Dark Fire (4 page)

‘She refuses to speak at all?’ he asked when I had finished, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

‘Not one word. You’d think she’d be startled out of that when she learned she’d be pressed, but she hasn’t been. It makes me think her wits must be affected.’
I looked at him seriously. ‘Her uncle begins to fear possession.’

He inclined his head. ‘It is easy to cry “possession”. I have sometimes wondered if the man from whom Our Lord cast out a devil was not merely a poor lunatic.’

I gave him a sidelong look. ‘The Bible is quite clear he was possessed.’

‘And today we must believe all that is said in the Bible and only that. Master Coverdale’s translation of it, that is.’ Guy smiled wryly. Then his face became thoughtful and he
began pacing the room, the hem of his robe brushing the clean rushes on the floor.

‘You can’t assume she is mad,’ he said. ‘Not yet. People have many reasons for silence. Because there are things one is too ashamed or frightened to reveal. Or to protect
someone else.’

‘Or because one has ceased to care what happens to one.’

‘Yes. That is a terrible state, near to suicide.’

‘Whatever her reasons, I’ll have to persuade the girl out of it if I’m to save her life. The press is a horrible death.’ I stood up. ‘Oh, Guy, why did I let myself
get drawn into this? Most lawyers don’t touch criminal cases, the accused not being allowed representation. I’ve advised one or two before their trials, but I don’t enjoy it. And
I hate the stink of death around the assizes, knowing in a few days the carts will roll to Tyburn.’

‘But the carts go to Tyburn whether you see them or no. If you can make an empty space in one of those carts—’

I smiled wryly. ‘You still have a monk’s faith in salvation through good works.’

‘Should not we all believe in the righteousness of charity?’

‘Yes, if we have the energy for it.’ I stood up. ‘Well, I am due at Newgate.’

‘I have a potion,’ he said, ‘that can sometimes lift a man’s spirits. Reduce the black bile in his stomach.’

I raised a hand. ‘No, Guy, I thank you but so long as my wits are not dulled, I will stay in the state God has called me to.’

‘As you wish.’ He extended a hand. ‘I will say a prayer for you.’

‘Beneath that big old Spanish cross of yours? You still have it in your bedroom?’

‘It was my family’s.’

‘Beware the constable. Just because evangelicals are being arrested now it doesn’t mean the government’s any easier on Catholics.’

‘The constable’s a friend. Last month he drank some water he bought from a carrier and an hour later staggered into my shop clutching his stomach in agony.’

‘He drank
water
? Unboiled? Everyone knows it is full of deadly humours.’

‘He was very thirsty; you know how hot the weather has been. He was badly poisoned – I made him swallow a spoonful of mustard to make him sick.’

I shuddered. ‘I thought salted beer was the best emetic.’

‘Mustard is better, it works at once. He recovered and now he stumps merrily around the ward calling my praises.’ His face became serious. ‘Just as well: with all this talk of
invasion foreigners are not popular these days. I get insults called after me in the streets more frequently; I always cross the street if there is a gang of apprentices around.’

‘I am sorry. The times get no easier.’

‘The City is full of rumours the king is unhappy with his new marriage,’ he said. ‘That Anne of Cleves may fall and Cromwell with her.’

‘Are there not always new rumours, new fears?’ I laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Keep courage. And come to dinner next week.’

‘I shall.’ He led me to the door. I turned back to him. ‘Don’t forget that prayer.’

‘I won’t.’

I unhitched Chancery and rode up the lane. As I passed the Old Barge I looked up at the window where I had seen the figure. It was still shuttered. But as I turned back into Bucklersbury I had
the feeling of being watched again. I turned my head abruptly. The streets were getting busy, but I saw a man in a doublet of lusty-gallant red leaning against a wall with his arms folded, staring
straight at me. He was in his late twenties, with a strong-featured face, comely but hard, under untidy brown hair. He had a fighter’s build, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. As he met my
gaze his wide mouth twisted into a mocking grin. Then he turned away and walked with a quick, light step towards the Barge, disappearing into the crowds.

A
S
I
RODE BACK TO
Newgate I reflected anxiously on my watcher. Could the man have some connection
with the Wentworth case? I had mentioned the case at Lincoln’s Inn the afternoon before and gossip travels faster among lawyers than among the washerwomen in Moorgate fields. Or was he some
agent of the State, investigating my dealings with the dark-skinned ex-monk? Yet these days I had no connections with politics.

Chancery stirred uneasily and neighed, sensing my worry or perhaps made uneasy by the dreadful smells that assailed us as we passed the Shambles, a foul trail of blood and fluids seeping down
the channel from Bladder Street. The stink here was always bad, however much the City might try to regulate the butchers, but on a hot day like this it was unbearable. If this weather went on I
should have to buy a nosegay, I thought, noticing that many of the richer-looking passers-by held posies of spring flowers before their faces.

I passed into Newgate Market, still overshadowed by the great monastic church of Greyfriars, behind whose stained-glass windows the king now stored booty taken from the French at sea. Beyond
stood the high City wall and, built into it, the chequered towers of Newgate. London’s principal gaol is a fine, ancient building, yet it holds more misery than anywhere in London, many of
its inhabitants leaving it only for their execution.

I entered the Pope’s Head tavern. It was open all hours and did a good trade from visitors to the gaol. Joseph sat at a table overlooking the dusty rear garden, nursing a cup of small
beer, the weak beer drunk to quench thirst. A posy of flowers lay beside him. He was looking uneasily at a well-dressed young man who was leaning over him, smiling affably.

‘Come, Brother, a game of cards will cheer you up. I am due to meet some friends at an inn nearby. Good company.’ He was one of the coneycatchers who infest the City, looking for
country people in their dull clothes who were new to town to fleece them of their money.

‘Excuse us,’ I said sharply, easing myself into a chair. ‘This gentleman and I are due to have conference. I am his lawyer.’

The young man raised his eyebrows at Joseph. ‘Then you’ll lose all your money anyway, sir,’ he said. ‘Justice is a fat fee.’ As he passed me he leaned close.
‘Crook-backed bloodsucker,’ he murmured softly.

Joseph did not hear. ‘I’ve been to the gaol again,’ he said gloomily. ‘I told the gaoler I was bringing a lawyer. Another sixpence he charged, to allow the visit.
What’s more he had a copy of that filthy pamphlet. He told me he’s been letting people in to look at Elizabeth for a penny. They call out through the spyhole and insult her. He laughed
about it. It’s cruel – surely they’re not allowed to do that?’

‘The gaolers are allowed anything for their own profit. He would have told you in hope of a bribe to keep her free of such pestering.’

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I have had to pay for food for her, water, everything. I can’t afford more, sir.’ He shook his head. ‘These gaolers must be the wickedest
men on earth.’

‘Ay. But clever enough at turning a profit.’ I looked at him seriously. ‘I went to Lincoln’s Inn yesterday afternoon, Joseph. I learned the judge sitting at
Saturday’s assize is Forbizer. That is no good news. He’s a strong Bible man and incorruptible—’

‘But that’s good, surely, a Bible man—’

I shook my head. ‘Incorruptible, but hard as stone.’

‘No sympathy for a young orphan girl half out of her wits?’

‘Not for any living creature. I’ve appeared before him in civil matters.’ I leaned forward. ‘Joseph, we
must
get Elizabeth to talk or she’s as good as
dead.’

He bit his lip in that characteristic gesture of his. ‘When I took her some food yesterday she just lay there and looked at it. Not a word of thanks, not even a nod. I think she’s
hardly eaten for days. I’ve bought her these flowers but I don’t know if she’ll look at them.’

‘Well, let us see what I can do.’

He nodded gratefully. As we got up I said, ‘By the way, does Sir Edwin know you have retained me?’

Joseph shook his head. ‘I haven’t spoken with Edwin in a week, since I suggested that Elizabeth might not be guilty and he ordered me from his house.’ A flash of anger crossed
his face. ‘He thinks that if I do not want Elizabeth to die, I must be against him and his.’

‘Nonetheless,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘he might have heard.’

‘What makes you think so, sir?’

‘Oh, nothing. Never mind.’

J
OSEPH
’
S WHOLE BODY
seemed to slump as we approached the gaol. We passed the begging grille in the wall through which poor
prisoners thrust clutching hands, calling to passers-by for charity for God’s love. Those without money got little or no food and it was said some prisoners starved to death. I placed a penny
in a grubby, frantic hand, then knocked loudly at the stout wooden door. A spy flap opened and a hard face looked out from under a greasy cap, eyes flicking over my black lawyer’s robe.

‘Lawyer for Elizabeth Wentworth,’ I said, ‘with her uncle. He’s paid for the visit.’ The flap slammed shut and the door opened. The gaoler, dressed in a dirty smock
and with a heavy stick at his belt, looked at me curiously as we passed through. Despite the heat of the day the prison with its thick stone walls was cold, a dank chill seeming to emanate from the
very stones. The gaoler called out, ‘Williams!’ and a fat turnkey in a leather jerkin appeared, jangling a large ring of keys in one hand.

‘Lawyer for the child murderess.’ The gaoler smiled evilly at me. ‘Seen the pamphlet?’

‘Yes,’ I answered shortly.

He shook his head. ‘She still won’t talk; it’ll be the press for her. Did you know, lawyer, there’s an old rule prisoners should be
naked
when they’re laid
out chained for the weights to be put on ’em. Shame to get a view of a nice pair of bubbies, then have to squash ’em flat.’

Joseph’s face puckered with distress.

‘There is no such rule that I know of,’ I said coldly.

The gaoler spat on the floor. ‘I know the rules for my own gaol, whatever pen gents may say.’ He nodded to the turnkey. ‘Take ’em down to the Women’s
Hole.’

We were led down a wide corridor with wards on either side. Through the barred windows in the doors men were visible sitting or lying on straw pallets, their legs fixed to the walls by long
chains. The smell of urine was so strong it stung the nostrils. The turnkey waddled along, keys rattling. Unlocking a heavy door, he led us down a flight of steps into semi-darkness. At the bottom
another door faced us. The turnkey pulled aside a flap and peered in before turning to us.

‘Still lying just where she was yesterday afternoon when I brought those people down to look at her through the hatch. Silent as a stone she was, hiding herself while they called witch and
child killer through the door.’ He shook his head.

‘May we go in?’

He shrugged and opened the door. As soon as we had passed through he shut it quickly behind us, the key rasping in the lock.

The Hole, the deepest and darkest part of the prison, had a men’s and a women’s dungeon. The Women’s Hole was a small, square chamber, lit dimly by a barred window high up near
the ceiling, through which I could see the shoes and skirts of passers-by. It was as chill as the rest of the prison, with a miasma of damp that penetrated even the stink of ordure. The floor was
covered with foul straw, stained and matted with all manner of filth. Huddled in one corner was a fat old woman in a stained wadmol dress, fast asleep. I stared round, puzzled, for at first I could
see no one else, but then I saw that in the furthest corner the straw had been pulled into a pile around a human figure, hiding it save for a face begrimed with dirt and framed by tangled hair as
dark and curly as Joseph’s. The face stared at us vacantly with large eyes, dark green like his. It was such a strange sight a shiver ran through me.

Joseph walked across to her. ‘Lizzy,’ he said chidingly, ‘why have you piled the straw round yourself like that? It’s filthy. Are you cold?’

The girl did not answer. Her eyes were unfocused; she could or would not look at us directly. I saw that under the dirt her face was pretty, delicate, with high cheekbones. A grubby hand was
half visible through the straw. Joseph reached for it, but the girl drew it sharply away without altering her gaze. I went and stood directly in front of her as Joseph laid the posy at her
side.

‘I’ve brought you some flowers, Lizzy,’ he said. She glanced at the posy and then she did return Joseph’s gaze and to my surprise her look was full of anger. I saw a
plate of bread and stockfish lying on the straw with a flagon of beer. It must be the food Joseph had brought. It was untouched, fat blackbeetles nosing over the dried fish. Elizabeth looked away
again.