James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

Latham caught France’s arm and gestured toward the furthest corner. There in the shadows, sitting at a table, was the man they had been following. He was bearded, about thirty years of age, with a gaunt expression. His sopping wet jerkin hung heavily from his shoulders, and he wore no ruff. He was watching them, a piece of bread in both of his hands, which he had just broken but was not eating.

“I think we have just lost the chance of surprise,” Latham murmured.

France looked around. “It doesn’t matter. He’s cornered. There are only two doors-and if he leaves by the one on the far side…It must lead back into the courtyard.”

Latham caught the attention of the woman in the apron as she began to return to the kitchen. “My good woman, can you tell me where that far door leads? And are you familiar with the man at the table in the corner?”

“The door leads to the stairs, which go up to the best chambers. They are all taken. But there may be space in one of the second-best chambers, off the gallery. In this weather we have our hands full.”

“And the man?”

She looked in his direction. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen him before. He just came in and demanded something to eat. He said he did not mind what. I gave him a piece of bread and told him I’d send a maid with some pottage when it’s done. Will you and your friend be joining him? I am sure there will be pottage enough, and it’s both beans and bacon. Three pence a bowl, four with bread.”

Latham put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. Some pottage would be a fine thing. First, though, about that man over there. He is no friend of ours-nor of yours. We are carrying a warrant from Sir William Cecil, her majesty’s Secretary, to arrest him on suspicion of sedition.”

The woman looked blankly at Latham.

“He is a Catholic spy,” France explained.

“There’s not going to be any trouble, is there?” the woman asked anxiously. “I mean, there are many guests, some children too.”

“Don’t you worry,” replied France. “All we need you to do is to close and secure the main gate until we have apprehended him. When he is locked up in the nearest magistrate’s house, we will be back-looking forward to some of that pottage.”

“I really ought to be asking my husband. When he returns, I’ll do as you say. We do usually close the gate at this hour, at dusk.”

“Where is your husband?”

“At the mill.”

Latham glanced again at the man. He was eating the bread, still watching them. “Look, my good woman, trust me. Close it now, just for five minutes. We will arrest him quietly and lead him out through the upstairs passage if that would suit you better.”

“George, he’s getting up,” said France. “He’s leaving by the far door.”

“Go after him. I’ll head him off at the gate.”

France stepped forward. The general chatter subsided as he pushed past the seat on which the well-dressed woman was sitting and knocked the lawyer into another man who stumbled backward, falling almost on top of the boy and the kitten. He did not listen to the complaints nor the calls for him to be careful, but kept on toward the doorway. When he reached it, he swung blindly around the jamb-and ran straight on to the poised knife of the man, who was waiting immediately around the corner.

Philip France’s first reaction to the blade entering his chest was to look down. He saw the blood pouring out, as water pours from a drain in a storm. His second reaction was to look up at the face of the man who had stabbed him. No words passed between them but enough time elapsed for France to look questioningly at him. The man turned and fled up the stairs. France’s last clear thought was that he ought to tell George to look out for himself. He took only one step more, then felt suddenly very weak and slumped in the doorway, barely aware of the shouts of alarm from the guests as his life ebbed away.

George Latham heaved the drawbar of the gate into place and stood ready. He heard the sound of a man running along an upstairs corridor, then he heard the shouts. There were rapid footsteps on a stone staircase and a shadowy figure suddenly emerged from a door nearby.

At that moment, the innkeeper’s wife ran out of the hall and shouted, “Your friend has been wounded! He is bleeding.” She saw the killer’s dark shape on the other side of the archway, the knife still in his hand. “Look out! He’s got a dagger!”

George Latham had only once before wielded a blade in anger. That had been during his time at Oxford, in a drunken brawl with some of the townsmen who had turned vicious. But he knew the rudiments. His lack of experience was the last thing on his mind. He had forgotten his orders from Walsingham. All that mattered now was that the bearded man before him had stabbed his most faithful friend-a companion since his schooldays.

“You want to get out?” he shouted at the shadow. “To leave?”

The man did not move.

“Well, go on then,” snarled Latham, approaching him. “Go on-leave. All you have to do is open the gate and go.”

The man looked across the yard to the stables.

“If you run, you are going to have to run on foot. If you reach your horse in the stable-which will have been unsaddled by now-you will be trapped.”

“Don’t go near him. Call for the constable,” cried the woman, as the men who had been inside the hall came out. “Raise the hue and cry.”

At the same time, there was a loud knocking on the gate, and a man from outside demanding: “Who has barred my house against me? Damn your eyes, open up!”

The innkeeper’s wife ran across and started to pull back the drawbar. At that moment, sensing that the man might go to the gate, Latham reached for the knife at his own belt, drew it, and rushed forward. The man saw him coming and ran across the yard. Latham sprinted after him. Not far behind came the man he had seen eating cheese, closely followed by the lawyer. None of them had a lantern but all were grimly determined. The traveler with the hat joined them too. And then the boys from the stable appeared, one with a small lantern.

The killer swerved and ran down a dark alleyway between the stable and the perimeter wall of the inn. Latham knew the man was trapped. Inns that depend on the security of their guests’ horses and possessions do not have easy access points behind stables. The Mowbray Arms was no exception. A moment later the man found himself in the near-darkness of a dead end, with four shadows blocking the only way out. And then the stable boy with the light joined them.

For a long moment, the man held out the knife in front of him, his hand shaking.

“Drop the knife,” shouted the traveler in the hat. “Drop it now! You will only make your punishment more severe.”

“He is going to hang whatever,” said the lawyer. “The question is whether he repents first.”

Latham stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Go to hell,” muttered the man. Then he said it again, louder. “Go to hell!”

Latham looked at the man’s shape in the dimness and held out his left hand, palm upward for the knife, concealing his own blade. “Give the knife to me. There is nowhere else to run.”

But at that moment the man lifted the knife above his head and, with a loud cry, ran straight toward them. As he came to Latham, he brought the blade down. Latham dropped to a crouch and threw himself at the man’s legs, bringing him to the ground. He whirled around with his own knife and stabbed the man’s thigh. Then he stabbed him in the groin as the others there also set about the felon with their day-to-day knives. It was hysterical, a frenzy of stabbing-men killing out of fear and revenge. Suddenly it was over. The killing moment was done.