A death of promise, p.1
A Death of Promise, page 1
part #2 of Thomas Berrington Tudor Mystery Series
A DEATH OF PROMISE
DAVID PENNY
RIVERTREE PRINT
Copyright © 2022 David Penny
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
20220531:1559
CONTENTS
December 1501
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Historical Note
Also by David Penny
About the Author
DECEMBER 1501
LUDLOW, ENGLAND
CHAPTER ONE
As Thomas Berrington ran across the outer bailey of Ludlow Castle, he realised how much he had forgotten of English winters. In particular its snow, ice and frost. For that is what this day had brought. Bad weather, as well as an appointment with bad-tempered gentlemen. Skidding on a patch of ice beyond the castle gatehouse, he was only saved from a fall by his son.
“Careful, Pa,” said Will. “You might have knocked the brains from your head.”
“If he had any,” said Jorge Olmos, who followed behind, a thick coat wrapped around himself, an even thicker felt hat pulled down almost to his eyes. “If he had any brains he would not have become Justice of the Peace, and he would not have dragged us all to this land of ice.”
Thomas recovered his balance and glanced back to check that Amal was still with them. She was, though the falling snow obscured his daughter’s features as if he saw her through a lace screen. It was the thirteenth day of December in the Year of our Lord 1501 — if Thomas believed in the Lord. Not that his lack of faith made any difference to the date. Today was his first appearance at the Quarter Sessions, the first serious test of his authority, and he had already been warned to take care by better men than himself. Sir Richard Pole, for one, Chamberlain to Prince Arthur in Ludlow Castle. Gruffydd ap Rhys, Prince Arthur’s Master of Horse, was another. Their advice had been contradictory, so of little use. One told him to follow the letter of the law and ignore his own feelings. The other to judge men, not matters. Which is why Thomas had asked Jorge to attend. He was a far better judge of men and women than he was.
Having both his son and daughter working alongside him also offered Thomas a sense of confidence, though on what basis he preferred not to shine too much light on, in case it was found wanting.
Will released his hold on Thomas’s arm but kept a close watch on him in case he slipped again. Broad shouldered at eighteen, and a skilled fighter just like his grandfather, Will would provide the muscle if any were needed. Amal had already walked ahead towards the meeting house on the corner of Market Square and Mill Street. Short, lithe and beautiful. She might only be fourteen years of age, but Thomas relied on her a great deal. He knew today he would rely on her even more. To a casual observer, or even a not so casual one, Will and Amal would never be mistaken for brother and sister. Will was the son of a northern woman whose blonde hair and blue eyes he had inherited. Amal was the daughter of a Moorish wife Thomas had taken then lost in battle. Now, Thomas had returned to England from a Spain he no longer recognised. Will and Amal were strangers in this strange land of the English Marches, but seemed to be making a better job of fitting in than their native father, who had been born not three leagues south of Ludlow.
Thomas fell into step beside Will, one hand out to grab him, in case he slipped again. The smooth leather soles of Thomas’s boots offered little grip and his feet slid as much as trod the hard-packed snow.
The meeting house was already crowded by the time the trio arrived. At least half of those present turned to see who had entered, only to turn away seconds later. Few would recognise Thomas. By the end of the Sessions that state of affairs will have changed — whether for good or bad Thomas did not yet know. He was here to stand in judgement on a plenitude of cases, from trivial to significant, and knew he could not please everyone. He had been warned of such.
“These two might give you some trouble if they’re both there,” said Sir Richard Pole before Thomas had left Ludlow Castle, pointing to one entry on the list of submissions.
Thomas read it upside down. “Croft vs. Cornwell. Why?”
“The first is Sir Richard Croft. He has a manor house in a village of the same name. The other is Sir Thomas Cornwell, who has a larger manor house in Burford.”
“The case seems a simple dispute over land.”
“Those cases are always the worst, mark my words, and no dispute over land is simple, whether the plaintiff be lord or cottar. Croft and Cornwell are sworn enemies. One or other was no doubt involved in the trouble you had when Arthur was off marrying Catherine. Croft has Welsh connections but is the more sensible of the two. If pushed, I would say Cornwell might have been behind things. The man has an inability to turn aside from a fight, whether big or small. He once assaulted a man for what he claimed was a sideways look at his wife. Didn’t let it lie there, either. He made sure the man was hounded from the area. So take care, Thomas. And know that by the time evening comes almost every man in the meeting house will hate you.”
“Even those I might judge in favour of?”
“Even those, for they know the next time you may not do so.”
“Am I to do nothing, then?”
“Do what best serves justice, but remember the status of some of those you deal with. It is not a thing you have shown much skill at in the past, but in these matters you will have to learn.”
“Did Hugh Clement serve justice?” Thomas spoke of the previous occupant of his position, a man he had been involved in bringing down and, ultimately, his death.
“Clement served whoever would pay the most or offer a favour. It is no doubt one of the reasons Cornwell thinks so highly of himself.” Sir Richard Pole clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “So take care today. Take that big son of yours. I reckon he should be enough to settle most people down.”
Which is why Will, together with Jorge, were at his side as he entered the room. One to put fear into a man, the other to judge the truth of that man’s words. Fires burned at opposite ends of the room and most of those present had migrated towards one or the other. Latecomers would need heavier coats to stay warm.
As Thomas made his way to the long table at the head of the room heads turned again as they realised who he was. Thomas took the ornate chair set at the middle of the table and motioned for Amal to sit to his left. Jorge sat on his right, while Will stood close to the end of the table, so he could move fast if necessary.
Amal laid a leather-bound journal in front of herself and opened it to the last entry before pushing another towards her father. She arranged three sharpened pens and a small pot of black ink. She had prepared everything two days earlier, and the ink residue still marked the tips of her slim fingers. The oak gall she had used to make the ink had been sourced locally, for there was a surfeit to be gathered free in the woods. Iron vitriol would have had to be imported from Spain had Thomas not brought his own supply. Gum arabic he had also brought, but there was little left now and Amal would have to source more before too long.
Thomas watched those in the room, judging their positions and what purpose might have brought them here today. Some, he knew, had come for the free entertainment. Others likely had petitions to deal with. He had spent the night before sitting beside Amal in Ludlow Castle while they went through every one of the thirty items.
More men entered, some in fine clothing, others in rough-spun linen or felt. There were no chairs other than those at the table. No refreshment. No food.
When the bells of St Laurence’s Church struck the hour of ten, Thomas banged his hand on the table to draw everyone’s attention. He stood, not knowing if he was meant to or not, but it felt right.
“My name is Sir Thomas Berrington, and I am the Justice of the Peace for Ludlow, Lemster, and all districts bordering them.” He used his title despite believing himself unworthy. Thomas had a surfeit of titles and felt unease with every si
“You are the foreigner,” said someone Thomas could not see.
“I don’t know where you heard that, but I was born in Lemster. Unless you consider that town foreign.” He waited to see if there would be any argument, but none came.
Thomas re-took his seat and opened the thin journal in front of him. His eyesight was not as sharp as it had once been, and he squinted to make out the writing, grateful Amal had made it larger than her normally concise script.
Thomas read the words twice before calling two men forward. The matter, like many others that day, concerned a disputed patch of land. Thomas was confused why either would want it. The four acres adjoined the Teme south of Ludlow, the ground too poor and damp to grow much other than weeds. Perhaps the fishing was good. One man claimed tenancy, the other disputed it. One man had papers showing it had been left to him by his father, which he then set down on the table. Thomas slid them across for Amal to read and make a note of. The other man also had papers which showed he paid rent to Sir Thomas Cornwell for tenancy.
Thomas passed those along as well before looking up.
“Do we have anyone present representing Sir Thomas Cornwell?” he asked.
A well-dressed man stepped forward. “I am Sir Thomas’s steward, James Marshall, and I believe I can settle matters now if I may hand you some papers, Justice.”
The spoken tone trod a fine line between disrespect and civility. Thomas was sure the man had walked that same line many times before. He waved a hand for him to approach. James Marshall was short but held himself like a tall man. He was well dressed, with a fine jacket slashed to reveal a crimson silk interior. His boots were of a kind in fashion half a century before, with long padded toes. Everything about him stank of privilege.
Thomas took the paper and scanned it. As he did so, exhaustion ran through him, because he knew this would be the manner of the day. Poor men’s rights overridden by those of wealth. Cornwell’s document could not be questioned. It was stamped with the seal of the Justice of the Peace of Bewdley district and evidenced that the land was in the ownership of Sir Thomas Cornwell. Thomas passed it to Amal so she could make a note of the details. As he did so he saw Marshall’s eyes on his daughter. When Will shifted on his feet and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword Thomas knew his son had seen the look as well.
“Judgement against the plaintiff,” Thomas said, waiting as Amal recorded his decision.
The afternoon went on in the same vein. Only twice did Thomas rule in favour of parties he considered deserved to win their case. The rest of the time politics and power ruled. When they did not, often enough it was because of idiocy. Many plaintiffs had agreed to contracts without having them read aloud, or chose to ignore what they said. One man lost his holding and would need to find another, but almost certainly not in this district.
When Thomas looked down at the next case his heart sank. Croft vs. Cornwell had arrived. He glanced up and saw Cornwell’s steward had moved closer after spending most of the morning at the far end of the room conducting business.
“Do we have a representative for Sir Richard Croft?” Thomas asked, looking around the room. He expected another substitute, but a man he had not noticed earlier stepped closer.
“I am Croft. I am here to represent myself, unlike that coward Cornwell.”
The man was of above medium height and less well dressed than Cornwell’s representative, though he held himself with a surety that marked him as a man of station.
“I suspect this matter may take a little time,” Thomas said. “Can I suggest we break for an hour and reconvene after we have eaten and quenched our thirsts?”
Croft agreed with a nod.
James Marshall did not. “Can this matter not be settled with a simple decision, Justice? The case is plain to see. Or have you not read the papers?”
“I have read the papers, and it is my opinion the matter may not be as simple as you state. We will break for an hour. Return when St Laurence’s bell strikes one.” Thomas stood and pushed his way through the crowd, which was making for one or other of the doors. It made progress slow. When a hand closed around Thomas’s arm he turned, half-expecting James Marshall to be making another plea for swiftness. Instead, he found himself face to face with Sir Richard Croft.
“I can hear no argument here,” Thomas said.
“I am not here to argue my case. I leave such machinations to the other party. I only wanted to welcome you to the district, Thomas Berrington. Rumour has it you will make a better Justice than the last tenant of the position. Not that such would be hard to do.”
Thomas expected some additional words, perhaps a reference to the judgement he would make later. Instead, Croft turned away and pushed through the crowd.
Outside, the snow had stopped but the sky remained grey. The clouds that seemed to touch the spire of St Laurence’s Church promised more bad weather before long. Thomas and the others entered their rooms, set hard against the outer walls of Ludlow Castle. The rooms had been assigned to him while his own house was being rebuilt. He suspected even after the work was complete he might spend much of his time in these accommodations. Amal had grown ever closer to Princess Catherine since both came to the town, and they had been close even before leaving Spain. Prince Arthur had also taken a liking to Will, fascinated to hear his tales of battles fought, some at an age even younger than the Prince himself. Everyone, of course, liked Jorge. Even Thomas sometimes, despite the man’s ability to annoy him.
Thomas headed for the stone staircase leading to the rooms on the upper floor.
“Belia will have prepared food for us,” said Jorge.
“I will join you soon. I want to wash before I eat.”
“Don’t take long then, or it will all be gone.” Jorge accompanied Will to the large room they used as a common space.
Amal accompanied him, concern on her face. “Are you all right, Pa?” Amal accompanied him, concern on her face.
“I’m fine, my sweet. I need to wash the stink of making judgements from my hands, that is all.” He touched his daughter’s dark hair. “Go see Belia and the others. I will only be a moment.”
When she left, Thomas continued to the upper level. He wanted to wash, but he also needed a moment of solitude to gather his thoughts. The case he needed to rule on when he returned was not trivial. It involved two men, both powerful in the district. Both had been sheriff in the past and no doubt would be re-appointed in the future. Both were close to Prince Arthur and King Henry. Thomas was unsure whether either would accept the judgement of a man they no doubt looked down on.
Thomas was half way to the table, where a bowl of water sat, when he stopped dead at the sight of an object resting on it.
It was a severed hand. Not one recently removed from its owner; these bones had lain in the ground for some time. A year at least, if not more. All flesh had dropped from them to leave only yellowed bones, which were arrayed so the index finger extended to point at whoever entered the door.
CHAPTER TWO
Everyone was in the main room when Thomas entered. Jorge stood beside Belia, his hand on her shoulder. He held a warm roll in the other and had a look of contentment on his face.
“Who entered our rooms today?” The sharpness in Thomas’s voice caused Belia to turn and frown.
