Owen (4 page)
Authors: Tony Riches
‘Unhand me!’ I struggle to break free from their firm grip.
Anger helps me find new energy and with a curse that reverberates around the stables I kick with all my strength, aiming between the legs of the man to my left. His grip loosens as my rain-soaked riding boot makes him double up with pain. Taking advantage of my freedom, I barge the man to my right against the hard stone wall of the stable, driving the wind from his lungs. Then I punch the man’s jaw so hard at least one of his teeth is lost.
‘Do you know who I am?’ I struggle to break loose but it is no good, as my hands are tied so tightly they start to feel numb.
A third man appears out of the darkness and I realise he must have watched the fight, waiting for his accomplices to do their work. Lithely built with lank hair and a jagged scar running across his face, he grins, revealing blackened teeth.
‘Yes, Mister Tudor... we know who you are.’ His voice is rasping, with a northern accent.
He punches me hard in the chest, winding me with the unexpected force of the blow and if it were not for the men holding me I would have collapsed to the ground. They pull me upright again as I try to clear my head. The scarred man grabs my hair and pulls my head back.
‘I have a message to deliver to you, Mister Tudor.’
I feel the warmth of the man’s foul breath in my face. ‘Who are you?’ I don’t recognise any of them. ‘What is this all about?’
‘You like asking questions, don’t you, Mister Tudor? Well, this is what happens to people who ask too many questions.’
I look from one to the other and see the man with the scarred face is in charge, the other two following his orders. I try to recall if I have seen any of the men before and a tantalising memory hovers somewhere at the back of my mind, then eludes me.
‘You won’t get away with this. I am a servant of the king.’ The threat is my last hope and now my anger is replaced by the cold shock of fear. I am no match for the three thugs and there are no witnesses.
The scarred man gives a rasping laugh and punches me hard in the face. I feel the sting of searing pain and hear a crunch as my nose is broken. I taste the metallic warmth of my own blood as it runs down my face.
‘Keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, Mister Tudor, or next time we’ll finish the job.’ He swings his fist again and punches me hard on the side of the head.
This time the other two thugs let me slip to the stable floor, one of them kicking so hard I hear a crack as my rib breaks. The men are laughing as they leave with no remorse for their actions. As I lie on the cold floor, drifting into unconsciousness, a name floats into my mind. Only one person could be behind this.
The queen’s personal physician, James Somerset, a kindly, absent-minded man with a straggling grey beard, examines my black eyes and bruised face with professional detachment. ‘You’ll live, Tudor.’ He shakes his head, as if the assault is somehow my fault. ‘I’ve done my best with your nose. After the swelling reduces... it should be straight enough. You took quite a beating.’
I don’t need to be told. My nose has stopped bleeding, although I feel a deep, dull ache and my head throbs, more than the worst hangover I can ever recall. The sharp pain from my broken rib stabs like a blunted knife with each move I try to make. Somerset has bound my ribs with clean white linen, explaining he can apply leeches, although there is little else to do. I know many weeks will pass before my injuries heal.
The queen’s physician leaves, recommending plenty of rest, and Juliette appears at my bedside, a frown of concern on her face. I am relieved to see her, and am grateful as she places a cool hand on my forehead.
‘How do you feel?’
‘I’ve been better.’ I manage a weak smile. ‘How did I get here?’ My voice sounds hoarse. My throat hurts when I try to speak and the constant buzzing in my ears makes it hard to think.
‘One of the grooms found you in the stable this morning.’ She looks at me with concern in her eyes. ‘Who attacked you, Owen? What happened?’
‘Three men ambushed me in the stables when I returned. I don’t know any of them, although I have a good idea what this is about.’ I remember my concern for the young clerk. ‘Have you seen Nathaniel?’
Juliette looks confused. ‘No. What has he to do with this?’
‘The men who attacked me told me to stop asking questions.’ I grimace as my head hurts. ‘Before I left for London I told Nathaniel to check the stores in the kitchens. I needed Nathaniel to gather evidence before I could do anything, and now I’m worried I’ve put him in danger.’
I groan and swing my legs over the side of the bed then try to stand. I have to warn the clerk and hope he has the evidence I need. I like the mild-mannered young man and it will rest heavily on my conscience if anything has happened to him.
Juliette gently pushes me back down on the bed. ‘You need to rest, Owen.’ She pulls a rough woollen blanket over me, glancing at the fire, which has still not been lit. ‘I’ll see if I can find Nathaniel—and I will have someone sort out the fire, it’s freezing in here.’
I am reluctant for her to leave but know she is right. ‘Take care, Juliette.’ I look down at my blood-stained doublet. ‘Can you bring me some clean clothes?’
‘Of course, sir.’ She turns to go then leans over and kisses the one part of my face not covered in bruises. ‘I love you, Owen Tudor,’ she whispers.
‘Even with a broken nose?’
‘Even with a broken nose!’
I wake with a start to find Nathaniel sitting at my bedside, reading a leather-bound book by the flickering light of a candle. A fire blazes in the infirmary grate, filling the room with much-needed warmth and the tang of wood smoke. The corners of the room are filled with shadows and I guess I must have slept through most of the day. My head is still sore but I am relieved to see the young clerk has not suffered the same treatment.
Nathaniel closes his book. ‘Juliette said I should let you sleep, sir.’ He points to a change of clothes in a neatly folded pile. ‘She brought you those.’
‘Thank you, Nathaniel.’ I rub my eyes, the pain in my nose a dull ache now. ‘I’m relieved to see you.’
‘Juliette told me what happened I hope the attack wasn’t my fault. It was not possible to do as you asked.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are no proper records of what should be in the stores.’ Nathaniel shrugs. ‘Some deliveries, such as bread and milk, are used right away. Other orders, like cases of wine from France, take months to arrive. The problem is supplies can go missing and we have no way of knowing.’
I sit up, wincing at the pain in my side. ‘Did they threaten you?’
‘Samuel Cleaver told me to... keep out of his kitchen. He had me thrown out of the stores as soon as he heard I was in there. They didn’t hurt me or make any threats.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid I told them...’
I climb out of bed, more easily this time. ‘You told them you were working on my orders?’
Nathaniel nods but says nothing.
‘We could have Cleaver arrested and locked up, even though we don’t have any proof. He obviously has something to hide.’
Nathaniel looks concerned. ‘What if we then have to release him?’ His forehead creases in a furrowed frown. ‘And what about his henchmen? We still need to find the men who... did this to you.’ He looks at my bruised face.
‘Locking up Samuel Cleaver will only solve half the problem.’ I remember the feel of my nose breaking and don’t relish the thought of being caught out a second time. They threatened to finish the job and are capable of doing so.
‘One of the men had a scar on his face, across the left cheek. Have you seen anyone like that?’
‘No. The trouble is...’
I close my eyes for a second and grit my teeth as I try to bear the pain from my cracked rib. ‘What were you saying?’
‘The trouble is,’ Nathaniel continues, ‘unless we can find these men, there is a danger they might do it again.’
‘I can’t do my job if I’m looking over my shoulder all the time.’
‘What other option do we have?’
‘None I can think of.’
I finish dressing and we walk through the servants’ passageway to the offices of the constable. Sir Walter Hungerford is tall and well-built, approaching fifty and never seen without his sword of office, worn low on a belt. He greets me like an old friend.
‘What the hell have you been up to, Tudor? Fighting again?’
I attempt a smile. ‘It was three against one. They ambushed me in the stables last night. That’s why I’ve come to see you.’
Sir Walter tells us to take a seat and closes the door. ‘So, what’s this all about?’
I am unsure where to start. ‘This is my clerk, Nathaniel. I tasked him with making an inventory of the kitchen stores, as I suspected all was not as it should be, my lord.’
‘There’s always theft from kitchens, Tudor.’ There is a patronising tone to his voice. ‘Cooks work long hours on low wages, so it doesn’t surprise me if they sometimes help themselves. This suggests something else though.’
‘We need your help, my lord. We’ve been warned off by the head cook, Samuel Cleaver, which confirms my suspicions he is up to no good.’
‘You want him arrested?’
‘What do you suggest then, Tudor?’ Sir Walter sits back in his richly upholstered chair. ‘I can’t go round arresting people without proper reason.’
‘I’m going to let him know he can’t get away with having me warned off. I thought as constable and steward of the king’s household you should be made aware of this, my lord.’
‘Of course. I think it’s best if some of my men escort you.’
‘One should do. I don’t want this to get out of hand.’ I look at the constable. ‘I’d like to deal with this without it coming to the queen’s attention. It is, after all, a household matter, my lord.’
Sir Walter shakes his head. ‘And how do you propose to explain two black eyes and a broken nose to the queen? You look like a prize fighter from the back streets!’
‘I will explain I was set upon by thieves, on my return from London.’
‘True enough,’ the constable agrees. ‘I’ll send a good man with you to the stores. I’ll also have the captain of the guard tell his men to keep an eye out for you until this business is sorted out.’ He shakes his head again. ‘This reflects badly on us all here, Tudor. I’ll help you if I can.’
I thank him and head for the Great Kitchen, followed by one of the royal guards. I feel a mix of apprehension and anger about confronting Samuel Cleaver, although it gives me peace of mind to know the guard is standing by. Cleaver wouldn’t be so stupid as to attack one of the queen’s guards. That would be treason, so he could face the death penalty.
The Great Kitchen is a steaming vision of hell when we arrive. I can’t understand how anyone would choose to work in such conditions from first light until after the last supper of the evening. Young boys, barely ten years old, are the scullions, apprentices who hope to one day become cooks. They scrub blackened, greasy iron pans and wash clattering piles of pewter platters.
The smell of burning wood and charcoal from ovens and stoves mingles with rich aromas of boiling stews and freshly baked bread. Two young kitchen girls pluck feathers from fat chickens still steaming from the scalding house. A man strains with effort as he turns a whole pig on a roasting spit, his face bright red and running with sweat from the heat of the coals.
There in the middle of it all stands Cleaver, in a linen apron, shouting orders and cursing the poor quality of staff at the top of his voice. He spots us as soon as we set foot in the doorway and scowls as he mops his thick, muscular neck with a cloth. He looks surprised to see me.
‘We need to check the stores.’ I note Cleaver’s expression of disbelief. ‘Routine housekeeping. I want to see how deliveries are recorded and everything is as it should be.’
My tactic of coming straight to the point seems to have worked. Cleaver looks again at my black eyes and bruised nose, then at the studious Nathaniel. Samuel Cleaver is a man used to having his own way and scowls in annoyance.
‘Come with me,’ he leads us towards the stores, ‘I’ll show you.’
We follow him down scrubbed stone steps into the basement. The food store is underground, cool in summer and freezing in winter. This is useful for keeping supplies of food fresh, although not so good for working in. Samuel Cleaver shows us the different rooms within the basement, each designed for a particular need. In the flesh larder brown cured hams and sides of venison hang alongside braces of pheasants and grouse, suspended from iron hooks in the low ceiling.
Next to this is the wet store, where rows of oak barrels contain everything from salted herring to whole cod fish stored in wet seaweed. Freshwater carp and eels, as well as pike, are stored alive in the castle moat until needed. Alongside this is the dry larder for pulses and grain, with great round cheeses taking an entire shelf and giving off a distinctly mouldy odour. The light is poor in the storerooms, although we see there are no thugs waiting in dark corners.
Cleaver turns to me. ‘We have enough to feed an army here. If you wish, Master Tudor, you can have your clerk,’ he gives a dismissive wave to Nathaniel, ‘check the stores against the deliveries, although I can save you the time. You will find everything is accounted for.’
I silently curse, as the head cook has the self-satisfied look of a man who is one step ahead of the game. He had been expecting our visit and made sure there is nothing that can be used as evidence against him. The place looks as if it has been made ready for an inspection.
‘Everything does seem to be in order.’ I lift the lid on a wooden crate, which proves to contain casks of French red wine, then pull one out to examine it. ‘I think we have seen enough... for today.’
Samuel Cleaver’s expression changes. ‘I’ll thank you, Master Tudor, to leave the running of the Great Kitchen to me.’
‘I’m sure you are as keen as I am to make sure nothing goes missing, as if I find it has, there will be... consequences.’
