D. Wilson - The First Horseman

‘Oh, I can promise — ’

I interrupted. ‘Don’t make any comment until you have heard what I have to say. I have a test for you, something that will prove both your loyalty and your ingenuity. If you manage it successfully, then I will trust you with other affairs.’

Bart’s face glowed with relief. ‘Just tell me — ’

Again I silenced him. ‘What I am about to propose you may not like. You are free to refuse but, whatever your decision, you must swear to reveal it to no one.’

‘I swear,’ he replied eagerly.

We continued our circuit of the cathedral grounds and I unfolded my plan to him. He was surprised, shocked, as I had guessed he would be, but when I had finished he responded firmly. ‘You can rely on me, Master Treviot.’

Having persuaded Bart, it was not too difficult to enlist Ben’s aid. Ned was by far the hardest person to bring into my scheme.

‘You are not the man for such devious plots,’ he protested.

‘I am a much changed man since first we met,’ I replied.

‘And you are determined to cast away what little innocence remains? If you use the methods of corrupt men, you become corrupt yourself. I cannot be a party to that.’

‘Then, by default, you become a party to murder.’

Ned winced. ‘That is unfair,’ he protested.

‘Is it? We are dealing with a priest who poses as a man of God but does not hesitate to use the Devil’s own means to achieve his ends. What’s worse, he lacks the courage to perform his evil deeds himself. He paid the Italian to kill Robert and he instigated Hugh Seagrave to shoot me. He weighed down John Fink’s conscience and drove him to self-destruction. Not content with damning his own soul, he endangers the souls of others. Heaven alone knows what more mischief he might do if he is not stopped now. We have the opportunity to stop him. Can we, dare we fail to take that opportunity?’

Ned shook his head. ‘I do not like it.’

‘My dear friend, I would not involve you if I could conceive any other means of achieving my objective. The cause is just.’

‘And, therefore, unjust means may be used to achieve it?’

That verbal thrust went home. Ned was accusing me of using the excuse I condemned others for employing: exitus acta probat. ‘My means are not unjust,’ I protested. ‘Revenge would be unjust. Behaving as judge and jury over Incent would be unjust. I seek only to bring him into the law courts, where he will be able to speak in his own defence. Please help me.’

With the utmost reluctance Ned agreed eventually. It only remained to set the plot in motion.

‘Fish Wharf three o’clock.’

I had waited with growing impatience for a visit from Bart. Three days had passed since our discussion in Paul’s Yard. Everything depended on him. It was Bart who had to set the wheels of my plan in motion. When no word came I casually asked Lizzie if she knew his whereabouts. She replied that she had not seen him since Sunday. I began to wonder whether he had had second thoughts about our agreement. Worse still, had he bungled his assignment and fallen foul of John Incent? It was, therefore, a great relief when a ragged urchin appeared at the shop door with a scrap of paper and solemnly demanded a penny for it, ‘like the man said’. It was already well past two o’clock. I had Dickon saddled and rode, by way of Walbrook and Thames Street, down to the dock area for my rendezvous with Bart.

I found him leaning against a warehouse wall, talking with a fishmonger who was lamenting the decline in trade. As I dismounted I heard the man’s complaint.

‘Plaguy ice,’ he muttered, spitting and staring gloomily over the river, still partially mottled with frozen blotches. ‘Catches are down and what does get here comes by cart. Much of it’s stinking by the time it arrives.’

We spent a few moments sympathising with the merchant before moving on down the almost-deserted quay. When we were quite alone, I asked, ‘How are you getting on? Why haven’t you been in touch?’

‘That Incent’s a wary one,’ Bart replied. ‘At our first meeting he said he was too busy to talk. Then, after we met a second time, he actually had me followed. I was on my way to report to you when, fortunately, I spotted the churl who was keeping an eye on me. I spent a whole day wandering the City aimlessly till the clodpole gave up.’ Bart chuckled. ‘I reckon his feet must be ready to drop off.’

‘But what of Incent?’ I urged.

‘Snared,’ Bart said, in a tone of triumph. ‘He fell for my story. I told him all about my time with the northern “pilgrims” and how bitter I was that we had been betrayed. Well, I didn’t have to make that up. I convinced him that I’m a kind of religious mercenary, ready for any dangerous exploit against the “New Learners”. When I told him that the word was going around that you were out to make trouble for him, he really sat up and took notice. By Our Lady, he really hates you! He asked, straight out, if I was ready to rid the Church of a pestilential enemy — you. I said, if the price was right. We haggled. Eventually we agreed a figure.’ Bart laughed. ‘Do you want to know what your corpse is worth? Three new sovereigns.’

‘I hope you weren’t tempted,’ I said.

‘No, you’re safe — at least from me — Master Treviot.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Well, it was a bit like a Twelfth Night play, at the Inns of Court.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was as though I’d written the part for him and he’d learned it by rote. He said exactly what I wanted him to say. I didn’t have to steer the conversation. “How will I know you’ve done the job?” he asked. I said I’d show him the body.’

‘And he agreed to come and check your handiwork?’

‘Without a moment’s hesitation. You should have seen the look on his face. It was as though he could see you lying before him, all cold and bloody. “Dead in a whore shop,” he said. If he hadn’t been so busy gloating, he might have questioned me carefully. He believed me because he wanted to believe me. “Master Nemesis” — that was the code name I’d invented — “Master Nemesis,” he said, “you will be doing God’s work and you can come to me for absolution.” Rather odd, that. If I was doing God’s work, why would I need to be absolved?’

‘And you arranged a time?’

Bart nodded. ‘I said I would do it tonight and he could come and see the body tomorrow morning.’

‘Excellent, Bart. Bring him about ten o’clock. We’ll be ready. Now we’d better leave separately to be absolutely sure no one sees us together.’ I swung myself into the saddle.

As I turned Dickon’s head, Bart called out. ‘Will you give this to Lizzie for safe keeping?’ He held out a gold sovereign. ‘First instalment of my blood money,’ he explained, before striding away down an alley between two warehouses.

I went in person to find the others and confirm our final arrangements. Then I returned to Goldsmith’s Row. That night I enjoyed the best sleep I had had in more than a week.

The next morning four very nervous conspirators gathered in Ned and Jed’s room at St Swithun’s. We assembled early to await our unsuspecting guest. Carefully we went over our plans, such as they were. Ben and our hosts all looked to me to preside over our business. For my part, though tense, I was eager for the confrontation. Though there were still a few gaps in the case against the priest, I was sure I had enough evidence to frighten him into a confession. We left the door ajar and Ben was placed beside it with a good view of the main entrance. Ten o’clock came, chimed from the tower of a nearby church. There was no sign of our visitor. We all exchanged silent glances. Ned said, ‘You can’t go by that clock. It’s never right.’ The words were scarcely spoken when Ben put a hand to his lips and quietly closed the door. I joined him behind the door. Jed lay down by the far wall and drew a coarse sheet over himself.