Rebellion's Message

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Jack, by all that’s holy. I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  It was bloody Atwood again.

  ‘You bastard! You tried to have me killed!’ I declared. For all my weariness, I would have been at his throat, were it not for all the other men about him.

  ‘Yes, my apologies for that. However, it was urgent that I took the message – and I really didn’t want news of it getting about. Why did my fellows fail to remove you?’

  ‘Your friends here fired a cannon ball into their midst, and they were all struck down at the same time.’

  ‘All killed?’ he looked crestfallen for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Ah, well, that is the fortune of war, I suppose.’

  ‘You know this fellow?’

  ‘Yes, you can leave him. He’s nobody,’ Atwood said dismissively, in what I thought to be a rather hurtful tone.

  The man in the pale jack who had touched the gates sent one of his men to demand wine and joined us. ‘You are privileged,’ he said heavily. ‘You see us at the moment of our destruction.’

  I looked at them. There were some forty men now, all downcast. Some few had walked to benches or stools and now slumped. One had pulled off his helmet and sat with his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking – whether from the result of his exertions or from tears, I could not tell. Others stood, but their faces were deathly pale. These men had seen too much. They had risked all, and now they would lose everything. A queen who has been threatened by rebels would be unlikely to be forgiving.

  ‘What did you expect?’ I said. ‘Did you think the city would throw its gates wide?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wyatt said simply. ‘That was what we expected.’

  ‘It’s what the note said,’ Atwood shrugged. ‘It assured us that the London mob would be on our side. That was why I couldn’t let you live. But you saw it, of course.’

  Luckily, at that point the maid appeared with cups and a pair of large jugs of wine. The men grabbed it and set to pouring, which was a distraction to the whole company.

  Me? I felt as though the whole of my world had suddenly collapsed. My belly lurched, and I could taste the ale trying to rise up and throttle me, and I teetered as if about to fall. My eyes went up to the balcony, searching for bloody Blount, but I couldn’t see him. I took a long draught of ale and managed a weak, ‘Oh.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Wyatt asked plaintively. ‘We did all we were asked. We brought the men, we had them trained ready to fight, but the city betrayed us. I held to my side of the bargain. Where is Courtenay? He was supposed to bring the city with him.’

  ‘I think he changed his mind, Sir Thomas,’ Atwood said.

  Wyatt nodded. He looked more exhausted than me. I suppose raising an army in a week, marching a hundred miles or more, and failing to force his queen to surrender, meaning his life was likely to be brief and painful, was enough to make any man weary. He slumped on the bench beside me.

  ‘What did you say when you touched the gate? Were you praying?’ I asked.

  Wyatt glanced at me, but his eyes didn’t seem to see me. They saw something or someone a long way away. ‘I was just saying, “I have kept faith.” I did what I swore to do. The failure or cowardice here was not mine. Bloody Courtenay! I hope someone will make the Earl suffer for his bad faith today. I damn him!’

  ‘Sir Thomas!’ a man called. ‘We cannot wait here!’

  ‘Nay, you are right.’ He stood and drained his cup, then held his hand to me. ‘Sir, I am your servant.’

  I shook it with a feeling of sadness, and soon I was alone. There was the sound of orders being given, and then I heard hoofs clattering on the mud and stones of the roadway, making their way back towards Charing Cross.

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘I know you may be a bit—’

  ‘You and Mark together, you both convinced me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Jack, just take a moment to—’

  ‘Damn you! You didn’t mind me putting my neck on the block, oh no, and then you did that knowing that you’d lied to me as well, didn’t you?’

  ‘Jack, come on, now!’

  I had climbed up the staircase taking the steps two at a time to find Blount and the others standing and looking mildly embarrassed.

  ‘You let me think you were just changing the address on that note, when in fact you were making it an invitation to Wyatt and his men to come here and walk into a trap, weren’t you?’

  ‘Jack, you really do have to lower that sword. Blades make me nervous, and I’m liable to get all fighty,’ Blount said.

  I looked down. I hadn’t even realized I’d drawn my weapon, but there it was in my hand, and it was pointing towards Blount’s throat. It seemed a perfectly good place to leave it. I made a little jab with it.

  Suddenly, I was on my back. I’m not absolutely sure how that happened. I vaguely remember the Bear stepping forward, knocking my blade aside with his forearm, and gripping the hilt of my sword, and then seeing his fist moving forward as though it was about to hit my nose. Actually, I think it did. There was an awful lot of blood on my shirt when I looked down, and I have to admit that if there’s one thing I really hate to see, it’s my own blood. I burped and brought up a little dribble of thin vomit. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  Blount crouched at my side and peered down at me thoughtfully. ‘You know, if you were not such an incompetent fool, you would make a very good ally. I like the way you killed Roscard. That showed real skill. However, I truly dislike seeing knives or swords pointing at me.’

  ‘Why? Eh? Why did you let me think that message was going to—’

  He held up his finger. ‘Hush. No names, I think. One never can be sure who is listening. But as to the message we let you give to Atwood, why, I would have thought that was obvious. We wanted Wyatt to come here with all his men so that he could be crushed. You see, we Catholics have to club together to ensure that the queen survives.’

  ‘No matter who dies, you mean!’ I said, and I meant it to bite. I was being harsh, I know, but I was offended. Who wouldn’t be?

  His eyes hardened. ‘England just now is a powder barrel sitting atop a fire. Soon it will grow too hot. My job is to keep moving it about so that the heat never gets so severe that the barrel explodes. Where tempers are fraying, I move the barrel: a man tries to incite rebellion, I destroy him; a mob attempts to riot against the queen, I inspire them to attack where I know the army is strongest; France tries to upset the queen’s plans to marry, I find proof of French bad faith. In short, whatever our Catholic queen requires, I will seek to accommodate her. Yes, occasionally it means convicts, felons and otherwise disreputable fellows who live by thieving the purses from the innocent may be thrown into the fire, but better that than see the entire powder keg explode. And you are one of those, like me, who is fortunate enough to have been placed here at the right time to save our queen.’

  I was almost convinced. But then I caught a glimpse of the Bear’s grin, and suddenly any conviction I had held dissipated. No, I didn’t believe him. Not a word.

  Blount continued, head on one side, eyeing me slyly. ‘However, I wonder whether you are a mere pawn in this game, or whether I may have a greater use for you.’

  ‘Me?’ I would have squeaked, but with the blood blocking my nose so severely, I couldn’t do more than mumble.

  ‘I had no idea you were quite such a competent assassin,’ he said. He gave me a smile and a salute. ‘I think my master and I may have a use for you.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  It was almost dark by the time I left the inn and made my way up the road to Bill’s house.

  My mood was not sunny. It had taken me an age to persuade the guards at Ludgate to open the postern door for me, because the fools were convinced that there would be another rebel army behind me. Perhaps they thought I was a one-man forlorn hope, determined to sacrifice myself in the aim of opening the gate to my comrades. It took a lot of shouting and several insults before I managed to speak to m
y captain – who was still there and hadn’t managed to stir himself to put his own neck in danger, as he had with Rob, Bill and me – and finally persuaded him to have the gate opened.

  ‘Not that you’re the sort of man the city wants in any case,’ he grunted as he finally let me in.

  I made my way slightly haphazardly from the gate to the Black Boar, where the ale was moderately unwatered, but the serving wenches were better-looking than the whores in Piers’s stews, and a lot cheaper. I had a half gallon of ale, and from there made my way towards Deneburgh Lane.

  On the way, I saw a happy-looking maid. Not, perhaps, a young maid, but a young woman, anyway, a flaxen-haired wench with sharp features, who was walking arm in arm with a brash-looking fellow in velvet. Their smiles were enchanting as they stared into each other’s eyes as though no one else in London mattered. So many would be relieved at the news of the broken rebellion, and I thought jealously to myself that there would be more than a few babies created this evening.

  Yes, I was cheerfully drunk when I got to Deneburgh Lane. The ales had been strong, my belly was full, and I was comfortable after a portion of beef pie from the Boar and a snatched kiss from a young, buxom blonde, who slapped my face after I kissed her, complaining about the blood on my face and my unwanted attentions. Still, it was worth the slap.

  I climbed the stairs, knocked at the door and almost fell inside. Bill would probably tell me to piss off out of it, but tonight, if he tried it, I would tell him to … well, go away. I was tired, battered, bruised, worn out and fed up with being evicted. I wanted the company of friends again. Failing that, Bill and the others would have to do. And Moll, of course. Lovely Moll. She didn’t deserve to be latched on to Bill. Or have Bill latched on to her, more like.

  Actually, I thought, as I sat down and pulled the stopper from my costrel to take a long draught of refreshing ale, it was rather like a marriage. I had always seen things from the one perspective – that of Moll’s being scared of Bill, and having to obey his every command; yet when I was with the queen, it was clear that all the men about her were petrified of upsetting her, and I suddenly had a strange insight: when I had watched the two together, it was almost as though Bill was more anxious of Moll than she was of him. But that was mad, because she was only a woman, when all was said and done. It wasn’t as if she was as powerful and wilful as a queen! The plain truth was, Bill was worried that he might lose her, and that was why he was so pissed off with me. He knew that she adored me. It was there in her eyes, right enough. He could see it, too. She would be likely to throw him over to get her hands on me.

  You know, I had always had a thing for Moll, but even after the ales, even now, sitting cross-legged on the floor in that cold building, I had a sense that my reasoning might not be a hundred per cent. There was a thought tapping at the back of my mind and waving heartily to try to attract my attention, but I wasn’t paying much attention to it just now.

  Moll appeared first, and when I grinned and waved to her, she seemed surprised to see me. ‘What … why are you here? Bill will go absolutely mad if he finds you here!’

  ‘He’ll be fine, and besides, I’m past caring. I’ve had a miserable last few days, and I just need somewhere to sleep.’

  Her eyes went from me to move about the rest of the room, and she gave a little half smile. I was sure I understood her thinking: here, she thought, was a man on whom she could rely. She knew I would always love her, and would never bully or denigrate her. In my ale-filled state, I thought I could see into her mind like a physician peering into a sample of piss, and I liked what I saw. She was desperate for companionship and a man who would give her the affection and security she craved. I knew that. It seemed only sensible to let her know.

  ‘I love you, Moll. You know that. I’ve always loved you,’ I said. ‘All I want is for you to be happy. So, you come with me and I’ll make you happy.’

  ‘Just like that?’ she murmured, and went to the fire. She began to prepare it, breaking twigs and scraping tinder into a pile. She had a collection of herbs and leaves in a cloth and she set these beside her fire. ‘I think you should go now.’

  There are times when I discover hidden reserves of real stupidity, and this was one of them. ‘I’ll not go without you, Moll.’

  She looked at me then, with a strange stillness about her as she stared deep into my eyes. It made a shiver run up and down my spine, like the claws of a rat hunting for food, and rather than a frisson of sexual excitement, it repelled me. There was no reciprocal love in her face, only a cold calculation that made me feel that she was assessing me compared with Bill. It was as hard as a slap in the face. Colder than the slap I’d received in the Boar. And I’d deserved that.

  ‘You won’t join me?’

  ‘Grow up, Jack.’

  I rose, tottering slightly, trying – probably not terribly successfully – to maintain a certain dignity. She said nothing as I walked out and into the dark evening. She came to help me when I stumbled, but I turned and waved her away with such anger and despair that she didn’t come nearer.

  Miserable, desperate, I walked from the house.

  All right, I thought, so where now?

  My feet had already pulled me towards the home of Mark Thomasson, and I stood outside his door for a while, staring up at it. I disliked the cantankerous old man, but there was no denying he had some skills in deciphering codes, and appeared to have a good understanding of Blount and others. He was a man of the world, a man of experience, and that was something I needed badly just now. I climbed the steps and knocked.

  ‘Oh, so you lived, then,’ Mark said. He was seated, almost enveloped by a thick cloak of red velvet, so that little could be seen of him but his nose and glittering eyes. Peterkin rose and growled at me, but I glared back at the hound. The drinks through the afternoon had left me truculent, and he apparently reconsidered trying his luck. He lay before the fire again, occasionally casting a sulky glance in my direction.

  ‘Yes, I live. So far. At least one of my enemies will not trouble me any more.’

  ‘Roscard, you mean? That was a brave job, trapping him and killing him. And a good idea. He was a bold assassin, and he would have been a difficult opponent in a … fair fight.’

  ‘How did you hear of it?’

  ‘Our friend Master Blount told me. He was most impressed, I have to say. He said he didn’t think you had it in you, and I wasn’t convinced myself. You generally seem so …’ His voice trailed away as he caught sight of my expression. Perhaps my new fearsome reputation was enough to make him rethink his words.

  ‘I want to know who killed David Raleigh and tried to kill me.’

  ‘I’m sure that—’

  ‘No, it wasn’t Roscard. He did not kill David or Gil. I don’t think he had time to get to the alleyway to knock me down in the time it took for me to run from the tavern. Blount didn’t seem to have the time, either. I left him inside the tavern, and while I think him devious, dishonest and capable of murder and worse, I don’t think he killed David. So, who did?’

  ‘Tell me of the day. What happened to you?’

  I closed my eyes. The ales and wine were having their soporific effect. I told him again of the visit to the tavern with David, of the mistaken pass of the purse to me, of my attempt at flight, the gate, the strike on my head, and waking up later.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘The purse? You say it was still with you?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  He glowered at me, without speaking, and then at the fire. ‘If the purse was left behind, then surely the murder was less likely to be for that. A man who found time to knock you down and then stab your companion would surely have made time to search both of you for the purse?’

  ‘Blount or another would have searched David,’ I said. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you have a common fame, Jack. Anyone would assume you had the purse – unless they were not looking for the purse.’

  That was when I remembered the flaxen-haire
d, happy young woman. With a lurch in my belly, I thought of the harpie shouting at David in the street.

  ‘His wife. We saw her in the street before we entered the tavern,’ I said. ‘She accused him of seeing a whore.’

  ‘He was a man,’ Mark shrugged.

  ‘No, she said that he was visiting a wench called Julia Hopwell, that he was frittering away her dowry on this Julia, and that it was ruining their marriage.’

  ‘Julia is no tart,’ Mark said. ‘She is an honourable lady.’

  ‘Why does she need money, then?’

  Mark peered at me. ‘David was a messenger. He had brought news to London. He delivered that news to Mistress Hopwell, and collected a fresh note from her which he was to deliver to Wyatt.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You will need to speak with Blount. I can say no more. Suffice it to say that the money has gone to aid a lady.’

  ‘But Mistress Raleigh thought her husband was conducting an affair, and she was clearly most angry about it.’

  ‘Then I would think you have your murderer.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It took me little time to climb Ludgate Hill to the narrow street north of the cathedral. There, I stared across Canons’ Row towards the house where Gardiner had interrogated me. It left me feeling even more chilled and insecure than Mark’s words had done. I hunched my shoulders and crossed my arms, waiting near the great square mass of the cathedral, with its massive spire pointing like a lance to the sky. I always loved the sight of that great building. It soothed me. And not only because so many purses inside there had enriched me over the years.

  There were prayers being said, and then a chorus of voices. Of course, this was still the happy time when we were all learning the new services, free of the Roman style that had held men in its grasp so long, and there was a hesitancy in the responses. I listened with a growing sadness. I had no one to call my friend. I had lost all. I had no idea where I could go. I would be better back with the yeoman guards or serving the queen, I thought. At least then I would have access to a fire and food. I would have companionship. I even found myself feeling a nostalgic sadness to have lost Atwood.