‘We were so happy when I was told to come here, too. She was already here with Lady Anne, and we had hoped to plan our future, and … and then … we hoped to remain here … that Lady Anne would understand.’
My ears pricked. There was a significant pause there, or I was a Dutchman. ‘Whom do you serve here?’
‘I am here to watch over Princess Elizabeth,’ he said.
‘For whom?’
‘I am a loyal subject of the Queen.’
That could mean anything or nothing. He could mean that he would do nothing against Queen Mary, or he could mean that he was scared to be thought of as disloyal, in which case asserting his credentials was important. However, his wife had been maid to Lady Anne, who was fervently Royalist and supported the Queen. If the squire was to get anywhere, he must surely have supported the Queen, too.
‘You saw Lady Margery. Did you know anything about a seal she used to wear?’ I asked. ‘I have heard it was a valueless trinket of her father’s.’
The squire nodded. ‘It was. She showed it to me once. A small ring with her father’s arms graven on to a small stone. It was nothing valuable, just a cheap stone in a cheap setting.’
‘What use could that be to anyone?’ I wondered.
He shrugged, staring down at his wife’s body. ‘A seal is only of use when a man lives. It’s the proof of his intentions, his signature. But when he is dead, its value dies with it. Death ends all.’
He was maudlin again. Not that it mattered to me. I had to return to the palace before the gates were locked. I rose to my feet. ‘I have to get back. What will you do?’
He explained that he must sit here and hold vigil for the woman. That was fine by me. Personally, I was more interested in getting away from him than listening to his doleful tones. I bid him farewell, and was about to walk from the room when I heard steps – many steps.
I leaned forward to get a view of the road back to the village, and saw a party of men clad in hardened leather, two with steel caps on their heads, all of them armed with swords. They were an impressive sight, especially with their commander at the fore. He looked a particularly warlike warrior.
Slipping back into the room, I flattened my back against the wall.
It was that damned Atwood again.
The men continued, muttering to each other as they set off along the causeway towards the palace. I counted them as they passed by. Three-and-twenty all told, I thought.
‘Squire, did you see them?’ I hissed when they were a safe distance from the hovel.
Squire George looked over at me. ‘See what?’
‘A party of men marching off towards the palace. Are there more soldiers expected?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know of a man called Atwood? This high, good-looking, in a way? Sort of scrawny, but in a way you wouldn’t want to test?’
‘No, I don’t know!’
I described Atwood even so, and he eventually nodded. It was one of the men he had seen near the chamber where Lady Margery was killed.
‘Now, why don’t you go and ask in the tavern or the inn? There are men there who would like to make conversation with you!’ he said. ‘Leave me alone with my grief!’
I could see his point. I wasn’t really helping him, no matter what the midwife had hoped. I glanced at the door, at him, and the woman’s body, and finally summoned up the courage to ease myself outside, where I stood awhile, breathing shallowly and listening carefully. There was a raucous noise from further up the road, where Atwood and his merry men were making enough din to raise the devil. It was still daylight, and I thought I could get up to the inn as Squire George had so refreshingly suggested, but that would mean stumbling into the figure of Sir Thomas Parry once more, and that was not to be borne. He would be certain to have questions, such as why I had returned so swiftly, who were the men who so alarmed me that I allowed myself to be diverted from my duties, and what were they up to?
It was deeply alarming for a poor fellow like me. I stood there indecisively for a long while, my eyes flitting from the causeway ahead and then back to the inn, over and over again until I grew quite dizzy. I had no idea what was my best course of action. I could remain here in the town, hiding in a stable or barn, perhaps, but that would be the end of my regular income. Blount and Parry would not maintain my lifestyle if there was any doubt about my loyalty and commitment, and they would know instantly if I did not return to the palace. Then again, there was the temptation to find out what I could about these ruffians. Perhaps they were threatening the palace. I could discover what they were up to, perhaps, and report back to Blount or Parry, and prove to them how useful I could be. It was worth an attempt, I thought.
I do not pretend to be brave. I am not. I have the heart of the most craven cur in the country when it comes to being attacked by men of the calibre of Atwood, and yet this appeared to me to be little more dangerous than a walk in the woods. Yes, there was always the risk that I might be seen, but if I was, I was at least young and relatively fleet of foot. I saw no reason to fear an assault. Besides, what would they do with someone like me? I was known to be a man of little merit or significance, only a servant to Blount, and even Atwood couldn’t know that I was Blount’s hired assassin.
The causeway was a secure path through the marshes. It was a track that rose a yard or more over the wetlands, with a great curved top. Ruts and muddy puddles abounded, and grasses grew at the edges and the middle. I walked along swiftly enough, making little noise. Every now and again I paused and listened. Each time I could hear the men ahead of me, even though the road curved like a snake in the grass, and occasional trees blocked the view ahead. There were odd bursts of laughter, as though these were no more than students on a ramble to find another alehouse, but I did not relent in my careful movements. I wanted to make sure that I learned what I needed to without running the risk of discovery.
After a half mile or so, there were some bushes, and I sidled up to them, listening intently. I peered through the leaves, and could see nothing, so continued to raise my head, and there, up ahead, a good two hundred yards away, I saw the men. I nodded to myself and hurried along the road, but I had only got a matter of three paces when something snagged my foot, and I went down like a stooping hawk.
I fought to get back to my feet and was about to run back to the concealment of the bushes when I looked up and found myself confronted by a smiling brute with three front teeth and the odour of a long-dead badger. Those were the good aspects of what I saw.
On the other side of the coin, in his hand he gripped a halberd with a long blade at the tip.
For once, this man didn’t bother to point the blade at my throat or chest, but then he didn’t have to. He would have swung that thing at me before I would be able to get to my feet.
I remained where I was and essayed a smile. He shook his head and called to his companions. ‘Look what I’ve got here!’
Atwood smiled down at me, arms akimbo. ‘So, Master Blackjack, we meet again!’ he said, and began to laugh.
You can hear a man’s soul through his laughter, I was once told. He cannot hide his actual nature when he laughs. If there is simple pleasure, you will hear it; if there is anger, you will hear that too. In Atwood, I had feared to detect something – lunacy or a desire to see me slowly roasted over a hot fire, perhaps – but instead I heard only genuine happiness. It was a relief.
‘I had thought you were not going to come with me, Jack!’ he said, and, leaning down, offered me his hand. ‘I had thought you were so angry after our last escapades together that you would never try to rejoin me.’
‘I don’t know why you would think that,’ I said, although in my mind was the time in London when he had been close to slitting me from groin to gizzard. Still, he’d perhaps forgotten that. And the other time at London Bridge … although I was happy to allow bygones to be gone. I patted myself down. There were generous splashes of mud on my hosen and jack from rolling on the groun
d, and I took in the sight of my besmottered clothing with irritation and dismay. This jack had been my best with its charming, light colour, and now it was liberally stained with my blood and with mud from the roadway. It looked shabbier than a peasant’s third-hand cotte. I felt very undignified, and very unlike a Londoner. And the worst of it was, my spare shirt and hosen had been in my pack. They had been discarded when my bag had been upended in the pile of trash, I assumed. Certain it was that I would never see them again. So I was forced to wear my filthy jack and shirt and torn and stained hosen.
‘It’ll soon dry and clean off,’ Atwood said. ‘What were you doing here?’
‘He was following us, just as you thought,’ my friend the giant with the halberd said. ‘He was skipping along like a spy, and peeping out between the branches of the bushes to keep an eye on you. Shame he didn’t count, eh?’
I could have taken a dislike to the man. ‘I was returning to the palace, and didn’t want to walk through the middle of a large group of men such as this,’ I said firmly, and truthfully. ‘A man will walk warily when he meets a gathering of warlike fellows.’
‘Fair enough! So, Jack, my old friend, how are you? It was hard to speak in the palace itself, but I left you deep in conversation with Bedingfield’s daughter. She would tempt an angel down from heaven, that wench! You look well enough but for your nose, by God’s pains! Look at the quality of your clothes, Jack! Granted, they’ve seen better days, but they’re much better than the average draw-latch or dipper could hope to win. You have been fortunate!’
‘Well, a man shifts for himself as best as he can,’ I said.
‘And Master Blount pays you well?’
‘He is a good—’ Too late I realized I had slipped into his trap. When we had met before, this fellow and Blount were on very different sides of the table. Where one supported the rebels with Lady Jane Grey, Blount was for the Princess. Personally, I was for myself and no one else, but that was not the kind of statement I felt comfortable making in front of these men, all too many of whom were fingering weapons and glancing at me in the way that children would peer at saplings before cutting them down to make temporary bows. It was not a pleasant feeling.
‘I know. Master Blount is a good man in a hard world,’ Atwood said. ‘And he has his own path to tread.’
‘I doubt he’ll go far. He was captured and taken to be questioned, you remember?’ I said. ‘He will tell all, no doubt.’
‘No, he wouldn’t speak. To do so would endanger all he holds dear.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, although I couldn’t imagine what a man would hold more dear than his own flesh and bones.
‘But what are you doing following us? You must have known we would see you before long. You know me well enough to know I am a cautious commander. I take no risks.’
‘I didn’t know who was with this group. I had been to the town, and was on my way back to the palace.’
‘What drew you to the town? I hoped you were following me as I had suggested.’
‘Well, I would have done anyway, but I had other business.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘My own business.’
His smile broadened and I saw him nod to the giant. Suddenly, my arms were gripped by the elbows, and I could only squeak with alarm as I saw Atwood draw his knife once more. The blackened blade with the shining edge approached my throat again.
‘Tell me, Jack, what other business did you have?’
‘I was there to see Master Thomas Parry,’ I said quickly. After all, a fellow can be badly injured by a lunatic with a knife, and I see no point in submitting to torture unnecessarily.
‘Thomas Parry? Princess Elizabeth’s steward and counsellor? The man who looks after her finances? What were you doing with him?’
‘He is the man Blount works for. I went to tell him what had happened to my master.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘That I should guard the Lady Elizabeth to the best of my ability.’
He chuckled at that, and the knife moved towards my throat. I leaned back and he chuckled again. It touched my neck near my main vein, and the touch made me whimper. It was like a snake’s kiss.
‘And what will you do?’
‘I … I don’t know!’
‘I do, Master Blackjack! You will do as you were told,’ he said, and suddenly I was released, and his knife was hidden in its sheath once more. ‘You will hurry to the palace ahead of us, and you will learn all you can, and in the morning you will see me out by the bakery where my cart was kept, and you will tell me of anything of interest that relates to the Princess Elizabeth’s safety.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because, you poor fool, we both serve the same master now,’ Atwood said pityingly.
DAY FOUR
I made it to the gates before dusk and the curfew, although my feet felt like lead and my world felt as though it was slipping from me.
All the way, I was thinking about his words to me. He wanted me to spy on Princess Elizabeth for him – that was plain. So now I was stuck between the commands of Thomas Parry to protect her, and the demands of Atwood that I should betray her to him. For that was, I was certain, the result of his order. I could not believe that he too served Sir Thomas Parry. Harvey was there for Parry, too. He had told me so, and Sir Thomas had mentioned that there was an accomplice. No, it was more likely Atwood was there for his own advantage. He was trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Yet I had to wonder: Atwood had been a keen rebel against the Queen; he felt Queen Mary to be dangerous because of her faith. Perhaps he had thrown in his lot with Parry after all?
Not for the first time, I felt the horror of being a spy. To be thrust into great events, running the risk constantly of being discovered and slain, to live with the fear of a rope about the neck or a knife at the throat, and never any peace or security – that was a true, living hell. I just had to hope that I could survive long enough to discover an escape of some sort.
I entered the gatehouse and glanced upwards to the chamber where the Princess was being held. Then I was in the yard, and with nowhere else to go, I turned and strolled to the chamber where Master Blount had been sleeping.
His bed looked inviting, and I sat on it. I was not ready for sleep yet. I perched there on the edge of the palliasse and toyed with a thread on my muddy and ruined jack. In the space of a couple of days I had endured attacks, had my nose broken, been captured and held at knifepoint, watched my master being beaten and hustled away, and then commanded to risk my life to protect the Princess by both Thomas Parry and blasted Dick Atwood.
I had lost count of the number of times someone had tried to injure or kill me. Out of interest, I began to enumerate them, ticking them off on my fingers as I went. I could do with a cup of strong ale, or even a small wine, I thought. I remember that distinctly, and I was about to get up and fetch something when suddenly I was aware that I was lying full length on the bed and the room was filled with daylight. All about me I could hear the noises of a manor at work and the sun was streaming in through the windows. Somehow I must have dozed off.
Opening the door and looking up at the sky, I guessed it was still too early to break my fast. Like so many old-fashioned homes, Woodstock still had only two meals a day and the first would be in the hour before noon. Still, there were delicious wafts of baking bread and cooking meats emanating from bakery and kitchens, promising a wholesome meal before long.
I pulled the door to behind me and made my way across the yard, but before I could get far, I heard the rumble of wheels, and turned to see Dick Atwood riding in, kneeling on the boards of his cart. He smiled cheerfully and lifted his whip in acknowledgement when he saw me, and I gave him a sour nod in return. I didn’t want to make a scene, but nor did I want his welcome. Behind him there was a series of wagons with provisions of different types. The thought gave rise to a sour discontent in my belly, and I decided to turn away and fetch a thin ale, both to settle my stomach
and also to swill my mouth. It tasted foul.
I waited until the horses and carters were past, and then made my way across the courtyard, but before I could take a third pace, my shoulder was taken in a ham-like grip, and a deep voice rumbled beside me.
‘It may be early but in this Godless manor, I daresay it matters little. There must be a quart of ale to break our fast.’
It was Harvey. My Friar Tuck was smiling broadly for the guards, except now there was no sign of amiable pleasantness in his eyes, only a stony determination.
For all that his face was wreathed in smiles, there was a decidedly piercing quality to the look he gave me. I was given the conflicting impressions that he was an affable buffoon and sharp, shrewd politician, expert in dissembling. Even now, I’m not certain which he was.
‘Why does everyone want me to jump from my skin?’ I demanded. My heart was pounding painfully, and appeared to have migrated to the base of my throat.
Harvey held up his hand and made the sign of the cross over me, with a grin that could have fitted any pirate eyeing a Spanish treasure-ship.
‘My son,’ he announced, ‘I am in dire need of refreshment. Let us repair to the buttery, where we can partake of a small beer. For our health, you understand?’
‘It’s over there,’ I said, pointing.
He leaned down a little. ‘Let us pretend that I am a little confused about the direction, and at the same time we can pretend I won’t happily rip off your arm and beat you senseless with the bloody end unless you hurry and lead me there, shall we?’
‘I’ll take you there, Master,’ I said.
I led him away from the gates and into the hall, where I bade him sit while I gathered our drinks. I filled myself a pot first, sank it, and then refilled my pot before filling a jug with wine. There were goblets on the sideboard, I had seen.
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