Barbara DENVIL - Blessop's Wife

‘I was sadly unobservant,’ Andrew smiled, ‘but as we tipped the cauldron, so the result below became sufficient distraction. But now I realise how someone slipped away.’

‘From up there? From down here? Who?’ Casper demanded.

‘Who? Jon Spiers, of course. The one who betrayed us all some time ago, yet was entirely overlooked by me,’ Andrew said. ‘Now Mister Spiers has left the house. I’d guess the men by the doors recognised him and let him go. But he cannot have gone very far.’ Casper stood, mouth open and one foot raised, momentarily speechless. ‘You are not a heron, Mister Wallop,’ said Andrew curtly, walking abruptly away down the main path. ‘Move, or we will lose him. Get round to the stables, check the sheds and the chicken coop. Listen for anyone crawling amongst the bushes.’

The sun sank and the clouds turned pink. Beyond the roof of the old house, the crimson tinge strengthened. One of the smaller chimneys puffed dark from Ralph’s guttering fire. Behind the smoke, the sky gleamed. The weather vane, the wind motionless in its iron sails, was a black silhouette against vivid cerise as Andrew approached the broken gates at the end of the path. He had already heard voices, and he knew what he would find.

One of Hetchcomb’s men barred the way out, and before him, grappling and cursing, was Jon Spiers. ‘You fool,’ Jon spat. ‘I’m a friend. Your master knows me.’

The other man had been burned. One side of his face shone more virulent than the sky. Both his hands were scarred and shedding skin, but in spite of the pain, he held fast to his captive. ‘My captain’s dead, you bastard. And so will you be now.’

Jon twisted free. He still grasped the knife given to him inside the house. He slashed out, but the other man dodged, coming back with his own sword. Jon hissed, ‘I’m a friend, I tell you. Your men at the doors knew me. How else would I be free?’

‘Know you? I know you for murdering scum. My hands – my face – you’ve ruined me. And you’ll pay.’

Again Jon twisted free. He was not a large or a strong man, but he was quick. ‘Dorset will have you whipped for this,’ he spat. ‘I’ve important information for the marquess. Let me pass.’

Andrew stepped from the shadows. He said softly. ‘Dorset has no further need of your information, my friend. I imagine he is halfway across the sea to Brittany. The trouble you now face is your own.’ Hetchcomb’s man had stopped and now shrank back against the stone wall, nursing his wounded hands. Jon turned at once and raced for the gates. The other man stuck out his foot. Jon yelped and tripped, dropping his knife and sprawling in the dirt. Andrew kicked the fallen knife away and took Jon by both his hair and the neck of his shirt, hauling him up. He smiled at Throckmorton’s burned henchman. ‘Get away now, if you value your life,’ he told him. ‘Your comrades are gone and your leaders arrested.’ As the man slunk immediately through the gateway and disappeared, Andrew looked down at Jon. ‘Before I kill you, I would know one thing,’ he said. ‘The itch of curiosity, no more. Was it hatred of me? Envy? Resentment? Some strange passion for the Woodville cause? Or simply for the money?’

Jon squirmed in Andrew’s grip, hanging like a chicken ready for plucking. ‘Forgive me,’ Jon gasped. ‘I’ll never – not again. I swear it. Don’t kill me, Mister Cobham. Think of my children – of my wife. I am not a well man.’

‘Indeed?’ queried Andrew. ‘Is your health so poor? A sad reflection on my generosity over the years, perhaps. Did the food and board I supplied free of charge not bring sufficient comfort? Yet you sleep deep and often, signs of a clear conscience, they say.’

‘Little Ellen,’ Jon spluttered. ‘Think of my babies.’

‘I try not to,’ Andrew said. ‘But if I must, I should no doubt decide they were better off without a murdering traitor for a father. You stole poison, and put it in Marrott’s hands. You knew why I had it locked safely away. And you knew what use it would be put to, if taken by others.’ His eyes, cold and black, were just inches from the other man’s. Jon’s feet were lifted from the ground and kicking wildly, his hands pummelling helplessly at Andrew’s tightening fingers at his throat. In desperation Jon’s old scratched boots, heavy wooden soled, connected over and over against Andrew’s shins. Andrew neither winced nor moved. He continued speaking, his voice soft with latent menace. ‘You are a murderer, Mister Spiers,’ he said. ‘You killed your king. Now, do I hand you over to be drawn, hanged and quartered, or do I break your neck myself?’

‘I never meant –’

‘You are a dealer in regicide, the most heinous of crimes. And you betrayed me. You betrayed every friend you have, and you betrayed your family. Or does your wife collude in your treachery?’

‘She knows nothing. I couldn’t tell her.’ Jon was now scarlet. Andrew’s grip on his collar was strangling him. He wriggled weakly and now his legs dangled limp. He pleaded, ‘I will make amends, sir. Forgive me, I beg you.’

‘I never forgive,’ Andrew said. ‘But you have not answered my question, Mister Spiers. Did you love the Woodville cause, then?’

Jon was dizzy and growing faint. ‘I wanted – just the comfort – a little of the riches other men have. You’re a rich man, Mister Cobham. You pretend not to be, but with a house like this – clothes – the duke as your friend. I wanted – some of the same.’

Andrew paused a moment. Then he said, ‘That was the wrong answer, Mister Spiers. Passion, I might understand. An earnest belief in the wrong cause, I might overlook. But to murder for gain is a vile business. Have you any idea of the suffering caused in death by poison? Do you know the agony of arsenic? Do you care?’

Jon’s voice was barely discernible. His child’s blue eyes popped, bursting from their skull. He whispered, ‘I never thought –’

Andrew nodded. ‘Your own death,’ he said, ‘will not be as terrible, my friend. I shall make it quick.’

The sunset raged in swirls of rushing vermillion as Andrew broke Jon Spiers’ pale neck. Above them each cloud was lined in saffron and streaks of cobalt sprang like swords across the horizon. The small snap was barely audible. Andrew laid the lifeless body flat on the damp grass, and turned at the crunch of footsteps. Casper stood in silence behind him.

Andrew said, ‘You see, the hand is far quicker than the axe.’

Casper nodded, almost timid. ‘You’ve a mighty strong hand, then, Mister Cobham, to break a man so easy.’

‘It was only a little neck.’ Andrew stood slowly, looking up at the house at the end of the pathway and the last rays of the burnished sunset sinking behind. All the windows had turned to scarlet. ‘And I am – sadly – much practised,’ he said. ‘Now let us go home.’

It was some days later and the great city lay peaceful beneath the summer sky. Rumour abounded but no further conspiracies marred the law of the land and under the continued rule of the Protector, all seemed right in the world.

The Portsoken Ward basked beneath the stars and the chimneys at Cobham Hall smoked long into the night. Tyballis lay quiet and naked in Andrew’s arms. His fingertips brushed across her nipples, his thumbs circling the aureoles and his breath, leaning over her, was hot. Where their bodies touched, the sweat of their previous lovemaking clung. Yet although the great fire raged over the hearth at the far end of the chamber, its mighty flames had sunk. They no longer roared high but the burnished heat glowed like a rising sun at the end of the bed.

They had made love, then slept for some hours, and finally awoke together with the rattle of the broken shutters and the first threat of a storm. The rain came suddenly, thrumming on the roof tiles and hurtling against the window. Snapping into immediate awareness, Andrew grinned, his face flushed by the fire’s last reflections. Tyballis was still sleepy and his breath was in her eyes. She whispered, ‘Is it morning already then, my love?’