Shadow of the Axe (The Queen's Intelligencer Book 1)

by Peter Tonkin

  Poley eased himself into a seated position that allowed him to continue watching. The excitement around his room slowly died as his would-be assailants realised he was not there and showed no immediate sign of returning. After a while, a few of them began to drift away, then a few more. At last their leader emerged, the candle he held illuminating his glowering face as he looked left and right before heading off down the corridor, thankfully away from the stairwell Poley was hiding in. When everything was dark and silent again, Poley stood stiffly and crept forward, his candle still shaded in case Meyrick was more cunning than he looked and was waiting to spring his trap anew. But no. He clearly was just as brutish as he appeared to be.

  Poley crept into his room, and looked around. His clothes and possessions lay scattered hither and yon but thankfully as the result of a wild search rather than a desire for destruction. Whoever had searched for him had obviously just thrown everything he might be hidden behind out of the way. And, on failing to find him, had kicked his necessaries into a pile in a gesture of childish frustration. Poley decided he would tidy in the morning, closed the door and bolted it, thanking Heaven he had left it unlocked so the bolt remained intact. Finally he crossed to his bed. Only to pause before he lay down once more. Paused and reached down to pull free the long dagger that had been plunged through the counterpane and deep into the mattress where his heart would have been had he been lying there asleep.

  He straightened, holding the would-be murder weapon, wondering whether or not it was a lucky coincidence that his long and obscure meeting with Lady Janet had ensured he was well away from his room when Gelly Meyrick led his lethal attack on it.

  *

  ‘I appreciate the offer of your skills, which I’m sure are manifold,’ said Sir Henry Wotton. ‘But I fear that they would be surplus to requirements, at least for the moment.’ He gestured around the room which housed the industrious Secretariat. Cuffe, Legge and their companions were all busily transcribing or translating whatever was written on sheets of paper beside their elbows and producing letters in clear, perfectly-formed handwriting on the superior sheets of parchment or vellum in front of them. ‘Si linguis hominum tu loqueris et angelorum… “Though you speak in the tongues of men and of angels” as the Bible has it, we still have no employment for you. Perhaps you should enquire whether Sir Anthony has need of an extra amanuensis.’

  Poley was still debating whether he was more irritated by Wotton’s curt refusal or his patronising translation of his misquote from the Roman Vulgate as he strode past the stair’s foot and into the servants’ quarters, heading for Anthony Bacon’s sickroom. His preoccupation was nearly the undoing of him. Oblivious to his surroundings, he suddenly found himself surrounded by half a dozen of Gelly Meyrick’s murderous swashbucklers. He glanced around, noting their faces. St Lawrence, Gorges, Gerrard… Robbed of their fun in his room last night, they clearly planned to make up for their disappointment now. Poley gave himself a mental kicking. He had been careful to avoid the bullies all day so far, though every now and then he had felt certain he was being watched. To have walked straight into the pack of them now was the sort of thing an amateur might do. And in Poley’s profession, amateurs did not last long. As Kit Marlowe had proved all too clearly.

  ‘Ah…’ Meyrick’s greeting lingered. ‘Master Poley, well met…’

  Poley knew better than to answer. Anything he said now was likely to make matters worse. Though there were few things worse than a dagger in the ribs, he had to admit. But none of them could be done outside Rackmaster Topcliffe’s domain or, indeed, in a passage leading to the servants’ areas in Essex House.

  ‘… we sought you last night but you were absent from your room...’

  Poley still stayed silent.

  ‘… mayhap you had divined our intent and scurried off to hide somewhere. But it makes no matter, for we have you now.’

  A hand behind Poley’s shoulder pushed him forcefully forward so that he staggered into his tormentor. He glanced over his shoulder. It was Gorges who had pushed him.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded Meyrick, outraged. ‘You think to assault me sirrah?’

  Poley stepped back. But the strong hand pushed him forward once again. This time Meyrick staggered backward when their bodies crashed together. Poley, winded, gave a guttural gasp. ‘A challenge!’ called St Lawrence at once. ‘He challenged you, Gelly. I heard him.’

  ‘I accept the challenge. And, as the injured party the choice of weapons is mine and I chose rapiers. Let us settle the matter now.’

  ‘I’ll stand as Poley’s second,’ snapped Gerrard. ‘Let St Lawrence stand as yours.’

  Poley was swept along the corridor towards Anthony Bacon’s sickroom but before they got there, Gelly Meyrick led the group off to the left. A moment or two later they stepped out through a wide doorway into the garden behind Essex House. The rear wall, pocked with windows from the ground floor on upward, towered immediately behind them. In front of them, the formal gardens swept down to the Essex House steps and the River. Grass paths and private areas wound or stood between walls of pollarded trees and square-cut hedges, brightened by flower-beds. The grass, trees and hedges were vivid green with early-season growth but there was little in the flower beds besides semi-liquid mud.

  Between the back wall and the first lawn there was an area of flagstones that was both wide and deep. Tables and chairs had been cleared off this and stood in covered piles waiting for the Summer. Other than the tight group of bullies and their victim, the place was deserted. ‘This will do,’ said Meyrick. ‘Someone go and get the swords.’

  St Lawrence vanished back through the door they had just come out of. Gerrard and Gorges held Poley’s arms. The intelligencer did not resist or speak. Wriggling and threatening would be a waste of time and would do nothing other than to give Meyrick more license to hurl insults. And any show of weakness would simply diminish Poley in his own eyes. Bargaining and begging were both alike out of the question. Instead he catalogued the faces of Meyrick’s cohorts in the hope that he would get a chance of revenge. If he was allowed a fair fight, he stood a chance. He had been instructed in the finer points of rapier play by a Master of Defence. As Ingram Frizer’s backside had discovered the hard way, he had mastered much of Ridolfo Capo Fero’s technique. He had seen Meyrick in action which was a considerable advantage. In the unlikely event that he was given the chance to use it.

  *

  St Lawrence returned with a pair of weapons. He offered them to Meyrick first, who took one without hesitation and began to exercise his shoulder and arm just as he did last evening. St Lawrence gave the second one to Poley. ‘I understand your rapier was lost during your most recent arrest,’ said the red-headed Irishman, his green eyes glittering as hard as agates. ‘Here’s one we found to replace it.’

  The moment Poley took it, he knew at least part of their plan. The blade on this rapier had been snapped off a yard from the guard, no doubt by some officious lawkeeper keen to enforce the local statute about blade-length. Meyrick’s came to a point at least a foot longer. The edges of Poley’s truncated blade were chipped and dull with rust. Meyrick’s gleamed wickedly – clearly brought almost immediately from the blacksmith’s whetstone. Poley himself stood tall. His arms and legs were long. Now as he also eased his shoulders he fought to recall those sections of the fencing lessons he had skipped over. Those which contained advice for men with shorter arms and legs. Or shorter swords. How a duellist with a limited reach could nevertheless bring a taller opponent – or one with a longer blade – into his own short measure, where the thrust is the most efficient attack. With his sword’s greater reach, Meyrick could use the lighting-quick thrust to kill his man without even moving his feet. Given the state of his blade, Poley would have to rely on the slower and much less certain lunge, which required that he step forward to complete it. Meyrick had not removed his doublet, which was obviously well padded and Poley’s broken weapon had no point. To be certain of victory, he wou
ld have to lunge at once, before Meyrick could divine his purpose. And aim for the most difficult of all targets – the face.

  Blissfully unaware of his opponent’s lethal plan, Meyrick gave the briefest salute in form, which Poley did not return, and settled into his position as St Lawrence called ‘En garde.’ The Welshman stood not quite sideways on, his blade in the second guard, wrist high and point low.

  During the next heartbeat, Poley fell into his own favoured guard, the third. His wrist was low and steady, the broken stub-end of his blade high. There was no chance for deception. He would just have to rely on Meyrick’s arrogant assumption that the better man in the better position with the better blade could not be bested. That he had the means and the time, indeed, to humiliate his opponent before despatching him.

  ‘Engage!’ said St Lawrence.

  Poley lunged with all his speed and might, hurling his blade’s broken end into Meyrick’s sneering countenance. But as he did so, Gerrard kicked his ankle and he tumbled forward onto his hands and knees as his blade skittered and rattled across the flags.

  ‘For once,’ said a precise voice that carried over everything else, ‘Fortune does not favour the brave. Bad luck Master Poley. And you, Sir Gelly, must needs thank both Goddesses of chance Tyche and Fortuna that the flagstones were still slippery after the rain.’

  Poley picked himself up and saw that the window to Sir Anthony Bacon’s sick room stood wide. Sir Francis was leaning out of it, conversing calmly as though what he had just witnessed was no more than a sporting contest.

  ‘As chance would have it,’ Francis Bacon continued urbanely, ‘I was requested to ask that you attend Sir Christopher and Lady Lettice, Master Poley. A matter, I believe, of supplying you with the Leicester coat of arms. And I understand Sir Christopher has expressed a wish to purchase a decent blade to replace the one stolen from you. I’m afraid the one you have just this moment dropped reflects very poorly on the Leicester Household and the Blount family’s honour, especially in the hands of a close and valued relative.’

  As the pair of them strolled towards Lady Lettice’s chambers, Sir Francis said, ‘I must apologise if you felt I overstated the closeness of your familial relationship with Sir Christopher, but it seemed the best way to ensure that Meyrick would think twice about assaulting you again.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Poley, who was still fighting to catch his breath. ‘Your intervention was most welcome. Does Sir Christopher in fact wish to see me?’

  ‘He does. And for the reasons I stated. It was the exhibition duello at supper, I believe, which put the idea of the sword in his mind. His family’s honour is precious to him and now that he has publicly admitted his relationship to you, your situation, possessions and actions reflect upon that honour. And, of course Lady Leicester’s.’

  The two men were welcomed into Lady Leicester’s rooms by Lady Lettice and Sir Christopher. Lady Lettice held a short discussion on the matter of a light tabard with the complicated but beautiful Leicester coat of arms on the shoulder, all azure, or, gules, and white with leopards and lions rampant. As soon as Poley declared how honoured he would be to wear it on formal occasions, Sir Christopher took over. ‘Now that that is agreed, we must find you a blade worthy to be worn alongside it. We will go to the Steelyard straight away.’

  When Sir Francis accompanied them, Sir Christopher didn’t raise an eyebrow. But apparently word of their mission and destination had somehow got out. Amongst the younger, poorer members of both households as well as the guests from far afield, a visit to the Steelyard was an adventure in itself. And a visit in pursuit of a first-quality blade made the expedition more exciting than a visit to the Globe or the Bear-baiting pit.

  *

  Sir Christopher led Poley and Bacon down to the foot of the stairs then back into the servants’ areas and along the route Poley had been shoved by Mayrick’s bullies, and out onto the flagged terrace and the gardens. As they crossed the terrace, Cuffe and Legge appeared with, of all people, Nick Skeres keeping them company.

  ‘Is it true you’re bound for the Steelyard?’ asked Legge a little breathlessly.

  ‘We are,’ answered Poley because the question had been addressed to him.

  ‘May we accompany you?’

  Sir Christopher heard the request and shrugged amenably. He didn’t even seem unduly put out when the Irish baron St Lawrence also joined them. Fortunately no-one else did, for they were taking a ferry from the Essex House steps to the Steelyard steps and there were seven of them already, eight including the ferryman – a heavy load for a Thames wherry. But the river was running smooth and still on the back of a falling tide. Shooting the Bridge would have been a dangerous undertaking but they were not bound quite that far downriver.

  So, once they were gathered on the steps, Sir Christopher caught the eye of a ferryman sitting at liberty. ‘Eastward Ho!’ he bellowed and a few moments later they were off. As the great houses and their landings, stairs or steps sped by on their left, from the Temple Stairs past Whitefriars and Bridewell on down to Broken Wharf and Queenshythe, Legge and Cuffe chattered excitedly and St Lawrence pretended not to be listening to them. ‘It must be two years and more that Her Majesty withdrew her warrants to the Steelyard,’ said Legge.

  ‘But before that it had been, more or less, a liberty for the German merchants of the Hansa, as I understand it. Since the reign of King Edward Longshanks,’ Cuffe the ex-Oxford professor informed him.

  ‘For all things German, from cloth to cheese, from schnapps to steel,’ supplied Sir Francis. ‘And although the Royal charters and warrants have been withdrawn, the merchants are still there. Some of them. If you know where to look.’

  As they passed Three Carters Wharf and were rowed into the Dowgate ward, the ferryman began to pull in towards the north bank and a few moments later Sir Christopher was leading them up the Steelyard steps. Moments later they were in Dowgate itself and the street led straight up into Thames Street which followed the course of the river six solid properties up from the north bank itself. Once in Thames Street, Sir Christopher turned right and, with Bacon at one shoulder and St Lawrence at the other, led them through the bustle of hawkers, shoppers and carters coming and going along the busy thoroughfare. Weaving in and out between the people, the herds of sheep going to slaughter on Newgate Street and market at Smithfield or Leadenhall, and the cart-horses pulling their heavy loads to and from the Cornmarket and the Haymarket. He strode past Cousin Lane and Windgoose until he turned right into Church Lane past the church that gave it its name. A few yards down, he pushed a narrow door open and they all followed him into a surprisingly roomy shop. Sir Christopher gestured at the man who stood behind the counter, nodding and smiling a welcome. ‘This, Masters, is Herr Jacobus Merkel of Solingen, and he supplies some of the finest swords money can buy.’

  There were no steps leading down to the river at the end of Church Street, so, half an hour later, Sir Christopher, with Bacon and St Lawrence at his shoulders, led the little group back up toward Thames Street. The blade which now lay in Poley’s possession was by no means the finest Herr Merkel could supply but it was a reasonably priced, perfectly serviceable workaday weapon. Wearing it would not greatly enhance his reputation, but neither would it shame his aristocratic kinsmen. Poley was particularly pleased because the Master of Defence who had tutored him in swordplay had often told him that blades marked with the running wolf of Solingen were the best. Legge and Cuffe were immediately behind him and just in front of Nick Skeres, chattering excitedly about the German swords and how they could afford one of their own. The little group turned into Thames Street. Poley was paying scant attention to their conversation and his own surroundings as they joined the bustle once more, distracted by his new possession and calculations of how he could pay Sir Christopher back for it.

  He was so preoccupied, in fact, that he did not hear the first cries of ‘Ware! Ware runaway!’ It was only when the others crowding the street began to push themselves nervousl
y against the walls and into recessed doorways that he sprang into full wakefulness. And not a moment too soon. The crowd in the road in front of him parted like the Red Sea at Moses’ command to reveal a runaway horse dragging an empty wagon. Eyes rolling, nostrils gaping and steaming, mouth foaming round the bit it was chewing wildly, it thundered straight towards him. He had a heartbeat to assess the danger. This was one of the largest cart-horses he had ever seen. The wagon behind it was by no means a toy, and yet it was galloping forward as though its burden weighed nothing. Metal wheel-rims sparked off the cobbles of the street. The noise was so overwhelming that everything else seemed to fall silent. Sir Christopher, Sir Francis and St Lawrence leaped back, flattening themselves against the wall behind them. Poley froze for a fatal instant as it suddenly occurred to him that this might be another elaborate but extremely dangerous attempt to kill him. But then Sir Francis’s hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him aside. The horse and the cart thundered past close enough to buffet him with the wind of their passage, spray him with foam and shower his toecaps with sparks. But as they did so, another sound suddenly overcame the overwhelming din. A series of sounds. A scream. A thump. A crackling.

  Poley swung round. Cuffe and Skeres stood wide-eyed, flat against the wall of the nearest house. What was left of Legge after the hooves and the wheels had stamped him down, rolled over him and crushed the life out of him lay sprawled and bleeding in the gutter.

  5

  ‘It looks suspicious to me,’ said Sir Anthony Bacon. He didn’t need to elaborate.

  But Sir Henry Wotton did. ‘The fact that Poley here is the very man we need to replace poor Legge?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It’s not so much of a coincidence, really,’ argued Poley, his calm tone belying his racing pulse. ‘As I have explained before, my travels on behalf of the Council, Walsingham and Cecil over the years - before I was betrayed and thrown out of their favour - have been so wide and so often repeated that I would be able to replace almost any man in the Secretariat. Had an accident robbed you of your German specialist, for example; or your Dutch or French, men, I could have stepped in. It goes without saying that any one of us could replace your Latin and Greek specialists.’