Sacred Treason (42 page)

Sunday, April 30

A piece of mud thrown up by the hooves of his partner's horse caught Philip France in the eye, and he took a hand off the reins to wipe it away. It had been raining for the last six miles now – indeed, it was the rain that had alerted them to the messenger. The man had been galloping through a heavy downpour when they had spotted him from where they were sheltering beneath some trees. No one would be out in this unless they had an important and urgent mission. The fading light was not a good enough reason by itself, not with the rain coming down so hard. Moreover, they had seen this man twice before, in the vicinity of Sheffield Manor, taking messages to or from Lady Percy, the dowager countess of Northumberland. And their instructions, as given to them by Francis Walsingham himself, were unambiguous. “Arrest ten innocent men rather than let one conspirator slip by.”

France dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and drew up alongside his friend and companion, George Latham. “What if he doesn't stop in Melton?” he shouted.

“Then we press on,” Latham yelled back, his hat in his hand and his black hair plastered wet across his forehead. “But he'll stop. His mount must be as tired as ours.”

They rode into Melton Mowbray ten minutes later. The man they were following entered an inn: a stone-fronted building called the Mowbray Arms. France and Latham watched him pass beneath the central arch.

“I presume you have our warrant?” asked Latham.

“Aye. But need we arrest him in the inn?”

“Are you worried?”

“No, not unduly,” replied France. “But if there are many people, and they know him . . . We are a hundred miles from London.” Latham smiled. “You are worried. Like when we slipped out of college.”

France did not rise to the taunt. “What if we are wrong? What if he is riding hard in this weather because his mother is ill or his wife is in labor?”

“We have seen that man twice before, two weeks ago, on both occasions riding hard near Sheffield Manor. It would be something of a surprise if his wife lived so near to Lady Percy.”

France allowed his horse to step forward and then sat there in the rain, watching the gate. “So, we take him in his chamber?”

“Yes, in his chamber.” Latham began to ride forward too. He did not stop.

The inn was a proud structure, with a central arch giving way on to a puddle-streaked courtyard. There were stables on the far side, outbuildings built along each flank. France and Latham dismounted and led their horses through, passing the reins to a stable boy who ran forward to greet them, taking their names and making a polite little bow before taking their mounts away. The door to the hall was on the left, up a couple of steps. As they approached, one of the inn servants came out carrying an empty pitcher, and in the moment that the door was open they heard the noise of the crowd within.

The hall was between thirty and forty feet long and darker than they expected. A second floor had been inserted, cutting in two the pair of high windows on the courtyard side. There was a candelabra with half its candles alight above them. France counted how many people he could see—thirty-one. A young lawyer was sitting beside a haughty-looking well-dressed woman, a young boy playing with a kitten at her feet. A tall traveller with a wide hat was plucking a stringed instrument, clearly hoping to catch the woman's attention but she was not giving in to his musical entreaties. Standing at another table was a maid in an apron, offering a plate of food and a flagon of wine to a modest man and woman who were clearly travelling together. Two merchants stood to one side, one nodding gravely as he listened to his companion and ate a piece of cheese. A servant was clearing up some spilled oysters from a table at which four hearty yeomen were dining, striking out with his hand to keep a small dog from gnawing the food. Beside the near-dark window a student was trying to read a book.

Latham caught France's arm and gestured towards the furthest corner. There in the shadows, sitting at a table, was the man they had been following. He was bearded, about thirty years of age, with a gaunt expression. His sopping wet jerkin hung heavily from his shoulders, and he wore no ruff. He was watching them, a piece of bread in both of his hands, which he had just broken but was not eating.

“I think we have just lost the chance of surprise,” Latham murmured.

France looked around. “It doesn't matter. He's cornered. There are only two doors—and if he leaves by the one on the far side . . . It must lead back into the courtyard.”

Latham caught the attention of the woman in the apron as she began to return to the kitchen. “My good woman, can you tell me where that far door leads? And are you familiar with the man at the table in the corner?”

“The door leads to the stairs, which go up to the best chambers. They are all taken. But there may be space in one of the second-best chambers, off the gallery. In this weather we have our hands full.”

“And the man?”

She looked in his direction. “Can't say I've ever seen him before. He just came in and demanded something to eat. He said he did not mind what. I gave him a piece of bread and told him I'd send a maid with some pottage when it's done. Will you and your friend be joining him? I am sure there will be pottage enough, and it's both beans and bacon. Three pence a bowl, four with bread.”

Latham put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Some pottage would be a fine thing. First, though, about that man over there. He is no friend of ours—nor of yours. We are carrying a warrant from Sir William Cecil, her majesty's Secretary, to arrest him on suspicion of sedition.”

The woman looked blankly at Latham.

“He is a Catholic spy,” France explained.

“There's not going to be any trouble, is there?” the woman asked anxiously. “I mean, there are many guests, some children too.”

“Don't you worry,' replied France. “All we need you to do is to close and secure the main gate until we have apprehended him. When he is locked up in the nearest magistrate's house, we will be back—looking forward to some of that pottage.”

“I really ought to be asking my husband. When he returns, I'll do as you say. We do usually close the gate at this hour, at dusk.”

“Where is your husband?”

“At the mill.”

Latham glanced again at the man. He was eating the bread, still watching them. “Look, my good woman, trust me. Close it now, just for five minutes. We will arrest him quietly, and lead him out through the upstairs passage if that would suit you better.”

“George, he's getting up,” said France. “He's leaving by the far door.”

“Go after him. I'll head him off at the gate.”

France stepped forward. The general chatter subsided as he pushed past the seat on which the well-dressed woman was sitting and knocked the lawyer into another man who stumbled backwards, falling almost on top of the boy and the kitten. He did not listen to the complaints nor the calls for him to be careful, but kept on towards the doorway. When he reached it he swung blindly around the jamb – and ran straight on to the poised knife of the man, who was waiting immediately around the corner.

Philip France's first reaction to the blade entering his chest was to look down. He saw the blood pouring out, as water pours from a drain in a storm. His second reaction was to look up at the face of the man who had stabbed him. No words passed between them but enough time elapsed for France to look questioningly at him. The man turned and fled up the stairs. France's last clear thought was that he ought to tell George to look out for himself. He took only one step more, then felt suddenly very weak and slumped in the doorway, barely aware of the shouts of alarm from the guests as his life ebbed away.

George Latham heaved the drawbar of the gate into place and stood ready. He heard the sound of a man running along an upstairs corridor, then he heard the shouts. There were rapid footsteps on a stone staircase and a shadowy figure suddenly emerged from a door nearby.

At that moment, the innkeeper's wife ran out of the hall and shouted, “Your friend has been wounded! He is bleeding.” She saw the killer's dark shape on the other side of the archway, the knife still in his hand. “Look out! He's got a dagger!”

George Latham had only once before wielded a blade in anger. That had been during his time at Oxford, in a drunken brawl with some of the townsmen which had turned vicious. But he knew the rudiments. His lack of experience was the last thing on his mind. He had forgotten his orders from Walsingham. All that mattered now was that the bearded man before him had stabbed his most faithful friend—a companion since his schooldays.

“You want to get out?” he shouted at the shadow. “To leave?”

The man did not move.

“Well, go on then,” snarled Latham, approaching him. “Go on—leave. All you have to do is open the gate and go.”

The man looked across the yard to the stables.

“If you run, you are going to have to run on foot. If you reach your horse in the stable—which will have been unsaddled by now—you will be trapped.”

“Don't go near him. Call for the constable,” cried the woman, as the men who had been inside the hall came out. “Raise the hue and cry.”

At the same time, there was a loud knocking on the gate, and a man from outside demanding: “Who has barred my house against me? Damn your eyes, open up!”

The innkeeper's wife ran across and started to pull back the drawbar. At that moment, sensing that the man might go to the gate, Latham reached for the knife at his own belt, drew it and rushed forwards. The man saw him coming and ran across the yard. Latham sprinted after him. Not far behind came the man he had seen eating cheese, closely followed by the lawyer. None of them had a lantern but all were grimly determined. The traveller with the hat joined them too. And then the boys from the stable appeared, one with a small lantern.

The killer swerved, and ran down a dark alleyway between the stable and the perimeter wall of the inn. Latham knew the man was trapped. Inns that depend on the security of their guests' horses and possessions do not have easy access points behind stables. The Mowbray Arms was no exception. A moment later the man found himself in the near-darkness of a dead end, with four shadows blocking the only way out. And then the stable boy with the light joined them.

For a long moment, the man held out the knife in front of him, his hand shaking.

“Drop the knife,” shouted the traveller in the hat. “Drop it now! You will only make your punishment more severe.”

“He is going to hang whatever,' said the lawyer. “The question is whether he repents first.”

Latham stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Go to hell,” muttered the man. Then he said it again, louder. “Go to hell!”

Latham looked at the man's shape in the dimness and held out his left hand, palm upwards for the knife, concealing his own blade. “Give the knife to me. There is nowhere else to run.”

But at that moment the man lifted the knife above his head and, with a loud cry, ran straight towards them. As he came to Latham he brought the blade down. Latham dropped to a crouch and threw himself at the man's legs, bringing him to the ground. He whirled round with his own knife and stabbed the man's thigh. Then he stabbed him in the groin as the others there also set about the felon with their day-to-day knives. It was hysterical, a frenzy of stabbing – men killing out of fear and revenge. Suddenly it was over. The killing moment was done.

“The beast is dead,” said the lawyer, his voice betraying his excitement and relief. The stable boy with the lantern held it close to the corpse.

Latham looked down at the bloody torso. It had been bad butchery: he could see a rib and pink organs. He felt sick. The man was dead – and these fellows were smiling and congratulating themselves. But what were they doing here? What was he doing here? Who were all these people around him, talking, laughing and shouting? Only when the innkeeper called for silence, and demanded to know the identity of the dead man did Latham catch the one strand of purpose left to him.

“He is a spy,” he gasped. “A Catholic conspirator.” As he spoke he knelt down and felt the side pockets of the bloody jerkin. Finding nothing, he started to undo the jerkin itself. His hands became smeared with the man's warm blood, fumbling inside the gore-soaked linen of his shirt. And then he felt a folded paper. He took it out and slipped it into his own pocket. Standing up, he wiped his brow, leaving the others to drag the body away into the yard.

James Forrester is the pen name (the middle names) of the historian Dr. Ian Mortimer. Fellow of the Royal Historical Society and winner of its Alexander Prize for his work on social history, he is the author of four highly acclaimed medieval biographies and the
Sunday Times
bestseller
The Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England
and
The Time Traveler's Guide to Elizabethan England
. He lives with his wife and three children on the edge of Dartmoor.