A Queens Spy: The Tudor Mystery Trials Read online

  For All My Children

  Jules

  Saffron

  Savannah

  Spyke

  Introduction

  The mist still clung to the fields and stole the colour from the trees as the men gathered for the hunt. A mounted man looked down from the top of the hill towards the group; although a mile distant, he could hear the muffled conversations, the laughter and the barking dogs. Holding his own horse still, he waited, although not for long.

  The pack broke and a group of riders headed up the hill towards him. He recognised the man at their head. “This time, Robert…” He was ready for the confrontation, and was surprised when the group of riders slowed and stopped a good distance away. Too late, he realised what their intention was. He turned his horse and spurred it towards the tree line but he was too late; the crossbow bolt sprung forward with deadly accuracy, tearing through the horse’s neck.

  The dying horse collapsed, taking its rider to the ground with it. Managing to free his feet from the stirrups, the man avoided being crushed, but the fall was hard and he felt the sickening snap as his left arm broke. The horse had nearly made it to the trees and he crossed the remaining distance quickly, ducking inside the leafy sanctuary, hearing the hooves pounding up the hill behind him.

  Leaning against a tree, eyes closed he fought to stay conscious; pain from the break engulfing him. He had been stupid, so bloody stupid. What had possessed him to think his brother would do no more than confront him? He knew Robert better than that. Now they would run him to ground and he couldn’t even give himself the satisfaction of a fighting end. Richard bit back an exclamation as he pushed the broken arm inside his jacket. Bloody brilliant! Could this day get any worse?

  With the arm supported the pain lessened. He could hear the men now, thrashing their way through the small wood, shouting and screaming. It wasn’t going to be long before someone found him. Drawing his sword, he stood ready.

  As he watched, one of Robert’s men tethered his horse at the forest’s edge and began to walk towards him. Richard stood quietly; the man walked straight past him.

  Don’t turn around…keep walking. Richard’s eyes were on the horse. Could he make it?

  But turn around the man did and only feet from Richard whose blade he found leveled at his chest. In a straight fight, Richard would not have waited, but with a broken arm he didn’t weigh his chances of success that highly.

  The man looked like a servant, not one of his brother’s companions.

  “Hold; this is not our argument,” Richard said.

  The man took a careful step backwards, and as he did so, a horse came crashing through the undergrowth.

  “Jack, have you seen him?” the rider yelled. “Robert has placed twenty-five pieces on his head.”

  Jesus, Harry! I was wrong: today could indeed get worse. Harry was his cousin and his brother’s lap dog and most ardent admirer.

  Then the unexpected happened. Jack, the man who stood at Richard’s sword point, signalled him to be quiet and turned to Harry, who had not seen his quarry propped against the tree. Grabbing Harry’s foot from his stirrup, he threw him over the horse’s back to land on the forest floor. Richard did not need a further invitation; he caught the reins the man threw at him and hauled himself into the saddle. Turning the horse, he joined his rescuer and the pair sped off down the hillside.

  Chapter One

  France 1552 A.D.

  The sea was stormy, which was bad – both for those who earned their living from its depths and those who wished to travel over its surface. Jack was in the latter category. A storm, lasting three days, had kept the boat he was to take to England tied securely in the harbour, while Jack loitered in the ale houses of Dieppe, trying to amuse himself with his scant supply of coins. Lodging at the Firkin, an English-owned inn, he waited with other travellers for the winds to die and the white topped waves to lessen their furious pounding of the sea defences.

  Jack entered the inn and found the smoky air heavy with the odour of dampened wool, stale food and sea coal, which crackled in the fire. The room with its low ceiling and haphazard arrangement of benches and tables was warm and friendly; the contrast with the inhospitable evening outside was stark. Most customers sat in small groups, the benches pulled in a semi-circle around the fire. The benches that were vacant were those against the shadowed walls.

  Pulling the rain-sodden cloak from his shoulders before the damp could seep through to the clothes below, Jack shook what he could of the water from it. Shabby with the years of being slept in, ridden in and fought in, the splotched mud could detract little from it that time and use had not already claimed.

  “Hey!” exclaimed a voice loudly.

  Jack turned and found a red-faced priest, splashed with mud and water, who he had not immediately seen as he closed the door. Mumbling an apology, he made to pass and return to his room on the floor above.

  “And what sort of apology was that?” The little man caught Jack’s sleeve in a wiry grasp.

  “I said I was sorry,” Jack said tersely.

  “Well you don’t sound as if you mean it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Jack wrenched his arm free.

  The priest looked up at him from under bushed eyebrows and a forehead wrinkled like the leather of an ill-cured hide. Small black eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. “Sit down.” The priest’s voice was used to commanding from the pulpit.

  “What for?” Jack snapped.

  “Because I asked you to. Now sit down.” A naked leg protruded from his robes, pushing a stool.

  Jack, too puzzled to refuse, took the offered seat, depositing his saturated cloak over the end of the bench.

  “I take it you weren’t off anywhere in particular?” the priest enquired further. Jack shook his head in reply. “Well, you don’t look much like good company do you?”

  “Should I be?” Jack’s annoyance had not completely subsided. A sinewy, tough hand reached for his cloak. He was not going to sit and be berated by an old cleric in dirty vestments with an attitude that matched the weather.

  “Now just hold your tongue will you?” A look of long suffering creased the priest’s face. “Now I’ll make a deal with you. Match that and we’ll spend a pleasant evening together, which is the least you can do for soaking a poor old man.” Three coins appeared on the table.

  “Poor old man? There’s an ox beneath that robe. You’ll get no sympathy from me.” Jack couldn’t keep a slight smile from his face.

  “I’m not asking you for sympathy, just to match that.” A bony forefinger, almost skeletal beneath papered skin, prodded the largest of the three coins.

  Looking at the coins, Jack recognised them for what they were: enough to pay for half a pitcher of ale. He wondered if the priest habitually passed his evenings at the expense of others. He was well enough acquainted with the game to know that holy orders would not bar the cleric from guzzling his ale at twice his own rate. But then, he had little money left and it was an option preferable to returning to his room to wait and see if morning brought pleasant weather.

  “I don’t know why, old man, but I’ll match you,” Jack conceded.

  “Call me Felix, my son.” The priest grinned, a little too triumphantly for Jack’s liking.

  As Jack busied himself ordering ale, the priest observed him closely with dark, shrewd eyes. The blond hair, darkened by water, was probably, he thought, as lustrous as a May dance maiden’s when dry. The younger man wore a brown leather jerkin, its stitching slightly frayed at one shoulder, the elbows and front smoothed and darkened with the dirt of wear. The only evidence of care was on the wide, polished sword belt and sh
ining quillons. Possibly once a soldier, the priest mused, and now probably for hire; recent times did not look as if they had been too kind.

  Jack was surprised to find how easy a companion Felix was, and he talked freely as they shared the pitcher of warm ale. He was further surprised, and a little ashamed, when the jug emptied and Felix insisted on paying in full for a fresh one. The discourse so far had covered such general topics as the ill health of the English monarch, the continued strings of power held by Northumberland, the price wars that had starved some of those lucky enough to survive the sweating sickness, plus the inevitable conversation about the ferocity of the storm that continued to rage outside.

  “There you go, my son,” Felix said, filling Jack’s cup and then his own.

  “Felix, pray don’t say that. No one has ever called me son; I would rather you didn’t change that now.” Jack avoided his gaze.

  Felix, under white-flecked eyebrows, observed him closely for a moment. He saw the dark look that had descended over the fair features. But, after a lifetime of inquisitive confessions, he no longer saw any barrier to his curiosity and brushed aside Jack’s warning words. “Ah, so that’s your curse is it? There was no harm meant, lad.”

  “No, the harm was done years ago,” Jack spoke to himself and drained his cup, attempting to cover his discomfort.

  Felix could see the pain Jack was feeling was often felt. Sympathy, however, was not the required medicine. “Troubles you, does it?” he asked bluntly.

  “Wouldn’t it bother you?” Jack threw back.

  “Well, that does depend, doesn’t it? I know nothing about you. Tell me something and I’ll think on it.” Felix refilled Jack’s emptied cup. “Now, don’t you look at me like that. There is nothing here to be wary of, only an old man who tries to serve God as best he can. Come on, lad, tell me something of yourself.”

  Jack opened with a barb sharpened with bitterness and loaded with resentment. “My mother lives in St Agnes’s Abbey.” He watched with some satisfaction as Felix’s eyebrows rose towards his reduced hairline. He had used the words often enough to know the reaction they produced; Felix’s, although mild, was as he had come to expect. “Not then, of course, not when she bore me. Before that she was a lady in waiting.” Jack paused. “Fitzwarren’s lady found out and she went to St. Agnes’s after I was born.”

  Felix interjected, “Ah, so you’re a Lord’s bastard, are you?” He didn’t flinch as Jack cast iced-blue eyes on him when he bestowed the title he so resented.

  “Makes no difference,” Jack insisted. “Fitzwarren had four sons; there was never a shortage of heirs. I was, shall we say, an unwelcome sight to his lady. Fitzwarren would have had me in the house but not her. So he placed me in his brother’s household where I was brought up waiting on his sons.” Jack stopped; this was as far as he ever went.

  Felix heard the bitterness in his voice. He sighed. It was the way he supposed sadly. It was not an uncommon tale and during his life it had been recounted to him over and over. Some bore the brand openly and cursed humanity for it, seemingly uncaring; some carried it secretly and silently, ever afraid of discovery. A few laid it to rest and shrugged off the faults of their fathers. Felix doubted if Jack fell into the latter category.

  “Not a happy life, eh?” he said, prompting Jack.

  “I did better than most, I suppose. What they learnt, I learnt; what they did I did but,” Jack paused smiling widely at the memory of it, “better.”

  Felix heard the arrogance of his claim, but decided to allow him it. “So you made no friends with them then?”

  “Something like that. The youngest, Harry, went to London and I followed. I had no wish to stay.” Jack shrugged.

  Felix was curious. Jack’s face told him that the younger man had said as much as he was prepared to. He tried another question to see if it would unlock more. “Did you get on with Harry, then?”

  Felix got a blank expression and a shake of the blond head for his trouble. Undeterred he persisted. “Did you meet your brothers again?” This time he got a reaction.

  One corner of Jack’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Oh yes.”

  Felix pressed. “Go on. You said there were four sons.”

  “Aye,” Jack said, “Peter, Robert, William, and Richard.”

  “You know them all then?” Felix asked.

  “Peter was heir, but died young; broke his neck in a fall from a horse. I never knew him.” A voice devoid of emotion gave a factual account. “William joined the church young, but the other two…” Jack’s voice trailed off.

  “So, which of the other two, Richard and Robin, did you meet first?” Felix said.

  “Robert,” Jack corrected.

  Felix sighed “Richard or Robert then, which first?”

  There was a pause. “Robert,” Jack said. “Harry went to London and I went with him, as I said. Harry used to hunt with one of his cousins, a right arrogant bastard he was, Robert Fitzwarren.” He pronounced his brother’s name with malicious precision.

  “Ah, your brother.” He knew from Jack’s tone there was no love there.

  “Aye, but he didn’t know it and I wasn’t about to enlighten him. He’d have had me whipped to death.” Jack stopped again. “I was no more than Harry’s servant.”

  The explanation was unnecessary; Felix already had a good grasp of how the arrangement had worked. Seeing the light in the other man’s eyes he leant across the table. “There’s a story here, am I right? Go on, lad, tell it.”

  Jack turned serious eyes on him. “You’re not interested.”

  “I am, lad,” Felix said sincerely, for he was.

  Jack, reassured by Felix’s words, smiled; albeit small he had an audience, something Jack could not resist. “You are right at that; there is a story.” Stretching his shoulders, he settled himself back at the table. “There was a hunt. Harry said we’d join Robert that Saturday. There was naught unusual in that, but,” Jack paused for effect, “he said Richard Fitzwarren would be there.”

  “Ah, your other brother,” Felix said nodding. “Younger or older than Robert?”

  “Robert became heir when Peter died. Richard is…Hell, you know, I’m not sure if he’s the youngest of the four or not.” Jack frowned as Felix’s explorations led to the discovery that his knowledge of his brother was incomplete. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. Harry knew there was some feud between the pair. I had heard as much but I didn’t know why. I still don’t know what the crux of it was, but I can tell you that there’s something serious there. Harry told me that the previous time they met, Robert left with half of his ear missing. Needless to say, Harry was looking forward to watching the sparks fly.”

  “You don’t like Harry?” It was more an observation than a question.

  Jack paused recollecting his former master. “No. He was an idiot. Robert had him following like a puppy. He borrowed money from him, abused him and still Harry went back for more.” Jack stopped suddenly. His eyes returned from the past to focus on Felix’s face.

  “Go on, lad, you can’t leave me there,” Felix prompted.

  Jack looked at his listener’s eager face and continued with his story. “I’d never seen Richard before. I was looking for someone who looked like me, or Robert.” Robert was added as an afterthought. “So when we arrived I was holding Harry’s horse, and I could see Robert surrounded by his usual retinue, including Harry. There was no one else there who looked like he could be Richard. Then the horn blew and Harry summoned me to bring his horse. I asked then where Richard was. He laughed and told me that he hadn’t dared to show up. It was obvious that this had been what Robert’s flock had been laughing about. I suppose I was disappointed, but not for long.” Jack took a drink grinning. “You see, he was already there, up on the moor.”

  “How did you know it was him?” Felix asked.

  “I knew it must be him when Robert saw him and held up his hand for his rabble to stop. He looked nothing like Robert, believe me.” Jack leant towar
ds Felix in a confidential manner. “Robert looks like the scraps from a bantam fight, you know what I mean, all colour and baubles.”

  Felix nodded, grinning. “I know the type, all piss an’ wind.”

  “Exactly. Richard, he was in the distance, mind, was black: cloak, boots, jacket, hair, horse, the lot. He sat up there on the moor, leaning slightly forward in the saddle, watching Robert. Harry rode up to join Robert and I followed, more than a little curious by now I can tell you. Robert yells at the top of his voice, ‘We have our quarry!’” Jack paused, looking closely at Felix to see if he comprehended the implication of Robert’s intent all those years ago, not convinced he added, “meaning Richard.”

  “Yes, lad, I’m with you. Get on with it,” Felix said briskly.

  Satisfied with his listener’s understanding, he continued. “The group, on Robert’s command, went bellowing up the hill after him. There were trees as you crested the top of the moor about a quarter mile ahead, and Richard was riding towards them, not quickly though. Robert demanded a bow. Now I’ll give the arsehole this: he was a fine shot. Richard saw what he meant to do and turned his horse to the trees, but he was too late. I saw the animal later, straight through the neck clean as you like.” Jack sat shaking his head at the memory of it. He reached for the jug to fill the cups.

  Felix moved quicker. “I’ll do that, lad. Did he get to trees then?” The story paused in the wake of a fresh assault of white lightning, followed by a seemingly cataclysmic boom.

  The volley subsided and Jack took up the tale once more. “The horse fell, I saw it go down, and the rider seemed to go under it. Robert rode like hell across the moor. I was at his side when he got there and I expected to see a man pinned beneath the beast. Anyway he wasn’t. He must have stayed low so we couldn’t see him and made it into the cover of the trees. Robert was as mad as the devil. He was sure he had trapped his brother.” Jack stopped, laughing at the memory of Robert’s blustering wide-eyed disbelief. “Anyway, Robert orders his men to flush him out; there wasn’t much, maybe half an acre or so of wood in a hollow. They ride off round the back of the trees to try and drive him to Robert. I couldn’t believe it; I knew for sure he meant to take the man’s life.”