A Queen's Traitor

by Sam Burnell

  The desk was piled high with cases. From where Jack sat, he could neither see Clement’s hands nor the knife he slid out from between the case files. Clement jumped back up, knife in hand, pointing it directly at Jack’s chest across the desk.

  Jack just stared at him.

  “Now the tables have turned,” Clement sneered. “Stand sir.”

  “Really?” Jack responded, remaining seated, folding his arms comfortably.

  “Stand, or I’ll gut you like a pig,” Clement squealed.

  Jack shook his head and settled back in the chair. “I think not. Firstly, the width of the table is between us: you cannot make any strike from where you stand that would need worry me. Secondly, should you throw it, that stack of papers is in the way. You’d surely miss and then you would have just managed to disarm yourself. Thirdly, I’m not sure that the knife you hold could do much damage to a loaf of bread, let alone me. And finally, finally...” Jack raised his voice, “do you really think that you could ever best me?”

  “Well I don’t know if that has persuaded Clement, but I am convinced. Well put, Jack.” Another man whom Clement didn’t know entered the room.

  “I thought so,” Jack agreed.

  Clement just stood, eyes wide, swinging the blade from one to the other.

  “So, would you like to sit down,” Jack invited again.

  Clement’s eyes flicked from Jack to the elegant man standing behind him.

  “Very well,” Jack said wearily, “stand and keep the knife if you must. Now, I believe, I have you to thank for my recent stay in Marshalsea? Would I be right?”

  Clement didn’t say a word: his expression sufficed as an answer. Jack was out of his seat like a cat, the sea of papers on Clement’s desk parted by the time the lawyer registered Jack’s approach. Jack had an unbreakable grip on Clement’s wrist that held the knife. The grasp was like iron.

  “You’re hurting me,” Clement whined, his face contorted in pain.

  Jack laughed. “Isn’t that the general idea?” Jack squeezed the wrist tighter, forcing his thumb and forefinger into the gaps above the wrist bone. Clement howled and the knife clattered to the desk. Releasing his wrist, Jack thumped him in the chest with the flat of his hand, sending him flying back into this chair. “Have I made my point?” Jack asked, sitting down, smoothing out his doublet with exaggerated ease.

  Clement’s returned his gaze to the knife that lay between them on the desk.

  “Obviously not,” the cool voice from the door way stated.

  Jack’s voice was quiet and threatening, “If you pick that up, make no mistake, this time I will really hurt you.”

  “What do you want?” Clement managed.

  “I want to know why I ended up in Marshalsea?” Jack asked patiently.

  “You’ve got enemies; someone wants rid of you that’s why,” Clement spat quickly. “People go into Marshalsea and they don’t come back out.”

  “Well as you can see, I did come back out. Who wanted me in there?” Jack asked.

  Clement remained silent.

  “I think, master lawyer,” Richard spoke from the doorway, “that he would prefer your silence.” The threat was clear.

  Jack stood, rubbing his hands over his face.

  Richard folded his arms. He recognised that Jack was inviting attack and he looked on with interest.

  Clement weighed his chances. With Jack standing he could indeed throw the knife true to the target. A scrawny hand reached for the knife and threw it end over end. The last time Clement had used a knife would have been thirty years ago. His throw lacked power, the flight was off-course and the delivery took so long Jack had ample time to lift a file from the desk to deflect the harmless blade.

  “Oh dear,” said an amused voice lightly from the doorway.

  Clement made to scramble backwards but it was too late. Jack snatched the lawyer’s throwing arm and slammed it forcefully on the desktop. Jack’s other hand produced a knife of his own.

  “This one,” he twisted the blade in front of Clement’s eyes, “is sharp.”

  Clement screamed.

  “And my aim is a damn sight better than yours,” Jack finished.

  There was a sickening thump.

  Clement’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, but the scream wouldn’t come.

  “Oh look at that,” Jack sounded annoyed, “I am losing my touch; that was meant to go through the middle.”

  The knife was impaled neatly in the desk neatly between two of Clement’s fingers. No serious damage was done but the blade had made two neat nicks in the fingers.

  Jack grasped the hilt and pulled it free. Clement collapsed howling in his chair, the bleeding hand clutched against his chest.

  “You do realise that this is going to take longer now and that the fault of this is your own,” Jack advised wearily. “So tell me, who wanted me in Marshalsea?”

  Clement looked at them mutinously, “You’ve hurt me! I’m bleeding to death, look!”

  “Give me strength! It’s perfectly alright for you to throw a knife at me but not the other way around, is that it?” Jack complained.

  “You said I’d never have managed to hurt you, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair,” Clement sobbed, tears now coursing down his wrinkled cheeks.

  Jack turned to Richard. “Can you actually believe this little weasel?”

  Richard remained silent.

  “I was only doing my job,” wailed Clement at an even louder pitch.

  “Alright, let’s start there. Who was your client?” Jack asked.

  Clement said nothing.

  “I’ve just cleaned this.” Jack held up the knife he’d used a few moments ago.

  “Not on the russet, I hope.” Jack chose to ignore Richard’s remark.

  “Do you want me to use it again on your other hand?” Jack started to stand up.

  It was too much for Clement.

  “Fitzwarren, Robert Fitzwarren. He’s a client. I told him you’d been to see me and he wished for me to help you disappear. I arrange for people to go to Marshalsea from time to time. Nobody gets involved, they just disappear. People don’t come out of Marshalsea again,” Clement sniffed loudly.

  “Well it was unfortunate for you that I did,” Jack countered.

  Richard moved into the room. “We now seem to have another problem.”

  Jack looked up to his brother’s face and then back to Clement.

  Clement saw the look they exchanged.

  “Oh no, no, no, I’ll not tell a soul I’ve seen you. I’ve already penned a message to Fitzwarren to say you died in Marshalsea. I want nothing more to do with this.”

  “I’m not sure your assurances are going to be enough,” Jack replied. “Have you any idea what it is like in there? Have you?”

  “Jack, settle yourself, of course he has no idea. As he said he was just doing his job,” Richard moved forwards and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Whose bloody side are you on?” Jack snarled angrily.

  “Yours, obviously.” Richard said, then to the Clement, “There is something else as well that you might be able to help with.” Richard held the lawyers moist eyes with his own, “I paid a good sum to release my brother, now where, master lawyer, do you think that money is now?”

  “Kettering…” Clement stopped himself, the man staring at him across the desk was both dangerous and no fool.

  “Go on,” pressed Richard, “Kettering what?”

  “He discharged the debt and sent the balance to me,” Clement licked his lips.

  Jack’s temper had begun to rise. It was only Richard’s steadying hand that kept him in his seat. “And this money, what did you do with it?”

  Clement wisely had kept it close, unsure who might come looking for it. If Robert Fitzwarren found out about the debtors release at least he had reasoned he would be able to appease him with a hefty purse. If time went by and no-one asked then it would have been safe for Clement to add it to his pension. “I have it h
ere,” Clement offered quietly, then added, “locked away.”

  “Well, then. Let’s unlock it. I would like my money back.” Richard demanded.

  Some minutes later Clement having unlocked a draw handed over the purse containing the eighty one pounds.

  Richard hefted it in his hand, the coins chinked noisily. “Not so much is it the weight of a man’s life?” He handed the purse to Jack, “that is most certainly yours. Now we just need to ensure master lawyer’s silence one way,” Richard smiled, “or the other.”

  “I’ll not tell anyone, I swear.”

  Richard smiling, said. “So, master lawyer, we wish to become two of your newest clients.”

  †

  It was a week later when Richard glanced over the top of the cards he held at Jack’s face; his brother had been staring fixedly at his hand now for a good while. That meant it was a poor hand and he could not decide whether to continue and hope for better cards, or fold. Retreat was not in Jack’s nature.

  Jack discarded a three of clubs and took the top card from the worn deck. He twitched it securely in between his other cards and examined it carefully. A bloody five of spades, useless! A huff escaped his lips and Richard had to stifle a laugh.

  “Can I not teach you anything?” Richard asked. He folded his cards together and put them face down on the table.

  “What do you mean?” Jack smiling was using his cards to pull the coins on the table towards him.

  “Never mind. We have a score to settle Jack, one which I think you’ll like,” Richard was watching his brother closely.

  “Go on,” Jack prompted, as he picked the coins up one by one from the table.

  “Guess who is back and currently stopping with cousin Harry?” Richard knew exactly what reaction this was going to get from his brother.

  “That bastard Robert,” Jack slapped his cards down, Richard cast a finger over them to separate the hand to view the faces; he’d been right.

  “Indeed. Shall we go and involve him in a little family reunion?” Richard suggested, scooping up all the scattered cards and reuniting the deck.

  “I thought we were keeping out of sight?” Jack spoke warningly.

  “We are, but if we time it right we’ll be gone from London before they can find us,” Richard assured, then added, “I think we both have scores to settle.”

  Jack met his eyes. “Just a few.”

  †

  It had been Henry VIII who had cleared Southwalk of brothels: a royal proclamation in 1546 had closed all the bankside stewes and the prostitutes had scattered around the city. Many, like Lizbet, attached themselves to an inn where they worked as serving wenches, cooks, cleaners and, when the clientele so demanded, as whores. The licensed brothels, though, were gone, the Bishop of Winchester profited hugely from the arrangement, when the land occupied by the most notorious houses in Southwalk - The Bell, The Cat and The Gun - all passed into his grateful hands.

  Henry’s proclamation seemed to have overlooked a few of the wealthier houses who could afford to pay for their immunity. The Angel was one such establishment in Aldergate. From the outside, it gave off a look of Tudor respectability: white painted neat daub flanked the black oak beams, windows shuttered and closed, which kept both the noise and light inside from the street.

  Richard must have had them followed, Jack assumed, for how he knew that Robert was at a brothel with Harry was otherwise beyond him.

  Richard made for the door. Jack stopped, grabbing his arm. “I can’t go in there,” Jack blurted.

  Richard stared at him. “Why not?”

  “It’s a brothel! it’s a gentleman’s house, not a bloody village inn, I can’t go in there.” Jack was obviously flustered.

  “Jack, sometimes, you really do amaze me. Of course you can go in there.” Richard was laughing, genuinely amused. Jack steadied himself. Why not indeed: he looked no lesser man than his brother.

  An apologetic grin appeared on his face, “I’m still getting used to this.”

  Richard clapped him on the arm. “Well then, let us go and entertain ourselves.”

  “I’ll be perfectly fine when I find the bastard and starting beating the hell out of him. Just until then, well…,” Jack left the sentence unfinished.

  Richard knocked and the door opened almost straight away, they were met by a lady who took both of Richard’s hands in her own and pulled him to her.

  “My love, where have you been hiding yourself?” She spoke with genuine pleasure.

  “Oh why doesn’t this surprise me,” Jack muttered under his breath.

  “And your friend,” she looked Jack up and down, a smile playing across her lips, “No wonder we have not seen you for so long when you have such a beautiful boy to yourself.”

  Jack gave her a perfect bow, then, looking sideways at Richard, “Did she just say what I think she said?”

  “She did.” Richard said tucking the ample lady’s hand into the crook of his arm.

  “Well tell her…,” Jack said hotly.

  “The lady has ears my beautiful boy, why don’t you tell me yourself” she loosed Richard’s arm and took Jack’s instead. “My name is Nonny, come and tell me all about yourself.”

  Jack smiled back over his shoulder at Richard, left alone in the hall.

  “Well, my beautiful boy, do not worry, any friend of Richard’s is a friend of mine.” And she smiled widely. “Tonight the hospitality will be my own. So tell me, are you a friend?”

  Jack hesitated.

  Richard, drawing level with them supplied the answer. “Madam, he is my brother.”

  “Really!” She exclaimed, “And you let me insult him so; I am so sorry,” she said with mock sincerity.

  Richard bent his head to hers and spoke in a voice loud enough for Jack to hear, “He’s a little nervous.”

  “Oh that’s terrible. Well tonight,” she patted Jack’s arm, “you shall be my guest and I shall look after you.” Clicking her fingers she beckoned over a girl. “You look like you need a little fire in your life. My little redheaded Maude will look after you.” Maude attached herself dutifully to Jack’s arm.

  Jack looked at Richard. No words passed between them, but Jack sent his thanks. With the hostess attached to Richard, they set off.

  There were four rooms on the ground floor and in the third one she showed them there were tables for cards, with several games in progress.

  “I think I’d like to start with a game of cards,” announced Jack; he had found his quarry.

  “I agree, Nonny, can you introduce us to a game, there looks a likely table.” Richard said steering her towards a small group of players in the corner.

  Smiling she led them over, “Pray gentlemen I have two more to join you if you have space.”

  Robert Fitzwarren looked up. His eyes met those of Jack. At first there was no recognition, but the moment Richard turned from Nonny and stood next to his brother, his arms gently folded, Robert knew exactly who stood before him. Harry, lounging in a chair next to him, stared at Jack, his mouth not working but opening and closing nonetheless.

  “Cards,” Richard quipped, “the vice of the unwitting, the stupid and the deceived. Surprised to see me?” he asked his brother pleasantly.

  There was little Robert could do: the room was full. This was not a place to start a fight and they both knew it.

  Nonny raised a hand and a servant silently appeared from somewhere to place chairs for them. “There you go, my loves.” She didn’t leave but perched on the arm of Richard’s chair, her arm lightly draped over his shoulders. “For luck,” she whispered into his ear, a little too closely.

  With her seated at the table, there was little anyone could say or do. Richard smiled broadly, slid his arm around her waist and gave her an intimate squeeze.

  “Well then, Harry,” Richard pronounced his name with malicious precision. “What’s the game?”

  “Primero,” one of the other players provided when Harry failed to speak.

 
“Excellent,” Jack noted that a small table had just appeared at his right hand, with wine and food laid out on it.

  “You’ll need your money,” leaning her head next to Richard’s, Nonny asked, “Shall I get it for you?”

  Richard set his shoulders back in the chair. Holding Robert’s stare, he replied, “Why not mademoiselle, we can play together.”

  Her hand slid across his chest and dipped inside his jacket, caressing his chest unnecessarily, before pulling out the leather purse, Richard kept his eyes on the players.

  Nonny loosed the strings and peered inside, then smiled with approval. “Deal, gentlemen,” she commanded.

  The cards flew out across the table and she deftly collected Richard’s, fanned them and held them for a moment, viewing the hand, before folding the cards away. Coins clattered on the table and she sent two of Richard’s skittering to join them. Robert’s hand shook as he threw his down to match them. Richard sent him a disapproving look.

  “Harry, are you in?” One of the other players nudged Harry, who was transfixed, staring between Richard and Robert.

  “Aye, here.” He fumbled clumsily for coins.

  The game ended when Jack, to his delighted surprise, won.

  Robert stood, bowed to the Madam and left, Harry stumbling in his wake.

  “Another game?” Nonny asked.

  “I thought he was dead,” wailed Harry as they readied to leave.

  “They both should be; if you’d not been such a coward on Harlsey Moor he would not have bloody well got away would he? Jack was your servant for God’s sake!” snapped Robert.

  “You said Richard was dead, you said he’d been found a traitor and tried for his crimes, you said…” A hard slap across the face from Robert stilled his tongue.

  “Shut up, shut up,” Robert spat, “let’s get out of here.”

  Leaving the front door of The Angel they turned up the street walking briskly. Robert stopped suddenly; their way was impeded by two men.

  “Going somewhere?” Richard enquired; to his side was Jack.

  “How did you get out of there before us?” Robert said, disbelief in his voice.