There was a loud noise in my ears, like the sea at Whitstable when I was a child. With it there came a bubbling sensation in my bowels that I recognized: it was the horrible beginning of a sick panic. Once, when I was young, I saw our neighbour put his pig to the slaughter. He had a friend come, and the two set the pig in a pen and bound its legs, and then they hauled it upright on a small frame like the cranes stevedores use to lift heavy loads from ships’ holds. As soon as the animal was hanging upside down, it began to scream, a horrible noise. The men laughed and chattered as they held a bucket to the throat while it died.
Just now, I knew what that pig had felt. Seeing instant death no matter which way I turned made my bowels turn to water. It was enough to make me lurch back into the tavern, breathing deeply while I attempted to lose the feeling of shivering terror.
I was only partly successful. My hand was shaking like a willow in the wind. Still, I had my knife and sword and pistol. I was no mere simpleton to be captured, I told myself.
Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my chin and walked to the doorway again. The man to the left was still there, but the other had disappeared, and I searched for him without success.
Wherever I looked, I felt that people were staring at me, that all around were hundreds of soldiers, all waiting for a command to come and arrest me, to take me to the Tower and torture me, or simply to murder me on the streets. And it was so unfair! I had done nothing, really – or at least, very little. Yes, I did kill Anthony Seymour, but it wasn’t on purpose; accidents happen, you know. All the other people I had been told to kill, I had subcontracted to Humfrie. They weren’t my fault – well, they weren’t my doing, anyway. But with Parry arrested, surely Blount would be too, and they would be bound to give me away. I was certain to be accused. And I could do nothing about it. Oh, it was all very well thinking I could instantly tell people that it was Humfrie, but he had already let me know that if I were ever to think of giving away his part in my career, he would see to it that I would die slowly and very painfully. And while I knew that his own attitude was more to kill quickly, and not make his victims suffer, I equally knew that he could be induced to change the habits of a lifetime, if someone were to give him away. And I was certain that he would be even more inventive than the Queen’s interrogators in the Tower.
But in reality, life seemed to be going on.
The odd passer-by glanced at me, but only with the contemptuous curl of the lip that people held for those who were clearly quite drunk. And I was, I suppose – but I didn’t feel it any more. As I stared about me, I realized that I was being foolish. There was no threat to me here. The queasiness had left me, and instead I felt as though my body was perfectly balanced, that I was alert, attentive, keen and ready for anything.
With a saunter, I went to cross over the road, but my boot caught on a loose stone and I was nearly pitched into the path of a cart. The carter swore at me at some length, and I tried to ignore the ribald comments and laughter at my expense, turning up the road away from the lounging man, but it was hard to make any headway with so many people in the way. I pushed and shoved with the best of them, earning a smack on the cheek from one shameless harlot, and a threat from a man carrying a cudgel, and suddenly I was confused, unaware of my direction. I wanted to return to Mark’s house, but with the disconcerting dizziness assailing me, I was unsure of my direction. I stopped and gazed about me, and it was then that I saw the lounging man had gone. That was at least some comfort.
I made sure of the road, and soon remembered where I was – only a short distance from St Paul’s, close by the Fleet, so only a short walk from Mark’s. Thereto I bent my steps, but as I peered ahead through the crush, I suddenly saw a face. It was the lounging man!
Turning, I was about to make my way back up the road when I saw the second man striding towards me. Both routes were blocked. I panicked and turned to flee across the roadway to safety on the other side, but even as I began to move, a pair of horses blocked my path.
‘Going somewhere?’ a voice said in my ear, but it wasn’t so much that which took my interest at the time. Rather, it was the sharp pain that told me I had a fresh wound in my second-best jack. He was holding a knife to my kidney.
That was when I remembered where I recognized him from. He was the man who had held a sword to my guts while I lay sprawled on the floor in the house where Peggy had taken me. He appeared to be making a habit of threatening me with being punctured.
‘Hello?’ I said and tried to smile winningly.
It was some relief that they did not have to take me very far. Whitehall was quite close, and the two held my arms as they marched me down the road, out through Ludgate and along the street to the palace. This we entered by the Scotland’s Yard gate, and the two took me all the way to the Seymours’ house.
I know it takes little time to write this; however, in setting out the scene, I should not like to mislead you as to the facts.
Was it a silent walk? Not on my part.
Were the two responsive? As church gargoyles.
Could they be bribed? No. I tried. In fact, I kept up a constant jabber all the way, promising them wealth, women and long life, if they would only let me free. I might as well have been shouting at the moon for all the notice the two took. They were grim-faced and uninterested. I mentioned money, bags of money, but they heard nothing. I did wonder whether they were deaf at one point, but then someone shouted, and both turned their heads sharply. I was quick to jerk my arms in an attempt to free myself, but that only earned me a clout about the ear, on the bruise caused by Alice’s stone, that made my eyes spin and my brains rattle. The two didn’t even break step, but I did. Both feet missed their place, and I was borne along by their grip on my arms, my boot-toes dragging in the dirt. It took a while to recover myself and begin walking with them.
I didn’t try that again.
We turned down the lane towards the Seymours’ house, and I was aware of a growing trepidation. These men were not the kindly sort who would break an uncomfortable silence with chatter about the weather, the latest play at the theatre or the threat of war with the French. No, the words I last heard from the man on my left indicated that he wanted to destroy me. That leaves a fellow feeling a certain dismay, and leaves him with the conviction that his companion has little interest in his well-being. It means conversation withers. A lack of empathy is what I mean. I didn’t feel that he truly cared about me. As to his friend – he said nothing as well.
They knocked on the door, and it opened. With a squeak of protest from the hinges, it was drawn wide; with a squeak of protest and alarm, I was flung in through the door, to land in a heap before a pair of boots. I stared at them. They looked like hard-wearing boots, the sort that could all too easily be imagined kicking out at a fellow’s head or belly. They had the appearance of boots that had seen a lot of life – and, quite possibly, death.
They were not attractive boots.
There is no easy way to begin a conversation with a fellow when you are looking up at him from a recumbent position. Many topics for a chat may occur, but when you are in the position of staring up into his nostrils, it is rather difficult to remember them all. When you add into the mix the fact that I had just been thrown to his feet by a pair of his henchmen, you will understand that it was a more tricky situation than I could have wished for. That wasn’t really helped by the fact that I had killed his brother, of course.
You will understand that I felt a certain trepidation lying there, waiting for him to make some form of pronouncement.
For his part, there was a terrible, cold blankness in his eyes as he stared down at me. I had the impression of great emotion only barely held in check. His eyes fixed on me and I felt like a mouse seeing a falcon. There was no feeling in his eyes. Only a terrible detestation and contempt. Well, I’m perfectly used to the latter, but the former was hard to accept.
‘Oh, er—’ I began.
‘What did you do with him?’
&nbs
p; Now, you will understand that this was a difficult one to answer. I looked about me quickly and was relieved to see that there was no sign of Hal Westmecott, or whoever he was. Still, it’s hard to admit to a man that you tested the sharpness of your knife on his brother. It doesn’t inspire the spirit of camaraderie that a man would wish, when you think about it.
I could have said, perfectly honestly, Nothing. I just left him there, and it was Hal who took him away, but that probably wouldn’t have won him over. Ask Hal would have a similar result. I lay there, trying to work out the best response, while the room remained silent. Then there was a horrible, slow sound. My silent escort, the one I hadn’t met before, had taken his knife from its sheath, and now he had wrapped a strap of leather about his fist, and was stropping his blade over and over. It was a sight – and sound – to chill the blood, and I felt suitably intimidated.
I swallowed. ‘Well, I—’
‘Let me start on him,’ the man with the strop said. ‘I’ll soon loosen his tongue.’
He had a sort of quiet, reflective, soothing tone which appalled me. It made him sound utterly unfeeling, like a man talking about pulling the legs off a spider. I didn’t like to think that I was no more than a spider to him.
‘Well? Should I let Finch test his knife on you?’ Seymour said coldly.
I swallowed. ‘It wasn’t me!’
‘What wasn’t?’
And here I had that quandary again. I did not want to admit to having killed his brother. I opened my mouth, but nothing came, and at that moment I was saved by Moll.
The sweet-natured besom took in the atmosphere and my position on the floor and gave a little moan of horror. ‘Oh, Edward, no! You mustn’t do that!’
‘What else can I do? I want to know where he is!’
‘Then come, just ask him politely! I am sure this fellow wouldn’t want to hurt little Ben, would you?’ she said, crossing the floor to join Edward and gazing down at me in a most appealing manner.
I thought quite seriously, for a moment, of giving her my best lecherous grin, but quashed the idea immediately. Seymour and his men were not the sort to understand mere friendliness of that sort. They would look on any overtures by me with extreme suspicion, I thought. Not for the last time, I found myself thinking of the neighbour’s wife opposite. She had a much more accommodating attitude, I felt sure. Just now I wished myself in her bedchamber, unfastening the laces of her chemise …
I was rudely called back to the present by a boot in my flank.
‘Where is he?’ Seymour rasped.
‘We want little Ben back,’ Moll said, dropping to a crouch by my side.
It was now that they had driven thoughts of my neighbour’s wife from my mind that I latched on to Moll’s words. She had said I wouldn’t want to hurt ‘Ben’. This was not to do with Seymour’s brother: it was the boy!
‘I have him safe,’ I said, glaring at Seymour and rubbing the spot where he had kicked me.
‘Where is he, I said. I want my son back here, you ruffian!’
‘I … your son?’
‘Yes, my son! He was born out of wedlock, it’s true, but he is yet my boy. And now I have a wife to help bring him up, I can acknowledge him fully.’
My eyes slid down to Moll’s finger. There, on her wedding finger was a large ring. ‘Oh!’
And yes, that was a big ‘Oh’!
I suppose my face registered my surprise. Moll allowed a slight frown to pucker her perfect brow. ‘What?’
‘You have married?’
‘You asked me about it.’
‘Eh?’
‘The priest. I said he conducted our ceremony.’
‘And why should we not be married?’ Seymour said.
‘Because of your father,’ Moll said, somewhat tartly.
‘And my brother. But they are too late now. We are married, whether they like the fact or not.’
‘So you want the boy back because he is your son?’ I said.
‘Every village has an idiot, but there they are based on a small population. You must be the idiot of the city,’ Seymour said with disgust.
I ignored his rudeness. ‘That was why you had the priest taken from his church. You sent for him to marry you,’ I said.
Seymour stared at me uncomprehendingly for a moment, then motioned to the man with the strop. ‘Enough of this!’
The man stepped forward, his knife held lightly in his hand, like a man who was wielding a paint brush.
‘I will fetch him,’ I said.
As we left the house, I was aware of a sense of befuddlement.
I had thought that Hal Westmecott was keen to find his wife and son. Then it transpired that the boy was not his, and the woman was not his wife either. Before, of course, learning that Hal Westmecott was not Hal Westmecott. Who was he?
All through the last days I had been convinced that the priest killed with my powder had been killed because of his sermon, and then I believed that he had been taken to perform a service on the boy – to be baptized or confirmed in his religion – but now I learned that the woman and his father were instead making use of the priest to marry them. And now they intended living in wedded bliss with Ben as their son.
It would not have surprised me to learn that Geoffrey was not Geoffrey, that Peggy was not Peggy, and that Alice was in fact the Queen’s mother!
‘Hurry up!’
I had been granted the support and companionship of Master Knife-Stropper and his friend, but also Moll herself. She had declared herself determined to find the boy at the earliest opportunity, and now she trotted lightly at my side, her skirts held high over the filth of the street. Our companions strode on either side of me, their hands on my upper arms. If they had allowed me to keep my sword, dagger and pistol, I could have attempted to grab them, threaten the pair and free myself, yet, looking at them, I had the distinct impression that I would have ended up with two broken arms. Knife-Stropper had that sort of imperturbable confidence that gave me to understand that, were I to try any sort of foolishness, I would be crumpled like a parchment under the first blow of his fist. Even if I attempted to shoot him, it was plain to me that my bullet would almost certainly bounce off him. His confidence formed a carapace as strong as a steel shield. As to the other man, well, he was tougher.
‘Where did you take him?’ Moll asked me.
‘It is a small village called Clapham, some miles to the south of the city,’ I said. ‘We thought he was in danger here.’
I felt my upper arms being gripped more tightly, as though the men wanted to warn me to be silent, but when I cast glances at them, their expressions were entirely blank.
‘What are they doing?’ Moll asked.
There was a group of soldiers with polearms surrounding a man striding along the road eastwards. A crowd had gathered and was hurling insults with gay abandon, and the troopers were glaring back, eager to throw themselves at the throng.
‘Another man who wanted to kick the Queen from her throne,’ an old woman said.
‘Who would want to do that?’ Moll said, and I glanced at her to make sure she was not being sarcastic. She wasn’t. That time when I saw her in her … well, her father-in-law’s garden, I suppose, she had struck me as two bales short of a cartload. At the time I had thought it was the wine she had been drinking, but now I wondered whether it was her usual frame of mind.
‘You do know what happened to the priest who married you?’ I said.
‘Yes, he was paid well,’ she said happily.
‘No, he was burned at the stake,’ I said.
She stopped in the road, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. ‘No!’
I shrugged, although my shoulders didn’t want to move very high with my companions gripping my biceps so tightly. ‘It was days ago.’
‘He was a nice man,’ she said, and her whole demeanour changed. She looked like a dog that had been kicked once too often. ‘Why would they burn him?’
‘Perhaps he didn’
t comply with the orders about the new religion,’ I said.
She opened her mouth, but said nothing. Instead, she hung her head as we walked on. ‘He was a kind man,’ she said again.
At the south side of the bridge, I was taken to an inn, one of the many down there, and we procured horses to make the journey to Clapham. It was only a league and a bit, the groom told us, so should not take above a half day to ride there and back. Moll was reluctantly helped to an elderly mare, and I was given a young brute who, the groom informed me, needed a firm hand, and so we set off, a spare mount in tow to bring back Ben.
I have never liked horses. When I sit on one, all I am aware of is the distance to the ground far below. Today my mount appeared to be one of those frisky types which is always likely to remove an unwanted encumbrance such as a rider at the earliest opportunity. He jerked his head alarmingly as though to test my resolve, and then began to nudge closer to Moll and her steed. Soon the reason became obvious to all but me, as urchins pointed and laughed. My own companions allowed themselves to unbend so far as to grin at the sight, for apparently my fellow had become utterly enamoured of Moll’s, and his pizzle was most prominent. It led to some ribald comments from those in the streets, and soon we had quite a following of youngsters whooping and cheering us on our way. It was a relief to leave behind the ragamuffins and enter the fields and woods of the countryside.
The sight of fields and trees are calming to many a man, so I’m told. They praise the sound of birdsong, the peace, calmness, clean air, lack of stench of kennels full of shit and piss. I suppose it makes sense. However, highest in my mind just now was that any one of a thousand little bushes or hedges could conceal a man with a bow or gun. And that led me to the next thought, which was, once I found Humfrie and his sister and little Ben, these fellows would have little use for me. I’ve heard it said that life is cheap in London – although my profits tend to dispute that – but I had the distinct impression that, once I had delivered Ben, my life would be exceedingly cheap. I had the feeling that Knife-Strop would happily blunt his dagger’s edge on my throat without compensation. And here, in the midst of all the greenery, I could see nowhere to run to where I would be safe. There were no peasants, only occasional riders or carters bringing produce or business to London. It would be ridiculously easy to murder me and leave me at the roadside.
Death Comes Hot Page 20