Death Comes Hot

by Michael Jecks

  That was exactly how I felt. My foot hit the ground, and yet it didn’t seem to want to grip or work as normal. I was left with a moment’s imbalance, when my left foot was either stationary, but not gripping the ground, if you follow my meaning, or moving, but not in synchronization with the speed of the road flashing past me.

  There are roads and roads. Some are easy to negotiate, with well-paved surfaces, or a good dry bed of soil, but this one, which was certainly supplied with large slabs of stone, was also the path taken by many donkeys, ponies and even cattle and swine on the way to the markets and slaughterhouses of London. The road was, in other words, rather polluted with excreta. And my foot had landed perfectly in the centre of a pile of ordure that was of a perfect consistency to undo my headlong rush.

  My foot did something. I don’t know what. All I know is that my balance was thrown, my motion dissolved, and I was suddenly hurtling headlong in the road.

  There are disadvantages to running on a road filled with the deposits of cattle, pigs and horses. One is that a fellow may slip. The second disadvantage is that the same fellow will inevitably fall into something soft and deeply unpleasant. I suspect that there had been a pig farmer along the way only very recently. There is a distinctive, human quality to the odours that encompassed me.

  When I was more aware of my surroundings, I was lying on my belly in the road. I looked around, and all I could see were horses’ hooves, legs encased in hosen, a few dogs, some running legs – my interest quickened, but they were a child’s legs, not a man’s. There was a lot of laughter from the unsympathetic peasants who enjoy the sight of a well-dressed young fellow like me landing on his face – but apart from that, nothing. I was safe.

  I rolled over, away from the main thoroughfare and the heavier carts, and looked up into the eyes of my pursuer. Oddly enough, I noticed his eyes more than anything else.

  I say oddly, because he was staring down the length of a rather sharp-looking sword.

  ‘Oh, hello, Hal,’ I said.

  I stared up at him. He stared down at me. He was panting somewhat, but so was I.

  It didn’t seem fair to me that he was there. I mean, I had thought he had fallen earlier, when I heard the rattle of ironmongery. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that Hal tended not to wear too much in the way of armour. Whoever that man had been, he must have sported a breastplate at the very least. Still, it rankled.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said. ‘You went into the Seymours’ house.’

  He glared at me. ‘You stink! Get up!’

  ‘Hardly my fault,’ I said. There was a cart beside me, and I took hold of it and hauled myself upright, carefully. I felt as though I’d been thrown to a bear for baiting. The carter swore at me, seeing my disreputable appearance, but then started to laugh. I gave him a sneering grimace in return. All I knew was that I had bruises on bruises. I had a fresh pair on my knees, and there was a pain at my left shin where the edge of a stone had caught it, but it was less that which made me pull a grimace of sheer dismay. It was my clothing. I looked as though I had been dragged all the way from Temple Bar to Tyburn, and had been deliberately trailed through every cow pat, every lump of horse manure, every dog’s … you get my meaning. My appearance was a horrible mess.

  Westmecott appeared to think so, too.

  ‘You look like a man who has been treated as he deserves,’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded, with not a little irritation. ‘I was only doing your bidding, and you chase me down like a felon!’

  ‘Doing my bidding? You were following me! I ought to run you through for that,’ he snarled, and it was the closest I have ever seen to a man imitating a mastiff.

  ‘I was trying to find your wife, as you asked. And then, when I did, you decide to chase me with your companions, as if I was some kind of felon!’ My tone was bitter, and I intended my words to sting, as I stood gazing down at my clothing, but they appeared to have no effect on him. Meanwhile, I was struck dumb with dismay for a moment at the sight of my jack and hosen.

  ‘What is this?’ a man asked. He was a slim, dark fellow with the look of an untrustworthy Cardinal about him. You know the sort, the type that holds his head down and looks at a fellow as if measuring him up for a good burning at the stake. I’ve known coffin makers like that, who, on meeting a man, get his full measure, if you understand my meaning. He had a suave voice which was unthreatening in a very definite manner – the sort of manner that makes a man think of the sound of his own bones breaking. When I looked at him, I was put in mind of a Spaniard I had known. He had the same slim features and swarthy appearance. But this one also had a look of tautness, like a wound-up spring.

  ‘I’m taking this fellow back to my master,’ Hal said. He edged round, so that he joined me at the side of the cart. I caught the whiff of stale wine on his breath.

  ‘What has he done?’ the man asked, turning a suspicious look at me.

  ‘He’s suspected of taking a boy and holding him to ransom.’

  ‘What?’ I squeaked. ‘That is a terrible lie! I was looking—’ I suddenly discovered the appeal of silence as his sword pressed against my jack.

  ‘Evil bastard!’ the man said, but he eyed Hal with suspicion. ‘Where’s your badge of office? Are you a bailiff?’

  ‘No, he’s a—’ I began, but again was hushed by the soundless persuasion of a length of sharp steel.

  ‘Here,’ Hal said, ‘this is my badge of office!’ and flourished his sword near the man’s face. The fellow barely flinched as the point almost caught his nose, and I got the impression that he was a mere breath away from drawing out his own sword. ‘Hoi!’ he cried, but he had no need of his own weapon.

  Even as I watched the executioner waving his blade in that dangerous manner – feeling appalled at the sight, since if he was happy to threaten a stranger like this in the street, he would hardly be worried about introducing a number of unnecessary punctures in me – I noticed another man behind him. It was Geoffrey, who walked up behind Hal. With a calm insouciance, he glanced at me and then peered into the cart. Lifting a stave of timber from the cart’s bed, he hefted it in his hand with a contemplative expression for a moment, while Hal muttered imprecations against fatherless fellows who interrupted others in their duties, and then brought it down smartly on Hal’s pate. Hal’s eyes widened briefly and then rolled upwards, and he fell to the ground, his head striking the cobbles with a sickening thud that I felt in my bowels. Geoffrey casually returned the piece of wood to the cart, smiled at me, touched the brim of his hat to the man who had so helpfully distracted Hal, and indicated the road to London. ‘I think you should consider a change of clothing,’ he said with a wince at the sight (and odour) of me. ‘Come!’

  ‘Hey!’ the man called. ‘You can’t leave this man here!’

  Geoffrey turned to him. I was in front of him and couldn’t see his face, but the other blenched and stumbled away in the opposite direction.

  ‘Come,’ Geoffrey said.

  At least the smell meant we had little difficulty finding our way through the crowds. With the stench preceding me, a passage opened before us, and we soon beat a passage to a tavern, where the host took one look at me and gave me to understand that I would be remaining outside on a bench.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Geoffrey said, casting a glance over my tainted clothing. His nose wrinkled. ‘And smell worse.’

  ‘He was chasing me,’ I said irrationally. I was feeling peculiar. The run all the way from the Seymours’ house, the little matter of Moll refusing to be rescued, and the sudden appearance of Hal, while at the same time being smothered in all the ordure from the road, had left me feeling oddly light-headed. I have never felt the need of feminine comfort so strongly. Visions of Peggy’s slim figure rose in my mind, only to be beaten aside by the memory of my neighbour’s wife opposite and the way that her chemise fell open so enticingly.

  ‘What have you discovered?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, I’ve
found her. Moll, I mean, and she’s with the Seymours. But why is Hal with them? He said he wanted to find his wife, but she was there, with him. I mean, why did he come and ask me to find her, if he already knew where she was? And he must have known what she felt about him …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But that can’t be right,’ I said. My head felt as befogged as a glass breathed on. You know how a glass will mist over when you breathe on it? Yes, that was how my brain felt. I tried to see past the dull greyness, but it remained opaque. All I could think was that Hal must have lost his mind. I picked up the jug of ale Geoffrey had placed at my side, and drank thoughtfully.

  ‘Well? What can’t be right?’

  ‘He came to me and said he wanted to find his wife. Then he said that he wanted to have his son back. But the woman, Peggy, told me that the boy wasn’t his or hers, but she was only a child-nurse to him, and it was for that that they kept her on.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Seymours. They employed her because she was recently bereaved of a daughter. I suppose that girl was Hal’s.’

  ‘Yet now you learn that he was working for the Seymours all the time?’

  ‘Well, yes. Why would he come to me to find her, if he knew where she was all along?’

  ‘And the Seymours were the same men who took my brother somewhere and then saw to his death.’

  ‘Perhaps, yes.’

  ‘Is there any doubt?’

  I shrugged and downed more ale. It was more than my brain could cope with just then. I kept seeing Hal Westmecott’s face in my mind’s eye, and it was not a pleasant sight.

  ‘I think you need to go home and get yourself changed,’ Geoffrey said, eyeing my jack with increasing distaste.

  I could understand that. The material was encrusted, and stains were spreading. It was, in short, utterly befouled. However, as I stood, I swayed. The bruises on knees, shin, jaw and elbow (when I had fallen) mingled with the sharp, stabbing pain at my shoulder. It was not a happy Jack who stood gazing up the road.

  ‘You look as if you can hardly walk a step,’ he said.

  ‘I am fine,’ I said, and set off.

  There are times when I have wandered in London and have felt entirely at ease. Many times I have been so careless that I could have fallen prey to one of the many footpads of the streets, but by some miracle I have always remained secure.

  Today I walked with a deal more caution. The haziness of my mind remained, and the only thing that kept me moving onwards was the pain. It was as though I was grown into an ancient, arthritic man. My legs and arms and shoulders were all throbbing, and they kept my mind working. Every time I thought I might stop and take my ease, another stab would jab at my injuries and I would sharply waken to the reality of my position.

  What was my position? Well, just now I had no idea who was a friend or who was an enemy. I had thought Hal was an ally, but just now he had tried to take me to the Seymours’ house, where I would hardly be viewed with warm bonhomie by Edward or his father, since I had killed Anthony. But why had Hal suddenly attached himself to the Seymours? He had wanted to find Moll. Perhaps that was it!

  I stopped in the street, struck by this revelation.

  Hal wanted his woman back. She was with the Seymours. Logically, he had decided to make himself useful to the family, and would do all in his power to win her. Did he think they would agree to his wooing her? It was hardly likely, but if they said he could take her, poor Moll would find it difficult to refuse them, surely. Where else might she go, if she decided to ignore her husband and new friends? Yes, so Hal had allied himself to the Seymours.

  I walked on with a frown of concentration. Gradually, the fog was leaving my mind, and although I glanced at various hostelries along my way, I set my mind on a good pot of wine when I reached my house again. I had an urge to sit before my own fire and enjoy the comfort of my home.

  Besides, none of the taverns would let me in, the way I looked and smelled.

  Back at my house, once I had divested myself of the stinking garments, and taken a few moments to bathe my face and arms in warm water, I donned my second-best suit of clothing, dropping the filthy clothing on to the floor for Raphe to collect and take to be cleaned. I didn’t want to touch them again. In fact, I was seriously thinking about buying a new suit of clothing. There was a particular green fabric that I thought would look well with a yellow lining, and a hatter along the way had a broad-brimmed black hat with a feather of blue that I thought would go well with a suit of such material. It was something to consider, certainly.

  When I looked up, the buxom beauty at the house over the lane was in her bedchamber. She was wearing little more than when I had seen her in bed with her husband, and she made no attempt to hide herself from my gaze. I smiled lasciviously, and she raised an eyebrow, before drawing her drapery. I gazed longingly at the blank window and left her to it, walking down to my parlour. The fire was roaring merrily, a very welcome sight, and I sat, uninterested in food or drink, trying to make sense of the whole affair. Westmecott’s appearance at the Seymours’ house was confusing; Moll at their father’s house was more so, especially considering her apparent conviction that they were looking after her, and her comment that she was waiting till the priest returned was also confusing. No one had told her of his death, apparently. Then again, Westmecott had tried to chase after me. I was relieved that he had been taken care of. If he had caught me, I suspected that my life would have been shortened considerably.

  It was a remarkable coincidence that Geoffrey was there. The man had a habit of appearing when he was least expected, but that was all to my benefit, and I was glad to have seen him today. If he had not nonchalantly picked up the lump of wood and knocked Westmecott down, I shuddered to think what might have happened.

  There was a sensible explanation for it all, I was sure. But, as I said, my mind was befogged. Meanwhile, I had the problem of the instruction to execute the child and, if possible, Moll as well. That was an issue that was made considerably worse by the sudden news that the boy Ben was the son of Elizabeth herself. Who could have ordered his death, if they knew he was her son? I am not squeamish generally, apart from when it comes to people trying to injure me, but the idea that some men could decide to kill a boy so young for no reason other than to get at his mother, that I found really distasteful. It made my stomach roil with unaccustomed vigour. Perhaps because I had been an unwanted boy, too – or more because of the vengeance that a Tudor princess would be likely to take on someone who had been so bold as to injure or murder her son.

  There was more than just revulsion at the thought of such callous treatment of a youngster and trepidation at the thought of what might happen to me; I was also aware of a growing anger at the men who had decided on such a course. What right did they have to decide on the death of a boy like him? People who went around killing people for no reason should answer to the law and expect to be pushed off a ladder with a rope round their neck.

  I didn’t dwell on that. There was still a damp spot beside my chair where Anthony’s corpse had lain. Instead, I began to think deeply about the men involved. The Seymours, who appeared to be preparing to sell Moll and Ben to the Queen’s men, so that the Queen could have evidence to hold over her half-sister and perceived rival. But Moll herself seemed more than content with them. Had they so deceived her that she felt safe? Then there was the slaughter of the priest. Was that because the Seymours had already given him away to the Queen’s men as Geoffrey had suggested? Was James arrested and burned not because of a slightly deranged sermon, but because he had knowingly baptized the boy in the English Church, rather than following Queen Mary’s own Catholic instructions? Was he burned more because he had learned of the boy’s parentage, and Mary had stored up that information, ready to make a case against Elizabeth? Had he been tortured to give away the boy, and then slain because he would not speak of the child?

  The more I thought of this, the more I was convinced that the only people I c
ould trust were those who were on the side of the boy himself. That meant Peggy, and probably Geoffrey, since he would want to avenge his brother. I didn’t think Moll was sensible or trustworthy, not from the way she had indicated that she was happy with the Seymours. They did not strike me as honourable men. And now I had, albeit accidentally, killed Anthony, I didn’t think that Edward would be a reliable ally, even if he had been so inclined originally.

  Westmecott had appeared to be dependable at first, when sober, but I had reservations about him since he had tried to catch me.

  I did have others I could trust, though. I could rely on Piers, so long as he was still sober. And there was Raphe, and Humfrie, of course.

  But at present I was not sure about my safety. Piers was the other side of the river; Humfrie, too. And Raphe … well, he was good with a heavy pan, but I wasn’t convinced of his ability with a sword.

  There was only one man who could possibly help.

  ‘Raphe? I need you to go out,’ I shouted.

  He appeared as if by magic in my doorway. ‘Master?’

  ‘I want you to go to Master John Blount. I must speak with him.’

  FIVE

  It was a relief to see him go. With my conviction that Raphe would inform about all of my activities as soon as he met his uncle, Blount must be impressed to hear how I dealt with Seymour. I only hoped Seymour was not somehow a friend to Blount.

  I sat back, musing over the affair once more. So much had happened: it was baffling. But I am always a careful fellow. Not for me the panic and tantrums of the feeble-minded. Not for me the sudden burst of terror. I am made of sterner stuff. Instead, I started to think about the people involved in the affair. Geoffrey was only interested in his brother’s death, of course. He wanted to know who had tampered with my powder. Hal Westmecott was responsible for the condition of the powder since he had possessed the bag that evening. I had thought that the fool might have got the powder damp by accident, leaving it on a wet table in a tavern, but what if he had meant to disable it? Could he not have made the powder wet on purpose, so that he had an excuse to blackmail me into helping him find his wife? He could have so dampened the powder as to make it unusable. After all, I had wondered whether someone could have met Westmecott in a tavern somewhere and made the powder damp. But who could have known where he would be, and that he would have a bag of black powder on his person? No, it was ridiculous.