D. Wilson: The First Horseman

‘So, Master Treviot, you have decided to rejoin us.’ The voice was soft but somewhat deep for a woman.

I groaned. ‘Who is “us”?’

She laughed — something between a trill and a chuckle. ‘Us? We are the Sisters of the Unholy Order of St Swithun.’

‘My head is bursting, woman. Don’t tease it with riddles. Be so good as to tell me where I am and how I came here.’

‘That is soon said. You are at the Sign of St Swithun in Southwark, close by the Clink prison. You had an accident not far from here and were unhorsed. Luckily for you, a couple of Samaritans discovered you and, not knowing what else to do with you, they brought you to us to tend till you regained your wits. Do you remember anything yet?’

‘Near the Clink, you say? Then I am in the Stews and you are…’

‘An honest woman serving the needs of travellers and fine citizens, like yourself, Master Treviot. Don’t pretend you’ve never been here looking for some comforting company away from home.’

‘Never. And how is it you know my name?’

‘Why, all London and half the country around knows your name. There have been bills posted everywhere and search parties out looking for you. It’s not every day a rich City goldsmith disappears without trace.’

‘Then I assume you have sent word to my home. My mother will be anxious…’

‘One matter at a time, Master Treviot. When you are fully yourself we can make arrangements for your return — and discuss suitable terms.’

‘Ah, I see. I am kidnapped and to be held to ransom by you and your accomplices.’

The whore stepped back from the bed and for the first time I could see her features. The candlelight revealed pale, somewhat flat cheeks, and glinted from dark eyes. She had the slim figure of a woman not yet in her prime. Though faint lines had already appeared around her mouth, I judged that she could be no more than eighteen. She stood, hands on hips, glowering down at me. ‘Kidnapped, is it? If it weren’t for my “accomplices”, you’d be lying out there rotting under a foot of snow, waiting for the foxes and crows to make a meal of you!’

‘Well, then,’ I replied, ‘if I’m free to leave I’ll be on my way and put you to no more inconvenience!’ At that I tried to sit up. Pain juddered through my back and neck and I collapsed with a gasp.

She laughed. ‘Going to stumble all the way back to Cheapside, are you, with a bruised head and a broken shoulder bone? The bridge is closed and no boatmen working the river as long as it’s littered with floating ice, so I suppose you’ll swim the Thames.’

Gingerly I felt my left shoulder. It was tightly bound with linen strips. ‘Whose handiwork is this?’ I asked.

‘Our apothecary. We do have such things here, you know. We’re not quite the dregs of society you think us. Now you just go back to sleep. I’ve still work to do and a living to earn.’ She ran her fingers through her hair and patted her cheeks to bring colour to them. She left and I heard the rasp of a door bolt as I drifted once more into unconsciousness.

Light filled the room from a wide, unshuttered window when next I woke. Inner illumination also seemed to be clarifying my thoughts. For the first time I remembered clearly the encounter on the road up to the moment of my flight into the Paris woods. I tried to imagine what must have happened thereafter. I envisaged the two supposedly solicitous strangers following me and coming upon my unconscious body. They would, undoubtedly, have stripped me of anything valuable and taken possession of Dickon. Why had they not, then, left me to perish of cold or despatched me themselves? There could be only one reason: I was worth more to them living than dead. So they had brought me here to this bawdy house to be patched up by their female partners in crime.

Slowly, carefully, I urged myself off the narrow bed. With my dangling left arm thrust inside my doublet for support, I limped across to the window.

What I looked out on was a courtyard enclosed on all sides by an old timbered structure three storeys high, the upper floors overhanging the one at ground level. Several windows had open shutters and, while some were glazed, many were filled with panels of grimy hempen cloth as protection against the cold. The weather had obviously improved a little since I had been brought here for the ground was covered in slush, churned into muddy mounds where wheels, hooves and boots had trampled it. Three urchins were playing a desultory game of snowballs, scooping up handfuls of the dirty, frozen mess to hurl at each other. Washed clothes hung on lines stretched between upper windows. Beyond this enclosed yard I could not see, for opposite my window the large doors that gave on to the street beyond were closed. This was clearly an inn lodging that had seen better days. Once the town house of a prosperous lord or, perhaps, a monastic hostelry for travellers to the City, it had, like many buildings in overcrowded London and its environs, been divided into tenements taken up by the poor and ‘undesirables’.

The door behind me opened and, turning, I saw one of the villains who had waylaid me on the road. The one who had called himself ‘Ned’. I was able to get a better look at him and beheld a stout man of about fifty years, with thick white hair and a ruddy complexion. His doublet and hose were faded but clean and his beard was well trimmed. He wore an apron tied round his waist which bore streaks of what might have been blood and he carried a satchel. His confident and genial air suggested that in the community of this wretched dwelling he probably passed as a gentleman.

‘Master Treviot, how good it is to see you on your feet.’ He set down his bag on the bed.

‘No thanks to you,’ I growled. If there had been any strength in my body I would have lunged at him with my fists.

He shook his head. ‘Now there, I fear you do me a disservice. Had my assistant and I not searched long and hard, found you and tended to your needs… well, you would not be standing where you are now with every prospect of a full recovery from your accident.’

‘Accident!’

Before I could find words to vent my anger, my visitor held up his hand. ‘I must confess, sir, that the original fault was mine. I should have introduced myself properly when we met. Of course, I could not know that you would take such alarm at our appearance but… yes, I see now that you had some reason to suspect that we might be ruffians bent on taking advantage of your predicament. Yes, yes, I see that. Mea culpa, Domine. ’ He lifted his eyes briefly heavenwards.

‘Then perhaps you will make good your omission now. Just who are you?’

‘Edward Longbourne at your service.’ He made a slight bow. ‘Late of the Priory of our Lady at Farnfield.’

‘A monk?’ I laughed and a stabbing pain in my shoulder made me regret it.

‘An ex-monk.’ He sighed. ‘The time is not far off when we shall all be ex-monks.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The writing is on the wall for those who choose to see it. Royal commissioners sent to all the abbeys to poke and pry. Sent to find proof of irregularities — and to make up what they cannot prove. But that is nothing to the purpose.’

He busied himself unpacking the satchel. ‘Now, let us have that shirt off and see how your shoulder is faring.’

‘The woman — I don’t know her name — said I was tended by an apothecary. Was that you?’

‘It was. Come, let me see if the bandages need tightening.’

I had no option but to allow his examination and stooped so that he could ease off my shirt.

He ran his eyes appraisingly over my torso. ‘Hm, yes, very fine. If I mistake not, you are a keen archer, Master Treviot.’