The Dead Don't Wai

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Richard bent and held out a hand. ‘Were you standing on the stool when I pushed the door open? Please accept my apologies, young master. Are your parents here? Let me help you to your feet.’

  The child accepted his hand after giving it a reluctant and fearful glance, as though expecting to be roundly thrashed at any moment. Sir Richard stood straight, pulling the – as he assumed – boy to his feet.

  As he did so, a fellow walked in and glared at Sir Richard suspiciously. A man of about thirty years, I guessed. A scrawny fellow, with sharp eyes under his thatch of thick, dark hair. He had a stubbled beard that spoke of a shave delayed, and that added to the air of distrust about him. ‘Are you well, Ben?’

  ‘I fear I shoved the door a little hard on entering and knocked him from his perch,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a friend to this boy and his family. Who are you?’

  ‘I am the Queen’s Coroner, here to hold inquest.’

  The man’s expression altered, but only to harden. It was normal. Coroners had the duty of imposing fines for any infraction of the many rules about finding a dead body, so a coroner’s visit was rarely to be celebrated. Anyone hearing of an inquest would show the same enthusiasm as he would on hearing a cut-purse was working in the area.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am called Roger. My apologies. I saw the door was open and thought some mishap …’

  ‘You thought that felons could have broken into the place. You are a brave fellow, master.’

  ‘Are you well, Ben?’ the man Roger asked again. The youngster nodded, and moved towards him, I noticed. He plainly trusted this man, although I could not see why. He was clad in ill-fitting clothing that was obviously cut for a much larger man, and he had little to commend him. The fashion of his clothing was not of a standard I would ever consider wearing.

  Sir Richard appeared to put him from his mind and walked to the fireplace. There were some wisps of smoke rising from the embers, and he stirred them, blowing gently until a flame appeared. There was a wicker basket with kindling over a damp patch on the stones of the hearth, and he carefully selected a few pieces and set them over the flame, placing logs nearby. ‘Where are your parents?’

  The boy retreated nearer to Roger and he stood there now, with Roger’s hands on his shoulders, staring from one to the other of us. When Sir Richard repeated his question, he shook his head and began to tremble visibly. Sir Richard grunted and rose to his feet, but I held up my hand to stop him.

  Walking to the lad, I squatted in front of him so we were on the same level. ‘My name is Jack. We don’t want to upset you. Do you live here, Ben?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘With your parents? Do you know?’

  ‘With my mother, sir. And Master Nyck – he is the host.’

  His tone changed subtly as he gave that name. It sounded as if he wanted to spit it.

  ‘Where is Nyck? Or your mother? Do you know?’

  ‘He went to church with my mother.’ Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘What of your father?’

  The tears could not be stemmed now. Roger gently said, ‘He was murdered. He’s in the back room.’

  Sir Richard and I made our way through to the lean-to chamber at the rear of the inn. It was an old dairy, or so it felt. Cool even now, and growing cooler as the night drew on.

  I was reluctant. There was that familiar odour, the smell of death and decay, with the tang of iron. I knew that scent well enough now; I may be a poor assassin, but there are aspects of the job that I have not been able to avoid. No matter how I attempted to evade dead bodies, I had managed to stumble over more than my fair share in recent months.

  ‘I don’t need to see this.’

  ‘Hey?’ Sir Richard turned and saw my face. ‘God’s blood, man! It’s just a dead fellow. Don’t be a mulligrub! No need to be down-spirited. This fellow won’t harm ye, will he? Hey? Ha ha!’

  He clearly perceived this as the very height of humour and returned to the trestle table which had commanded my attention since we had walked into the room. It held a large figure wrapped in a white winding sheet, and while I doubted the enclosed man would be likely to spring from the table to assault me, it was a daunting sight. Sir Richard went to it and began to remove the linen. ‘Whoever thought it would be a good idea to wrap him up like this, hey? There’s been no blasted inquest yet! And look! The damn fool’s took off his clothes! This is ridiculous!’

  As he spoke, I heard footsteps in the parlour. I turned in time to see a woman standing in the gloom. She held a candle, shielded by her left hand, and the light shone pink and orange to outline each finger.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded shrilly.

  ‘I am the Queen’s Coroner. Who are you?’ Sir Richard said.

  She looked away. ‘I was this man’s wife.’

  That was an interesting way to put it, I thought. Not that she was his widow, but that she had been his wife.

  She was a comely enough woman. She had her hair concealed beneath a coif and hat, while her figure was concealed by the heavy travelling cloak she wore, which was muddy and stained. Her face was long, and she had a high brow, with slightly slanted eyes that made her look kind and affectionate. She had that sort of look about her that made me want to take her in my arms and console her. And from the look in her eyes, there was plenty to console her about. They were red with weeping, and tears had left tracks in her cheeks, washing away the dirt from the road. The child from the door was behind her, and I could see others behind him in the passageway.

  ‘Where’ve you been? Your child had to let us in,’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘At church. We wanted to pray for his soul.’

  She looked close to tears, but Sir Richard was not a sensitive soul. His tone was brusque and unsympathetic. ‘Who cleaned him and took his clothes?’

  ‘I did. He was murdered, and I couldn’t leave him in the state he was in.’

  ‘You realize, madam, that you broke the law? He should have been left where he had been found so that I could inspect the body in situ. There is likely to be much evidence that has been lost, because you moved him here.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to leave him lying in the dirt at the roadside just so that you could study him there. He was my husband. I loved him,’ she snapped, and added quietly, glancing down at the man’s face, ‘There was no need to leave him there. He was my husband, Coroner. My husband. I loved him.’

  ‘You may think so. However, it was not your choice to make, woman. Now we may never know what I could have learned. Where are the clothes he was wearing?’

  ‘I gave them away,’ she said with a defiant tilt of her head. ‘What, you think I want to be reminded that someone stabbed my poor Peter in the road and left him to bleed to death?’

  She looked as though she was close to tears again, her gaze moving from Sir Richard to the pale face on the table.

  I put on my best smile. ‘Madam, I am very sorry that you have lost your husband.’

  ‘I lost him a long time ago,’ she muttered. ‘As soon as King Edward died.’

  ‘Eh?’

  She looked up again, shaking her head as if bewildered. ‘I am sorry. I was thinking out loud. What do you wish to know?’

  Sir Richard draped the linen back over the man’s face. ‘Nothing for now, except to know that you will be here tomorrow for the inquest. I must have the local jury called – all the families who live in the near vicinity. I dare say there won’t be many. I will need you to bring all the clothing you still possess, and tell those you gave his other clothes to, to bring them as well. I will hold the inquest at noon sharp.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She had a great gift of stillness, which gave her a calm dignity as she stood there, staring down at her husband’s body.

  ‘Madam,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I am very sorry for your loss. However, since this is an inn, is there food for me and my men? And a chamber for us to sleep to
night?’

  ‘I shall see what can be provided.’

  When I returned to the parlour to stand before the fireplace, I found that the tipstaff and his men were already halfway to the happiness that can be found at the bottom of a cup or tankard. Roger was standing in the corner, eyeing the men with disfavour. It was like so many local taverns: introduce a stranger, and the peasants would always become silent until they left.

  The landlord was a cheerful-looking man of some five-and-thirty summers. ‘Sir? What may I fetch you?’

  ‘I’ll have a pint of sack,’ I said.

  He disappeared, soon to return with an earthenware jug. He set it on the table beside me and placed a cup next to it.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, pouring a measure and sipping. It was a great improvement on the foul concoction Raphe had served me earlier. ‘This widow – do you know her well?’

  His rotund features stiffened. It was like watching a door slam. I could feel the waves of discontent from Roger, and the landlord glanced at him quickly before returning to me. ‘I know her.’

  ‘What was her husband like?’

  ‘Father Peter? He was a very capable, pleasant fellow. Everyone liked him.’

  I didn’t see the point of mentioning that one person clearly didn’t like him so much. ‘Was he true to the old faith or the new?’

  ‘Well, he held services in the old when he arrived here.’

  ‘Which means little enough.’

  ‘He had been a priest in King Henry’s Church.’

  ‘I see. But when Queen Mary decided to change the law, so that the women married to priests must be thrown aside and their marriages declared illegal, he was one who found that easier than keeping hold of her? A shame, I’d have thought. She looks a prime article.’

  ‘She is widowed today, master,’ he said shortly. Roger slammed his cup on the bar and walked from the room.

  I stared after him a moment before returning to the landlord. ‘I know, but … anyway, why was she here? The fellow would not have been allowed to keep his concubine with him.’

  ‘He did not live here with her. The Queen’s law meant that priests like Peter must move away from their original parish. He came here, leaving his wife and children behind. They were forced to accept poverty as punishment and were not allowed contact with him.’

  ‘So when did they arrive here?’

  ‘Some weeks ago. They have been staying here with me for the last fortnight.’

  ‘Why would she follow him here?’

  The landlord didn’t meet my eye, which gave him an oddly shifty appearance. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted to remind him what he was missing,’ I mused. ‘A dangerous plan, though. A priest trying to keep his family would lose his benefice. And any discovered cohabiting would be severely punished. I have heard of a priest who was caught carrying his babe in the street. He was known to the officer, and when he was discovered, he was arrested and beaten. Some bishops are not understanding like that.’

  ‘Yes. The stories of how they were beaten, just for taking wives, makes a fellow shrink in horror,’ the landlord said.

  It was a sad story. Many of the priests were forced to walk as penitents, while senior priests or their bishop lashed them. Personally, I would have kept the woman. After all, most of the poor devils had only married the women who had kept their beds warm before the change in the Church’s rules. At least the men had made honest women of them – for a period.

  The landlord was keen to be away. I didn’t wish to delay him. ‘What is your name again?’

  ‘Nyck, sir.’ I nodded. The man whose name had made the lad Ben pull a grimace.

  ‘Have you seen a man about here called Dick Atwood?’

  ‘Him?’

  If I had held any concerns about my old servant being able to injure me with his allegations of my being involved in a murder here, they were instantly dissipated. The look of disdain on Nyck’s face was unmistakeable. If Atwood spoke against me, it would most likely count in my favour with the locals here.

  I returned to my pot with a feeling of reassurance.

  As I drank, I saw the lad who had opened the door to us. I beckoned him. It was not something Ben had expected, plainly. I saw him glance about him, as though ensuring that no one was watching who might take offence at his communing with me, and then warily approached me.

  ‘Come, fellow,’ I said heartily. ‘Would you hob or nob?’

  Ben shot a look at the jugs. One was standing on the hob, right next the fire, where it was warmed through. The other was on the nob, set away from the fire, remaining cool.

  ‘I can see you feel cold. You would prefer a hob, would you not?’ I said heartily. I poured him a small measure, replacing the jug on the hob, and sat back, indicating to him that he should take his seat on a stool nearby. ‘Tell me, so you live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a fine place it is for a lad to grow up, too. A good little business. I dare say it grows busy at market time? Travellers on their way to the city, others returning. All with money in their purses, ready to be spent. You must have a lot of stories to tell of the people passing the inn? I used to know a man who lived about here somewhere,’ I added, frowning as though with recollection. ‘A man called Dick – er – Atwood. I don’t suppose you have heard of him, have you?’

  ‘I know him,’ the boy said with feeling, and this time his face was sour as a green cherry. ‘He beat me, when he thought I was stealing apples from the vicar’s orchard. Atwood was his servant.’

  ‘Haha! That’s the fellow. He can be a bit hard on a lad, I expect?’

  ‘He said he had been a soldier.’

  ‘Yes. I used to know him then. But he’s not a man I would trust much. Would you?’

  The boy turned his big, innocent blue eyes on me. ‘No.’

  ‘Is he here now?’ I asked, feigning lack of interest.

  ‘No. He left this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’ I sipped my drink, and then a quick, sharp pain caught me as a thought speared my brain. ‘Um … did he leave just after the body had been found, do you know?’

  ‘Yes. It was just after the alarm was raised. He said he would be back shortly, but he isn’t.’

  Well, I considered, it would be a wonderful thing if the man had been caught by outlaws and slaughtered at the roadside, just like the unhappy priest Peter.

  I did not like Atwood.

  Atwood was a man I had met during the short-lived Wyatt Rebellion the year before. Wyatt and a number of others were determined to remove the Queen and replace her with young Lady Jane Grey, or perhaps even Princess Elizabeth, as she then was. Queen Mary, to prove her own legitimacy, had to declare her mother’s divorce illegal and baseless. England would not happily accept an illegitimate woman taking the throne, after all. So her repeal of the law stating that her mother’s marriage to the King had been illegal for reasons of consanguinity, had the simultaneous effect of declaring Anne Boleyn’s marriage to the King to be illegal. If that was illegal, any children from that union were also illegitimate. So in order to save herself embarrassment, Queen Mary willingly imposed the same shame on her half-sister. Elizabeth lost her royal title of ‘Princess’ and became merely ‘Lady’.

  That being so, the Lady Elizabeth likely discovered an anger towards her half-sister, an anger that would soon be expressed as jealousy, I suppose. In any case, the Rebellion, so it was said, was launched in order to remove Queen Mary and impose someone else – either Lady Jane or Lady Elizabeth – and I became embroiled. Atwood was a soldier at the time, and I had good cause to distrust him. He was a dangerous man, and held no fond memories of me, I was sure. The last time I saw him, he was employed by my master, and that might mean that he was involved in politicking here. If so, my own life could be in danger.

  I resolved to leave the inn and the village at first light.

  ‘Hah! Master Blackjack! Would ye mind if I hobnobbed with you? Eh?’ Sir Richard said a
s he came and sat at my side.

  TWO

  When I woke, a horrible sense of disaster overwhelmed me.

  I have become, as it were, a connoisseur of pain. When I first knew Atwood last year, I suffered several blows to my head. I have been attacked at Woodstock, where the Lady Elizabeth had been staying, and several times in London, both during and after the Wyatt Rebellion. My head, I sometimes feel, might have been the favourite camp ball of any number of violent men. It had been buffeted by a lot of blunt weapons and threatened by more not-so-blunt ones.

  And yet, even with my exhaustive experience on the quality of pain that can be inflicted by men of all conditions, this was worse. I must have been savagely beaten about the head.

  I cautiously felt my brow. There was no injury there. I searched over my scalp, seeking lumps, sorenesses, or crusts of scabbed blood, but could find none. Eventually, I opened one eye to take in my surroundings, and found that I was still in the chair that I had taken the previous evening.

  My neck hurt, for the chair had a back that was too low to support my head, and I had slid down in the seat until my rump was hanging part off the edge, my chin uncomfortably pressed down to my chest. My left leg was twisted and caught under me, and as soon as I tried to move it, pins and needles jabbed up and down. I groaned.

  ‘Hah! A good morning, Master Blackjack! I trust you slept well?’

  The Coroner sat in front of the fire, beaming at me, while the tipstaff and his men were sprawled on benches and chairs nearer the bar. The man’s voice was so loud, I felt it necessary to place a gentle hand on top of my head to stop it flying loose.

  I was still in the bar!

  The smell of sour wine and spilled ale was prominent in the room, and I could almost taste both. My mouth was like one of the city’s sewers, and I did not wish to investigate what was lying on my tongue. It felt like some form of grease or tar. When I opened my other eye, I was forced to close it again quickly. My vision was not helped by trying to focus with both at the same time. It seemed to send the room spinning about me.