Dark queen wary, p.9
Dark Queen Wary, page 9
‘Though not here,’ Urswicke murmured to himself. He glanced around at the strange world of the maze. Wall after wall of greenery – thick, closely packed hedges reaching at least four yards high – housed a place of sinister stillness.
Maillac’s steward had informed both the countess and himself about The Moor, its ownership by the Templars before all their property and goods were seized by the Crown. The story of Fitzallen was chilling enough to cast a long, deep shadow over this place. Urswicke wondered what other macabre secrets The Moor hid behind its magnificent front.
‘Oh yes,’ Christopher murmured to himself. ‘Sudden death, brutal murder …’ Urswicke froze at the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. He rose, half drew his dagger, then sighed in relief as the countess, wielding a pointed walking stick, turned on to the path leading to the cross. She let the guide rope drop and walked over to her henchman.
‘Christopher, I did not mean to startle you. I tried,’ she smiled, ‘to be heard. There,’ she gestured at Urswicke to sit back on the stone bench where she joined him. ‘This,’ she declared, ‘is a true maze, created by a master, Daedalus. I have read about him, Christopher. Anyway, a place of mystery. Now, you have not yet broached the matters covered by your father’s commission.’
‘My Lady, I intend to do so later on. I would dearly love you to join me, even if it’s just to sit and, as you say, watch and wait.’
‘Of course I will, yet what do you have here, Christopher? What have you learned? What scraps of information have you collected?’
‘Not much. Brasenose was one of my father’s henchmen. He and his manservant Rutger visited The Moor, ostensibly to ensure that all was well before the arrival of the Brothers York. For all I know, he may have had other business, but that is nigh impossible to establish. As for his murder, he apparently entered this maze using the guide rope as we did, only to be attacked from behind, stab wounds to his back. No sign of resistance or a struggle. According to Maillac he was lying face down. As for why he entered the maze, there is a rumour that he saw someone else enter, but that is impossible to prove. How he was murdered so quietly, so effortlessly, is a complete mystery.’
‘Then there are the others?’
‘Yes, Simon Fladgate, one of the Five Wounds. He was slain in a yard adjoining the petty buttery. Apparently, he went across to the jakes cupboard, opened the door and found Rutger, hose down, slumped on the turd bench, his throat sliced from ear to ear. From what I can gather, Fladgate was then slain. The assassin crept up behind him. Fladgate turned and took a bolt to the head, shattering bone and brain.’ Urswicke rubbed his face. ‘That’s all I can say about the deaths. Nothing else, nothing more. Of course, I still wonder why my father commissioned me to investigate.’
‘Enough, Christopher, we have discussed this. As I have said before, your father doesn’t want anyone else coming to The Moor to investigate. For his own secret purposes, your father wants to keep this tightly within his control, which only sharpens my anxiety.’
‘My Lady?’
‘The Moor is a lavish palace, soon to host King Edward and his coven. Nevertheless, I sense something very wrong. A malevolence, a malignancy gathering in the dark. I do not know the where, the when or the why-for – nonetheless, Christopher, I truly suspect we are in great danger.’ She drew a deep breath and got to her feet, driving the pointed walking stick repeatedly into the pebble-dashed path. ‘We can only pray,’ she declared, ‘for us both, and for our good friend Reginald.’
PART THREE
‘The Manor of The Moor which the Archbishop had purchased and built right commodiously.’
Reginald Bray sat facing the garden of The Mouth of Hell, a spacious but greatly decayed tavern standing at the heart of Whitefriars. The hostelry was one of the manors, as he described it, of Lord Nightshade. The King, the mayor, the noble Recorder, and all the masters of the Guildhall might well boast how they completely ruled London. Bray knew different. In truth, Lord Nightshade and his council of demons controlled, with an iron fist, the nightmare underworld of the city, be it the rat-infested mumpers’ castles of Whitefriars, or the shabby tenements which lined the Thames. Harlots, both male and female, tricksters, cunning men, naps, foists, thieves and pimps, were, whether they liked it or not, Lord Nightshade’s subjects. He ruled with sheer terror. God help anyone who committed a felony without his support. Even the most ragged of whores or the poorest pickpocket fully recognized Lord Nightshade as a true Prince of Darkness. This Lord of Hell often held court in the Poison Pot, which stood nearby, but today he had chosen The Mouth of Hell, informing Bray that he would meet him there three hours after midday.
Bray had arrived early and now stood examining a gruesome wall painting, crudely but vigorously done by some itinerant artist. The garish tableau reflected the tavern’s grim title, portraying hell and all its torments, a startling memento mori. According to the painting, hell was a place of torture, the tableau being dominated by two great columns of roaring fire. From these pillars hung a host of the damned, with razor-sharp spikes thrown through whatever member of their body they had sinned with during their life on earth. Fornicators, whores and pimps had their genitals pierced with daggers as they roasted in the flames. Thieves had their hands rent, liars their lips and tongues shredded; others were being punished in baths of boiling lead, pitch and brimstone. So immersed in these horrific depictions, Bray startled as he heard a sound behind him. He turned quickly. Lord Nightshade, Deadly Nightshade, stood grinning at him; on either side his bodyguard, all armoured and buckled for battle.
‘My dearest, dearest Reginald,’ Nightshade lisped. ‘So very good to see you.’ Nightshade stretched out his hand for Bray to clasp. Bray did so and the riffler chief pulled him closer. Bray stared hard at this creature from the pit. Nightshade loved to dress as a woman, as he was now, garbed in a gown of dark green sarcenet over a white chemise gathered high at the throat, so as to conceal the weals left by hangings. Nightshade had been hastily plucked from there at the insistence of this person or that. Bray knew this of old. After all, on a number of occasions he had rescued this lord of the underworld from Newgate or the execution cart and, on occasion, the gibbets at Tyburn and Smithfield. Bray had always arrived just in time for the rope to be cut before Nightshade’s soul joined the choir invisible. In thanks, Nightshade had become Bray’s guide in threading the dangerous streets of London’s underworld.
Nightshade looked as singular as ever; his face had more paint than that of a whore, his richly carmined lips made even more hideous in a face plastered as white as snow. Nightshade held on to Bray’s hand.
‘Good to meet you, Master Reginald.’ He lisped again. ‘I hear such interesting news. I wondered when you would come to seek me.’ Nightshade released his grip and thrust a small parchment scroll into Bray’s hand. ‘Three of my most faithful parishioners,’ he whispered, ‘beautiful boys, lovely lads, now lodged in Newgate over some very serious misunderstanding. I would like a pardon for each. Yes?’
‘The countess,’ Bray replied, ‘is absent from London at the moment, but I will serve a stay of execution until she actually petitions the chancery. You know, my Lord, we will do all that we can.’
‘Well, it’s either that,’ Nightshade laughed, ‘or we are going to storm the execution cart: those boys cannot hang.’
‘As I said, I will see to it.’
Deadly Nightshade nodded and waved Bray to join him in the window seat whilst his escort mounted guard on the taproom doors.
‘No one will disturb us. Minehost has been given instruction.’ He turned and beckoned across the rather nervous taverner standing just within the door leading into the kitchen.
‘Food?’ he asked.
Bray just shook his head
‘Ale,’ Nightshade bawled. ‘And the best.’
Once the tankards were served, Nightshade gulped his eagerly then leaned against the table.
‘So, my friend,’ he murmured, ‘Master Patmore? Former lawyer, and not such a good one. He is now the official custodian of a young man who claims to be the only beloved son of Margaret, Countess of Richmond.’
‘An Imposter!’
‘As some people say, Master Reginald, and of course he is. Whatever is intended, they have certainly caused chaos. They’ve upset the beehive and we can all see the consequences. Poor Caiaphas, hanged outside the countess’s door. Young Haddon rotting in Newgate, though rumour claims he will be released, or has been. A number of the countess’s good servants and retainers have decided that London is not for them and have moved out to hide in the shires or fled across the Narrow Seas. Now, we all know a great lie is being peddled, but what can we do about it? The more the countess protests, the greater the confusion. And of course, Master Bray, that would be very dangerous, yes? Our noble King has defined the way things are. God help anyone who tries to contradict him. But it is good that you have turned to me for help.’ Again, Nightshade paused to drink from his tankard.
‘My friend, I wait with bated breath.’
‘Of course you do, Master Bray. I have learned, or discovered, that before their emergence into the open, Patmore and his mammet came out of Wales. They journeyed here and stayed hidden in London before travelling to one of the Cinque ports to secure passage back to the port of London, where they proclaimed themselves for all the world to hear.’
‘How did they hide in London?’
‘Well, my minions cast about and discovered Patmore and the Imposter lodged at The Golden Boy, a prosperous tavern close to the Inns of Court. Indeed, very expensive.’
‘Ah yes,’ Bray intervened, ‘and The Golden Boy has a distinctive reputation.’
‘So true, my friend. A place where young men – or not so young – can meet to have their pleasure of each other. A hostelry much suspected, though the lords of the Guildhall are most reluctant to intervene with a forced search. Heaven knows who, or what, they may find there.’
‘I would agree. So, Patmore and the Imposter lodged there?’
‘They did more than that, my friend. According to my spies, the noises from that chamber could be heard out along the gallery. The tryst of raucous though forbidden lust.’
‘So, the Imposter is or was Patmore’s catamite?’
‘So it would seem. But I’ve also received intelligence that it is Patmore who likes forbidden fruit, not the young Imposter. He apparently absents himself when his mentor and master entertains someone else. Ah well, to continue. I have learned that Patmore took Minehost of The Golden Boy aside. He asked for the name of a cog which could spirit him away without any interference from the harbour masters.’
‘And?’
‘Listen, my friend.’ Deadly Nightshade turned, snapping his fingers, issuing a spate of orders to one of his minions by the door. The fellow left and returned with a pot-bellied barrel of a man. From his rolling gait and rubicund, weather-chastened face, Bray suspected that he was a mariner.
‘Josiah Wallington,’ Nightshade intoned, gesturing the new arrival to an empty chair. ‘Josiah the Jovial,’ he continued, ‘master of the small cog The Rebec, out of Queenhithe. The conveyor of all sorts of goods, be they alive or dead.’
Wallington beamed a gap-toothed smile and gratefully accepted the tankard thrust down on the table before him. He toasted Nightshade and peered at Bray.
‘You’re the comrade of Urswicke’s son, yes?’ Wallington’s voice had a rich northern burr. ‘I trust that he is not as merciless as his father. Sir Thomas Urswicke has a reputation much feared by us river folk.’
‘My friend Christopher,’ Bray retorted, ‘is his own man. So, my friend, what can you tell us?’ Bray pushed a coin from his purse across the table. The piece of silver disappeared in the twinkling of an eye.
‘Tell him,’ Nightshade grated.
‘I was approached at Queenhithe by Patmore. He gave me his name and proof of who he was. I always demand that. He’d come to The Salamander tavern, seeking me out. He said I had a reputation for spiriting people out of London to some port across the Narrow Seas. I told him that he was correct and asked what he wanted. He replied: swift passage to Dordrecht, sometime between St George’s Day and the end of the month.’
‘Twenty-third April,’ Bray declared. ‘That’s St George’s feast day, yes?’
Wallington nodded.
‘Of course,’ the seaman declared, ‘I cannot give a precise hour or a specific day. However, I advised Patmore that if he lodged at The Salamander, he could wait for me there. He paid some coins as his bond and left.’
‘And he wanted passage for two people? Did he mention his companion?’
‘Oh no, definitely not. He talked of no one else but himself. He was insistent on that and so was I. The Rebec is a small cog. I need to ensure that only so many are aboard with what baggage they carry.’ He waved a hand. ‘You must know how it is.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Bray murmured. ‘So Master Patmore intended to flee England some time towards the end of April.’
‘So it would seem.’
But why? Bray wondered to himself. Why the haste? What was so crucial about those dates? Just as importantly, Patmore had apparently decided that the Imposter would not be travelling with him. Why not?
‘My friend,’ Nightshade stretched across to pat Bray on the arm, ‘you are finished here, yes?’
‘For the present,’ Bray answered absentmindedly. ‘Yes, yes, so much to think about.’
‘And I have got more grain for the mill,’ Nightshade declared. He gestured at Wallington. ‘Thank you, comrade, we no longer need you. Keep me informed of developments but go in my peace, as well as that of the good Lord.’
Once Wallington had gone, Nightshade leaned closer in a powerful scent of ale and cheap perfume.
‘Master Bray, you are being followed.’
‘Impossible,’ Bray declared. ‘I can thread the streets as cleverly as you can. I know when I am being followed and I have glimpsed nothing.’
‘Oh, they keep you under close watch, that’s all. That’s why my friends and my good self will leave the tavern cloaked and cowled. Now,’ Nightshade continued, ‘do not be too concerned, we know that they are not footpads. None of my villains would dare do that without my permission, and that also goes for the dagger boys and their ilk. So, the only conclusion that I can draw is they …’
‘They are Guildhall spies?’
‘Correct, my friend, despatched by our noble Recorder, Sir Thomas. They will organise a close watch over you, one man replacing another so that you cannot mark an individual pursuing you. They are constantly changing. An old trick, sometimes I use it myself. But to move on. Tell me, Master Bray, where is your accomplice Urswicke? I’ve heard rumours …?’
‘You mean you have gathered information from your legion of snoops and pryers …’
Nightshade tittered behind his hand.
‘Sharp, Master Bray. Oh yes, we have heard that the countess, God bless her, is for The Moor, and that the snake in the grass, Lord George Neville, Archbishop of York – that fox in human flesh – will be her host. We have also heard tales about gruesome murders, including that of Brasenose, Sir Thomas’s henchman. I knew that bully boy well, as I did his shadow, Rutger. The gossips talk of killings in a maze as well as outside a shit shed. There’s also a story about a knight, one of the Five Wounds battle group, having been murdered. So, Master Bray, I can tell you a tale which, in the circumstances, might intrigue you, your good friend Christopher and your mistress.’
Bray turned and called across to Minehost to bring more tankards. Once he had, Bray toasted Nightshade with his.
‘Tell me,’ he declared. ‘Tell me your tale.’
‘I have your word that should at least three of my parishioners seized by The Recorder’s bully boys …’
‘As I have said, the countess will do what she can. But come, Lord Nightshade, the hour passes, the candle burns and I am becoming tired.’
‘Ah yes, but the information I will bring you might well be worth a barrel of candles and freshen your heart. So, stay here, drink, think, sleep. I will be back by the vespers bell.’
Lord Nightshade clambered to his feet, pulling his cloak tighter, hiding both head and face in a deep cowl: his escort, similarly attired, followed their master out of the tavern. Bray slouched in his chair and reflected on what he had learnt. Nightshade’s revelations about the emergence of Patmore and the Imposter were as expected. What had provoked deep surprise was the news that Patmore was already preparing to leave so abruptly, so swiftly, that he’d already decided he would be travelling by himself with no care for the Imposter. So, what did Patmore intend? Why did he bring the Imposter to London and proclaim who he was supposed to be? Chaos and confusion had been plotted and carried out, but what then? Bray drained his tankard, gathered his cloak and warbelt on to his lap and then, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, slipped into sleep. He was shaken awake by a grinning Nightshade, who sat opposite, forcing the man he had brought with him into a chair on his right. Nightshade made himself truly comfortable, ordering blackjacks and a platter of croutons grilled in a sharp, peppery sauce.
‘This,’ the lord of the underworld declared, gesturing at his guest, ‘is Bardolph. Bardolph the Beanpole. Have you ever seen such a thin man?’
Half awake, Bray stared at Bardolph, who richly deserved his title. Slender as a wand, garbed in dark blue, he had the narrowest face, bruised and wounded, with a patch over his right eye. Nightshade made the introductions and invited his two guests, as he called Bray and Bardolph, to eat and drink, whilst Minehost ushered two shabbily dressed tinkers and their caged pet weasels out of the taproom. Once they’d gone, Nightshade, clearing his teeth with a finger, urged Bardolph to tell Bray who he was and what he knew.
‘I am a camp follower,’ he began in a thin, reedy voice. ‘I follow the armies.’
‘You mean you’re a scavenger? A crow in human form?’
‘Gentle Master Reginald,’ Nightshade murmured.
‘Yes, I am a scavenger. I harvest the dead. I and my comrades follow the armies and, as the fighting fades, we search amongst the slain for anything valuable.’
