by Sam Burnell
He heard a voice from his childhood in his head, Father Stephen – “the remedy for doubt is faith, boy,” As a boy he had laughed and earned himself a thrashing for it. Still, the absurdity of the argument lit his face with a slight smile. Father Stephen had read the word of the Lord, Romans 10.17 – he could still remember it well - accompanied by an acute memory of a painful backside where Stephen had taken a rod to it. Richard rested his head back against the wooden pew and pondered Stephen’s lecture again.
“How then will they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in him of whom they have never heard? Faith comes from hearing and hearing through the word of Christ.”
Words, written words, can they ever be strong enough to banish doubt? That had been the question he had put to Father Stephen at the end of his lecture, a question that had earned him another thrashing and two days without any food. He had learned not to pose questions relating to theology after that experience. Since then he supposed his were the prayers that sank like mist and failed to make it beyond the church roof, his own words lacking any soaring conviction and his thoughts always so very full of doubt.
His shoulder was starting to throb painfully, reminding him of why. Jack, damn him. Why did he have to be so hot-headed! After the fight at Burton his bloody last conscious act had been for Jack. He had begged Jamie to pass a message to Dan, he’d pressed his ring into the priest’s hands and he knew it had been delivered it as it had been amongst Jack’s possessions redeemed from Marshalsea. He had left Jack in Dan’s care, or so he had thought. He moved on the pew and pain resonated along his arm. Fixing his eyes on the gilded cross atop the altar, he spoke quietly: “Maybe you can persuade Jack to judge me by my actions, for I bloody well can’t.”
†
Jack had awoken to find Richard had gone. There was the briefest of notes on the table stating bluntly that he’d be away a few days. Jack balled the paper and sent it to the back of the fire Lizbet had just lit. He wasn’t going to get to talk to him any time soon it appeared. Lizbet was relieved; if Jack had not been so preoccupied with his own misery he would have seen her face and asked her why.
Richard was gone for just over a week; on his return he found Jack toasting his feet in front of the fire, eyes closed with a half-eaten plate of food next to him. Lizbet was seated on the floor next to him, darning a sock.
“So it’s been hard without me,” Richard dropped a bag on the table. “But you managed?”
Lizbet pushed herself back into the shadows, unsure yet how he was going to react to her after he’d caught her hands stealing caresses from his body.
“Fighting does not determine who is right, only who is left; on this occasion that was you,” Richard hitched himself onto the edge of the table, a half-smile on his face.
Jack didn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. As intended, Richard’s words axed the tension between them.
“We’ve been repeating the same mistakes in life for so long now, I think I’m going to start regarding them as a family tradition,” Jack replied, this time Richard smiled, genuinely amused.
“Before you say any more, I’m sorry,” Richard held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “I said things I should never have said.”
Jack’s face darkened. “Anything in particular?” He pronounced the words quietly and precisely.
“Some things I said were untrue,” Richard continued.
“Go on,” Jack’s blue eyes were fastened on Richard’s.
“Dixi tibi Latina fuit in invium, suus ‘non tarn acerbitatem,” stated Richard in Latin.
“What!” Lizbet clamped her hand across her mouth; she’d not meant to speak.
“He said,” Jack translated without looked at her, “My Latin isn’t passable it’s terrible.” He continued “Paenitet me temptatis quia sit e ipsum bene factus,”
Richard met Lizbet’s eyes for a moment - she saw no malice in them - and indeed the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. Lizbet let out a long breath; it seemed he had no argument with her at least. Then he translated for her this time. “He said, that if I was trying to apologise that I was doing a very bad job of it.” Richard pulled his cloak from his back and draped it over the table. “I’ve a thirst on me, I’m going downstairs; join me if you like.” And with that Jack and Lizbet found themselves alone again.
Jack found Richard where he sat in the snug in the taproom.
“I am sorry, Jack, I did say something that was unfair,” Richard moved along the bench so Jack could slide in next to him.
“I can live with you having slandered my Latin,” Jack said sarcastically.
“I know Marshalsea was terrible,” Richard admitted quietly, “I let Lizbet go to you when you scream because I don’t know what to say. I had no right to shame you like I did.”
Jack looked away. “Sometimes I actually think I was in Hell.” Jack faced his brother once more saying, “And I had no right to beat you, but you goad me so. One of these days…”
Richard cut him off, “Paenitet enim me.”
“No that’s not quite right, you very well might not live to regret it,” Jack advised darkly. “I meant what I said, look at me.” Richard raised his face meeting Jack’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have left me, I wouldn’t have left you; ever. And…” Jack paused, “I should not have done what I did. Christ, the pain I felt when I thought you were dead, I just wanted to hurt you as badly as you hurt me. I couldn’t stop myself,” Jack dropped his eyes from Richard’s, “I am sorry, truly.”
Richard reached over and clapped him on the arm, “I know it. Because of our father we don’t have a past together. I know that is hard; for both of us.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth twitched to a smile. “We are terrible apart, and even worse together.”
Richard grinned as well, and grasping his brother’s wrist, repeated Jack’s words, “terrible apart, and even worse together – that would make us a fine family moto. Et mirabilia absque peius.”
That was not how Jack had meant the words, but he nodded in agreement, and then said simply, “I am glad we are not apart. And I hope you know have my eternal thanks for getting me out of Marshalsea.”
“Aye and I am sorry I did not find you before then,” Richard said; Jack knew he meant it.
After a few minutes silence Jack, changing the subject, asked, “Been anywhere nice?”
“A village called Wittlesea three days ride from here, if you must know,” Richard supplied, “I’m trying to find Dan and some of the other men. Do you not think of them sometimes?”
Jack’s guilty look was answer enough.
“Well they left Burton only days after you did - Jamie confirmed as much - and while you went north, they went south, I knew Dan had family at Wittlesea, a sister living still in his father’s house, so I went to see if he had been there.”
“Did you find trace of them?” Jack asked; he thought it would be good to see them again.
“Indeed, but months ago. He’d come by with Mat and Froggy but stopped for only a few days; he’d spoken of going to France so his sister said.” Richard answered, his face thoughtful, “I’m not sure why they would think that a good destination though.”
“So they are still together - they could be anywhere. I’d be surprised if Froggy went to France again: he bloody well hated it last time!” Jack mused. “Convinced they were all talking French just to bloody well confuse him.”
“Well sometimes it doesn’t take much to confuse Froggy,” agreed Richard. “Dan’s sister will pass a message on if she hears from him again, but I think it unlikely, so I’m not sure where to look next.”
Lizbet appeared and demanded a seat, squeezing herself between the pair, oblivious to the fact she was not that welcome. “Come on, Jack, shift over,” Lizbet wedged herself in next to Jack.
“Yes come on, Jack, make space for Erato,” Richard sighed resignedly.
Lizbet looked to Jack for an explanation. “He means
you are my muse,” Jack supplied, then when her expression remained blank, “A muse? Well actually what he probably means is that you’re not very inspirational or I lack the wit to be inspired, one or the other.”
“Probably both,” Richard moved along the bench to make space for the newcomer.
“Thanks,” Jack found himself on the edge of the bench, “Good God, girl, how much space do you want?”
Lizbet offended, gave him a shove, which nearly sent him reeling onto the floor. “Hardly any, you cheeky beggar, I’m only small.”
“There’s nothing small about your backside, woman,” Jack placed a hand on the wall to prevent his descent to the floor.
“Well I’ve not heard any complaints,” she said tartly hoisting an arm around Jack’s neck.
Richard leant back against the wall. Lizbet, for all her faults, was good for Jack in her own way. As he listened to them continue to trade insults, he smiled; the girl gave as good as she got. It was her hands that had coaxed Jack back to the living world. She’d heard him scream, seen him weep in the night, washed and cleaned him and yet she kept those memories to herself. The past to Lizbet had no value and although it was never spoken, his brother knew she would never break that trust; Lizbet lived for now. Absently he considered that she probably was a muse, not one of poetry or music, but one that had helped to inspire a wounded and crushed spirit to live.
Lizbet’s shout, too close to his ear, broke his thoughts and he jumped involuntarily. “Daisy,” Lizbet waved over a girl from the side of the taproom.
Daisy smiled at Lizbet. Flecks of summer sun glinted in seemingly depthless eyes, lusciously lashed the colour of hazel. Her hair had the deep shining luster of a freshly cracked chestnut, the long tresses holding every possible shade of brown, all highlighted with the hues of autumn. Her nose was small, pink and gave her face an inquisitive and beseeching look.
“Daisy, Daisy.” Then Lizbet turning to Richard continued, “I don’t know why I’m shouting at her, I always do, even though the poor lass is deaf and dumb.”
Daisy made her way through the labyrinth of tables and stools to Lizbet, who was smiling broadly as she spoke, looking directly at Daisy. Richard guessed the girl could read lips. “Daisy love, these are my boys I’ve been telling you about.”
Jack - whose attention was wholly on the lass - was quietly disgruntled when Lizbet raised herself up and sat neatly on his knee, taking Daisy’s arm she pulled the girl down to take the tight space she had just vacated. “There we go, my boy’s will keep you warm.” Lizbet, leaning forward, took Daisy’s hand, placing it down gently on Richard’s thigh. “You’ll like Daisy, she’s very quiet.” She held his eye for a moment smiling nervously, suddenly feeling she had gone too far. Her voice shaking, she added, “And very gentle.”
Five minutes later Richard left them, leading Daisy towards the door and to their rooms above. She was gentle and very quiet; in the darkness he forgot who she was. His kiss was tender and loving, and she felt he liked her. Afterwards, Daisy tried to snuggle up to him and he let her, keeping her warm in the crook of his arm.
†
Mary clutched her belly and closed her eyes; her ladies all stared at Gardiner, but he held his ground.
“Your Majesty, it makes only sense that the Lady Elizabeth comes to Court during your confinement. I only made the humble suggestion that she should meet with your husband before then, when you yourself could also be present.
“She’s met him before on several state occasions. Why should he see her now, in private?” Mary hissed.
Gardiner was on thin ice and he knew it. “Your Majesty, the Lady Elizabeth can be,” he changed his words quickly, “could be, a problem. I might have failed, Your Majesty, to prove her allegiance to the Reformist cause, but she is known to sympathise with them. Would it not be wise to ensure that His Majesty - your husband - is fully aware of the danger Elizabeth could pose?” Gardiner pressed on hoping the woman’s vanity would let him win the argument. “Your Majesty, your husband is a wise and intelligent man. Alerting His Majesty to the threat to your throne that Lady Elizabeth presents will encourage him to keep her a particularly watchful eye during your confinement.”
Gardiner had won the argument and it was a little over a week later when a very subdued Elizabeth was escorted into the long gallery at Hampton Court to meet with Phillip. The pretext to the summons was Elizabeth was to return to Court for the forthcoming birth of Mary’s child. Phillip’s - and Spain’s - interest in the red-headed heir to the English throne had heightened. If Mary had indeed lost the child and her ability to provide an English heir was in called into question, then the political landscape shifted dramatically to one where the Princess Elizabeth featured prominently in the foreground.
Elizabeth, dressed soberly, head bowed, had answered Phillip’s questions quietly and openly. He was finding her to be quite the reverse of the tempestuous redhead he had been led to believe her to be. It was perhaps an English myth that the child who bore Henry’s likeness also bore his character traits.
Phillip had changed the subject to one for which Elizabeth had no liking; it was with difficulty she maintained a neutral expression. “So now that your dear sister is in confinement, I have the duty of ensuring your welfare befits your station as the Queen’s sister.” Phillip was surrounded by his Spanish nobles; she avoided their glances and raking eyes. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three Your Highness,” Elizabeth knew exactly where this was going.
“Twenty-three. It surprises me that you have not been found a match before now. I shall have to give the matter some thought.” Phillip mused, tugging at his beard. “Have you ever been to Spain my Lady? I think you might like it: your complexion needs to be warmed by a proper sun, not this mellow one you have in England.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Spain? She had never considered that there could be a move to send her to the Spanish Court. “I have never, Your Majesty, set a foot outside of England and I have no wish to.”
Phillip’s eyebrows raised a degree; finally the plain little creature had an opinion on something, “Why not? I could find you a most notable match.” Smiling he gestured to his entourage. “Are my Spanish nobles not more alluring to a lady than your English men?” It was true that when it came to colour and flamboyance, the Spanish at Mary’s Court seemed to spend a degree more time and money on their outward appearance than their comparatively dreary-looking English counterparts.
“I’ve been told, sir, never to judge a cock by his feathers,” Elizabeth replied curtly meet his eyes for the first time.
Phillip smiled: so here was the temper he’d heard about. Hitching himself up on the edge of a table, he granted Elizabeth his full attention. “Surely a bird with beautiful feathers is preferable to a dour bird without any plumage?”
“Such plumage today may end up as a feather duster tomorrow. In England, we pluck the longest feathers to rid us of our pests.” Elizabeth’s eyes were fierce, shoulders square and she matched his stare.
Phillip’s beamed broadly; indeed she was Henry’s daughter. “I fear your tongue might pluck them of some of their finery, but it would be a fight worth watching.” Phillip laughed and he was joined by the men around him. Elizabeth, her face red, was forced to stand and listen to them crow, her temper boiling beneath the surface.
Chapter twelve
†
Richard and Jack spent the next month in London; they were idle weeks. It gave them both time to recover. Jack knew just from looking at his brother’s face that there was, at last, more flesh on his bones than there had been since the fight at Burton. Jack knew his brother’s shoulder was still healing and although he refused to talk to Jack about it, Richard had suffered Lucy Sharp to tend it. Letting her pick out the black stitches Jack had sewn in. Jack only knew this because Lucy had told Lizbet it had been the ‘Devil’s own work’ to pry the black thread from the flesh. As she was pulling them free, there had been a great deal of cursing and e
ven more when she had applied curative vinegar to the raw wound.
Jack knew he had lost his edge. In three months he had done little, and over his stomach there was a layer of soft flesh that had not previously been there. It worried him little; as soon as he had a horse and his feet back in a tilt yard then it would take but a short time for his skill and strength to return.
Jack had to admit that he had probably never eaten so well for such a long period of time. Lizbet, with Richard’s money, provided some good fare for the table. There was a cooking pot over the fire from which steaming pottage would be produced, often with meat and bread came in daily from the bakery two streets away. Lizbet also seemed to know which of London’s cook-shops to frequent, most of them clustered near the Thames and provided hot pies, fish pasties and cooked rabbits and poultry. Many of them would deal in rancid meat and offal disguised in pastry shells and the unwitting customer would get a lot more than a poor lunch when they were forced to eat such poor fare.
Eventually though some entertainment did arise. Jack, thankful at last for a diversion wholeheartedly agreed when Richard indicated that it was about time they paid the lawyer, Clement, a visit.
†
“Marcus, Marcus!” Clement yelled for the third time; where was that useless bastard? “MARCUS!”
The door began to open. At last the idiot was here, “Marcus I need…”
It wasn’t Marcus. Clement rose from his chair.
“Marcus is a little… tied up at the moment,” the man announced, strolling into the room to take a seat in the client’s chair. “Sit, please. This is going to be unpleasant for only one of us, so you might as well be comfortable.”
Clement lowered himself back into his chair and stared at the intruder. Well at least he knew now where Kettering’s missing man was: he was right here, large as life and with a look of utter menace on his face.