Death Comes Hot

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The clothing would be about your size,’ I said. A good hangman will never turn down the possibility of a quality suit of clothes.

  He gazed at me. I could see he was tempted.

  ‘All you need do is take him on a handcart and dispose of him. In the river, or in a grave, if you have a spare.’

  He looked at his ale, and I could see that the result lay in the balance. I leaned forward. ‘And, of course, it will help me to find your wife. She appears to have disappeared. It will be difficult to seek her without impediments, but if I must call a coroner, and endure the long investigation of a dead body, it will take time, and the trail to Moll could go cold and be lost forever.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Good man! I will pay you a shilling, too.’

  ‘Two shillin’s.’

  ‘Of course. Two it is.’

  I rose and took my leave of him. Had he but known, I would have paid more than double that to be rid of Seymour’s carcass.

  The house was quiet when I returned, and I had to knock with a will on my own front door. There was silence for a while, and then a whine: ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Open the door, Raphe. I need to come in. Be quick!’

  I could hear the great horizontal bar lifted from its slots, then the two bolts drawn back, and the third, and then the key slowly turned in the lock. At last the door was pulled open a little way, and my fearful servant’s face appeared. I pushed him back. His face was red where blood had been carelessly wiped over his features, and he had the look of a man who had peered over a wall, only to see Hell and all its demons on the other side.

  ‘Go and wash your face,’ I said curtly, and walked to my parlour.

  There, on the right, was a rolled-up bundle. I was relieved not to have to look into the man’s eyes again. That might be more than I could cope with. The floor was a mess. Water from the bucket used to waken Seymour had flowed liberally, but that was probably a help in cleaning up the blood. It meant that the blood had not clotted and thickened on the floor. When it came to Raphe’s arrival with a bucket and cloths, collecting the worst of the blood was easier than it might have been. Not that I thought he would like me to point that out. At least now, when he reported me to my master, John Blount would have fresh eye-witness confirmation that I was a sadistic assassin.

  But just then I didn’t want to think of bodies.

  Westmecott arrived at three o’clock. He was dressed as a labourer, wearing a leather hood with a long, trailing section that protected his back. He slid in through the door as subtly as a bullock entering a tavern, slamming the door wide. I could smell the ale on his breath as he loudly made his way into the parlour and stood staring down at the rolled figure. He had a rather green face, and I was alarmed to see how this additional death had affected him. Not that it was a surprise. Perhaps there are men who can cope with daily being forced to mete out violence and death on others, but for most, surely, such an occupation must start to pall. I myself was not made for this type of business, as my own shock and sickness had demonstrated. But a man like Westmecott was cut from a different cloth entirely. He was supposed to be inured to the daily rounds of torture and savagery inflicted on others, and yet here he was, looking sick to his stomach at the thought of dealing with yet another body. Was it any surprise that men like him turned to alcohol as the only way to cope with their foul tasks?

  He gulped a bit and gratefully accepted my offer of a strong ale to settle his bowels. A quart disappeared in what looked like four swift glugs, and he did appear a little more comfortable after that, but there was still a strained look to him. His eyes still stared madly, like a newly caught pike wondering where all the water had gone, and his hands fluttered a little.

  ‘Would you like some help carrying the … the thing?’ I said.

  He nodded gratefully, and I called Raphe, telling him to assist the fellow in any way he could, and then sat down. But it was uncomfortable. My eyes kept being drawn to the soggy mess on the floor where the appalling Seymour had died. And, of course, there was the memory of the knife sliding in … all in all, I was not comfortable there, and no matter how I tried to divert myself, it was soon clear that I would not be.

  Raphe returned after some little while, shaking his head. ‘He’s not right in his head,’ was his conclusion. ‘I’ve never seen an executioner close up before, but you could see he hates it. He’s weak about death, that one.’

  ‘Don’t demean others, just because they do things you disrespect,’ I said loftily, and his eyes suddenly shot to me, as if he was reminding himself that I was the most dangerous man in London, and that his own life could be snuffed out as easily as Anthony Seymour’s had been.

  ‘I need to go out. Don’t let anyone in while I am gone. I will return late. Meanwhile, make the fire good and hot, and clean up the last of the dampness in here,’ I said, and walked out.

  Over the years I have heard tell of men who have been so appalled by acts they have committed, or even witnessed, at war that they have become driven by terrible dreams or even lost their minds completely.

  This was not ever an affliction I had expected to suffer from, but today, as I walked London’s busy streets, I was struck with a sense of dislocation and almost dizziness. It felt as though I was walking through a thick mire, and my head began to swim. All the while, in my mind’s eye I could see the face of the man as he felt my knife sink into his flesh. To know that the blade was slipping into his body must have been hideous for the poor fellow.

  Yes, I was perfectly able to think of him as a ‘poor fellow’, even though he had been beating me only minutes before. It would not be kind to hold a grudge against a man just because he had been thinking of injuring me. Not now I had killed him.

  Killed him. Those words felt peculiarly final, which, of course, they were – for him. It made me feel queasy again, but not as queasy as the next thought, which was that I must be careful not to emulate Anthony by being killed. Because Anthony’s brother would want to avenge him, I had no doubt. So I must ensure that no news of the man’s death was ever spread by a dolt, for example, who lived in my house and was notable for his utter foolishness and incomparable lack of tact. There were times when I seriously worried whether the boy had a brain between his ears.

  I hesitated. Mayhap this would be a good time to put in place the plan that I had been harbouring for some time, a plan which involved fleeing my usual haunts and making my way to a quiet town or village far from London. Somewhere I could hide myself in among the population and be content with my safety.

  How far from London would I have to travel? If Edward’s talk earlier had been anything to go by, I might well be safest by leaving London completely, and putting at least two hundred miles between us. However, I wasn’t certain that two hundred miles would be enough. The man had shown determination in the past. Considering this was an affair that could be considered a matter of honour, seeing violent retribution for the death of his brother, I suspected that a mere two hundred miles would not be adequate.

  I was walking along the road as I considered my options, and whether I should be thinking of moving to, say, France or Prussia, when I was forced to halt by the sudden appearance before me of Geoffrey Thorney.

  ‘At last!’ he said. ‘I’ve been searching for you!’

  Well, I was glad for him. I had clearly fulfilled his most enthusiastic aspiration of the day, but I did not reciprocate his joy. Sadly, I had no desire to spend time with him. I was more keen on working out my own best approach to evading Edward Seymour. That and trying to forget the sensation as I pressed on what I had thought was a blunt knife, only to find it sinking into the man’s leg and killing him. It was such a strange, soft feeling …

  ‘I am in a hurry,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to think.’

  ‘Do you have any news?’

  His eag
erness was almost enough to make me vomit. All I could think of just then was the body that Westmecott had removed. Whether someone would connect that to me, and whether my master would learn of it, or of the boy and Moll and Peggy. And meanwhile I was feeling the lack of Humfrie. The thought that the second Seymour might soon be hunting for me was enough to make me gibber. I had suffered enough from the more amiable of the two brothers, and now this second might seek me to learn what had happened to Anthony.

  He continued, ‘I think that the Seymours took my brother to a house in Whitehall,’ he said. ‘I have heard that they had a boy and his mother there at the same time. I heard from a groom that they were keen to keep the boy and his mother for some reason. They took my brother back to his church just before he was arrested.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I don’t know who the mother and child were.’

  ‘That would be Moll and Ben,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘Who are they?’

  I irritably gestured as if waving away a wasp. ‘I believe Edward Seymour knows the boy and is seeking to protect him. Moll was the lad’s wet-nurse.’

  ‘Why would he need a priest there?’

  ‘To see him baptized? To make sure that he has been confirmed? He is too young to marry.’ Although Moll isn’t, I thought. And she was available.

  ‘I think Edward Seymour means to win money and status,’ Geoffrey said. He had moved into my path, blocking my way, and now he stared into my eyes with the earnest conviction of a priest sermonizing about heaven. ‘He will do anything to achieve that.’

  ‘Eh?’

  He looked a little surprised at my incomprehension. ‘He is a greedy man, a rich man who wants more. He’s prepared to kill others like poor James to have his way. Where is this Moll? We need to speak to her and her son.’

  ‘Moll has been taken by Seymour, I think. I don’t know where.’

  ‘She has been taken? No good can come to her from being held captive by him – we must save her!’

  I was a little short, I fear. I indicated to him that Moll was perfectly capable of looking after herself, that she was an unimportant figure in the scheme of things, that Seymour would be unlikely to worry about the wet-nurse of the child, and that I had rather more pressing matters to deal with.

  ‘But we have to find her and release her. She should not be tortured for the failings of the Seymour clan.’

  ‘Tortured? Who said anything about torture? Why would someone torture her? And what failings of the clan?’

  He shook his head and tutted. ‘Master Blackjack, do you not realize the importance of this woman?’

  I was tempted to punch him. In the last hours, I had been attacked by Anthony Seymour, beaten, bound, threatened – and even suffered the shock of accidentally killing the man. And now this fellow was patronizing me. Well, I had endured enough, I felt. ‘Not realize? By all the saints, she was a paragon of virtue, the wife of a good, honest executioner, a whore who sold her body all over London. Yes, and then sold her own pap as a wet-nurse. What a vital woman! Why would the Queen’s people have any interest in a woman like her? You have allowed your imagination to have free rein, Geoffrey, and I understand your anger at the loss of your brother, but in God’s name, man! Be sensible!’

  I had allowed myself to run on rather, but I did have good reason. This fellow was pointlessly wasting my time when I really needed peace and freedom to think what I should do next.

  He looked like a mouse gripped in the talons of an eagle. I thought his eyes would pop from their sockets.

  ‘You did not know? The wet-nurse’s charge? You didn’t realize who she was feeding?’

  ‘Oh, do tell me! I suppose it was the Queen’s illegitimate son?’ I said with sarcasm so profound that it was a surprise it did not scorch his ears.

  ‘No. Not hers.’

  ‘There, then.’

  ‘Her half-sister’s – Lady Elizabeth’s.’

  ‘You see? I told you …’ I stopped, my mouth gaping. ‘Whose?’

  We repaired to a tavern, and once safely ensconced on a bench at the back of the place where it was quieter, each of us with a jug of strong ale, he continued his story.

  I listened, I have to say, spellbound. But not in a pleasant way.

  ‘When I learned that the Seymours had taken my brother, I went to learn all I could about them,’ he said. He wore such a damnably earnest expression that I had an urge to punch him on the nose. ‘The Lady Elizabeth was living with Lord Seymour of Sudeley. Lord Sudeley, Thomas Seymour, had married Queen Catherine, King Henry’s last wife. Seymour sought to enhance his position by the marriage. His brother Edward had already been made Lord Protector and Duke of Somerset. He was very powerful, and Thomas Seymour wanted to improve his own status. He had himself made Lord Admiral of the Navy, but that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted money, lands and power. When Elizabeth was young, she was installed in Queen Catherine’s household. The Queen was her stepmother, after all. When Lord Sudeley married the Queen, he realized that the royal princess could aid his ambitions, and sought influence over the lady.’

  ‘His wife would not have been keen.’

  ‘I have been told others think she indulged him because she was fond of Elizabeth, and was happy to see that the two were content in each other’s company. When she realized her error, it was too late.’

  ‘You cannot mean this. The Lady Elizabeth? With child?’ I cast my memory back to the slim figure I had met briefly at Woodstock. There was nothing of the blowsy, motherly figure about her. She did not look like a woman who had ever given birth.

  ‘Aye. A Seymour child. Lord Sudeley was arrested for his molesting of a royal princess, taken to the Tower and beheaded. Princess Elizabeth was sent to a new guardian who was more trustworthy.’

  ‘Surely this is wrong! The Queen would not allow her husband to be executed?’

  He gave me a confused look which soon turned to pity. ‘It was Queen Catherine, the dowager Queen, widow of King Henry. The woman who outlasted him. Do you not remember her?’

  I forbore to point out that at the time I was still an apprentice and hardly interested in the goings-on among the great nobles in the kingdom.

  ‘The tale of the affair was bruited about far and wide. Queen Catherine was in the last weeks of her confinement. It was only eight years ago! Princess Elizabeth was sent to a knight called Denny, but the damage was already done. Queen Catherine gave birth but soon after died of childbed disease, poor lady. And then Lord Thomas was arrested.’

  He sighed. ‘His own brother signed his death warrant. Edward had no choice. The allegations were proved against Lord Sudeley. He had been seen too often in Lady Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He was seen to have dallied with her, tickled her, even threatened to jump on her bed. There could be no doubts. Even Thomas Parry, her Comptroller, was questioned, and her chief lady of the bedchamber, Kat Ashley, and they confirmed the truth of it.’

  I was stunned. ‘You must be wrong!’

  ‘It is all written down. Lord Sudeley’s prosecution and execution are well known. His behaviour with the Lady Elizabeth is common knowledge, and the scandal it caused.’

  I could not argue with his conviction, and yet I was held bound by my own hideous certainty that he must be wrong. He had to be wrong.

  Why?

  Well, because if he was right, my master, John Blount, and his own master, Thomas Parry, had willingly ordered me to murder the son of Lady Elizabeth.

  I was not sure what the punishment would be for the murder of a royal prince, or even the bastard son of a royal princess, but I had a strong conviction that the end of a man found guilty of such a crime would not be pleasant.

  This was not good news. That Moll had been captured and taken to Whitehall was confusing, but spelled little that could be thought of as good. Moll had been taken alone, and her boy left behind. Did that mean it was Moll who was the focus of Edward Seymour’s interest? If questioned by officers, she must surely admit to being only
a wet-nurse. She might not even know that she had fed and nursed Lady Elizabeth’s little boy. But if he was Elizabeth’s son, and if that became known, matters must grow horribly difficult for all of us. And Seymour would benefit.

  My reasoning ran along simple lines: if the pious Queen Mary were to learn that her sister, whom she had now declared illegitimate (because Queen Mary’s mother remained the true Queen even after the King divorced her and remarried in the new Church of England faith – thus, when King Henry became wedded to Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mother, that marriage could not have been legal and any children were by definition bastards), had entertained a man in her bed – and not just any man, but the husband of Queen Catherine, the widow of the King – the Queen must fly into an unsisterly rage. To have accepted him, perhaps to have seduced him, would be the most shameful act imaginable. If Elizabeth had done so, and the boy could be produced as evidence against her, all those at court who detested her and distrusted her would clamour for the most exemplary punishment. Since she had already been suspected of plotting to have Mary removed, and of trying to have herself installed on the throne, the condign punishment would be that of death, surely.

  But the ramifications of that were appalling. If she were to go, then so would Sir Thomas Parry, because he would very likely be arrested and held on suspicion or executed; John Blount would have no household or master, so he would become a wandering individual, which meant that I would also lose my living, my house, my little luxuries. It was a thing deeply to be appreciated that I had saved up much of my money in the last year, and would at least have access to some funds. But I would have to find a new way of living. I had seen other men with money, who had immediately visited a tavern on realizing that their income was based on unsteady grounds, and who were neatly divested of all their savings in one night’s gambling, drinking and whoring. To think that my own money could be lost to a pleasing harpy and her card-playing cove was enough to make the sweat burst from my brow.