Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (56 page)

‘Quite right,’ I agreed.

Stice shrugged. ‘Just a little sport.’

There was another knock at the door. Stice opened it again and William Cecil entered, with two heavyset men, a little older than the two Stice had brought. Like all of us they were dressed in dark clothes. Cecil took a deep breath, looking round the gathering with the sort of cool stare he might have given to an assembly of fellow lawyers. Stice grinned at him. ‘Young Master Cecil! I had you pointed out to me a little while ago as a rising man in the service of a certain person.’

Cecil’s reply was cold and clear. ‘You are Stice, I take it, Sir Richard’s man. I was told your appearance was – distinctive.’

Stice scowled but nodded, then Cecil asked, ‘We are all to go down to Somers Key Wharf?’

‘Yes.’ Stice looked out of the window. ‘It’s pretty dark already. We get there by nine, hide behind the barrels, and wait. When they come, we rush them and bring them, and any baggage they have, back here. It’s likely the writing we’re looking for will be on their persons rather than in their luggage. I’ve another man waiting near the wharf with a horse and a big cart with a tarpaulin; we’ll bind and gag them to keep them quiet on the way back here, knock them out if we have to.’

‘We shall have to act quickly, and all together,’ Barak said.

‘Agreed. And if any watchmen question us about what we’re doing, I have Sir Richard’s seal.’ Stice looked at Cecil. ‘But if they fight back, and someone gets killed, that’s not our fault. And if the printer’s murderers arrive, too, and they get killed, you agree that’s no loss?’

‘Agreed,’ Cecil answered coldly. He pointed to the empty grate. ‘And any writings we find on them, we destroy immediately in that fire. That is also agreed?’

Stice hesitated, but Cecil continued smoothly. ‘I think your master would prefer that nobody look at anything we find. In case it incriminates him.’ He met Stice’s eye. I admired his cool judgement. Rich would not want even his own men to see any record of his and Wriothesley’s torture of Anne Askew. No doubt Rich would have liked to find something damaging to the Queen among Anne Askew’s writings, and I had let him believe that such incriminating statements might exist; but as he had told me, that was not his priority now. Cecil’s hope was doubtless that we would be able to quickly burn all writings we found, including the
Lamentation
, if the survivors of Greening’s group turned out to have it. And as Greening had torn off the title page when he was attacked, I was hoping it might not be clear, from the face of the manuscript, who had written it.

‘Ready then?’ Barak asked.

‘Yes,’ Stice agreed.

‘Then let us go.’

Chapter Thirty-three

W
E WALKED DOWN
T
HAMES
S
TREET
; ten of us, all in dark clothes, most carrying swords. It was just past curfew, and the few people on the streets gave our intimidating-looking group a wide berth. A watchman did step out to ask what we were about, a little nervously, but Stice answered peremptorily, ‘Business of Sir Richard Rich, Privy Councillor,’ and produced a gold seal. The watchman held up his lantern to look at it, then bowed us on our way.

We walked past London Bridge; candles were being lit in the four-storey houses built along its length. The tide was full, just starting to ebb; we could hear the roar of the waters as they rushed under the broad stone piers of the bridge. It was dangerous for boats to ‘shoot the bridge’ and for that reason the wharves dealing with foreign trade were sited immediately downriver. They ran along the waterfront between the bridge and the Tower of London; a line of masts near a quarter of a mile long when trade was busy, as it was now. Behind the waterfront stood a long row of warehouses. I saw the tall, skeleton-like arms of the cranes at Billingsgate Wharf outlined against the near-dark sky; beyond the wharves, the Tower appeared a strange phantom grey in the last of the light.

We turned down Botolph Lane to the waterfront, walking quietly, stumbling occasionally, for we had no lamps. From several buildings came the sound of revelry, even though it was past curfew – illegal ale-houses and brothels, serving sailors ashore for the night, which the authorities tended to leave alone.

We reached the waterfront and the long line of ships. It was quiet here after the noise of the surrounding streets. For a moment I thought I heard something, like a foot striking a stone, from the mouth of the lane from which we had just emerged. I looked back quickly but saw only the black empty passageway. I exchanged a glance with Barak; he had heard it, too.

Stice led the way onto the cobbled wharf, keeping close to the warehouse buildings. Beyond it the ships bobbed gently on the tide; low, heavy, one- and two-masted trading vessels lined stern to prow, secured by heavy ropes to big stone bollards, sails tightly furled. From a few cabins came the dim flicker of candlelight. With the reopening of French and Scottish trade, and the import of luxury goods for the admiral’s visit, the wharves must be busy indeed during the day. Out on the river itself pinpricks of light, the lanterns of wherries, glinted on the water.

Nearby stood a long pile of barrels, three high, secured with ropes. ‘No talking now,’ Stice said in a whisper. ‘Get in behind them.’

One by one we slipped into the dark space. I crouched next to Cecil and Stice, peering between two of the barrels, which smelled strongly of wine. Opposite us a two-masted crayer was berthed, a squat heavy vessel for North Sea carriage of perhaps thirty tons,
Antwerpen
painted on the side. There was a little deck-house, the windows unshuttered; two men in linen shirts sat inside, playing cards by the light of the lamp. They were middle-aged, but strong-looking.

Next to me Cecil’s face was quietly intent. I thought, this is not his usual form of business, and wondered whether underneath his coolness he feared the prospect of violence. I whispered to him, ‘I thought I heard something, at the mouth of that lane, just as we came onto the docks. Like someone dislodging a stone.’

He turned to me, his face anxious now. ‘You mean we have been followed?’

‘I don’t know. Barak heard it too. I had a strange feeling.’

Stice, on my other side, turned to Barak who had taken a position beside him. ‘Did you?’

He nodded yes.

Stice’s eyes glittered in the dark. ‘Once or twice I’ve felt the house in Needlepin Lane is being watched. But I’ve not been able to catch anybody at it.’

‘We’ve never known for sure that Greening’s murderers were connected with these Anabaptists,’ Cecil said. ‘What if there’s a third party involved, someone we don’t know about?’

‘Then perhaps tonight we’ll find out,’ Stice answered. ‘Now be quiet, stop talking, just watch.’

We crouched there for the best part of an hour. My back and knees hurt; I had to keep shifting position. Once, we tensed at the sound of footsteps and voices, and hands reached for swords and daggers, but it was only a couple of sailors, weaving drunkenly along the dockside. They climbed aboard a ship some way off. Apart from an occasional distant shouting from the taverns, all was quiet save for the sound of water lapping round the ships.

Then I heard more footsteps, quiet and steady this time, and from another narrow lane to our left I saw the bobbing yellow glow of a lantern. A whisper passed along our row of men. ‘Four of them,’ Stice said into my ear. ‘Looks like our people. Right, you and Master Cecil stay at the rear, leave it to us fighting men.’ And then, with a patter of feet and the distinctive
whish
of swords being pulled from their scabbards, the others ran out from behind the barrels. Cecil and I followed, our daggers at the ready.

The men were taken totally by surprise. The lantern was raised to show four astonished faces. They matched the descriptions I had committed to memory: the tall, powerfully built square-faced man in his thirties must be the Scotch cleric McKendrick, the plump middle-aged man the merchant Curdy, and the rangy fair-haired fellow the Dutchman Vandersteyn. The fourth man, in his twenties, tall, strongly built and dark-haired, had to be Leeman, the Queen’s guard who had deserted. He would be trained as a fighting man, and I also remembered that McKendrick had formerly been a soldier. Apart from Curdy, who had the round flabbiness of a prosperous merchant, each looked as if they could give good account of themselves.

All four rallied in an instant, bringing up swords of their own. They were going to make a fight of it. Apart from Curdy, who had been holding the lamp and now laid it down, only the fair-haired man had been encumbered by luggage, a large bag which he let drop to the cobbles. But Stice and his crew, Cecil’s two men, and Barak and Nicholas, made eight against them. They fanned out in a circle, surrounding the smaller group, who cast glances, as did I, at the ship from Antwerp. The two crewmen had now left the cabin and stood at the rail, staring at what was happening. Then another man climbed up from below to join them.

Stice called out, ‘Lower your swords. You’re outnumbered. You are under arrest for the attempted export of seditious literature!’

The fair-haired man shouted something in Dutch to the men at the ship’s rail. One of Stice’s men lunged at him with his sword but he parried immediately, just as the three men from the boat jumped nimbly over the ship’s rail onto the wharf, each carrying a sword. My heart sank; the number of fighting men was almost even now.

One of Cecil’s men turned and raised his weapon, but in doing so he turned his back on the blond Dutchman, who thrust his own sword swiftly through his body. The man cried out, his sword clattering onto the cobbles. Then Vandersteyn turned to face the rest of us and, with his three compatriots, began retreating slowly to the boat. I looked at the fallen man; there was no doubt now that we were not dealing with some amateurish group of fanatics but with serious, dangerous people.

‘Cut them off!’ Stice yelled. A moment later there was a melee of swordplay, blades flashing in the light of the lamp. I stepped forward, but felt Cecil’s hand restraining my arm. ‘No! We must stay alive; we have to get hold of the book.’

There was a battle royal now going on beside the ship, blades flashing noisily. Watchmen came out to the rails of nearby ships and stood gawping. Curdy, the weakest of the fugitives, lunged clumsily at Gower, who, ignoring our agreement to take these men alive if possible, sliced at his neck with his sword, nearly severing his head. Curdy thumped down on the cobbles, dead, in a spray of blood.

From what I could see of the melee, the surviving fugitives were effectively parrying blows from our side, backing slowly and deliberately towards the
Antwerpen
. We must not let these people get aboard. I stepped closer, though in the feeble lamplight I could see little more than rapidly moving shapes, white faces and the quick flash of metal. Stice received a glancing blow to his forehead but carried on, blood streaming down his face, felling one of the sailors with a thrust to the stomach. I stepped forward, but again Cecil pulled me back. ‘We’d only be in the way!’ I looked at him; his face was still coldly set, but the rigidity of his stance told me he was frightened. He looked at Lord Parr’s dead servant, face down on the cobbles, blood pooling around him.

Nicholas and Barak had their hands full with the guard Leeman, who was indeed a fierce fighter. He was trying to edge them away from the centre of the fight, towards the little lane we had come down.

‘At least I can get this!’ I said, darting over to Vandersteyn’s bag, which lay disregarded on the ground. I picked it up, thrusting it into Cecil’s arms. ‘Here! Look after this!’ And with that I pulled out my dagger and ran to where Leeman, wielding his sword with great skill, continued to lead Barak and Nicholas back towards the alley, thrusting mightily and parrying their every blow, years of training making it look easy. His aim was clearly to separate them from the others, to allow McKendrick and Vandersteyn to get on board the ship. Beside the
Antwerpen
the fighting continued, steel ringing on steel.

I raised my dagger to plunge it into Leeman’s shoulder from behind. He heard me coming and half-turned; Nicholas brought his sword down on his forearm in a glancing blow as Barak reversed his sword and gave him a heavy blow to the back of the head. He went down like a sack of turnips in the entrance to the lane. Barak and Nicholas ran back to the main fight.

It was now seven against five – Vandersteyn and McKendrick and the three surviving Dutch sailors. I hoped the other members of the crew were all in the taverns getting drunk. But suddenly one of the sailors managed to jump back on board the ship. He held out an arm and Vandersteyn, despite having been wounded in the leg, jumped after him, leaving only one sailor and the Scotchman behind.

On deck, Vandersteyn and the crewman used their swords to sever the ropes securing the ship to the wharf. The sailor snatched up a long pole and pushed off. The
Antwerpen
moved clumsily away from the wharf, instantly caught in the current. Vandersteyn shouted to the two men left behind, ‘I’m sorry, brothers! Trust in God!’

‘Stop them!’ Stice yelled. But it was too late, the
Antwerpen
was out on the river. The current carried her rapidly downstream, bobbing wildly, the two men on board struggling to control her, almost overturning a wherry which just managed to row out of the way in time. A stream of curses sounded across the water as the boat headed for the middle of the river. I saw a sail unfurl.

The remaining Dutchman and McKendrick had their backs to the river now. Realizing it was hopeless, they lowered their swords. ‘Drop them on the ground!’ Stice shouted. They obeyed, metal ringing on the cobbles, and Stice waved his men to lower their own weapons. I looked at the four prone bodies on the wharf: the Dutch sailor, Curdy, Cecil’s man and, a little distance away, Leeman, lying on his front in the entrance to the alley. ‘He’s dead,’ Barak said loudly.

On neighbouring boats watchmen still stood staring, talking animatedly in foreign tongues, but Barak had been right; they had not wanted to get mixed up in a sword fight involving a dozen men. One man shouted something at us in Spanish, but we ignored him. More men, though, might appear from the taverns. I looked at the Dutchman and McKendrick. Returning my look, the Dutchman spoke in heavily accented English. ‘Citizen of Flanders. Not subject to your laws. You must let us go.’