A Queen's Spy by - (black authors fiction .TXT) 📖

Instead, she turned to John, hoping he would know what to do, hoping he would believe her.

“What do you mean you’ve locked her in her room!” Martha exclaimed.

“Just that. I’ve locked her in. It’s for her own good. Such things as she’s raving about would have her tied to a stake and her heels warmed. She’s lost her wits, shouting and ranting she didn't make much sense. What can bring such things on, Martha?”

“Well it could be the black arts, you never know.” The possibility of gossip was too much for her. “Tell me what she said.”

“Well, I did get from her that the King’s dead,” John sat down heavily on the only chair in the kitchen.

“No…” Martha rounded the table, all eyes and ears. “She said that?”

John ran his hand through his hair, nodding,

“Lord have mercy, no…” Martha interrupted. “What else?”

“She has been meeting with men in the stable at night!”

“Men! What’s his lordship going to say about that?” Martha gasped.

“Aye. I went straight to Lady Anne, she was terribly upset and told me to lock the girl in her room.” John threw his arms wide, “What else could I do?”

“You did the right thing, John, telling Lady Anne. It's probably no madness that’s beset her; she’s probably breeding!” Martha folded her arms.

“She said she’d been there many nights. I pray you’re not right, Martha. What should we do?” John was appalled.

“Send one of the lads to get Mistress Stump from the village, she’ll know what to do with her,” Martha suggested. “I’ll tell Lady Anne that it might be an idea for the best.”

“Mistress Stump, yes – yes, I’ll do that.”

Mistress Stump was duly called on and agreed to see the lady first thing the following day.

 

†

 

Anne, with a wide-eyed Martha in tow, had unlocked the door, and listened with growing horror to her daughter.

“But mama…” Catherine pleaded, “It’s the truth.”

“Your imagination runs away with you, child. Martha has been telling me you have been playing childish games in the stables. It’s time, Catherine, that you started to act like a lady. You’ll have your own house and children soon.”

Catherine continued to try to protest, but her mother had pressed the door closed and, taking the key from her belt, slid it quickly into the lock. She could hear their muffled voices in the corridor outside, shortly after she heard the footsteps of the pair walking away from her room.

She knew there was little she could do. Experience had taught her that when she had been locked in her room for previous transgressions she would be in there overnight. There would be no food until the door was opened early the next day and she would be admitted back to the company of her mother, penitent and hungry.

Catherine ran her hands through her hair. What was she going to do? She wanted to believe she had imagined it, she just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been. This time it was going to be different; Martha would not come with the key and her mother was not going to be waiting for her in the morning in the hall.

 

†

 

The man’s horse had stepped from the road and into the tangle of briar, ears flat she tossed her head and spun, her rider’s curses making her jittery and nervous. Secure in the knowledge that the second rider had left, Jack dropped from his own saddle, looped the reins of his own horse over a branch, and set out to catch those of the one carrying the bleeding man.

A moment later he had the mare’s bridle in his hand and a second after that, arms flailing, the man fell howling from the saddle to land with a crunch on the forest floor. Pulling the horse clear Jack’s boot made contact with his stomach, achieving the momentary paralysis he required. Two more kicks ensured he stayed down and another to the head delivered the man’s mind to blackness.

Jack secured the man’s horse, and then dragged him towards a tree, dumping him against the supporting trunk. Quickly he relieved him of a blade he found at his belt and a worn leather purse that contained very little.

Jack stared at the man's face.

Did he recognise him?

He wasn't sure. Lank greasy hair spilled from underneath a tight leather cap, he had a nose that had been broken more than once, and through his parted lips Jack could see a row of chipped front teeth. Consciousness returning, the man groaned.

Jack rocked back on his heels and waited patiently.

When the man's eyes did flicker open and focus on his face they were filled with terror, and despite the pain from the lacerated arm he dug his hands in and tried to push himself away from Jack.

Jack shook his head, his eyes never leaving the man's face. Reaching down he wrapped his hand around his ankle and tugged the leg hard, unbalancing the man and pitching him on his back.

“Who do you work for?” Jack growled the question.

He received in reply only a shriek of terror as his erstwhile attacker still sought to scramble away from him.

“I'll only ask one more time,” Jack said, his voice low and threatening.

†

 

Locked in her room with no one answering her desperate pleas, Catherine finally climbed from the window and hid in the only place she could think of: the hayloft. She did not hear the arrival of the riders. The effect of the last two sleepless nights had overtaken her and she was blissfully unaware that the advance party, which should have been led by Richard, had been overtaken by an impatient and overzealous young man. Geoffrey Byrne, Edward’s son, was eager to show his mettle to his men and he led them down on Assingham before Richard had made his move.

 

†

 

Richard leapt down from his horse and flung the reins in the face of someone standing in the gloom. He quickly crossed to where a man sat arrogantly on top of a barrel of beer, most of its contents spilt across the ground.

“Ah, Fitzwarren, it seems I have saved you a job!” The man on the barrel grinned triumphantly. “Join us, there is plenty for all.” He indicated the barrel with his full flagon.

The upraised vessel was violently ripped from his hands, its contents spilt over jacket and hose before landing with a metallic clank against the kitchen door.

“Geoffrey, I would be appreciative if, in future, you did as you were told, rather than doing as you wish to satisfy your childish temperament.” Fitzwarren’s voice was hard.

Byrne’s son resorted to bravado. “You should thank me. I have saved you a task. The men were restless. To have delayed further would have been to ask for trouble,” he blustered.

“Geoffrey, I shall certainly not thank you. This is a matter I have not finished with, as there is much to do, so I shall postpone the moment which, when it arrives, is one you will most sincerely regret,” Fitzwarren’s said coldly. Then he added mockingly, “So, prepare to provide me with a full account, if you will, of how you heroically and with much danger to yourself took and subdued this well-manned and armed manor.”

Geoffrey looked relieved. The confrontation was to be postponed and Richard’s attention was turned back to the night’s work. Richard had already set off towards the hall and Geoffrey was left with no option but to step quickly after him, following like a puppy, his arrogance left behind on the beer barrel.

The fire still burned in the grate in the hall and several tapers were still lit, the wan light enough to clearly pick out the bodies, laying in the sticky mass of their own blood. The half naked form of Martha, her milky eyes open and gazing sideways blindly, lay spread like a starfish on the floor, her face partially obscured by the quantity of blood that covered it from the gaping wound at her neck. The Lady Anne lay on her front, bereft of her dress with only a shift pulled up under her arms. Hands outstretched in front of her as if she’d been trying to crawl away before the blade in her side had ended her escape. Richard’s face hardened as he saw the scrapes her nails had made on the wooden floor as they had raped her.

John was a small distance away, dead at the foot of the table where he had been playing cards, an ugly incision at the nape of his neck visible as his body lay over the scattered sticky deck.

Geoffrey was silent as he stood behind the unmoving Richard, waiting for his next instructions. When Richard did move, he was so fast that Geoffrey never saw the blow coming, felt only its force as it knocked him backwards.

“You knew my orders,” Fitzwarren blazed above him. “Don’t tell me this farmhouse provided such resistance that it required the murder of all those who were in it!” Richard’s boot connected accurately with Geoffrey’s body causing him to gasp in pain.

“It seems I no longer feel like postponing the moment.” He gave him another kick and the prone man gasped. Richard leant over Geoffrey, his face betraying nothing, contrasting sharply with the contortions that were exhibited on the boy’s pain-stricken face. “A simple question, Geoffrey, and I would like a simple answer, and the one you give I hope, for your sake, is the one I would like to hear. Tell me, are there any survivors after your little show of force to impress your men, or did these poor folk put up such resistance that it necessitated the death of all of them?”

Geoffrey refrained from answering, his body rigid, braced for the next impact.

“You are not talking to me, Geoffrey. Am I to take from that that you saw fit to slay the entire inhabitants?” The look on Geoffrey’s face told the world clearly that no one had been spared when they burst into the Manor.

Richard hauled the protesting man to his feet, pushing him hard against the wall. A moment of wavering uncertainty robbed Geoffrey of his freedom. Too late he attempted to pull from the hold, but all he could do was struggle against the fierce restraining grip. The forearm rammed hard across his throat held the useless breath in his lungs; eyes widening in panic, he could neither expel it nor take another.

Geoffrey stopped trying to pull the arm from his throat. A trembling hand found the dagger in his belt, and desperation aimed it as his attacker. Richard intercepted the blow, vice-like, his fingers dug into the younger man’s wrist, slamming it against the wall. The pommel grazed the masonry. Geoffrey’s fingers, opening, lost their hold on the hilt, and the knife slipped from his grasp to rattle on the stone floor.

Richard’s own dagger was in his hand, the point of it pressing up under Geoffrey’s chin.

Geoffrey stood immobile. The fight was lost.

“You killed all of them?” Richard growled, his dark eyes, lit with menace, glared into Geoffrey’s.

Geoffrey swallowed hard, his head tipped back, avoiding the steel point.

His silence was his answer.

“All of them?” Richard repeated, his tone hostile

“They were Mary’s supporters,” Geoffrey spoke quietly, fearfully aware of the blade pressuring his throat.

“For God’s sake! They were women, children, and old men,” Richard’s words were taut with temper, fury burnt brightly in the stone grey eyes.

The knife’s point