Death Comes Hot

by Michael Jecks

  The Seymour brothers must have learned that their benighted uncle had bedded Elizabeth, and now they were keen to enhance their own position. Where Thomas had married a princess, Anthony and Edward had hit upon the splendid scheme of merely taking their half-cousin … cousin? Half-cousin once removed? I always find these matters thoroughly confusing – anyway, they were taking the son of their uncle and were going to use him and his wet-nurse to advance themselves. The Queen would be happy to reward those who were so loyal that they would bring the child to her. It was not something that impressed me.

  Were the Queen to learn of Elizabeth’s boy, there was no doubt in my mind that I would be among those who would suffer her displeasure. Guilt by association with Sir Thomas Parry would be enough in her mind, and I would be permitted one last chat with my friend Westmecott. That my executioner would be the man who sent me hunting for this woman in the first place did not strike me as amusing or desirable.

  It was odd that he sent me after the woman and the boy when they were not his. That was a thought that made me frown briefly.

  Only briefly, because I had work to do.

  Whitehall was not one building, but rather a series of palaces of a greater or lesser size, with a series of smaller dwellings for all the workers and hangers-on. I had been inside two years ago, when Wyatt’s rebels had come to assault the city, and I disliked the place with a passion. It was here that I had been hunted by a man with a sword who wanted to open my entrails to the weather. The memory of that horrible time was enough to make my queasiness return. And now I was here to see if I could find Moll. And if I could, I must somehow rescue her and take her from here to safety. Perhaps all the way to Humfrie’s sister’s house.

  I stood at the gate to Scotland’s Yard and gazed along the length of the road ahead. It was all horribly familiar. On the right was the long building that was used for stabling, still called the Mews, in honour of the building that once stood here for the King’s falcons, so I have heard. That burned down at least twenty years ago, and this new block was imposing, built in the new style, with great timbers and freshly limed daub. Behind it was the new park that King Henry had designed. I’ve heard it’s a glorious place for a hunt, not that I’d ever have a chance of trying my hand at it.

  Ahead, the road continued on to Westminster, but here all that could be seen were the great houses and tenements of Whitehall. I knew that there were tennis courts, bowling alleys, a cockpit or two, and all the paraphernalia of noble living. I could smell ale being brewed, the scent of freshly baked bread and the odour of cooking meats of all types. Whitehall, so I’d heard, was built by Henry after he took the original house, York Place, from Cardinal Wolsey. He had this new palace built to become a monument to his glory. But it was not a hall or a house – it was a working, living city of its own on the banks of the Thames. There were men dedicated to making food for all those inside, smiths, harness makers, saddle makers, candle makers, brewers, butchers, gunsmiths – in short, every occupation known to man was inside these buildings. I have no doubt that there were whoremasters, too.

  I joined with a few other fellows and entered the gate at Scotland’s Yard, trying to look as if I belonged. Not that I had any real idea about what I should do. All I knew was, I must look for a place where the Seymours might have secreted a woman like Moll. Had they taken her willingly, they might have given her a job, although what she was capable of, I did not know. Perhaps, if there was a whoremaster, she could have been held on his ledgers? But that seemed unlikely. The Seymours would not want her to be out of their sight; if Geoffrey was right and she knew secrets they would prefer to keep that way, they would be unlikely to allow her to wander the lanes and alleyways.

  Of course, they might have taken her in and offered her a simple job, as milkmaid or dairymaid, perhaps. Yet it seemed more likely to me that they would have kept her hidden until they had their hands on her boy and could present both to the Queen. Surely they would have kept her concealed somewhere, until they had recaptured Ben as well.

  I walked on through Scotland’s Yard and found myself at the bank of the river. Over on the opposite bank, I could see the buildings of Southwark and felt a pang of resentment that I was here, working, while over there men were watching the baiting, or seeing a play, or visiting Piers and the wenches of the Cardinal’s Hat, or any one of the other brothels that lined the ways. Yes, I was jealous, and it made me sad to think that here I was, risking my neck to save the life of this woman just so that she couldn’t threaten the position of my Lady Elizabeth. Stiffening my back and pulling my shoulders straight, I reminded myself that I was only here to help her, that my mission was honourable. If I could somehow find Moll and get her away, I would have done a good, selfless thing.

  And then I could keep my house. And head.

  With a fresh resolution, I walked west along the path. It took me to the main courtyard of Whitehall itself, and here the buildings changed subtly. They were very grand and daunting to a fellow brought up in Whitstable. I hurried my steps, feeling as if the buildings were looking down on me. It felt dangerous just to be there.

  Beyond, there were more houses, all fronting the lanes. These were for noblemen who had to spend time at court, and after them were smaller properties for the servants and workers of the palace. The whole complex was vast, and I began to realize how hard it would be to find Moll in this ants’ nest of alleys, backstreets and roadways. I found myself outside a buttery and begged a pot of ale from the man in the doorway. He passed me some of the latest brew – which was very acceptable – and watched me with interest while I drank.

  ‘I have a message for the Seymours,’ I said. ‘I was told Edward Seymour would be here within the palace. Do you know of him?’

  The man scratched at his round cheek with a dubious expression. Then he became quite vacant. ‘Seymour?’ he said, his eyes seeming to be fixed on a point some hundred miles away. ‘Yes, go down here to the end, turn to’ards the river, and it’ll be third house on left.’

  I thanked him and was soon on my way again. There was a slight incline going down to the river, and as I went, I saw a fellow who looked familiar.

  He was some thirty to forty feet ahead of me, and while there were not that many people in the street, one man with a sumpter horse overloaded with goods and four or five labourers with packs on their backs were bringing goods up from the river, still they made enough of an obstruction for me to be unable to see for certain who it was. But then I saw him turn and stand on the step of the third house on the left. I saw him knock on the door.

  Yes, I saw him clearly. It was Westmecott. What was he doing visiting the Seymours? I slid into a doorway and watched as he glanced about him, waiting. The door opened, and he stepped into the house.

  There was no fear on his face, no rage or anger as though he was going to kill everyone inside, possibly including himself. This did not look like a furious husband who has discovered where his wayward wife had gone to hide. He looked more like a servant bringing news to his master. But the good point about all this was that at least now I knew where Moll was likely being held. Not that it meant I could do much about rescuing her. With Westmecott inside, as well as the Seymour servants, there were just too many people there for any attempt at entering to be safe.

  I had just reached this conclusion when the door opened behind me.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What are you doing in my doorway? It’s not raining, is it?’

  The owner of the voice was an irascible little man at least six inches shorter than me, and a moustache that was bristled like an angry terrier’s.

  ‘I was trying to find the lady who …’

  He gazed past me at the Seymours’ house. ‘They sent you for her?’

  ‘I … what?’

  ‘Are you her boyfriend? Her lover? Her leman?’

  ‘Well, sort—’

  ‘Oh, close your mouth, boy, before you catch a fly. Come inside,’ he sai
d irritably, as though I had missed a perfectly aimed witticism.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The door to the Seymours’ house was opening, and I saw Westmecott walk out. I quickly stepped into the old man’s house.

  ‘This way,’ he said, leading me through the hall.

  I had no idea where he was taking me, but I followed him in the fatalistic belief that wherever it was, it had to be safer than meeting with Edward Seymour again.

  ‘Out there,’ he said, pointing through a small kitchen area to a door.

  Unthinking, I opened it and was struck dumb.

  Yes, I know what you were thinking. You thought that as soon as he opens that door, someone’s going to arrest him. This was all an elaborate trick to try to get that poor fool out to somewhere quiet where someone can knock him on the head and put an end to his foolishness once and for all.

  I confess, now I think back, the idea of my opening that door strikes me as ridiculous in the extreme. And yet, no. Nothing happened. Your predictions are entirely wrong.

  What happened? I pulled the door wide and was confronted with a rather lovely view. It was a garden, with pleasant little raised beds for all types of greenery. There were kale and onions and garlic, and, well, all sorts of vegetable. In the distance a small cow was thoughtfully chewing the cud, and a cat was sitting on top of a barrel nearby, one hind leg pointing almost straight at the sun, while his head was engaged in some ablution or other. I didn’t want to see.

  The reason I didn’t want to see was that Moll was standing a few yards from me. Her back was to me, while she gathered leaves from the nearer of the beds.

  She heard the door when I closed it, and stood quickly.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t you remember me? You bound my whiplash,’ I said, pointing to my shoulder.

  Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’, and then she smiled and nodded. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I came to rescue you,’ I said. And as I said it, I frowned. Because, of course, she wasn’t being held against her will, and she wasn’t being tortured.

  ‘Rescue me from what?’ she asked as she bent to her task again.

  ‘From the Seymours,’ I said. I didn’t think it right to explain that there was one fewer to worry about now.

  ‘Why should I need to be rescued from them?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘They are very kind. Why would I want to leave?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  She shrugged. There was a rather fixed expression of happiness on her face, like a cat who has just discovered the pot where the cream is kept. She had a glazed look in her eyes, and now she paused and then reached down. At her feet was a quart pot, and she raised it to her lips and took a deep swig, before stoppering it and smiling at me beatifically. ‘What am I doing? Where else should I be?’

  ‘What of the priest?’

  ‘Oh, the nice man who came to give us our little ceremony?’ She hiccupped delicately. ‘I liked him.’

  ‘What sort of ceremony?’

  She gazed blearily at me with a sudden shrewdness in her eyes. ‘Um. I don’t think I should tell you. That’s a secret.’

  ‘Ben is not your child, is he?’

  Her head tilted, and she peered at me in what she must have fondly considered a sly and arch expression. ‘Oh, but how do you know that?’

  There was a fog in my mind at this stage. I had seen Westmecott, who said he was this woman’s husband, the man who said he would kill her, going into the house over the road where the Seymours had their lodging. He had only just today removed the body of one of the Seymours from my house to dispose of him, which made his presence here utterly confusing to me. The woman herself, his wife, was here, in the old man’s house. ‘Who is the man who showed me to you?’ I asked. ‘The man who lives here?’

  ‘Him? He’s the old Master Seymour. He’s very kind,’ she said, but in a manner that seemed to indicate some doubt. ‘He loves me, so my husband says,’ she prattled happily. Then her face hardened. ‘Though he shows me little regard,’ she added.

  At the thought of Westmecott, I felt a cold lump of stone settle in my belly. It was frozen, from the feel of it. I often get this when I am particularly scared. Other people see me and can tell that I am a courageous fellow, with the body of a Heracles and the face of an Adonis, but sometimes, I must confess, when I find myself in a difficult position, like today, I could happily wish myself a hundred miles away, somewhere quiet and peaceful, where there are no politics, stratagems, plots or dangers that seem to be directed mostly at me.

  ‘I think we should go,’ I said.

  Listening while she protested that she was more than happy here, I was sure that I heard shouting and a door slam. I tried to grab her wrist, but the feather-witted dullard snatched her hand away like a lady approached by a leper.

  I had two options. I could draw steel and protect the woman here in the garden from Anthony Seymour’s brother, or I could ensure that I would continue to serve my master. And in the process, protect my cods, heart and liver.

  The door opened, and I saw Westmecott in the entranceway.

  There was no choice. I ran.

  I have had many long years to learn about running. It is a skill that was taught to me early in life, when attempting to flee retribution in the form of a neighbour who caught me at his apple orchard, or from my father when he had drunk enough to fill a Bordeaux merchantman, or occasionally from a beadle or officer of the law who saw me, as he thought, trying my luck at cutting a purse or thieving a trinket from a fellow in the street. In my time, I have fled from the fleetest feet and the slower but determined. Generally, the fleetest tend to be easier, I reckon, because all too often they are soon spent, and I can maintain my speed for a little while longer than they. The slower but determined are considerably more problematic. They will grit their teeth and push on, rather like a dog after a cat, chasing harder and harder until there is a stand-off, and the cat can go no further and turns at bay. Then it’s just a matter of teeth or teeth and claws as to which will leave the field least injured.

  The main thing about running is not to look back. There is no need to see where you have been; the main thing is to see somewhere you can go. If you hear feet behind you, someone is chasing. The key is to keep running until you can no longer hear someone following. That is when you can risk a quick glance, but still, do not stop. The pursuer may have quiet shoes, and your own hearing may be defective because of the sound of the breath in your throat, the thundering of your heart, the regular beat of your feet on the cobbles.

  There were more than two men, because I could hear their boots on the stones as we ran, and although I heard a sharp cry (which could have been Westmecott) and a rattle like a chain being tossed into a large cauldron as a man in armour fell over, I could yet hear multiple feet running after me.

  One down, I thought.

  I continued on. At the rear of the little garden area, there was a gate into a back lane, and here I immediately turned right. I was guessing, but I reckoned that the left would take me to the Thames, and I had no wish to be caught on a jetty with no escape. Instead, this direction meant heading north towards the main road once more, and when I arrived there, I would be safe enough, I hoped. With luck, I could lose myself in the traffic and make my way to Temple Bar, and thence to a place of safety. Not that I could think of one just now. Master John Blount’s house was not too far, but I might be safer entering a bear’s cave than going to my master’s house with the news that I had. It was too dangerous for us both. I needed time to think things through before I could see him.

  A man was pushing a wheelbarrow. I sprang past him and heard a nervous yelp, closely followed by a shower of curses. I could guess why: the carter had accidentally pushed his barrow into the wall after the shock of my passage. He had obstructed the path for my pursuers; then his wagon’s wheel would have got caught by a cobble, and he would be forced to
rock it back and forth to release it. By then the two – or perhaps three, not more – men with him would have grown even more angry, would have shoved him and the barrow from their path, and then continued after me. But their feet were some distance behind me now. And some of them were slowing. Perhaps the fast chase was too much for them.

  Not for one, though. I imagined I could see him in my mind’s eye. A swarthy fellow, probably. Greek or Spanish blood in his veins, because those fellows would always take insult and give chase, like a lurcher spying a hare. They were often indefatig-able in their pursuit of a poor fellow, determined and bold. They were exactly the sort of fellows a man like me preferred to avoid. Not only because of their commitment to the hunt, but because they also seemed to have the ability to wish to fight when they had captured their prey. Not that I had been caught. Not often, anyway. But today I could have wished that Humfrie was with me. I felt considerably safer when he was near me.

  I had reached the roadway, and now I hurtled along with the horses and carts. My companion in the race would no doubt guess that I would be heading towards the city, but he could not guess exactly where I might go after Temple Bar. And I could turn off along a number of the lanes about here. Especially when I was past the Mews, and could see the Bar in sight. Here it was important, I knew, that I should put on a spurt. A pursuer, seeing my heels increase the pace, should by now be grown despondent at the likelihood of being able to catch me. With luck, it would mean that I would escape with ease. So I picked up the pace.

  And then there was a strange sensation. My legs were working in fine style, my left lightly striking the ground, the right moving like a machine, then the left releasing contact a moment before the right was to touch down, and so on. Suddenly, though, my left leg lost coordination. It was a most curious feeling, as if I was suddenly on ice, and it threw me. Have you ever seen a horse standing on ice? Horses have a hard enough time of it, trying to work out which leg to move and when, which is why they need such resolute and patient men to teach them, so I understand. When on ice, all of an instant, they realize that their carefully learned coordination is gone, and you can see legs flying in all directions.