The Lost Prophecies (35 page)

‘This is a fine place,’ said Abel, half-turning and calling over his shoulder. ‘I shall have to speak with more respect to you in future, Tom.’

By now we were almost on the flat and moving in single file, passing through dense ranks of trees that overhung either side of the path, which was slightly sunken. Combe House was out of sight. When we’d been high up above the valley and looking down I’d been in good spirits, but now something was making me uneasy. There was no sound of birdsong, no sound but the breeze rustling in the leaves and the plodding of our horses. My horse seemed to share the unease I felt. I was in the middle, with Abel to the front and Tom to our rear. A dozen or so yards separated each of us from the other.

As I glanced back to see whether Cloke was going to respond to Abel’s comment, I heard the whinny of a horse and was puzzled, for it was not one of ours. Then there was a flash and a loud bang from the trees to our rear. Tom was leaning forward but his head was up and his mouth wide open. Even amongst the shadows cast by the trees I could see him gaping ferociously as if trying to force words out.

With a great effort, Tom Cloke straightened in his saddle and looked down at his chest. Almost in curiosity. There was a bloom of red spreading across his shirt, clearly visible beneath his unfastened doublet. And then several things happened at once. Behind us, from further down the track and between the trees, several men appeared on foot in a jostling mass. They started to run towards us.

Tom’s horse panicked and cantered ahead. Cloke was bent forward once more, clinging to the reins. My own horse was putting on speed too. I didn’t have to urge him; he was doing so by instinct. I called out a warning to Abel Glaze – in my terror, I don’t know what I said and words were unnecessary anyway since Abel was already twisted around on his mount and staring past me in amazement – and then the three of us were thudding along the narrow path and out into a wide grassy space that fronted Combe House and its encircling moat.

Either the occupants of the house were on the lookout for us or they had some guardian permanently on duty at the main entrance, for, by the time we’d covered half of the few hundred yards of sunlit grass that separated the trees from the moat, the alarm had been raised and people were gathering under the gatehouse arch at the far end of the bridge, with more arriving at every instant.

I risked a glance behind me. Tom Cloke was still with us, but he was all huddled up on horseback. I sensed rather than saw a group of men emerging from the shelter of the trees. They halted, no doubt seeing the party waiting on the far side of the moat and realizing that we’d reach the safety of the house before they could catch us. Abel and I managed to rein in our horses when we were almost at the bridge. The band of men by the wood – there were four of them – moved a little out of its shelter. At least two of them were carrying muskets. One of them raised his weapon and sighted down it. I understood now what had happened to Tom Cloke. The meaning of the red stain across his chest. But the man lowered his weapon. We were either out of range altogether or too far away for accurate shooting.

These men were no common footpads or chance thieves. They must have tethered their own horses in the woodland near Combe House and waited for us to arrive. They had chosen their moment carefully, when we were away from the main road and off our guard near the moated house.

I realized all this later. Now my attention was caught by the sight of poor Tom Cloke vainly trying to hold on to his horse. He must have pulled on the reins, for the animal veered around, away from the house, and began to bolt towards our ambushers.

A handful of men started out from the gatehouse on the far side of the bridge. Some were carrying staves, one of them a musket of his own. Abel crossed the narrow bridge; I was close behind him. Several men grabbed at the reins of our horses. Abel and I jumped down. All was confusion, with the horses jinking about, men shouting and dogs barking. No one could decide whether to take shelter in the courtyard, which lay beyond the gatehouse, or to venture to the far side of the moat and confront the ambushers.

The individual with the musket ran to the far end of the bridge and raised his gun in the direction of the trees, but he did not fire either. Our companion’s horse, with Tom slumped across it, had almost reached the woods. Then it slowed as if uncertain where to go next, and one of our assailants walked forward quite nonchalantly, like a man strolling in a meadow, hand outstretched. He seized Tom’s horse by the bridle. At the same time Tom’s body fell from the horse. The ambusher, who was clad in black, at first seemed inclined to leave him lying there. Then he beckoned to one of his fellows. The two of them unceremoniously hoisted up our friend and tossed him over the saddle as though he were a hunter’s quarry. From their handling of the body, Tom was dead. Dead or dying. The horse and its burden were led off into the woods.

I was surprised the men made no attempt to approach closer to Combe House. Although they were outnumbered, they were obviously determined individuals. Perhaps they’d got what they had come for.

So far, no one had spoken directly to us. But now a tall, handsome young woman came forward. ‘What trouble have you brought to our house?’ she said.

‘You think it was the same men you saw at Wallingford?’ said Abel Glaze.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘All I know is that Tom was worried about something and he called me to the window of our room as it was getting dark. You were fast asleep. There were four men standing outside. They were smoking pipes and laughing amongst themselves. I thought nothing of it at the time, but it seems as though they must have been stalking us all the while and waiting for their opportunity.’

‘Why wait until we’d almost arrived here?’

‘Perhaps they needed to be certain of our destination before they attacked.’

‘It doesn’t make sense, Nick. What did they want?’

‘They are not common thieves, that’s certain.’

‘I noticed that Tom was anxious through the whole journey.’

‘I did too,’ I said, wondering why Abel hadn’t mentioned this earlier.

‘So it must have been Tom Cloke they were after,’ said Abel. ‘Why would anyone bother to follow a couple of poor players?’ There was almost relief in his voice. Nothing to be ashamed of. He was expressing my own thoughts.

‘Poor Tom,’ said Abel. He sunk his head in his hands.

Abel and I were sitting in an upper bedchamber of Combe House. The interior of the place was as fine and spacious as the outside promised. After the striking young woman by the gatehouse had asked us that question about the trouble we’d brought them, we spent some moments identifying ourselves to her, since she seemed to speak with authority.

While we were busy explaining our connection to Tom Cloke and the reason why we’d pitched up at the moated house, a young man appeared in the courtyard, closely followed by an older couple. There was such a strong likeness amongst these handsome people that it was evident they were father and mother, son and daughter. These were indeed the Shaw family, and I’ll say more about them later.

The older man gave orders that an armed party from the house was to scour the woods and valley in search of our assailants and, although he did not say this in our hearing, most probably of Tom’s body. Meanwhile we were taken inside and given refreshment, while our horses were stabled. Neither Abel nor I had much appetite for food, but we drank several draughts of some fiery spirit which helped steady our nerves. We sat in the hall of the house. The two women of the household, Elizabeth and Mary Shaw, mother and daughter respectively, attended to us in person, dismissing the servants once they’d brought the refreshments. There were younger children peering at us curiously, but they too were ushered away. A couple of spaniels that were too idle and pampered to go on the hunt for our assailants hung around the table. Abel fed them scraps.

All around was bustle and activity, but we were a still centre. Now we were able to tell our story in a more ordered style, up to the moment of the ambush.

I was glad to discover that the Shaws were actual kinsmen to Tom Cloke. I think part of me hadn’t quite believed the claim he’d made as we gazed down on Combe House. For their part, the women accepted us for who we were, members of the King’s Men and travelling companions to Tom, by chance more than by design. Abel described how Tom had attached himself to us when he found we were journeying to the Midlands in our profession as players. He added that I was visiting a dying uncle. Mary Shaw made some commiserating remark to me about this and I simply nodded, too embarrassed to say that I had been unaware of my uncle’s existence until a few days before.

I noticed that neither Elizabeth nor Mary showed much grief about Cloke’s death. Perhaps they were still too shocked by the suddenness of it all to respond or perhaps he had been a distant kinsman whom they’d scarcely known. Towards the end of our recital, however, Mrs Shaw abruptly said: ‘Did our cousin Thomas have anything with him?’

‘What sort of thing?’ said Abel.

The lady of the house, tall and good-looking like her daughter, appeared slightly uncomfortable at her own question.

‘I mean, did you notice whether he was carrying anything . . . unusual? Large enough to be in his bag or cap case?’

‘If he was, then it will be in the hands of our attackers,’ I said. ‘They made off with Tom and his horse. All his possessions were in the saddlebag.’

‘That is so, Mother,’ said Mary Shaw. ‘We saw one of the thieves snatch at the horse’s bridle and lead the beast and the body of our kinsman into the woods.’

Mother and daughter exchanged quick glances. And when the father and son reappeared – they had gone out at the head of the party searching for our attackers – I thought I saw an odd exchange between William Shaw, the owner of Combe House, and his wife. Mr Shaw came striding through the door of the hall, his son Robert close behind him and a gaggle of armed servants in their wake. Abel and I were still seated at the great dining table with Elizabeth and Mary. William Shaw announced to all of us what was already apparent from the expression on his face: ‘They are nowhere to be found, I fear.’ Then he gave a slight and separate shake of his head to his wife as if in confirmation of his words. But I sensed he was sending a different message to her. I cast a glance at Abel. He too had noticed.

This was a further small mystery for Abel and me to puzzle over after we’d been ushered upstairs to our chamber. We were to stay at Combe at least for the rest of the day and the night to come. The attack on us and the murder of Thomas Cloke would be reported to the justices in Banbury (the nearest town of any size), although this would have to wait since no one was going to venture far from the house that day. Realistically, any chance of tracking down and apprehending the culprits lay with the occupants of Combe, and that seemed to have failed.

‘Ah, well,’ said Abel, lifting his head from his hands. ‘Poor Tom.’ He sighed and lay back on the bed. I was sitting in a chair by the open casement window. Below was a sheer wall, at the base of which stirred the waters of the moat. This was not as wide or deep as a castle’s, but it was enough to make access to the house almost impossible except via the bridge in front of the gatehouse. At that moment I was glad of the security. I gazed over the water at the sunlit trees fringing the cleared area around Combe. On our ride up here this morning the countryside had looked peaceful, innocent. Now the shadows under the trees might conceal a band of murderers.

I was vaguely aware of Abel rising from the bed and going to the corner of the chamber where our bags had been stowed, brought to us from the stables by a boy servant. I travelled light, as did Abel. The costumes and everything else we required for our work were being conveyed direct to Warwick in the company wagons.

Now I heard Abel give a grunt of surprise.

‘What is it?’

He didn’t answer but swung his bag on to the bed. It was a battered old thing, going back to the time when Abel had made his living in an even more disreputable way than as a player. My friend was a reformed character these days, but he’d once tricked money and alms out of travellers by pretending to suffer from distressing ailments like the falling sickness. He used the cloth bag to carry the various items he needed (mostly cosmetic, like a player’s). But as he looked inside the cap case now it was evident that he wasn’t finding what he expected. He lifted out a square-shaped item that was wrapped in drab cloth and secured with cord.

‘I thought my bag was heavier than it should be,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t put it in here.’

Abel placed the item on the bed. He ran his fingers along its edges. ‘Feels like wood. Or a book of some sort.’

The same thought crossed our minds at the same moment. Abel looked at me.

‘It must be Tom’s,’ he said.

I recalled that very morning in the stableyard of the Green Dragon at Woodstock. How Tom Cloke had been in the yard before us, chatting to the ostler. How he appeared startled or guilty when he saw us approaching. Had he slipped this . . . this item . . . into Abel’s bag beforehand? He’d taken the bag down to the yard early, as if he was doing Abel a favour. He had offered to take mine too, but I refused.

‘Put in here by accident?’ said Abel, then, seeing my expression, added: ‘No, I don’t think so either.’

‘He placed that – whatever it is – inside your bag when he was carrying it to the stableyard. He did it because he feared what might happen. Feared he might be attacked and his goods stolen.’

‘Not just him.
We
were attacked, remember.’

I could see Abel was angry and upset because Tom Cloke’s actions had placed all three of us in danger. I felt angry too, but Cloke had been Abel’s friend more than mine.

‘I am going to see what’s inside this piece of cloth,’ said Abel defiantly. ‘It may be a dead man’s property, but he has forfeited the right to it by his behaviour.’

Nevertheless, Abel Glaze continued to stare at the item in its drab covering where it lay on the bed. His reluctance to open it seemed to be based on more than some simple scruple about tampering with Tom’s possessions. But after a few moments he took a small knife from out of his cap case and, slitting the knotted cord that was bound about the parcel, unfolded the cloth. By this time I was standing beside him, looking down.