A Queen's Traitor

by Sam Burnell

  “God, did you see Harry on his knees grunting, trying to pull his boots off,” Jack laughed, “I’d say that we’d better be gone very soon as well. He’ll be after more than our blood after that. I think there’s a fair chance he’ll give Clement a bloody hard time as well.”

  “And that bothers you?” Richard asked.

  “Not at all, as long as Clement keeps his mouth shut,” Jack replied.

  “He will,” Richard replied, “Firstly, because however much he fears Robert he knows that he is unlikely to kill him, whereas we on the other hand might just do that and secondly he scents a profit.”

  “Bloody lawyers. To say I actually went to him and trusted him.” Jack shook his head. “Well if tonight is to be our last in London, then I am going out.” Shrugging off his jacket and swapping it for the one of Robert’s he had been carrying. Holding his arms out in front, he examined it. “Good fit: and what have we here?” Out of one of the pockets he pulled a purse and three cards. “The cheating bastard.”

  “I did wonder,” Richard sounded amused.

  “Knowing you as I do,” Jack looked at the faces of the cards and then back at his brother, “you could probably tell me what they are?”

  “One is certainly a seven of clubs,” Richard spoke in a matter of fact manner. “The player to the left of Harry discarded it; you needed it, that was obvious and I would guess Robert picked it up along with his card.”

  “And the others?” Jack queried in disbelief.

  “I needed a Queen, but you had the one I really needed…”

  “How did you know that?” Jack blurted.

  “Simple,” Richard replied, smiling.

  “How? I gave nothing away.” Jack exclaimed.

  “You didn’t, but I asked Nonny to tell me what you held,” Richard smiled. “Remember she filled your glass up for you and while she did…”

  “She looked at my cards. Anyway stop changing the subject, what are these other two cards?” Jack pressed.

  “I would say…”

  “Yes…”

  “I would say a three of diamonds and, let me see, yes I have it, a four of spades,” Richard finished triumphantly.

  “How did you do that?” Jack was looking at the three cards he held: the seven of clubs, three of diamonds and a four of spades.

  “Ah, well if I told you everything I’d never win again, would I?” Richard said.

  “No come on tell me, we only played one hand, the deck was not even half way through so how could you what that these three cards were going to be? I’ll accept the seven of clubs, but the other two? How? Tell me?”

  “Oh very well,” spoke Richard patiently, as if he were talking to a child.

  “The three of diamonds was a card that Harry needed; he’d already picked up a four of diamonds and I had the two, so it was a fair bet he needed the three of diamonds. He was sitting next to Robert, who we know cheats, so it’s more than a fair assumption that he looked at poor Harry’s hand. The player on the left of Harry, however, was intent on spades, he’d picked up a three of spades. You held the five of spades, so the card he was missing was either the four of spades or the six of spades and Robert had the six, so then it had to be…”

  “How could you know what was in Robert’s hand, he was opposite you?” Jack complained.

  “Does it matter, the fact remains that he held the six and so to frustrate his opponents hand he had palmed the four of spades off the table as well. It was obvious.” Richard finished, a little too triumphantly.

  The look on Jack’s face clearly told Richard that he didn’t think it was in any way obvious at all. “How do you do it?” he ran his hands through his hair, “I’m far from stupid, yet I have no grasp on how you do this, it’s a great skill.”

  Richard saw the pain on Jack’s face and for once relented. “Robert took his jacket off and what did he do with it?”

  Jack looked confused.

  “What did he do with his jacket, think?” Richard repeated.

  “He flung it in your face,” Jack replied.

  “And then?” Richard asked.

  “You handed it to me,” Jack said cautiously.

  Richard shook his head.

  Jack looked at him blankly, then realisation dawned. “You bloody well looked in his pockets before you gave it to me!”

  Richard grinned.

  Still talking as they mounted the steps to the rented rooms, neither noticed that the door was slightly open. Had they listened they might have heard the voices of the men in the room waiting for them. As it was they heard nothing and Jack, entering first, didn’t even see the blow that felled him, sending him into an unconscious heap on the floor.

  Lizbet stopped at the bottom of the stairs, depositing the basket on the first step as she paused to push back a coil of hair that had escaped from behind her ear. Later, she would curse herself for being so preoccupied, for if she had listened as she ascended the stairs, she would have heard the men’s’ voices and the sounds of fists on flesh. As it was though, Lizbet expecting nothing, sailed through the door in her usual way, the scene before her stopping her in her tracks.

  Jack lay face down on the floor, unmoving. Colan was seated at one end of the table and Richard was at the other. However, Richard had his face pressed against the wood, a man behind him holding him down. One eye was already closing to a bruise and there was blood and saliva trickling in a steady stream to pool on the table. The open eye met her horrified stare with an even cold gaze.

  Lizbet swallowed hard and dropped the basket. It contained an earthenware flagon of gilly flower wine Lucy had made for Jack and a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread. The basket tipped and the wine rolled out across the floor, the vessel drumming noisily on the boards before it bumped to a stop against the table leg.

  Colan smiled, reached down and picked up the bottle. “Ah Lizbet, you’ve even brought me a drink, lass.”

  Lizbet said nothing, her gaze swinging between Colan’s beaming face and Richard’s bleeding one.

  “Well she’s here now, you can ask her,” Richard suggested. The man behind him banged Richard’s head off the table again and he grunted at the impact; Lizbet gasped.

  Colan’s face soured.

  Richard though, continued, “I told him that if he’d laid you right the first time then you wouldn’t have minded him coming back for more.” He stopped abruptly as his face was banged again into the table top, Richard spat out blood, “Obviously he’s a lousy…” That got earned him punch to the head.

  “Well, you can watch me in a minute and see what you think!” Colan announced, pulling the stopper from the earthenware jar with his teeth, he spat it across the room and sniffed the contents appreciably.

  “Colan, he’s just trying to fool with you, let him up,” Lizbet gathered her wits. “I’ll get a cup for that, it’s too good to be drinking it from the jar,” she added, moving carefully past him to where the cups stood on the top of the coffer. Returning she poured Lucy’s wine into the cup and put it down in front of him, the wine she put on the coffer.

  “And you, lass, can come back with me,” Colan give Lizbet’s backside a painful squeeze and she smiled at him.

  Colan drained the cup in two quick mouthfuls and licked his lips. “You don’t mind a drop of the good stuff do you?” then holding the cup out to Lizbet, “Fill it woman.” Lizbet returned it to his hands, full. Her eyes catching Richard’s for a moment, she hoped he knew what she had done, he’d certainly been watching her carefully enough.

  Colan eyed her, “And look at you,” his eyes raked her up and down. “A white apron isn’t going to make you what you’re not.” Reaching over, he grabbed the white front and ripped it from her waist.

  Lizbet was not going to back down, “Now, Colan, that was new. Why did you do that?”

  The man with his face against the table made a noise, it took a moment longer for Colan to realise that in fact he was laughing. Reaching across, his massive hand lifted Richard’s head by the
hair and he stared him fully in the face. “Go on, what’s funny now?”

  “Tes un chien et tu as I’intelligece d’un enfant de cinq ans.” Richard seemed still amused.

  “What’s he saying, what’s he said?” Colan demanded banging his fist off the table.

  The man holding Richard down just shook his head and it was Lizbet who spoke, “I don’t know a word of it. Let him up, Colan please, and we’ll just go.”

  “You know what they say,” the amused voice continued, “if you can’t say something nice, then say it in French.”

  Colan’s rage was starting to boil, his face reddening even further at the remark. “What did you say? Tell me, or by God I will make you suffer.”

  “I said you are a dog and a bloody idiot, shall we ask Lizbet for her opinion on that?” Richard suggested spitting out another mouthful of blood.

  Colan stood up. About to send a fist at Richard’s head, he suddenly stopped, his hand instead grasping at the collar of his jerkin. A great whooping gasp escaped his lungs, making him sit back down, eyes wide, and chest heaving with the effort of breathing.

  “Colan, are you alright, Colan?” were the last words spoken by the man holding Richard down. Richard had retrieved the small knife from his boot unnoticed and he used it now slicing at the man’s leg. The man staggered, holding the cut, blood pouring through his fingers as he backed against the wall, terror in his eyes as he saw what Richard meant to do. A brutally hard hand pressed against his mouth a moment later to silence him. The neat blade was first stabbed and then levered around, opening a gaping wound in his throat; air escaped with a sudden hiss, the bloody bubbling from the incision. Lizbet’s stomach convulsed and she staggered against the corner of the coffer, retching.

  Colan just stared from where he sat.

  Richard held the dead man upright. “Get a blanket, quickly.” Lizbet hesitated until she suddenly realised why: blood pumped from the wound, soaking both men and soon it would pool on the floor and drip to the room beneath from between the planking. She appeared with two and the body was deposited onto the rough wool. The room suddenly had a sharp metallic, unpleasant smell.

  Lizbet looked at Richard. There was blood from his neck to his waist. “Is any of that yours?”

  Richard - shaking his head - retook the seat at the table. Colan’s breathing came in shallow noisy gasps, his mouth hung open and saliva ran from it in a gloopy trail down his jacket. Richard met Lizbet’s eyes and asked, “How much did you give him?”

  Lizbet, her face still white, pulled the small bottle from her pocket and shook it. “All of it.”

  Richard returned his gaze to Colan, “As I said, an idiot.” Colan looked like he was trying to speak, his mouth twitching in a drool-ridden mess, but if there were any words they were soundless ones. A moment later he pitched forward onto the table. After a convulsive shake that ran the length of his body he lay still, dead.

  Lizbet put her hands to her mouth, staring at Richard. “Look at you, I am so sorry.” Tears streamed down her face.

  There was a groan from the floor and they both looked at Jack. Lizbet dropped to her knees. “Jack are you alright?”

  Jack pushed himself up. “For God’s sake what’s happened?” Disbelief on his face as he absorbed the scene with two dead men and his brother covered in blood. He tried to push himself to his feet but Lizbet pressed him down. “It’s done Jack, it’s over.”

  Lizbet cried loudly, mumbling endless apologies, as she rocked back and forth, choking from sobs, her breathing irregular and ragged.

  “Lizbet,” Richard’s voice was firm. “Look at me Lizbet!” Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his. “You could have left with Colan, why didn’t you?”

  Lizbet rubbed her running nose across the back of her hand. “They were hurting you, I didn’t want them to,” she wailed, “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “Colan wasn’t going to hurt you was he?” Richard continued.

  “No, I know how to sort Colan. It’s easy to get on his good side, he’s a bit rough but nothing I’m not used to,” Lizbet agreed, still crying.

  “So your choice was Colan who’d not hurt you much, or myself who certainly has hurt you quite a lot. Why Lizbet?” Richard asked quietly. She didn’t answer. Quietly, he asked the question again. “Please Lizbet. Tell me why?”

  “The apple, you bought me an apple.” Lizbet buried her head in her hands and wept. Richard really couldn’t blame her for crying; an apple was not very much to commit murder over.

  †

  It was February and rumours were rife at Court. Quiet ones in corners, cautious words capped with the caveat: ‘Don’t tell anyone.’ The news was such that it would not be contained and within days the whole Court had heard the elaborately embellished rumour that the Queen was no longer with child. Where the news came from no-one was quite certain. The truth of the matter was that Lady Jane Hardwich, attendant to Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Mary, had seen a pile of blooded towels and sheets, replete with crimson lumps and what looked like the twisted wreckage of an incomplete baby.

  Questions were asked. A desk was set up in an antechamber and one by one those closest to the Queen were interrogated. What had they seen? What had they heard? Jane Hardwich braced herself for the questions and answered them with smooth lies as she knew she must. She had seen nothing.

  Her interview over, Jane breathed a little easier. There were others who knew, there had to be! The sheets, towels and the unformed child must have been seen by many. The Queen’s closest ladies must have attended her. Jane couldn’t understand: the child had died, it was not uncommon. Even Queen’s were not immune to the fickle hand of God when it came to births. Why maintain that she was still with child?

  Mary herself had been seldom seen, having now gone into confinement and closeted with only her ladies around her.

  “So are these rumours true?” Phillip was exasperated. “The Lady tells me her doctors tell her she is still with child and give still May as the date it will be born. What am I to think? I can hardly press the Queen on the matter when she is in such a state.”

  “There is no clear path, Your Highness, I agree. It is hard to quantify what we cannot see, we are forced to rely on the Queen. If we don’t we risk upsetting the whole English Court. They are already saying that the rumours regarding the Queen’s condition were started by your servants as we all wish to be gone from this miserable isle,” Alberto said gravely.

  “Well I agree with that; I do wish to be gone. Yet I can’t, not while we are in such limbo. Is there or is there not a child?” Phillip repeated.

  “They say May, Your Grace. Will they be more specific on the date?” Alberto asked.

  “Babes, apparently, can obey their own rules; sometimes it is early May, sometimes late in the month. My nerves are shredded with it, I tell you.” Phillip said impatiently. He was indeed starting to feel like this country and this Queen, were making a mockery of him.

  †

  Colan was found artfully posed in death the following morning, propped against a wall a street away from the inn. A blade was wedged between his ribs and another was grasped in his stiffened hand, his cousin lay dead across his feet, his head at an impossible angle and a gaping wound the night time rats had already found an inviting opening. They were known to be a quarrelsome pair and their demise was the talk of the inn for some days.

  Lizbet had been sombre, reluctant to join in the gossip and her friends assumed it was because she had known Colan, although they could not understand why as he had a been a vicious man with a bad temper and fists he used too freely. After a week the subject was talked out and Lizbet breathed a sight more easily. Mercifully no-one had seen Colan and his cousin coming into the inn and making their way up to Richard’s rooms and he had kept his grudge to himself. The knife that Richard had forced between his ribs before leaving the body in the side street had pierced his already stilled heart, it was assumed that this was the cause of death, what had killed his cou
sin had been fairly obvious to all.

  Chapter thirteen

  †

  The 7th of March 1555 was a Saturday. The incessant wet weather had finally abated, but the air was still bitingly cold, despite the fact that it was no longer laden with icy droplets. The soil on the river bank had reached a soggy saturation where it could hold no more moisture; the surface like ice.

  Both men found themselves on their knees more than once as they scrambled up the slope into the small ornamental garden. The palace was forward-facing and there were few windows at the rear; those that did overlook the garden were shuttered, offering no light to assist their passage through the regimented greenery. The small garden had wide gravelled paths leading around the low hedges of lavender and sage, the diamond shaped topiary designed to resemble green embroidery. Richard, knowing where the paths were, felt his feet tread on gravel. He was about to warn Jack when he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother tripping over the low hedging and pitching himself full-length into the ornamental design.

  “Don’t say a word.” Jack, cursing under his breath, crouched down next to his brother.

  “Would I?” Richard replied quietly, having difficulty stifling a laugh. “At least we were not trying to arrive unannounced!”

  Jack shot him an angry look but swallowed the retort and settled down next to Richard to wait. It was cold, but Jack thought, thankfully, dry. Richard knew they were to time the fire to start just as dusk was starting to fall so ensure maximum confusion in the smoke and the dark. From where the pair waited, they could easily hear the noise of Fairfax’s servants on the other side of the wall, trying to set alight to the woodpile. Fairfax’s plan was going horrendously wrong. The green boughs that were cut and kept for the pyre were now too wet to set alight, following a winter piled against the low wall that separated the two properties.

  They both exchanged exasperated looks: Fairfax’s steward sent out for more tinder. There was a great deal of shuffling and swearing from the other side of the wall, but still the boughs would not catch.