamed roof was supported by the wall buttresses, keeping the church itself clear of towering columns. Wherever a man sat he would be able to see the stained glass windows behind the altar depicting St Etheldreda’s ascent to heaven.
The smell of incense was still heavy inside the chapel; the smoke was supposed to represent the prayers rising to Heaven. A slight smile crept across his face
as he absently wondered if the lingering aroma was attached to those prayers that had failed to inspire the Lord and were still stuck beneath the wooden roof. Indeed, was there such a thing as a poor prayer? Probably one made without conviction he concluded, how many of those was he himself guilty of placing before the Almighty? Quite a few.
Richard took three more steps into the church when he felt it, or more rather became aware of it. Later, he’d tell himself it was from his loss of blood and the fight with his brother, but then, when he stood before the altar, winter light casting curious shadows from the arched glass windows, he’d felt his strength pouring from him, draining towards the stone flags on the floor. The muscles in his thighs and calves ached and he’d had to put out a hand and take hold of a pew to steady himself. The feeling had continued and he knew if he had not sat down quickly he would have pitched forwards onto the floor, unable to stand.
Sitting with his head bent forwards, consciously trying to stabilise his ragged breathing, he honestly thought someone was going to find him in a heap on the church floor in the morning. Straightening his back, he took a long breath, the air thick and heavy. His heart was beating too fast as if he’d run a long way. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear sadness echoing from the church walls.
St Etheldreda’s monks, devout and esteemed, had been Cromwell’s first victims when he’d sought to make Henry Head of the Church to solve the Kings Great Matter. If they would accept him as Head of the Church then many others would follow, but they steadfastly refused choosing instead a traitor’s end. He remembered reading Thomas More’s words, written after he had watched them go to their deaths. From More’s own cell in the Tower where he awaited his own end, he had described them as “merry bridegrooms.” How could anyone face the horror of a traitor’s end with calm acceptance? Hanged by their necks then cut down alive, the monks had then faced the slow agony of disembowelment. Richard had witnessed it: if the executioner was good with the crowd on his side, it could last an hour. What it must be to have that kind of faith! There was much to recommend it.