Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

“Who knows,” intervened Master Topcliff, “maybe he had recognized her. Didn’t Will Painter say they had lived together before she took up with Bertrando? Painter implied that Fulke still loved her. Even when dying, perhaps for love, he could not name her outright but, for conscience’ sake, gave you the coded clue instead?”

“One thing this deed has also killed,” interrupted Master Burbage. “We shall no more experiment with women as players. They bring too many dangers with them.”

Master Hardy Drew turned and smiled wanly at Master Topcliff. “By your leave, good Master, I’ll get me to my bed. It has been a tiring exercise in drama.” He paused, smiled, and added with mocking tone. “The king’s a beggar now, the play is done.”

When the shrill voice of a boy, accompanied by an incessant thudding against his door, awoke Master Hardy Drew that morning, the Constable of the Bankside Watch was not in the best of moods.

He had retired to his room, which he rented above the Pilgrim’s Wink Tavern, in Pepper Street, in the early hours that morning. Most of the night he had been engaged in dispersing the rioters outside the Cathedral of Southwark. It had been a well-organized protest at the publication of the Great Bible, which had been authorized by King James. The Great Bible had been the production of fifty scholars from the leading universities, resulting in a work that the King had ordained to be the standard Bible used throughout his realms.

While it had been obvious to Master Drew that the Catholics would seize the opportunity to express their outrage at its publication, he had not expected the riots organized by the Puritan Party.

Not only were there rumors and reports of popish plots and conspiracies this year, but the activities from the extreme Protestant sects were far more violent. King James’s moderate Episcopalian governance angered the Puritans also. Only last month the Scottish Presbyterian reformer, Andrew Melville, had been released from the Tower of London in an attempt to appease the growing anger. The King had admitted that his attempt to break the power of the Presbyterian General Assembly in Scotland had not met with success. Rather than placate the Presbyterians, Melville’s release had increased the riots, and he had fled into exile in France where, rumor had it, he was plotting his revenge. James had fared little better with imposing his will on the English Puritans.

The kingdoms of England and Scotland echoed and reechoed with treasonable conspiracies. Indeed, a few months previously, another attempt to install James’s cousin Arabella Stuart on the throne had resulted in the unfortunate lady being confined to the Tower. Times were dangerous; Master Hardy Drew had been reflecting on this while quelling the outburst of anger of Puritan divines. Even his position of constable was fraught with political danger. There were many who might falsely inform on him for his religious affiliations or, indeed, for his lack of them, in order to secure the position of constable for themselves together with the small patronage that went with it.

The knocking increased in volume, and Master Drew rolled out of his bed with a groan. “Ods bodikms!” he swore. “Must you torture a poor soul so? Enter and have a good reason for this clamor!”

The door opened a fraction, and a dirty young face peered round.

Master Drew glared menacingly at the child. “You had better have a good reason for disturbing my sleep, little britches,” he growled.

“God save you, good master,” cried the young boy, not entering the room. “I’ve been sent to tell you that a gen’lemen be lying near done to death.”

Master Drew blinked and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it. “A gentleman is-? Who sent you, child?” he groaned.

“The master what owns the inn in Clink Street. The Red Boar, Master… Master Pen… Pen… some foreign name. I can’t remember.”

“And precisely what did this Master Pen ask you to tell me?” Master Drew inquired patiently.

“To come quick, as the gen’lemen be stabbed and near death.”

Master Drew sighed and waved the child away. “Tell him that I’ll be there shortly,” he said.

Had the news been other than that of a gentleman stabbed in an inn, he would have immediately returned to his interrupted slumber. London was full of people being stabbed in taverns, alleys, or along its grubby waterfront. They were usually members of the lower orders of society, whom few people of quality would miss, much less shed a tear over. But a gentleman… now that was a matter serious enough to bring a Constable of the Watch from his warm bed.

Master Drew splashed his face with cold water from a china basin and hurriedly drew on his clothes. Below, in the tavern, he spent a half-pence on a pot of beer to cut the slack from his dry throat and, outside, chose an apple from a passing seller to munch for the balance of his breakfast.

Clink Street was not far away, a small road down by the banks of the Thames, along the very Bankside that was Master Drews main area of responsibility. He knew of the Red Boar Inn but had little occasion to frequent it. Perhaps inn was too grand a title, for it was hardly more than a waterfront tavern full of the usual riffraff of the Thames waterfront.

There was a small crowd loitering outside when he reached there. A small boy was holding forth to the group, waving his arms and pointing up to a window. Doubtless, this was the same urchin who had brought the message to him. The boy pointed to the constable as he approached and cried, “This is ‘im naw!” The small crowd moved back respectfully as Master Drew halted before the dark door of the inn and pushed it open.

Although the morning was bright outside, inside candles were alight, but even so, the taproom was still gloomy, filled with a mixture of candle and pipe smoke, mingling with odors of stale alcohol and body sweat.

A thin, middle-aged man came hurrying forward, wiping his hands on a leather apron. He had raven-black hair but his features were pale, which caused his shaven cheeks to have a bluish hue to them.

“We do be closed, good sir,” he began, but Master Drew stopped him with a cutting motion of his hand.

“I am Constable of the Bankside Watch. Are you the host of this tavern?”

The man nodded rapidly. “That I do be, master.”

“And your name?”

“Pentecost Penhallow.”

Master Drew sniffed in disapproval. “A Cornishman by your name and accent?”

“A Cornishman I do be, if please you, good sir.”

Master Drew groaned inwardly. This day was not starting well. He did not like the Cornish. His grandfather had been killed in the last Cornish uprising against England. Not that he was even born then, but there were many Cornish who had come to London during the reign of the Tudors and stayed. He regarded them as a people not to be trusted.

The last uprising had been caused by the introduction of the English language into church services in Cornwall. The Cornish rebels had marched into Devon, even captured the suburbs of Exeter after a siege before defeating the Earl of Bedford’s army at nearby Honiton. That was where Master Drew’s grandfather had been killed. The eventual defeat of the Cornish rebels by Lord Grey, and the systematic suppression of the people by fire and sword, the execution of their leaders, had not brought peace to Cornwall. If anything, the people had become more restless.

Master Drew knew that the English Court feared a Catholic-inspired insurrection in Cornwall, as well as other of the subject nations on the isles. Cornwall was continuing to send her priests to Spain to be trained at St. Alban’s College of Valladolid.