Dark queen watching, p.3
Dark Queen Watching, page 3
The abbot joined his hands in prayer. ‘They know you visit me. They know you honour the shrine and, above all, they know you take secret counsel with me. They would pay good silver and shed even more blood to discover what passes between us.’
‘Great danger I admit, Father Abbot.’ Margaret leaned over and clasped the Benedictine’s right hand. ‘All you say is true, but I need to see Henry urgently. He will come to Chertsey. You will receive him? You will protect him?’
‘As I would my own but, my Lady, his arrival will be fraught with peril.’
‘I have lived with such dangers since my birth,’ Lady Margaret retorted. ‘I was only twelve years old when my beloved Edmund took me as his wife, and I became pregnant with Henry, our future king. There’s danger all around me, Lord Abbot. Peril in all guises, be it scurrilous stories about me, the assassin with his sharpened dagger lurking behind a silken arras or in the mouth of some murky alleyway. Rest assured, I know I walk a perilous path. All kinds of monsters lurk in the darkness either side of it. They glare at me and I certainly glare back.’
PART ONE
‘The Garduna were free to plot killings and perpetrate any kind of secret treachery’
The Chasuble – or so the woodsmen claimed – truly was an ancient tavern, standing close to the forest crossroads. The woodsmen believed it was once a royal hunting lodge, used by successive kings in their furious forays against stag, boar and, in years long gone, even the wolf. Here, so locals declared, the royal princes would let loose falcon and hawk to bring down birds on the wing or some fat coney caught out of the dark shadows. Afterwards the royal party would not travel on to Woking or back to London but adjourn to The Chasuble to feast on their prey, washed down with goblets of the best Bordeaux or blackjacks brimming with a strong frothy ale, brewed by some local vintner before being barrelled and casked for the great majestic lodge. Times, however, had changed. The magnificent three-storey manor had been neglected. The hunting parties never returned. The Chasuble had slowly decayed, being sold from hand to hand by a litany of would-be taverners who had hoped in vain to resurrect the former glories of the place.
Master Henry Islip was the last of these. A former alehouse owner, Islip had plied his trade along the Mile End road leading into London. Islip had decided he could do better. He had bought The Chasuble and moved into the tavern with his large family and household. Matters had not gone well. Islip had to concede that local lore spoke the truth. The former hunting lodge seemed to be under some form of malignant spell. However, on 2 November, the Feast of All Souls, the year of our Lord 1471, Islip could hardly believe his eyes when he opened the tavern door and stepped out into the cobbled, wall-enclosed stable yard. A large company had arrived. Men and women on horse or in great covered carts. Master Islip spread his hands in welcome, not realising – at least not yet – that Murder had arrived to set up house in that ancient tavern. Islip, totally unaware of who the Garduna really were, warmly welcomed his guests. He clapped his hands, gesturing at the leader of these new arrivals, standing hooded and visored before him, to accompany the taverner back into the cavernous taproom.
The stranger followed him in and stood staring up at the hams, onions and other vegetables clasped in sacks which were nailed to the blackened rafter beams. Islip’s guest pulled back his hood and lowered the visor that had been hiding the bottom half of his face to reveal a swarthy man, his hair and beard black and silvered. His skin was tawny, a scar marking the neck behind his right ear. The stranger’s eyes were dark and hooded, constantly flickering, as if wary of some hidden enemy. He pulled his cloak further back, and Islip glimpsed the broad leather warbelt, sword- and knife-sheath either side. The stranger’s hand fell to the ornate pommel of his dagger, tapping his fingers as if wondering whether he should draw it or not. A spasm of cold fear clenched the taverner’s belly. He stared around. Others of the company had now crowded in, cloaks and hoods pulled back, all armed to the teeth. For a while there was silence, an uneasy silence. Then the leader of the arrivals abruptly turned back to Islip, his face transformed by a smile which softened his harsh features.
‘My friend, I am the Master, the leader of the Garduna.’ The man’s English was slightly tinged by a harsh accent. He then turned away and spoke swiftly in a guttural voice to one of his companions, who hurried out on some errand.
‘My tongue.’ The Master glanced back at Islip. ‘My tongue is Castilian; we are a travelling troupe from Spain. We seek comfortable lodgings for a long time, or at least for some time. Rest assured we pay good coin. See.’
The Master beckoned Islip over to a table and, in one deft movement, plucked a coin purse from the folds of his cloak. He shook out the silver pieces to glint in the light. Islip caught his breath, licking his lips in anticipation, wiping sweaty hands on his blood-spattered apron.
‘Let me.’ The Master leaned over and clasped Islip on the shoulder. ‘Let me first meet all your family, your entire household so we know with whom we lodge. Summon everyone. Would you do that, Master Islip?’ The stranger rubbed his hands together then gestured at the silver coins, winking so enticingly in the light of torch and lanternhorn. ‘This will soon be yours,’ he added. He spoke something in Spanish and glanced over his shoulder at the three Floreadores, the foragers who had slipped into England two months earlier to prepare the ground and search out all the possibilities.
‘You did very well,’ he called out in Spanish. ‘Very well indeed.’
The three Floreadores had been most successful organising the horses, carts and supplies, all ready when Hermano and his entourage had landed on a stretch of deserted Essex coastline. A peaceful disembarkation from the pirate cog, The Hidalgo, which had taken them from Corunna. They had travelled swiftly and silently into the English countryside to lodge in this dilapidated though still majestic tavern deep in the forest. An ideal lair, within striking distance of Woking as well as the roads and waterways into London.
‘You did well,’ Hermano repeated.
The three, dark-faced Floreadores bowed in thanks at such praise.
‘Well, Master Taverner.’ Again the pat on the shoulder. ‘My friend, let us meet your kith and kin.’ He smilingly held up a warning finger. ‘All of them now. Quickly, quickly!’
Islip hastened to obey. Hermano scooped the silver back into his purse and went out into the courtyard where the rest of his retinue patiently waited.
‘Now!’ he called out in Spanish. ‘Now my beloveds, let the Ponteadores and Floreadores,’ he pointed back at the tavern, ‘go in and join your brothers and sisters.’ Men and women, cowled and visored, dismounted from horses and carts. They left the reins to others as, cloaks thrust back, they entered the taproom of The Chasuble.
The Master went and stood in the open gateway of the tavern. He shivered at the freezing cold breeze which swept out from the nearby forest to send the black branches rustling, whipping up the piles of dead leaves and frozen gorse. He glanced up at the sky, iron-grey and lowering.
‘It might snow,’ he murmured to himself. ‘All to the good, but I do miss the orange groves of Seville. Ah well.’
He turned back, tugging his cloak closer against the freezing chill. He caught the smell of cooking wafting from the tavern kitchen and smacked his lips. He and all his household would certainly feast like kings, but first there was business to do. He went back into the now crowded taproom. Islip had gathered wife, sons and daughters and all the tavern servants. The Master, smiling and courteous, introduced himself then turned to Islip.
‘Is this all?’ he demanded. ‘Everyone?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good, good.’ The Master walked to the door then paused, hand on the latch.
‘Alphonso,’ he called out to his henchman.
‘Yes, Master?’
‘Kill them all.’
The Master went out into the stable yard, the door slammed shut behind him. Locks were turned. Bolts pulled across. The slaughter began. The noise and clamour were heart-rending; screams and shrieks, yells and shouts. A woman pleaded for mercy, her voice brutally cut off. A window shutter flew open; a young man struggled to get out, only to be dragged back. Those waiting in the stable yard remained impassively silent, despite the freezing cold and the hideous killings taking place only a few yards away. The massacre continued then abruptly ended. The Master stared at the door and glimpsed the blood seeping out from underneath to drench the cobbles and so create more rivulets to twist and snake, the still hot blood cooling in the icy air. The Master stood, head slightly cocked, listening intently. No sound, not a whimper or a groan. He banged on the taproom door. It swung open. Alphonso stood there, his sword bloodied from tip to hilt.
‘It is done,’ the henchman murmured. ‘It is over.’
The Master brushed by him, walking deep into the darkness. The taproom lay eerily still. The corpses of the slain had been pulled to lie next to each other, a gruesome, gore-stained sight. All the dead bore death wounds to the throat, chest and stomach. The air was no longer bitter-sweet but reeking of the flesher’s yard, some filthy Newgate slaughterhouse.
‘Good, good,’ the Master breathed. ‘My children.’ He extended his arms as he turned to take in all the company ranged around the taproom. ‘My beloveds, well done. However, your companions are in the cold outside. Collect the corpses and strip them. You know where there is a deep forest marsh?’ The Master pointed at the Floreadores who had chosen this place.
‘Deep and broad,’ one of them murmured.
‘Take the corpses there. Hide them well. We will then take lodgings here. We have become taverners, ale masters.’ He laughed and his entourage chuckled in agreement. ‘If anyone asks, we will declare how Master Islip,’ he went over and kicked the taverner’s corpse, ‘sold The Chasuble to me and my extended family, then they left for pastures new.’ The Master laughed. ‘They certainly did. So let us send them on their way. Let us feast and rejoice. Afterwards, we shall present our compliments to the Lady Margaret both at her manor of Woking, as well as her fine townhouse in the city. Indeed, we must send reinforcements and supplies to our comrades who are already there.’ The Master’s smile faded as he held up a warning hand. ‘Remember, my beloveds, how easy it is for the hunters to become the hunted. True we are well protected here, but the Luciferi are also busy, ready to interfere in our affairs.’ He paused at the murmured curses. ‘Our enemies,’ the Master continued, ‘to the very death. We must be vigilant and prudent. Do not forget the danger which lurks at noon-time, and the horrors that can crawl by night. In the meantime, my beloveds, let us feast. Let us rejoice at our success but let us not forget the darkness all around us.’ He beckoned over his henchman. For a while they just stood, watching the corpses being removed, the splashes of blood cleared away along with the pathetic possessions of those they’d massacred. They then took one of the tables in a window embrasure, far enough away from those now cleaning and setting the taproom right. Wine was served. The Master and Alphonso toasted each other then sat for a while in silence.
‘Alphonso,’ the Master declared. ‘A cohort of our battle group has already swiftly advanced before us and now hide in London.’
‘Where?’
‘We are the Garduna, my friend, we make do with what we can. There are certainly enough derelict houses in the city. Rafael will find a suitable place, as we have here. He will turn it into his nest. He and his companions are well armed, with plenty of coin to buy food, drink and other necessities. Rafael’s mother was English; he is skilled in the tongue. Rafael has some knowledge of the city; he has also been furnished with charts depicting the main routes and principal wards. We shall communicate with him and, as I said, ensure he remains well supplied.’
‘And here?’
‘Ah yes, here my good friend. Tonight, between the sixth and seventh hour, loose three fire arrows up over the trees. Our comrades expect us. They did so last night as they would tomorrow. I gave them clear notice that we would reach The Chasuble on one of these three days. We have. You should be answered by three fire arrows; if so, let me know immediately.’
‘And then?’
‘And then tomorrow, Alphonso, a journeyman, a traveller, a tinker, hooded and visored, will enter our tavern and ask for the sweet wines of Spain. If he does, he is to be ushered to this table and I am to be immediately informed. No one else but myself will deal with him. Understand?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘I want scouts despatched into the forest, but for the moment keep well away from Chertsey Abbey – we have learnt enough about that place for the moment. We will only move against it when we have to, when we are ready to take what has been asked of us. Understood?’ He clinked his goblet against Alphonso’s. ‘Do not fear the English, they will not pose any danger; but, for all our sakes’, Alphonso, keep the sharpest eye out for the Luciferi. They hunt us, as we do them.’
Margaret, Countess of Richmond, sat in the high-back chair in her bedchamber, which stood off the first gallery of her elegant riverside mansion. The chamber, like everything else in that opulent house, was exquisitely refined, be it the blue and gold arras hanging against the sheened, pink-washed walls, or the thick scarlet turkey rugs which adorned the finely polished elm-wood floor. The gold-edged four-poster bed, tables, aumbries, cabinets and caskets were a dark oaken brown.
This finely carved furniture gleamed in the fluttering light of a host of beeswax candles on silver-chased spigots, placed judiciously around the room. The sweet fragrance of the pure melting candles mingled with the perfumed smoke curling from the small herb pots. Further fragrance was provided by the braziers, their fiery charcoal laced with a dust of crushed flowers, plucked and prepared the previous summer.
Countess Margaret, dressed in a sky blue veil and gown, her lean, expressive face framed by a starched, snow-white wimple, sat as composed and collected as any nun at her prayers. Indeed, the countess threaded a set of pearl ave beads through her long thin fingers. She looked as if she was at prayer, but in truth her mind was spinning like a wheel. Margaret stared intently at the two men seated before her. These were her council; the only men she could really trust. Now was the time for such loyalty. Margaret had received fragmented reports about this and that. She had not shared all her fears with these two henchmen, or informed them about exactly what was planned – that would have to wait. Margaret played with the ave beads. She’d had fresh reports out of Brittany. Her beloved son Henry, fiercely protected by her brother-in-law Jasper, former Lord of Pembroke, and his cunning and capable half-sister Katarina, was on his travels. Margaret had yet to decide what to do when Henry came to England. She drew comfort from her recent meeting with Abbot John. Henry would be safe in Chertsey, but more than that she couldn’t say. Margaret had not revealed all her fears to the Benedictine, nor would she now to these two confidants.
Lady Margaret trusted both her henchmen, though she wondered what would happen if they were put to the torture. Sometimes the bravest men, the most loyal and devoted, would simply yield to the pain. Margaret knew that she was also being shadowed but she would not react. She would sit, she would wait, and she would watch. Margaret blinked, shaking her head slightly and went back to her reflections.
A log broke noisily in the fire, cascading out of the grate in a shower of sparks. Bray went to deal with it. Margaret shifted her gaze to Christopher Urswicke; her chancery clerk looked every inch the professional scrivener, his shirt pulled high under his clean-shaven chin. A good-looking, almost beautiful young man, Urswicke had a smooth, shaven boyish face, blue-eyed and full lipped. Indeed, he looked much younger than his twenty-six years, an impression heightened by his tousled auburn hair. Urswicke sat languidly, his cloak and warbelt laid over a coffer, his spurred riding boots placed in a tiled windowed embrasure next to those of his companion Reginald Bray. The latter was close-faced with deep, hooded eyes. Bray was swarthy, even sallow, his moustache and beard were closely trimmed, his hair, black as a raven’s wing, tied neatly in a queue behind him.
Margaret continued to sit and stare as her sharp mind turned over the business in hand. Despite the danger, she was confident that this chamber was sealed. No eavesdropper could lurk, no Judas man desperate for reward could slink close, hungry for any juicy titbit to pass on to his masters. God knows there was enough for them to feast upon. As Margaret had once conceded to these two confidants, she was steeped in treason and the danger of discovery; arrest and punishment hung over her like the executioner’s axe. Margaret, however, would not be deterred, her hour would come. For the time being she recognised what the times and the place really were. This was not the occasion for sharp sword-play and blood-soaked conflict. The kingdom was tired of war, of invasion, of disruption. No, this was the time for intrigue, plot and counter-plot, deceit and deception. She must wear masks to face others who wore masks. She must move cautiously as she threaded her way through a truly murderous maze to celebrate her vision, her dream of a Tudor, her beloved son Henry, enthroned at Westminster wearing the Confessor’s Crown as his right.
