Thieves' Castle
“Ah,
gracious lord, these days are dangerous:
Virtue
is chok’d with foul ambition,
And
charity chas’d hence by rancor’s hand”
– William Shakespeare, Henry VI
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Chapter the
First
The man’s feet slid in the
muck as he crossed the open space of the laneway, the darkness yawning moist
and thick around him. He leaned against the corner post panting, his breath
harsh in the silence of the street. An unsheathed dagger glinted in one hand.
The man glanced around, eyes straining at the darkness.
Ivy Lane stank. The smell
was a mix of urine, dung and the foul rancid stench of offal drifting down from
the butcher’s yards north of Newgate Street.
The man pushed himself away
from the corner and turned hastily down the lane. The night was heavy and the
darkness near complete, lit only by a handful of sputtering candles hiding
behind the thin panes of windows. The dim yellow light of a small lamp hung
outside one fathomless doorway. Although the lane was cobbled, the stones were
greasy with the accrual of filth and the endless tread of daytime commerce. The
man paused, hearing the faint echo of feet behind him, the sound uncertain.
He cursed to himself and
began to move down Ivy Lane with as much speed as the darkness and the
uncertain footing allowed. He held the dagger at length in front of him, as
though to hold the enveloping night at bay.
The sounds seemed closer.
He glanced around. The
laneway was narrow, a typical London thoroughfare, overhung with jetties that
exiled the sky into a narrow strip and made the already oppressive darkness of
the night into a stygian gloom. A flare of torchlight sent a set of shadows
racing away as someone passed the corner he had vacated. The light sent the man
scurrying away, no longer mindful of the slippery footing. He caught a faint
gleam of a bare blade in the glowing light of the torch.
“Find ‘em lads, winnow him
out.” The faint voice sounded amused.
The man cursed again and ran
down the street, one hand outstretched, bumping along the irregular walls of
the laneway. Another flicker of light in the distance ahead of him, coming from
Paternoster Row and the distant bulk of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Coads.” The man muttered
and pressed himself into the wall, shaking. The men were getting closer.
“Stay still.” The voice was
soft but firm. A dim yellow light emerged from the doorway to his right,
carried by a young woman. Her hair was short and dark. She stepped out and hung
the lantern on a sign bracket above the narrow doorway. She pointed at the
darkened alcove to the left of the door, almost hidden by the thick corner beam
of the house. “Go there.”
The man wiped his face and
nodded, sliding into the welcome darkness of the alcove like a lover’s embrace.
He listened as the sound of footsteps grew more distinct. He could see the red flicker
of the torch against the wall as they drew near, the shadows dancing back and
forth with drunken abandon. He shrank back, feeling the rough timber frame
digging into his spine. He listened.
“Bit late for punk trade,
isn’t it.”
“Codso, you lot out looking
for sheep?” the girl said in a tired voice. “What’s this rag and tag?”
“You seen a man? A blood?”
She laughed. “Likes of them
in Ivy at this time of night? Not tonight. Any of your ruffler’s in coin?”
“Piss off cunt, we’re busy.”
“Fuck you, you buggering
cockless bastards, go find yourselves some rent-boy’s arse.” The torchlight
flickered and began to move away. The man hidden in the alcove let out a long
sustained breath of relief as the footsteps faded away. The girl continued to
berate the party’s retreating backs until they disappeared.
“You can come out.”
The man emerged cautiously,
his eyes flinching as he scanned the length of the street.
“That lot’s gone.” The girl
said. She canted her head at the man and surveyed him up and down with a
practiced eye. “What’d they want you for?”
“No idea love. They came at
us when we left the tavern.” The man shuddered at the recollection. He had
stood mute and stunned as he watched his two friends beaten into the mud and
only when the steel had gleamed red did his drink-befuddled reflexes send him
careening away as fast as his legs could carry him. He felt his throat choking
with bile.
“Here” The dark-haired girl
handed him a wineskin. He tilted it back and gulped a mouthful of thin, acrid
wine. As he wiped his mouth, he looked at the girl again in the lantern light. Her
hair was short and dark, barely past her ears. She wore a long dress with the
bodice bare and loose, the swell of her breasts clearly evident. The stays on
the dress were untied, allowing the top to flare open, giving the man a
tantalizing glimpse of a lean length of untrammeled flesh. The girl tilted her
torso back and the tip of one nipple slid out from underneath the thin fabric.
“Why don’t you stay with me
for a time, until your hunters wear themselves out?” The man felt one hand
brush along the front of his breeches, pressing against the hardening length of
his member. His breath caught. His eyes closed as her grip tightened.
“That may be the wisest
choice…” the man breathed. Her hand slid around his waist and she slowly turned
him, her dark eyes locked on his, her mouth open like a wet promise. He slid
his hand down between her thighs and the thin material left little to the
imagination. Maybe it was due to the terror of being hunted through the
nighttime paths of London but the girl‘s touch made his pulse hammer and his
desire quicken. She smiled, a brazen smile of anticipation and lust.
It felt like a thump and a
sharp tightness against his right side. He stopped in puzzlement. The girl
continued to look at him and gave a slight half-smile as hot pain coursed
through him.
“I.., what..?” The girl
continued to smile. He felt her brace herself for an instant and then push her
right hand against the handle of the long poniard that protruded from his side.
He staggered, one hand grasping at the girl. He felt his numbing fingers trail
over the hardening nipple of her breast but his lust was overtaken by
overwhelming weakness that made the dark alley swim. A sick feeling of horror
flooded through him and he reached for her. She laughed and easily deflected
his hand, tugging on the handle of the dagger, steering him lurching away from
her. “You…” his words were incomplete, lost in a red wave of searing pain that
seemed to swallow his thoughts.
“Over here, come with me.”
She crooned in an encouraging voice, one guiding hand on his back and one on
the dagger handle, as though driving some farm animal to market. He took a
staggered step and then the girl grasped the dagger handle tightly and twisted
it with harsh strength. The man felt a tugging sensation and his insides turned
to liquid, as though he drunk a skinful of hot spiced wine in one swallow. He
could feel the cold length of the steel perforating his flesh, ripping into his
bowels and belly. His breath roared in his ears and his eyes filled with tears.
The lantern wavered and blurred.
He was on the ground, mouth
tasting of blood, fingers grasping at the thin layer of muck that coated the
cobbles. The torchlight flared again and he stared upwards at the girl’s intent
face. She wore a pleased expression like she had made some fresh discovery.
“Want me to finish him?” One
of his hunters stood beside the girl, holding the torch and looking down at him
with a bemused expression.
“No, I want to watch him go.
You would spoil my fun Bent.” She smiled. Bent’s eyes flickered at the girl with
a measured look and then back at the dying man stretched across the muddy
stones of Ivy Lane.
Bent nodded in careful
acquiescence. “Can’t have that.” Bent reached down and ripped the blade free
and the man felt a calescent, diffuse sensation spreading through his body, as
though he had pissed himself. His blood was dark as night in the glow of the
torch. Bent watched it puddle across the greasy cobbles. “Leave this on him
when he’s done.” He handed her a small object. She nodded absently and lowered
herself over the supine man’s groin, settling herself upon him, eyes fixed on
his face, knees on the wet cobbles, unmindful of either dung or bloody rivulets,
her expression almost rapt in the flickering torchlight, watching his eyes as
the man cried in pain and fear and bled to death in the dank confines of Ivy
Lane.
---
Chapter the Second
The ship was squat and
shapeless in the fading light, backlit by an unfriendly autumn sun.
“That one.” The man spoke “het schip.” The speaker pointed at the
vessel, a stolid, clinker-built trading cog resting quietly at anchor. Built
for cargo and to withstand the mercurial Channel wind and waves, the two-masted
ship was small, rotund and sat like a stone in the cold and flat waters of
Bergen op Zoom.
“She’s flagged Dutch, but English-owned.”
His words, which hung in the damp air, were directed at a short, dark-vised man
with an angular face and a beard that hung long, grey and scraggling to a point
well down his chest. “Enn Engels schip.” he repeated in poorly
accented Dutch to the two uniformed customs men who stood, bored and
uninterested. One man scraped mud off of his boot on a convenient edged rock.
The bearded man scowled at
the vessel. “This is the fourth vessel you have directed us to, each time
claiming it was the one.”
“This is the ship, I am
certain of it. I recognize it now. The St.
Jan Baptista. Look at the figurehead.” The figurehead was a poorly carved
representation of a bearded man, staff held across his chest and one hand
outthrust.
The grey-bearded man scowled
again and gestured at the customs officer. A lengthy tirade ensued. The man who
had pointed out the ship slipped past the argument and walked out on the short
wooden quay where several boatmen were playing a desultory card game on an
empty crate. With a few words and gestures he made his indications known. One
of the boatmen climbed to his feet and clambered over to his skiff.
“Here!” the man called to
the still arguing Customs men. With an abrupt gesture, the grey bearded man
made a slashing motion with his hand and ordered the men into the boat. The
customs agents, their irritation plain on their faces, clomped out onto the
dock and with practiced ease slid into the craft. The bearded man, less
experienced with small boats, eased himself carefully into the vessel and the
boatman cast-off, rowing them away from the quay with powerful, practiced
strokes of the oars.
The grey-bearded man turned
his head and regarded the English ship with baleful eyes. “If it is as you
stated, the vessel will be impounded until the cargo can be thoroughly searched
and inspected. If it is not…” The man let the implicit threat hang in the air.
“She’s the one, Master
Story, by God’s truth. Carrying at least a thousand Geneva Bibles, printed in
London. Supposed to be carrying just woolcloth and wine, but those bastard
heretics can’t be trusted.”
Story grunted and offered a
few quick explanatory words in Dutch to the customs men. The taller man, whose
lank blonde hair hung long under his flat-brimmed hat snorted, impatient to get
out of the damp wind and a find a warm corner in a tavern. The man who had
pointed out the St. Jan Baptista
gazed out across the dark water. The waters of the estuary were calm and
placid, though the tide was nearly high. Beyond the St. Jan Baptista, a score or more of ships were at rest, their bare
masts looking like a forest in December, securely anchored in the deeper
offshore water, immune to the sandbanks and shoals that the rising tide
obscured. Oared boats flitted about like slow-moving water striders plowing
across the surface of the water. Several large fluyts loaded with cargo were
being carefully warped through the shallows to the canal for unloading at the
town Bergen op Zoom itself, its red-tiled roofs bright with the last rays of
the setting sun. Bergen op Zoom was a fortified town, secure, snug and stolid
behind a natural defense system of marshes and polders backed up with an
extensive moat surrounding the town.
“The English would be fools
to come here, trying to turn loyalties with their heretical preachings,” Story
fumed, “This isn’t Brill. The Spanish and the League now rule the Scheldt.”
“I thought the Spanish had
abandoned Zierikzee?” The man rubbed at a thin scar that tapered along his left
jawline and hooked up onto the cheek, giving his face a sardonic, almost
mocking look.
Story regarded the man with
eyes like flint. The recent Spanish mutiny in Zeeland had forced the
abandonment of a large portion of the Dutch province, and the Spanish tercios and
military companies had withdrawn to the region surrounding Antwerp. Two years
without pay had finally come to a head. “Temporarily, only temporarily, I
assure you. Once coin is paid to the troops, they will resume their occupation
of Zierikzee and drive the heretics from Zeeland.”
“By God’s Will, it will
happen thus.” The man replied and turned to watch their approach to the St. Jan Baptista. As they drew closer
the vessel towered out of the water like a dank layered wall. A line of
barnacles and weed hung just above the waterline, a telltale sign that whatever
the ship’s cargo, it was not fully loaded at present.
A watchman hailed the
approaching boat in Dutch and the bored blonde customs officer bellowed a
reply. A rope ladder with thick wooden slats was hooked over the side and
dropped down. The oarsman backed water until they were steady beside the
ladder. The two Customs officers swung onto the ladder and rapidly climbed to
the deck above. Story followed, somewhat slower and the scarred man came last. The
oarsman released the ladder and drifted away from the St. Jan Baptista, occasionally sculling the water with the oar to
stay close.
Story clambered through the
entry port and stood on the deck. The watch officer was already speaking to the
shorter Customs officer, gesturing and pointing towards the stern castle. A
rotund man, wearing a flat brimmed hat with a small feather emerged from the
forward castle.
“I will speak with your
captain.” Story’s voice was sharp and cut through the muttered conversation in
Dutch. “We will inspect your manifests and ship’s papers. You will open your
cargo for examination.”
The heavy-set man in the hat
cleared his throat. “Hold there! By God, who are you and by what authority are
you ..?”
“In the name of his most
Catholic Majesty, Phillip of Spain and Don Juan de Austria, Governor-General of the Low Countries.”
The man paused. “I don’t
care if you are the Pope himself, you don’t demand on my ship. I am William
Rogeres, Captain and master of this vessel. We’ve all our permissions and
writs.”
“You are Dutch flagged,“
noted the scarred man, pointing at the masthead where a white flag crossed with
two red laurel branches hung. The Lord of Burgundy’s flag from the House of
Hapsburg flew across the seventeen Dutch provinces, with the exception of the
rebel-held areas of Zeeland and Holland, who flew the flag of the Prince of
Orange. “That mean’s these men,” he pointed at the two Customs officers, “have
the authority to inspect or impound this vessel.”
Captain Rogeres face was
red. “See here…” he began.
“No. You see.” Story moved
forward, his face only inches from the captain’s. “By personal appointment of
the Governor-General, I am empowered to strike down heresy and treasonous
action in the Lowlands, to seek out and proscribe any and all heretical
documents, books or sundry manuscripts that I encounter, in the name of his
Holiness the Pope and before the Divine and Worshipful presence of God.” He
placed one finger on the man’s chest and jabbed it hard for emphasis. “I. Am.
Appointed. The authority as to whether your ship is permitted to ply these
waters rests with me, and with the degree of cooperation that you display.” He
turned away from the captain. “These men will inspect your cargo. Should they
find a page of a diabolical tome, any heretical nonsense or Lutheran
documents…you will burn alongside it.” Story’s face was suffused with
satisfaction, his eyes bright.
The captain’s face was a
damp sheen of perspiration. “Before God, we are always happy to cooperate with
the authorities, but I cannot be responsible for what some Precision sailor
might have dragged aboard with him! Our cargo is above reproach, have your men
search the holds, speak with my supercargo!” He gestured for the watch officer.
“Dr. Story, perhaps we
should inspect the captain’s papers?” The man with the hook scar said.
“When I want your
recommendations, I will request them. Your veracity remains unproven, and if it
stays that way you will find the stocks at Bergen op Zoom most uncomfortable.” Story’s
voice was harsh but the look on his face as the scarred man quailed was one of
supreme satisfaction. He turned and issued a slew of directives to the two
customs officers. The two men nodded and gestured for the supercargo to take
them below to inspect the cargo.
“Now Captain, your
papers…and pray my men don’t find anything amiss in your cargo, or you and your
vessel will be wintering on the Scheldt, possibly as permanent residents.” The
captain, his face pale, nodded a reluctant acquiescence and led Story and the
scarred man to the stern castle. A half a dozen seamen watched from the upper
castle, perched like a row of starlings along the rail.
Ducking their heads as they
entered the stern castle, the scarred man closed the door behind them. The room
held a large chart table and a handful of chairs. A tall sideboard stood on one
side of the room. The captain gestured at the two men to sit but Story ignored
the courtesy, stepping up to unroll one of the charts piled on top of the
scarred and worn surface of the table.
“I shall fetch my papers.”
The Captain stammered and opened one of the two interior doors on the opposing
bulkhead and disappeared within. The thumping clank of a capstan turning made
Story turn his head in momentary puzzlement.
“When you find the Bibles,
what will happen to the man and the ship?” The scarred man asked, pulling a
chair away from the table and turning it so he straddled it, looking at Story
with quizzical eyes.
Story gave the man a snort
of contempt. “Rather late for Judas to have recriminations. The captain will be
held and questioned by the Spanish ecclesiastical authorities. Probably hung,
and his ship impounded.”
“A harsh punishment.” The
man observed.
“He should burn. All
heretics should burn.”
“You’ve seen a man burn?”
something in the scarred man’s voice made Story glance up from the chart of the
Dutch coast.
“God has blessed me with the
opportunity to burn more than a dozen heretics. It is worth observing, the
purification of a man’s soul in cleansing flame. It is what awaits all heresy
in the bowels of Hell. The sharpness of the sword and other corrections brings
forth what gentle remonstrance does not. I had the rare privilege of helping
condemn and cleanse Thomas Cranmer at Oxford.” He gave a thin smile. “That
cursed heretic was Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry and Edward...” He sighed.
“What a joyous day that was.”
“Yes, I suppose burning a
man alive would be a feather in your cap.”
“He burned for the greater
glory of God and the Church, as all heresy should be punished.” Story gave the
seated man a sharp look as the interior door opened. The man that emerged
wasn’t the captain. He was wide and round-shouldered, with a broad, fleshy face
and barbed eyes. The scarred man felt the deck under his feet give gentle tilt
and he smiled.
“Where is the captain?” Story’s said. “These
contrivances grow tiresome, before God you will pay dearly…”
“Underway?” the scarred man
asked.
“Just warping her out. Can’t set off until the moon
is higher, even with the pilot we have.”
Story’s face was suffused with fury. “I gave no permission
to sail.” He tore the chart in his hands. “Where is the captain? You will be
gaoled for these actions! Officier! Officier!”
Story yanked on the door
handle. It was locked. Story froze. The scarred man rapped his knuckles on the
table hard to get his attention. The face that turned towards him was white and
drawn with anger and fear.
“John Story? Doctor John
Story?” Story nodded in reflex response to the question.
“Dr. John Story, in the name
of her Majesty, by the Grace of God, Queen of England and Ireland, you are
charged with treasonous offence against the Crown.”
“Treason? Who are you to
charge me?” Story’s voice rose to a shout. “Who are you to charge me? Servant
of that faithless whore of Babylon, a heretical bitch that fornicates with the
Devil.” He turned to the heavy door and pulled at the latchbar. It did not
budge. “Officier! Officier! Help! Moord!”
“Moored?” asked the stocky
man. The man’s name was Edward Woodshaw, and he served as Francis Walsingham’s
eyes and ears in Antwerp. He watched Story pound on the door with pitiless
eyes.
“Moord. It means murder.” Christopher Tyburn replied. “I thought
your Dutch was better than that.”
Woodshaw laughed. “We move
in different circles. Ask me about Antwerp’s financiers, venturers and mercers,
those I can speak to. Murderers, rogues and cut-throats I leave to you.”
Tyburn gave a humorless
smile. Christopher Tyburn was another of Walsingham’s men, a small circle of
intelligencers that carried out the Crown’s secret war in defense of the realm.
Tyburn had been seconded to Woodshaw due to his familiarity with the region and
the Dutch. Four years fighting with Thomas Morgan and Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s
expedition to Holland and Flanders had given him an intimate knowledge of the
muddy Dutch polders, damp market-towns and the coppery scent of blood that
seemed to hang over the ravaged countryside.
Story slumped against the
locked door, his hands covering his face. A whispered, despairing prayer in
Latin began. Woodshaw and Tyburn exchanged a glance. The prayer finished and
Tyburn watched as Story wiped his wet eyes and stood, his face steeled.
“You will release me at
once. You have no right under the laws of God or men to hold me. I am a citizen
of the Spanish Netherlands and under the righteous protection of the Catholic
Church.”
“Right has nothing to do
with it.” Tyburn’s voice was flat. “You aren’t here due to your work for the
Spanish or for burning Cranmer or any of your other ecclesiastical murders. You
are here because seven years ago you conspired with Westmorland and
Northumberland in their treachery and rebellion against their sovereign. You
helped foment the Northern rebellion with Northumberland and Westmorland,
encouraged and preached sedition and treason, and actively attempted to promote
the overthrow of your rightful sovereign. It’s treason, not heresy you’ll swing
for. There’s a subtle distinction.”
“It is not treason to
overthrow the Devil’s spawn when it usurps the Church! Blessed Mary of Scotland
is the true Catholic heir. Who are you to judge me?”
Woodshaw interrupted Story’s
tirade. “We aren’t judging you, just delivering you.”
“Minions of a diabolical
lord…” Story sneered.
“Irritated and bored minions
now.” said Tyburn. He stood and banged twice on the locked door. With a clack,
it opened and two sailors entered. Tyburn gestured at Story. “Secure him below.
Gag him for now but don’t hurt him.”
Woodshaw reached out and
grasped Story’s upper arm. “This way Doctor, your quarters await.” Story pulled
back, turning and his left hand shot upwards towards Woodshaw’s face, a faint
metallic reflection visible, flickering in the air. Story’s upper arm smacked
hard into Tyburn’s hand as the scarred man intervened. He pulled Story’s arm
over hard and twisted.
The thin short-bladed knife
clattered onto the chart table. Woodshaw was pale as his eyes dropped to the
weapon. Story spat at him. Tyburn bent the man’s arm and levered him away from
the table and into the waiting arms of the sailors. They pulled his arms behind
him and tied his hands.
“The good news Dr. Story, is
that I doubt you’ll burn. God’s judgment on you is superseded by the Crown at
the moment. You might hang, but you won’t burn.”
The look of baleful hatred
on Story’s face spoke volumes. “You will. You and all of your friends, verily
your heretical kingdom itself will burn, with all the flames that perdition can
stoke. You will burn in a Godly fire, heretic bastard, your flesh consumed in
purifying flame. You will scald…” His voice was a low hiss.
The door closed behind him
and Tyburn listened to the muffled litany continue unabated as the men took
Story below. Woodshaw shuddered and moved to the sideboard, removing a
leather-wrapped bottle and uncorking it. He pulled out two pewter mugs and
poured a generous allotment in each.
“Here” he slid a mug over to
Tyburn. “Bene bouse. Sauced gin.”
Tyburn drank and grimaced at
the harsh taste, not alleviated by the mix of pepper and spice that had been
added.
“A good end to a bad one.”
Woodshaw said, draining his mug.
“Story thinks he’s on the
side of the righteous and the Godly.”
“Well he’s bloody not.” Woodshaw
snorted and poured himself another mug. “Bastard man of God just tried to carve
up my face… ‘You will all burn’. What a load of tripe.”
“How long until the
Channel?”
“It’s a bitch, that estuary
with its tides. At least two, maybe three days beating down river and we’ll
pass Walcheren.”
Tyburn rubbed his beard
thoughtfully. “Be at least a day before anyone notices Story and his Custom’s
men are missing, probably another day to track them to the Baptista.”
Woodshaw snorted. “The
Spanish are too busy now to chase after some vagrant English traitor.”
“What do you mean?”
“You hadn’t heard? Word came
in a few hours ago. The Spanish tercios
rose. They’re plundering Antwerp as we speak.” He gestured. “Now that it’s
nightfall, you can probably see the fires from here, it’s only twenty miles.”
“Dear God….”
“I doubt God has much of a
hand in this… the Spanish Army of the Netherlands is now looting, fucking and
thieving its way through the richest port in Northern Europe. Good luck for us
and ours, bad luck for the mercers of Antwerp and their daughters.”
Tyburn thought for a moment.
“We’ll be at the front end of a flood of merchant ships and refugees fleeing
the port. No one will be looking for Story in the middle of this disaster.”
Woodshaw nodded. “Barring
the misfortune of a Spanish patrol, we shouldn’t have any problems. We might be
able to deliver Walsingham that ‘clean and simple’ result he’s perpetually
seeking.”
It was Tyburn’s turn to
snort. “I don’t think we’re fated for clean and simple results…” He drained his
mug. Despite the harsh peppery flavour, the gin left a warm pleasant burning
sensation in Tyburn’s throat. He reached for the bottle and then froze,
listening.
“Hear that?” A din of voices
arose on the deck, intermixed with shouts in Dutch.
“God’s Bones, what now?”
sighed Woodshaw. The two men ducked through the narrow opening and headed for
the deck.
The St. Jan Baptista’s main deck was ringed by a small circle of
sailors. In the centre of the ring the shorter Dutch Custom’s officer was
shrinking back, eyes frantic. The taller officer with the lank blonde hair lay
in a crumpled heap by the scuppers, a dark and widening puddle trailing away
from his body. In the gathering dusk it had the oily look of black paint,
pooling along the gently tilted deck.
“What in the bloody hell do
you think you’re doing?” Tyburn’s sharp voice rang out across the deck. The
Dutch Custom’s officer stared at him in a mixture of hope and trepidation. Tyburn
pushed his way through the circle of the Baptista’s
sailors and grabbing the man’s arm pulled him away from the crowd, pushing
him in the direction of the stern castle. The man’s face was bloody.
“Check him.” Tyburn said,
gesturing at the other man slumped on the deck. Woodshaw bent and turned the
man. The blonde man’s eyes stared sightless at the deepening sky.
“Dead.” Woodshaw’s tone was
laconic but Tyburn could hear the undercurrent of anger skating below the
surface of the one word reply.
“Dead you say…” Tyburn’s
voice was cold. Woodshaw glanced up and felt an atavistic shiver run down his
spine. The scarred man turned to face the Baptista
crewmen, his movement slow and deliberate.
“Who did it?” Tyburn
surveyed the men. His grey eyes had all the emotion of a fleck of ice. The St.
Jan Baptista’s crew had been recruited in Brill, a seasoned mixture of
Watergauzen Sea Beggars and merchant sailors, intermingled with some English
deserters and Scottish coastal pirates. They were a mélange of talented and
capable seamen and the dregs of a bitter and vicious war, come to roost in the
makeshift fleet nominally loyal to the Prince of Orange. Beyond the chink of
coin and the desire for drink, there was little uniting them except an abiding
hatred of the Spanish.
“Who?”
“Godverdomme Engels…
I did it.” The man was shorter than Tyburn, one side of his face mottled with a
spray of dark smallpox scars that had left it pitted and crusted like bark. He
wore a crumpled short brimmed hat and a typical sailor’s dress of jacket and
pantaloons. “He was a verrader bastard that sucked Spanjaard cock.” The man hawked and spat
in the direction of the corpse.
Tyburn looked at the man. “You
didn’t hear my instructions that none of the Dutch officers were to be harmed?”
The man smirked. “Ja I heard. I shit on you and your
instructions, Engelsman.”
Tyburn nodded to himself. He
dropped his hand to his belt and, keeping his gaze fixed on the sailor,
unbuckled his sword. He rolled up the belt and sword with deft hands and
without turning his head spoke to Woodshaw. “Hold this for me.”
Woodshaw took the proffered
sword and hissed, “We don’t need more corpses to explain to Walsingham…” Tyburn
nodded and stepped forward, his eyes on the Dutchman. The remaining Watergauzen
backed away.
The Dutchman, his flat
pocked face unmarred by any semblance of an expression, drew a long blade from
his belt scabbard. Tyburn ignored the man and instead began to unbutton and
strip off his cheap embroidered doublet. He shrugged out of the doublet, folded
it with care and handed it to Woodshaw who took it with a bemused expression. Tyburn
began to untie his oversleeves and the Dutchman began to stir with impatience.
“Come on you fucking smeerlap, let’s finish this. Bastard Engels…”
Tyburn gave the man a brief
glance and then folded the oversleeves and handed them to Woodshaw.
“Done undressing, you
cock-sucking shit?” The Dutchman stepped forward, the blade ready but Tyburn
raised one hand motioning the man to wait. The Dutchman paused as Tyburn began
to stretch out his arms and rotate his shoulders. He raised one arm high and
leaned sideways giving a brief grunt as his muscles stretched. He repeated the
motion on the opposite side. The Dutchman stared in disbelief.
“By Christ, are you ever
going to be ready?” The Dutchman gestured with the knife. “Do you need to take
a shit or have dinner before we start as well?” Several of the watching sailors
laughed but Tyburn moved into a set of leg stretches, alternately stretching
first one leg then the next. The Dutchman turned to his fellows. “This
Engelsmann must be stupid or maybe someone sliced off his klootzak. Fuck you Engels,
time to…huhrk!”
When the Dutchman turned to
speak, Tyburn pivoted and slammed his foot into the man’s groin. As the man
doubled over, Tyburn was already moving. One hand caught the wrist holding the
knife and twisted it to one side. Tyburn’s right hand hooked over the back of
the Dutchman’s head and pulled him forward as the agent’s knee rose to meet
him.
Tyburn enjoyed a flaring,
unholy sense of satisfaction as the man’s jaw slammed into his knee. He felt
the bone-jarring impact and heard the crunch of broken bone and popping
cartilage. The knife fell to the deck as he pulled the man’s head back and
hammered it down into his knee a second time. Keeping his hand buried in the
man’s hair, Tyburn stepped backwards dragging the almost insensate crewman with
him. Glaring at the remaining crew, who stood in mute collective astonished
silence, he raised up the man’s head and then slammed it onto the deck.
Tyburn exhaled with a
hissing sound. “Anyone else care to contest my instructions?” He stepped
forward and bent to pick up the fallen knife. “Anyone at all?”
The stupefied silence was
broken by the steady cackling laughter from the forecastle. Someone, Tyburn
thought, had just collected some coin.
Tyburn heard a faint
scraping sound behind him as the Dutchman tried to move away. He turned to the
fallen man. Tyburn pulled the man’s right hand out flat on the deck, raised the
knife and slammed it through his hand, pinning it to the deck. The man gave a
gargled scream and writhed, his free hand trying to pull the knife from the
wood.
“The next stuk vuil that crosses us doesn’t live
through it. And no one collects their gelt.” At least twenty pairs of eyes
refused his gaze. “Now get to bloody work.” Tyburn picked up his doublet and
oversleeves from the deck and plucked his scabbarded sword and belt from
Woodshaw’s unresisting hands. Behind Woodshaw, Captain Rogeres stood gaping,
open-mouthed. Tyburn pointed at the
Dutchman who now sat on the deck, moaning and clutching his hand, his face a
mask of blood.
“Secure him below. He’ll be
going ashore with our Customs officers. He’ll hang for his crime.” The captain
nodded a hasty acquiescence and Tyburn turned away to the rail. The flickering
lights of Bergan op Zoom were drifting away as the ship edged out into the main
channel. The flat landscape of the Netherlands was already fading into dank
obscurity, the grey-black of the land melding into the shimmering ripple of the
water as the moon began to rise. Far to the south, a red glow reflected off low
cloud. Antwerp was burning.
Woodshaw stood beside him at
the rail. “Was that strictly necessary?”
Tyburn shrugged. “Rogeres is
a thin reed and the Watergauzen play a hard game. They smell weakness and
they’re like to step in for an opportunity. It’s a long way back down the
estuary and I didn’t want anyone, especially his friends, getting the idea that
they could make more coin off selling us to the Spanish.”
Woodshaw nodded in thought.
“Now I know why they sent you with me.” He laughed. “Walsingham’s pet wolf, or
so I’ve been told.”
Tyburn gave the man a sour
look. “I can’t see him too pleased at this turn of events. It was supposed to
be uncomplicated. A dead Dutch Custom’s officer didn’t enter into his plans.”
“So no clean and simple
results?”
“Not tonight” the scarred
man said, watching the darkness gather over the land, “Not tonight.”
--
Chapter the
Third
“Dear God, I give you the
simple task of lifting a man no one, not even the Spanish, particularly care
about, and you manage to complicate it.” Francis Walsingham’s brown eyes were
harsh as he leafed through the papers that lay thick across his desk. The Principal Secretary had a lean and angular
face, with dark, almost brooding features. Nicknamed “the Moor” by the Queen
and her immediate circle, Sir Francis Walsingham had been appointed to his
position three years before, but his title failed to describe his more acute
role in handling the realm’s network of informants, agents, provocateurs, and
intelligence operatives.
Christopher Tyburn kept his
gaze fixed on the wall hanging visible over Walsingham’s shoulder. He didn’t
recognize the scene depicted but given the look of beatific prayerful
supplication on the figures on the tapestry, he guessed it was some applicable
lesson in humility.
“The crew had explicit
instructions.”
“And that worked out marvelously
well.” Walsingham found the papers he was looking for, a long, dense written
sheaf of script. He glanced through it and gestured to his secretary. “Lisbon
packet.” He said, handing the papers over. The secretary nodded.
“The Dutch have complained.”
Walsingham’s voice carried no edge, which indicated how little he truly cared
what the Dutch thought. Tyburn made no reply.
Walsingham paused and lifted
his head. “This is the point where most of my operatives fall over themselves
in justifications, protestations and promises.”
“I miss cues regularly
according to Oldcastle.”
The secretary re-entered,
another sheaf of yellowed papers in his hand. Walsingham glared for a moment at
Tyburn and then shuffled through the correspondence. “Malaga report – the
Spanish packet please. No more monies for him I think, for a time. His reports
are nonsense. And find me the latest missives from Antwerp.” He grimaced. “The
Spanish may have turned it into a smoldering pit, but I still need to know what
is happening with our Dutch friends.” The secretary nodded in affirmation and
disappeared again. “You need to go to ground for a season. I may have some work
in the spring but not before. Too many questions have been raised concerning
Story, and the Spanish Fury seems to have failed to rouse the Court as I had
hoped. Rather the opposite. They are thoroughly cowed in fear of where the
Spanish may next turn their eyes. Despite his treason, Story has… adherents in
Court, and they are displeased. You should rejoin Worcester’s Men.”
Two years before when Tyburn
had returned from the bitter war in Flanders and drifted into Walsingham’s
orbit, the spymaster had arranged for his appointment as an play-actor to the
Earl of Worcester’s Men. The Earl of Worcester’s Men were a playing troupe, one
of a number that plied their trade in London, at Court and the immediate
environs. The appointment served Walsingham’s dual purpose of providing Tyburn a
steady income that didn’t come from the Exchequer or Walsingham’s pocket and allowed
his agent the social mobility to mix with both the high and the low. Players,
though regarded as lower in social status then vagrants, were one of the few
professions that by their nature mixed freely with both Court and commoner.
“I doubt Oldcastle will be
forthcoming.” Oldcastle was the troupe leader of Worcester’s Men. In the two
years Tyburn had been a member of the troupe, Oldcastle had developed a healthy
dislike for him that he was not shy about sharing.
“Master Oldcastle will do
what is requested and required of him, as he always does.” Walsingham gave the
player a baleful glare. “Would that you did as well.” The Principal Secretary
turned back to his letters, cracking the wax seal on a packet and giving Tyburn
a dismissive wave. “Absent yourself, and try not to stir the hornet’s nest.”
Tyburn cleared his throat. “There
is the matter of my pay.”
Walsingham’s dark brows
lifted and his frown deepened at his employee’s presumption. “Robert, if you
please, settle our accounts with Master Tyburn.”
“Yes sir.” The man gestured
for Tyburn to follow him back out into the anteroom. The player gave Walsingham
a quick bow, receiving in turn an irritated glare. He followed the secretary
into the anteroom.
The man fished around an
open drawer and removed a handful of coins. He counted them twice and handed
them to Tyburn. “Sign the receipt.” He spun a thin leather-bound account book
around and presented it to the player. Tyburn counted the coins.
“You’re short.” The player’s
voice was flat.
“You
have received your full accounting, minus the requisite deductions.” The
secretary sniffed.
“You’re
short.” Tyburn repeated.
“Sign
the receipt or you receive nothing.” The secretary sounded exasperated.
Tyburn
reached out and with exacting care, closed the account book. “London is awash
with rogues and vagabonds. Good men like yourself would be wise to walk careful
when you are about your business. It is easy to find oneself in perilous
company.” He tapped the account book for emphasis. “God willing, you avoid such peril.”
The secretary froze.
“You’re short.” Tyburn
repeated.
The secretary licked his
lips and nodded. “I shall recount.” He carefully tallied the coins, adding some
additional silver to the handful. He passed the monies to Tyburn, who counted it
without expression. Opening the account book, the player dutifully scrawled his
name and the date below a ragged X where the last recipient had signed. The
words “Robert Barnard, his mark” were written beside it in neat slanted
writing. Tyburn wondered how much he had been shorted on his payments.
The player nodded his thanks
and exited.
Tyburn was annoyed. Not with
the secretary, that type of petty thievery was commonplace and expected. Walsingham’s
network of agents crisscrossed the continent, a mélange of merchants,
ex-priests, thieves, diplomats, thugs, smugglers and cast-off nobility, with
their one element in common being a venal cupidity in submitting their expenses
and disbursements. Walsingham’s parsimonious strategy hinged on keeping his
informants barely above water, making them hungry for more and always alert to
juicy tidbits they could pass along to justify a request for additional coin. His
thrifty strategy undoubtedly included the salaries for his small army of
assistants who sifted the steady flow of parchment and correspondence that
drifted into the fine house on Seething Lane. Shorting the payments worked fine
with distant correspondents but to essay it with the payee present demonstrated
a profound lack of judgment.
Tyburn stepped off the
entryway and into the street. The November skies were grey and hurried, but for
the first time in more than a week, dry. The noise and stench of London rose to
meet him. The player turned right and threaded his way through the tumult of Seething
Lane’s commerce, considering his ongoing penury as he pushed his way through
the foot traffic.
The coin in his purse would
settle some of his debts but with Walsingham putting him at loose ends until
the spring, he would need to source another income. The spymaster had
instructed him to rejoin Worcester’s Men but Tyburn knew that Oldcastle had recruited
a replacement when he had left for Flanders seven weeks before. The old man
would be loath to reinstate Tyburn until the troupe finished their current
round of performances at the Boar’s Head. The player turned onto Hart Street,
trudging past the squat bulk of St. Olaves which sat on the corner like a fat
grey stone matron. Oldcastle was likely at the Boar’s Head and, given that it
was barely forenoon, probably still sober, the player thought, we’ll see what
shape his mood is in.
--
“Why, by God’s holy buttocks
would I want you darkening my door again?” Tyburn winced as Oldcastle bellowed.
“I’ve got Colle as Vice now. He’s a drunkard and a wastrel and whore-mongering
snipe but at least I know what gutter he’s rolling in. You? You disappear for
months on end and stroll in without so much as a by-your-leave or a sack of
wine to show for it and whine like a mangy dog about rejoining your position. Ha!
What I say to that! Fie!”
“Walsingham suggests…”
“Walsingham! God’s Blood! Why
does the Principal Secretary to the Queen give a gold-encrusted shite for a
wayward player...or for that matter a third-tier playing company like ours!” Oldcastle
paused to retch a thick wad of phlegm onto the rush-covered floor. “Been
coughing for the entire month of October,” he observed, his voice glum. “Can’t
abide the wretched snot I’ve been spitting up. I’d kill for a clear head.” He
glared at Tyburn and continued. “If his high and mighty Master Walsingham truly
gave two shits about your employment, he’d have dropped you a missive and right
now I’d be reading it and cursing and you’d be smug and smiling. He didn’t, you
ain’t, and I’m happy with Colle as Vice… for now.”
Tyburn sat stone-faced as
Oldcastle drained his tankard. He wiped his mouth and hawked and spat again,
shouting at the barmaid for a refill. Oldcastle waited until his fresh pot arrived.
He took a long appreciative gulp, his eyes peering over the rim as he drank.
“But, if its work you’re
looking for…I might have someone that could avail themselves of your particular
skills, not on the boards, you understand.”
“I’ll not be spending my
time as your tallman or bully-boy,“ Tyburn said. “You chase your own debtors.”
Oldcastle waved away the
thought. “Not for me, you coxcomb, but it would serve me well enough if you
provided the help. Help Worcester’s Men and our position.” Oldcastle squinted
at Tyburn. “You recall last year when word came that Burbage was fixing to
build his self a permanent theatre.”
“In Shoreditch.”
“Aye, in Shoreditch. He
started building this summer past – you being absent abroad on your …business,
you wouldn’t be knowing much but Burbage got a lease at Holywell Court, at the
Priory.” Oldcastle nodded to himself. “Burbage is a canny bastard. Shoreditch
is outside London’s jurisdiction, so the aldermen closing the innyards to plays
‘cause of the plague, as they done this summer, don’t signify. It’s a
purpose-build playhouse, not some bloody inn-yard. Lots of room for groundlings
and cushions.”
“Sets up good for the Earl
of Leicester’s Men.” Tyburn observed.
Oldcastle glared at him. “Course
it does. But I know Burbage and he’s as crafty as a Jew and twice as
treacherous. If we help him with his current difficulties, he’s promised
Worcester’s Men a dozen performance dates, provided we split the gate with him
personally, not Leicester’s Men.”
“Leicester’s Men don’t have
a share in the theatre?”
“No, he’s partnered with his
brother-in-law Brayne.”
“Owns the Red Lion, doesn’t
he?” Oldcastle nodded and gulped another mouthful of ale. The Red Lion had been
the site of a previous attempt for a permanent theatre but it was stymied
mainly by its location on the outskirts of Whitechapel. Few people would trudge
through winter mud to visit the Lion, when the inn-yards at Ludgate and
Southwark were readily available.
“What does Burbage need?”
“Gelt. His coin’s drying up.
Burbage and Brayne’s mortgaged their properties for the funds, but...”
Oldcastle laughed “construction was slow on account of Burbage swapping out
materials on the joiners. Heard he was buying the expensive stuff, then
swapping it out for cheap work and selling the other on the side. He’s a skivvy
bastard. Now the summer’s done, winter is coming and they’re running out of
ready coin. Can’t open for performances until the work’s done, so if he misses
out on half the season, he’ll come adrift.”
“So he opens up for a
partner or an investor.” Tyburn responded.
“Burbage? He don’t want
anyone else having a piece. He’d bury his brother-in-law if he could afford it,
but he needs his pull for the lease and the coin. No, they had a goldseller
backing a loan for them. And he’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Dropped out of sight two
weeks ago, taking Burbage’s papers and account books with him. No coin, no writs,
no loans. All gone, along with the goldseller.” Oldcastle gave a thin smile
that bespoke more cruelty then amusement. “Burbage is tits-up if he don’t get
his coin or his paper.”
“Burbage needs him found.”
“Aye, and he needs his paper
and monies belike, but that won’t be your problem. You find the man for
Burbage, what Burbage decides to do to him is his business. Well, him and the
bailiffs, I reckon.”
“Why did Burbage come to
you?” Tyburn gave the troupe leader a pointed look.
Oldcastle laughed. “He didn’t.
I went to him. I heard rumors he was in a bate, and I heard you were back from
Flanders. I know you have a talent for turning over rocks and setting
everything under them running, so I thought how I can use that.” He shot the
player a glance. “You want back in Worcester’s Men, this is your cross to bear.
You get us in good with Burbage and get us access to the theatre, and Colle can
go back to humping Winchester geese and drinking his pots.”
“That doesn’t put coin in my
pocket.” Tyburn observed.
“You deal with your
compensation from Burbage your ownself. Charge him what you think he can bear,
but if you can’t come up with the goldseller, don’t expect any coin.” Oldcastle
drained his mug and gave a prodigious belch. “And don’t be throwing sheep eyes thinking
you’re back with the troupe. Walsingham don’t pay our freight, Worcester does. Mayhaps
he’ll pitch you back in but I can make your life a bloody, God-fucked misery if
you don’t come up right with Burbage. We need access to the Theatre. Inn-yards
won’t suffice, not with those Precision bastard aldermen shuttering our doors
everytime some poxed yeoman drops from the plague.”
The chair scraped across the
floor as Oldcastle stood. “You’ll find Burbage at Shoreditch. He’ll fill you in
on the details. Come back and see me after you’ve found his goldseller and you
can help Jack and Willens toss poor Colle into the dungheap.” The troupe master
gave Tyburn a derisive salute and disappeared through the tavern door.
--
“Venetian tile, did I
mention?” Burbage pointed at the edge for the staging with an air of
impatience. “And the sky vault will be blue with golden stars – gold leaf mind
you, not some tricked out yellow paint.” Tyburn nodded yet again, as he
listened to Burbage once more list out the variety of accoutrements with which
he was bedecking the Theatre. He glanced again at the reddish tiles that a
laborer was carefully cementing in place. They looked like they had never been
closer to Venice than Tyburn.
Despite the mounting
evidence of James Burbage’s parsimoniousness, Kit was impressed. The Theatre,
modeled loosely after the tiered inn-yards that the troupes traditionally used,
was a very much still a work in progress. The building was shaped like a polygon,
almost eighty feet across, with three high towering galleries surrounding the
open pebbled yard. It most resembled, Tyburn thought, the bear-baiting rings in
Southwark, except they seldom rose above a single tier. The stage area thrust
out into the yard and was partially surmounted by a gabled roof supported by
carved wooden pillars. The stage roof was still under construction, rendering
Burbage’s commitment to painting the underside of the sky vault moot. The high galleries
lacked siderails, benches and in some cases, flooring. Half the interior was
still bare framed wooden beams, reeking of pitch and resin. The upper gallery
was open to the sky, as no roofing materials beyond the skeletal timber framing
were evident except a lone sheet of canvas flapping loose in the damp November
air. A pigeon fluttered away and outward. Bird guano spattered the yard in
dozens of locations, including the stage where the glazier was applying edging tile.
The tiering house, the backstage area for the actors to change and move about, was
a vacant shell.
The player turned his
attention to Burbage. James Burbage had a narrow, fox-like face and a dusty
reddish beard that looked like it had been left in the rain for a season. The
eyes were sharp and astute, and kept sliding sidelong at Tyburn at random
intervals, as though weighing the player’s credulity in between momentary
assessments of his lack of character. It made Tyburn feel self-conscious and
ill at ease, which, he realized, was intentional.
From everything that Tyburn
had heard of Burbage, the man was a consummate manipulator, one who had
migrated from a successful joinery enterprise into one of London’s most
influential troupe-operators. It was Burbage who maneuvered Leicester’s Men
into their premier position at Court, Burbage who cajoled venues and prime
inn-yards when the London Aldermen had closed off performances, and Burbage who
deftly managed the often incongruous demands of the Master of Revels. And now
it was Burbage whose flight of ambition and imagination was being hammered
together out of timber and coin at Holywell Priory.
There had been several
efforts to establish a permanent theatre in London in recent years, including
the effort by John Brayne, Burbage’s partner and brother-in-law. The London
Aldermen had quashed efforts within the city and distance and winter mud had
squelched the efforts outside the gates. If anyone could make a permanent
theatre work at Shoreditch, it would be Burbage.
“It seems a little quiet.” Tyburn noted drily,
nodding at the single glazier fitting tiles. Burbage scowled.
“A momentary setback, a
hiccup, a fart, it’s nothing!” he waved one hand in impatience. “Three weeks. We
open for performances in three weeks. Maybe four…” he amended. The scowl
deepened. “It’s coin I lack, not workers, nor materials. We’ve all our supplies
sitting the Great Barn waiting. Groats! Gold angels! Even pennies would
suffice, but I can’t draw anything from our bankers without the accounts and
the writs. Stokely has them. That gnat, that irredeemable, insufferable,
pox-addled bastard son-of-a whore, two-faced cunt!” James Burbage’s face was
red and the last burst out of him as rapid spray of profanity. He drew a deep
breath. “You find Charles Stokely and you find our theatre alive and well.”
“When did you see him last?”
the player asked.
“Two weeks ago right here,
arranging transfer of the remaining lease monies, and paying for that
God-rotted tile.” Burbage made a sour expression. “If I had known, I’d have
taken all the coin then. Never would have expected Stokely of cozenage.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was small beer,
it was nothing. Stokely’s a goldseller and a factor. He deals in monies that
make this job look like a dungheap. He works with Court. He’s got offices and
position, which is why we went to him in the first place. Six hundred
God-cursed pounds this place cost and Stokely’s business shits that much
off-hand.”
Burbage turned and looked at
the unfinished galleries. His face was calmer and when he spoke, his voice was
quiet. “Think on it, what we could do here? This space, a good troupe, a
stirring piece of work….you’ll hear them howling like Bedlam for more.”
Tyburn turned and looked,
imagining the galleries populated with spectators, the yard swelling with the
bustle and noise and catcalls of groundlings, the stage alive with excitement. For
a moment he could see it in his mind’s eye, the clamor and the chaos stilling
as the play began and that strange hush that would steal over a rapt audience
being pulled into a different world fraught with its own dramas and particulars.
“This is my St. Paul’s, my
very own cathedral.” Burbage laughed. “But it needs coin and I’m no pope, so
selling indulgences is right out. But I can offer Oldcastle some performance
spots, I can do that much.”
“That’s fine for Oldcastle
but by God’s pity I need to eat.”
“You know how much coin
Oldcastle stands to take in if I allow Worcester’s Men performance dates?”
“No. I do know how much I’ll
likely see from Oldcastle’s largesse, if he gets his performance dates. Which
is none. Oldcastle sent me to you because I am good at what I do. I’ll find
your goldseller, and then you can turn him upside down and shake him until your
coins fall out. But my time and talents are valuable, so you pay me. And then I
go do what I do.”
Burbage’s scowl returned. It
seemed to be a semi-permanent fixture. “For twenty pence I can hire a pair of
rufflers to dig out Stokely and have them beat you into the ground for good
measure.”
Tyburn turned and faced
Burbage. “No. You can’t.”
Burbage’s face went a shade
paler at the expression on the player’s face. “How much?” he blustered.
“Ten shillings upfront for
the search, another ten when I find him.”
“Five.” Burbage countered.
“Good luck with your
cathedral” Tyburn noted and turned to leave. “I’m not bartering. You decide
what this ambition of yours is worth.”
“Fine then, ten shillings
now and ten when you find the purblind wretch!” Burbage reached into his
doublet and removed a large cheveril purse. He took out a fat gold coin and
handed it over. Tyburn handed it back.
“Unclipped, if you please.”
The coin’s edges were ragged and torn on one side where someone had clipped off
small pieces of gold. Clip enough coins and you had extra cash in hand. Burbage
made a noise deep in his throat but fished around and pulled out an acceptable
coin.
“Where did he do his
business?”
“Off Cheapside, in Maiden’s
Lane around the corner from the Goldsmith’s Hall.”
Tyburn nodded. “I’ll start
there. What else can you tell me about him?”
Burbage sniffed. “He’s named
Stokely but if he’s not half Jew by God, I’m the King of Rus. The man makes his
gelt loaning out to merchants, venturers and managing investments from Court. I
know Lord Burghley’s into him for the wool trade and he’s tight with the Hanseatic
merchants at the Steelyard.”
“You said he had offices?”
“He clerks for the tariff. Has
a Crown license.”
“For who?”
“Earl of Rutledge, I think.”
Tyburn nodded in thought. Crown
licenses and patents for trade, tariffs and commerce were often awarded as a
Court privilege, providing a lucrative income for the holders, although they
rarely actively had to provide any work in administering or managing the
license. That task fell to various third-party intermediaries or agencies hired
for the purpose, like Stokely. Crown monopolies were highly sought after
appointments as they provided a steady stream of profitable coin independent of
land holdings or dubious investment ventures. If Stokely was managing a license
or monopoly for the Earl of Rutledge, then Burbage’s comment about the theatre
investment being small beer was accurate.
“What’s he look like?”
“Stokely? Got a face like
boiled mutton, grey and mottled. Dark hair and round nose. Raspy beard, like
Lanahan from Warwick’s Men. He’s a chary bastard, a bit twitchy.” Burbage
glanced around impatiently.
“Burbage!” The shout echoed
across the hollow shell of the theatre.
“God’s mercy, that doddypol.”
Burbage cursed. He locked eyes with Tyburn for an instant and gave a short,
emphatic shake of his head.
Two men pushed their way
past a loose hanging canvas tarp. The shorter man spotted Burbage by the stage
and shouted again. “Burbage, you cozening bastard, where are our men? We should
have five men working. At this rate we won’t be done for two months!” Tyburn had
frequented both the Boar and the Lion often enough to recognize the man by his
thick mane of hair and the tapered beard. It was John Brayne, Burbage’s brother-in-law
and titular investment partner. The second man wore the blue smock of an
apprentice but it was the man’s size that drew the eye. He was a full head
taller than Tyburn.
“Coads. No men working. No
progress on the galleries. Just some God-damned tiling being done? Care to
explain James?”
“As I told you last week, we
are progressing and…”
“What kind of a wretched
fool do you take me for? You’re a scheming bastard, you got some close packings
about? Who’s this doddering idiot?” He turned his attention to Tyburn,
squinting at the player. “Well? Loose that tongue of yours.”
Tyburn gave the man a ghost of a smile and
turned to leave.
“Hold it you bastard, I want
to know what’s about.” Brayne’s face was bright red and he gestured at the
blue-smocked man. The man stepped past Burbage and gripped Tyburn’s left arm. The
player reached his right hand across, locking the man’s hand onto his arm and
then pivoted to his right. The apprentice was pulled off balance and Tyburn
twisted the man’s gripping hand up and out, using the man’s arm as a lever. The
man gave a hissing gasp of pain as his arm was yanked back. Tyburn reached over
and gripping two of the man’s fingers, applied pressure. The hiss turned to a
deepening gasp and a curse.
“Down.” Tyburn said, his
voice flat. The apprentice nodded, his eyes tearing and he sank down onto the
pebbled gravel of the yard. Tyburn looked at Burbage and Brayne. Brayne had a
shocked look on his face. “Are we done here?” Burbage nodded. Tyburn leaned
down to the apprentice’s ear. “I’m going to let you go now. You are going to
stay there until I leave. If you lay a hand on me again for any reason, I will
start breaking things. You will not enjoy it. Do you understand?”
The man nodded, his face
pale in the shaded light of the theatre yard. Tyburn released the man’s hand,
gave Burbage a nod and strode out of the theatre. Burbage stared after him,
with a bemused look on his face.
“Who was that James?” Brayne
grated, “We’re partners in this forsaken venture, and I need to know.”
“Hopefully, that is the
solution to our problems.” Burbage said, “God willing.”
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