by Michael Ward
‘About the misfortunes that have befallen you. I am seeking a pattern and I need you to tell me again everything you observed at your parents’ house when Swofford died. I want to be sure of something.’
‘Of course I will, Elizabeth, when we get back, if you think it will help, but thankfully my fortunes have improved since we spoke. I now have a person of influence on my side to protect my interests.’
He turned and whispered in her ear, ‘Henry Jermyn.’
He felt her body stiffen and she pulled her head away.
‘No, Tom, you cannot mean it. Not that man.’
‘Elizabeth, I know you suffered misfortune at the hands of Jermyn and his associates playing at the tables. However, that is over and he has been of great assistance to me, only this morning.’
Elizabeth lowered her voice. ‘Tom, you must listen to me. You have no idea about the extent of my dealings with that man. You do not understand who you are up against.’
There was a long pause. Elizabeth turned away and looked out across the river. The boatman continued his steady rhythm, humming to himself.
She turned back and whispered, ‘My father is employed by the Privy Council. Jermyn once threatened to damage his career if I did not cooperate with him.’
‘What did he want you to do?’
‘Jermyn found out mathematics is among my interests. I use it for planetary calculations and father agreed to my tuition.’
Elizabeth moved closer and Tom could feel her warm breath on his cheek.
‘Jermyn invited me to Whitehall. I was taken to a room deep inside the palace containing a large oak chest. He unlocked it and placed several pieces of paper on a table in front of me. They were covered in numbers. Jermyn said they were messages that had been intercepted. It was vital to the King’s interests they were decoded but the task had defeated his cipher experts. If I did not discover what the numbers meant, my father’s position would become… difficult.’
Elizabeth held on to Tom’s coat and whispered urgently.
‘He said I could not leave that room until I had broken the code! If I had not achieved it within an hour, he would call me back again and again until I had. I could not remove the papers from the room, nor tell anyone what I was doing or it would go badly with the whole Seymour family.’
Tom had never seen Elizabeth look frightened. He slipped his arm around her shoulder.
‘My poor Elizabeth. What did you do?’
‘Once I had gathered my senses, I looked at the sheets. I knew within the hour the code was loosely based on number theory developed by Pierre de Fermat in France. If you knew Fermat’s work, you could decipher the code in minutes. If you did not, you might not solve it in a lifetime.’
‘What did the messages say?’
‘That was the last thing I wanted to know. I asked for a quill and paper, wrote down the decoding sequence for each letter of the alphabet and left. Jermyn looked pleased when I told him about the French link, but I said he should never ask me to do such a thing again. And he never has.’
‘Why not, once he had you within his power?’
Elizabeth moved away. A mischievous grin lit her features.
‘I told him I had been afflicted since childhood by a tendency to walk and talk in my sleep! His secrets were not safe with me.’
‘He believed you?’
‘Well, he has never asked me again. But Tom, if he has rendered you a service I can guarantee it will only be to put you in his debt. Give me your word you will have nothing more to do with him. You must.’
Tom slowly nodded. He could not ignore the look of alarm on her face but he knew that, should he need Jermyn’s help in the future, he might have to reconsider his promise.
A carriage arrived ten minutes later to take Elizabeth to meet her father in Whitehall. Tom waved to her as she left then turned to see Isaac waiting for him in the parlour. Something was amiss.
‘I did not want to mention it in front of Miss Elizabeth, Master Thomas, but we have had an intruder.’
‘Another petty thief, Isaac? When?’
‘While you were out on the river with Miss Elizabeth. We were busy unloading the barky so the office was empty. I came out of the kitchen and heard a noise above. I picked up a loading hook, crept upstairs and found some toerag, bold as brass, in the first floor store, bag of spice in his hand. One look at the hook and he dropped the bag and made a run for it. But I stopped him with a single punch. Didn’t put up a fight. Kept saying he wasn’t going to take nothing, and him caught red-handed! They don’t usually try it in broad daylight, though. This one was either stupid or desperate.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I called the constable who’s taken him to the magistrate. The City’s red hot on pilfering from the docks. Says it’s damaging the port’s reputation. They’ll throw the book at him, at least that’s what the constable said.’
Isaac paused. Tom could sense his misgiving.
‘Isaac, are you having second thoughts? You usually do not have any time for thieving.’
‘You are right, Master, I do not. We work hard enough to make an honest living without these little bastards stealing the coats off our back. But he was different, somehow. I didn’t notice to begin with but, after he was taken away, it got me thinking.’
Isaac could be frustratingly vague but Tom trusted his judgement.
‘What do you mean exactly, Isaac?’
‘Well, he seemed resigned to being caught. Didn’t put up much of a struggle, as I say, just sat waiting for the constable. If I had walked out the room and come back five minutes later, likely he wouldn’t have moved, as if he wanted to be arrested. Mind you, he looked afeared when the constable mentioned Tyburn Hill. He started babbling on again about not stealing anything.’
‘Tyburn? Will they hang him? For a bag of spice?’
‘Oh yes, could happen, Master. As I say, the courts are sending a message to all thieves in the city. Keep off the docks. That don’t mean he will hang though. After all, he might know his neck verse.’
‘His what?’
‘His neck verse. Taking the clergy. You must have heard of that, Master Thomas?’
Tom shook his head and drew up a couple of chairs.
‘Something I must have missed while on my travels, Isaac. Take the weight off your feet and tell me about it.’
Isaac sat down carefully and mopped his face with a cloth.
‘Well, in Queen Bess’s time you only had to sneeze in the wrong direction to end up on the scaffold. Soon everyone knew someone who’d shook hands with the executioner. People said there were too many and it wasn’t right. Then someone remembered that clergy could not be tried in an ordinary court. So the judges were told that if a man came before them charged with, say, petty thieving, they should allow him to "take the clergy”, if he could.’
‘What does that mean, Isaac?’
‘Well the clergy are learned gentlemen, as you know, and they can all read and write. So if someone in the dock could prove they could read a verse from the Bible, that was good enough for the judge in cases of petty crime. Mind you, they would not get off scot-free. Anyone granted the clergy is branded on the thumb so they cannot claim it again. But they’ll take a brand before a rope, won’t they, so they all try for it.’
‘Even if they cannot read? What is the point?’
‘Because the chosen reading is usually the same, Master: the first verse of Psalm fifty-one.’
Light dawned on Tom.
‘So if they can learn the verse and pretend to read it from the Bible in court, they escape the gallows?’
‘That’s about the size of it, Master Thomas, as long as the crime is not too serious. Mind you, stealing a bag of spice is not the same as taking a loaf of bread and the court may take a dim view. Judges can choose another verse to make sure the defendant can really read, if they’re so inclined. I even heard of one who told the clerk to use a Latin Bible because he was not convinced. It’s not as easy a
s it sounds.’
Tom wondered how much it would take to make the boy’s theft serious.
‘Isaac, what was in the bag?’
‘Cinnamon, Master. Five pounds of it.’
At today’s market price, Tom calculated that would be worth forty shillings. If the court discovered this, the young boy could be in serious trouble.
‘Let us sleep on the matter, Isaac. Nothing more will happen today and we have a load of cargo to store.’
Chapter 18
11th September 1640
Clerkenwell
Meg faltered as Tom guided her to the left. ‘Did that confuse you, old girl? No, we are not visiting the family. Somewhere much less pleasant, I fear.’
They were in Clerkenwell. It was the next day and Tom was about to meet his cinnamon thief. He led Meg off St John Street into the path to the village green. He rode past the rear alley to the Red Bull theatre before turning right, down the side of St James churchyard. He pulled Meg to a halt in front of New Prison. The name was misleading. The iron bars across the windows were pocked with rust, its wooden front door chipped and scratched. An air of decay hung over the building, a low, unremarkable stone construction. Still, it could not be worse than Newgate.
Tom thought the boy would have been put in the city’s main lock-up, but Newgate was full. Given its reputation for overcrowding, if Newgate was considered full the conditions inside would be unspeakable. He tethered Meg to a wall and entered. Ten minutes later, and several coins lighter, Tom was led down a dark stone corridor to a bolted wooden door. The jailer slid open a viewing hatch, grunted, closed it again and pulled a bunch of large keys from his belt. He selected one and unlocked the cell door. Stepping back, he turned to Tom with a sly grin.
‘All yours. Take as long as yer like.’
Tom pushed the door open. The stench hit him in the face. He took an involuntary step back before moving into the cell. The door slammed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock. The air was hot and fetid, the rushes on the cell floor caked with excrement and dried vomit. He felt suffocated by the oppressive stink of urine and struggled not to retch.
A single window, high in the opposite wall was barred on the outside and thick with grime. Pale light filtered through, consumed instantly by the gloom. Tom saw four figures, each sitting on the filthy rushes. He guessed at once which was the cinnamon thief, a fair-haired boy in one corner.
‘You are the one who tried to steal the spice from my warehouse yesterday, are you not?’
The boy looked at him but said nothing. Isaac was right, Tom thought. He does not look frightened or angry. Simply resigned. Tom got down on his haunches, closer to the stinking rushes. He fought to push the nausea back.
‘My name is Thomas Tallant. My family own the warehouse where you were caught. I want to know more about you, and why you took such a risk stealing from us in daylight. What is your name?’
A figure stirred on other side of the cell.
‘You’re wasting your time. He’s hardly spoke since he came in. No name. No nothing. The only thing he did say chilled us all, didn’t it, Ned?’
The man nudged a dark shape next to him. Ned started coughing. A hacking, retching eruption deep within his body. He spat loudly.
‘Said he was cursed. Said he was the Devil’s spawn, so he did.’
Ned crossed himself vigorously.
‘If you can get him moved out of here, we’d be much obliged,’ the first figure continued. ‘Gives me and Ned the frights, and no mistake.’
‘I mean you no harm.’
It was the boy. His voice surprised Tom. Calm, measured and, underneath, a certain gentleness.
‘He speaks!’ Ned said, mocking.
Tom turned to the boy. ‘And I also mean you no harm. Please, tell me your name.’
Eventually the boy lifted his head, his face wet with tears. Tom reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, leaned forward and gently wiped the grime from the boy’s face.
‘How old are you? Sixteen years?’
The boy took a gulp of air and looked at Tom.
‘I believe I am fifteen years of age, sir, and my name is Matty… Matty Morris.’
Tom was struck by the realisation that his brother Matthias would also have turned fifteen this year if he had lived. He tried to keep the memories of his brother at bay. He needed to focus on this Matty, sitting in front of him now. He encouraged the boy to continue and slowly pieced his story together. He said he was the son of a tenant farmer in Surrey. At the age of thirteen, famine fever killed half his village, including his father and mother. Matty moved to London to live with his elder sister Prudence who was married to a lay preacher and living near Coleman Street.
‘I could tell Prudence did not want me there. They’d had their first baby and were living out of two rooms. She said there was no space for me but her husband Caleb said it was the Christian duty of God’s children to look after the weak. I did not like all the preaching. Church twice a day and more at home. But it was a roof over my head and Caleb was kind enough to begin with.’
Matty stopped talking and stared at the cell wall. Tom could crouch no longer and raised himself stiffly to his feet. He kicked at the squalid rushes to clear some room, before sitting gingerly on the stone floor.
‘So what happened, Matty, to make you feel cursed?’
The boy sighed. ‘Feel it? I do not merely feel it. I know it to be true. I must be cursed. I was happy living with my parents. I worked the land with father and at night mother showed me how to cook and sew. She wanted me to attend the village school. Father said I could not be spared but agreed in the end because it meant so much to Mother. After a month the schoolmaster said I showed promise and Father was proud, I could see it in his face. I learned my letters and within six months could read—still can a little—and began to learn writing. But the fever came and everything changed. Killed my parents, and the schoolmaster. Caleb said it was God’s providence and there must have been great wickedness in the village. But I did not see it. He said I must be wicked to lose both my parents, and Prudence missed the fever because she left the village to join the children of God in London, and was one of the chosen. That’s what Caleb told me and he said I must join him in prayer to seek God’s forgiveness.’
The flow of words ceased and Matty dropped his head again. His voice became a whisper.
‘The baby was a poor sleeper at night and Pru was exhausted looking after him. They would often doze in the afternoon. Caleb would wait until they were asleep and then tell me to pray with him in the other room.’
Another pause. More tears. With a growing sense of misgiving, Tom sensed what was coming.
‘We would kneel together, facing each other, and Caleb would thank the Lord for sending me to him for his protection. He said it brought joy to his heart. He would put his hands on my shoulders, then my back… and my arse. The first time I did not realise what was happening but Caleb’s voice got excited and he started stroking my arse saying it was as soft as Pru’s. He stopped when I shouted at him. He was terrified Prudence would wake and discover us. But a few days later, he tried it on again, begging me to do God’s bidding. He said Prudence had not been interested since the baby and God had sent me instead. I told him it was not right and, if he did'nt stop, I would tell Prudence. It was the worst thing I could have done. Two days later, I came home from the market to find my sister sobbing her heart out. She screamed as I came in the room, got hold of the baby and pushed herself tight into a corner. Caleb heard the noise and rushed in from the other room. He pointed at me. I can still remember, his finger was trembling. He pointed at me and said I was the Devil incarnate, come to lead him from the path or righteousness through lust and wickedness. I tried to talk to Pru but she would not look at me. Kept her head turned towards the wall, screaming about saving her baby from eternal damnation. When I said it was Caleb who had been trying it on with me, she was like a mad woman, shrieking and moaning about how Satan must have l
ay with our mother to produce me. Caleb came at me, holding his Bible out in front of him like a shield. He called me Lucifer and told me I had no place in a house of God’s children. If I did not leave he would summon the brethren of Coleman Street to drive me out with stones.’
Ned turned to the man next to him. ‘Told you he was no good. Devil’s spawn, he said.’
Tom looked around, touched the hilt of his sword, and glared at Ned who shrank against the cell wall, silenced.
‘I left that very minute,’ Matty continued, ‘and never went back. I ran to the river and slept rough on the wharves. My coat was stolen two days later and I was forced to start thieving so I could eat. That’s when I realised Caleb was right. I was cursed. Everything had gone wrong since the fever came to the village. I lost my mother and father, and now my sister, good as. I had nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat and I had finally stooped to sinning—stealing bread.’
‘But you were hungry, Matty.’
‘No matter. I was raised to be God-fearing, never tell a lie and keep the law. I had turned my back on this and become no better than the thief who stole my coat.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Was that why you took the spice, Matty? You had given up all hope?’
Matty looked Tom in the eye. ‘I did not take no spice. I told you that.’
‘But Isaac said he found you with the bag in your hand,’ Tom persisted. ‘Was he lying?’
Both Matty's hands were balled into tight fists, his nails digging into his grimy skin. ‘No,’ he muttered.
‘Well, have it your own way, Matty Morris.’
Tom sighed and got to his feet. He looked around the filthy room and a growing conviction filled his heart. Yes, the boy had been trying to steal from him, but he’d been driven to it by ill treatment. The coincidence of this opportunity to help another Matty weighed heavily in his mind, burdened as it was by years of chafing guilt.
‘I will arrange for you to have a clean cell and will pay for food and drink.’ He leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘I believe you Matty. I must go away and consider what I can do to help. In the meantime, do not lose heart. I will return.’