Chapter 1
The door of the tavern swings open, and for a moment, a gust of differently stinking air clears the stench of ale fumes, sweat, and meat searing in the kitchen. The group of revellers who enter are already the worst for drink, and it is clear to all that they are actors from one of the nearby theatres. They have a reputation for drunken squabbling these thespians, one that can often lead to drawn blades. They commandeer a table near the fire and shout for ale.
Captain Lament Evyngar pushes back a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead and grins at the look on her vast companion’s face. Lament is not a small woman at an inch below six feet and broad of shoulder as befits a swordswoman, but her companion towers over her by more than half a foot. Lament has always imagined the man next to her as more bear than human and frequently taunts him that they need to steer clear of the baiting pits lest he be mistaken for an escapee unless, of course, they need the extra coin. Sergeant Pieter Hertgers, her massive friend, does not take offence at these jokes. He is rather pleased at being considered so great and fierce. But he has no love of actors.
“Come now, Pieter, take that scowl off your face. You will sour the ale!” Lament slaps the giant upper arm propped up by an elbow on the table boards.
“Strutting, miserable, painted bastards.” Pieter manages to growl between gulps of knockdown. His Dutch accent gets stronger the more he drinks, and he has consumed quite a lot. His large head is shaved down to a scar crisscrossed red stubble on top, while the bristling beard of the same colour mostly obscures his lower face. It is not the face of a man that you would willingly want to upset.
Lament knows what Pieter thinks of actors. That they are jumped-up fools who believe that just because they enjoy a little notoriety, they can behave how they please, mainly because they have never been tested. Maybe, but it would not be such a happy result to end up attracting the attention of the Watch because his massive paws have crushed a few heads. So, Lament steers the conversation back to the topic they had been discussing before the arrival of the players.
“What think you then? Shall we throw in our lot with the wine merchant and become vintners?” They have considered many options for a life beyond that of a soldier; they both have more than a passing interest in wine. Pieter’s family have dabbled in the sale of wine and ale in his hometown of Hamburg, where they fled to escape the Spanish, so he believes there would seem to be some merit in this career move.
“Aye, it makes more than a little sense. We can use my paters contacts to bring in good Rhenish, and we should turn a handsome profit if we keep a close eye on the merchant. I still think we will miss the ring of steel, though, and we have made good coin these last few years.” He gives his coin purse a fond pat and grins wide, showing off broad, white teeth.
“We have discussed this my friend. We need a new venture, something that is not tainted by the stench of the charnel house. Besides, there are always rich men who are willing to pay handsomely for the services of good bodyguards when they travel. At least we would not be fighting off hordes of Spanish intent on putting us to the torch as heretics!”
Pieter nods his great head, but the look in his eyes says that he is not entirely convinced. Coming as he does from a family of Calvinists, he has more zeal for fighting the Catholic armies in the Spanish Netherlands. Lament is far more pragmatic.
As the youngest daughter of a minor knight of the realm, Lady Lament Evyngar learned quickly to adapt her religious alliances. Born into a Catholic family, it had become a death sentence not to renounce the faith after the death of Mary and the ascension of Elizabeth, and although her parents and older sisters are recusants, she sees little distinction in the chanting of one priest or another.
Only the symbology and ornateness of the setting seem to make a difference despite the arguments of theologians as to whether you can talk directly to God or not without the intermediary of a priest. The fact that she has personally sent more than a few Catholics to their afterlife while not being struck down by a bolt from above adds to her conviction that, in the end, there is little to separate them.
“My friend, we can always try our hands as merchants for twelve months, and if it doesn’t suit or is not profitable, then we can easily re-enlist with one of the companies heading off to the Low Countries and go back to our old trade.” She raises the mug of ale, drains it and then wipes the back of her hand across her lips. She is considered not uncomely in a handsome sort of way, this soldier of fortune. Not perhaps the charming, good looks of the ladies of the court, especially with the fine scar that bisects her face from left eyebrow to right cheek, more the roguish charms of a woman who has lived a life of adventure. That’s fine by her.
Pieter rises off the low bench; he cannot stand up straight as the ceiling of the Bull Tavern is several inches too low for most men, and a colossus like the Dutchman stands no chance. The group of players by the fire go quiet as he eclipses the room. They nudge each other, but fortunately, this evening, none are drunk or foolhardy enough to make the sort of comment that might cause Pieter to break someone.
Lament passes coin to the tavern keeper, a pot-bellied man with the sort of bulbous nose and broken veined skin that speaks of a fondness for his wares.
“Thank you, Captain. God give you good rest.” He drops the coins into a large pocket on the front of his leather apron and clears the empty ale jug and mugs off the table.
“You too, Arthur,” smiles Lament as she settles the wide-brimmed black hat with its single red feather upon her dark hair and follows the bulk of her companion out through the doorway and into the early evening light of Southwark.
“Shall we away and see this merchant then? He said he would be free to talk after his last delivery of the day.” Lament watches as Pieter dons his barett, the wide slouch hat with the hidden steel cap from his days as a Landsknecht and wanders over to an alley between two rows of buildings that look like they might just fall against each other for moral support. The brickwork is crooked, and the timbers sag, but like most of the buildings that have been around since at least the time of the last King Edward, they will most likely last another hundred years. Although the way Pieter is pissing against that one may undermine its foundations. The thought makes Lament laugh.
Pieter grins as he laces up his breeches, the coloured ostrich feathers adorning his barett bobbing in time to his movements. “Needed that! Yes, let’s go and talk to your merchant. If nothing else, we may be able to sample his stock.”
* * *
London Bridge stretches out before them. The severed heads of traitors glare impotent and eyeless from above the south gateway as they pass. Lament grips the finely wrought hilt of her sword just a little tighter. It is not as if she is unaccustomed to death, but the heads above the gate always leave her with a sense of unease each time she passes. Pieter seems oblivious, humming a tune that Lament does not recognise but can guess is from his homeland. He, too, wears a sword, although not the slimmer-bladed type of Lament’s sword; no Pieter carries a falchion, a long butcher’s blade, in the baldric slung across his vast frame. But even this is delicate when compared to the zweihander sword, which is his favoured weapon on the battlefield. The falchion is a compromise so that he does not draw even more attention to himself by parading the streets of London with nearly seven feet of steel.
Pieter had learned his trade as a Landsknecht fighting alongside the Germans and then taking the coin of William of Orange after a series of ill-fated adventures had left his regiment decimated. So, back to the Netherlands and latching onto an English mercenary force where he met and immediately befriended Captain Lament Evyngar. Immediately meaning amid a pitched battle and befriended meaning back-to-back fighting for their lives. Pieter had thought Lament a little too skinny, but he could not deny her skill with sword and pistol. Lament had been more concerned that the giant behind her might accidentally cut her in half with an ill-timed swing of his two-hander or take a ball and fall upon her, crushing her to death. They have been inseparable friends ever since.
They enter the already twilight world of the bridge. The dwellings, shops, and warehouses that line the sides of the bridge cut out much of the evening light, and there are lanterns placed at regular intervals. Now and then, they pass through a bright window of light formed by narrow gaps between the structures. Here, there are precipitous views down to the river and the fiercely turbulent current that roars against the starlings and drives around the water mills set between the arches.
A multitude jostles their way across the bridge. Horses and carts force their way through pedestrians who wander in and out of the shops or stop to buy pies and baked eels from the women who carry them in baskets on their heads. The usual collection of purse-divers and ne’er-do-wells are on the lookout for the naïve to swindle or rob outright. There will be more than one fellow the worse from drink who wakes in a doorway to find he is missing his coin purse and possibly most of his clothes. The cutpurse’s eye Lament and Pieter from a distance. This pair promise nothing but hard knocks and sharp steel, and there is far easier prey to be had in this twilight arcade of noise and smells.
Towards the northern end of the bridge, Lament turns to the open half of a large gate leading into the courtyard of a warehouse. The hanging wooden signs above the gate advertise the goods on offer, and one of the signs is three barrels.
A short flight of stairs leads up to a loading dock and a series of winches, and there, half in shadow, is the stocky frame of the merchant they have come to meet talking to another man.
“Ah, Captain! May God give you good ease.” The merchant turns away from his warehouseman, dismissing him by the mere act of giving him no further attention. The lean figure slinks away deeper into the shadows and pools of black that chequer the cavernous storeroom. As he goes, he casts a furtive look over his shoulder at his master’s guests. Lament catches the glance and unconsciously notes the direction the man goes in.
“Useless addle pate that one.” The merchant sighs. “I took on him and his cousin after my two lads went down with the sweating sickness these six months gone. God rest ‘em.” He scratches the thick, greying beard that grows like a spear point from his jutting chin. He is broad around but not fat. Years of manhandling his stock have given him a strong body and kept him from getting too portly, despite the best efforts of his new wife to fatten him up.
“Yes, Master Thomas, we will have to recruit better help for you if we are to have a successful enterprise. It wouldn’t do to let incompetent buffoons ruin business now, would it?” Lament grins and claps Thomas on the back as they make their way up to the locked office where he plots his business ventures. A quick search through the keys on the brass ring attached by a chain to his belt, the door creaks open, and they enter a low-ceilinged room. A small window that overlooks the Thames lets in the last of the daylight through open shutters, and Thomas augments it with candles lit from the lantern by the door. Flickering yellow light reveals the shelves around the walls with their casks, bags of spice, and bolts of cloth, all samples from the storehouse below them.
He gestures for his potential business collaborators to sit in the chairs placed around a table spread with parchment and maps as he collects three glasses and a couple of bottles from one of the shelves. As he uncorks the bottles, Lament sifts through the pile of gilded trinkets strewn across one of the maps. They are covered in intricate geometric designs, and the artistry fascinates her.
“From the land of the Moors”, says Thomas, pouring wine into the drinking vessels. “Fine workmanship even if it is done by heathen barbarians.” He laughs with the pragmatic humour of the trader and hands the drinks to Lament and Pieter.
“This is a Flemish wine. It is sweet and heady. It is a favourite of many at court, and I have managed to secure all of the current stock.” He smiles, very pleased with himself and the knowledge that he can dictate the price.
“With your connections,” he nods at Pieter, who downs the wine with an appreciative grunt, “we can bring it in via the Netherlands and avoid the Spanish. The captain tells me that your father deals with the Sea Beggars.” He refills the glass enveloped in Pieter’s massive fist. Thomas is more than a little intimidated by the huge, grinning Dutchman.
“Aye, he does. He has aided them with supplies and safe anchorage against the Dons. In return, they run trade goods through the blockades. A mutual benefit to all.” He smiles and takes another large gulp of the newly refilled wine, smacking his lips with relish.
“Well, with all of the stock of this wine, plus a large quantity of brandy I have secured and a consignment of nutmeg and cinnamon captured from a Spanish ship, we will be sitting pretty on the profits of our first venture.” He raises his glass to toast their anticipated good fortune, and Lament and Pieter join him.
“Are you happy, Pieter? I told you this would mark a change in our fortunes.” Lament gives the big man a good-natured nudge with her foot, and Pieter turns his glass upside down to show it is empty.
“I would be even more content with a further sample of the goods.”
* * *
It is dark when Thomas shows them out of the warehouse, and they bid him God’s ease. They walk further north along the bridge. Pieter has heard tales of a particular stew, and the wine has his blood up. When they reach the door, the bawd sizes them up and recognises them as adventurers who still have full purses.
“Friends, welcome.” She smiles a most welcoming smile and gives an arch wink. Placing her small hand on Pieter’s massive chest, she lets her eyes travel up and down his colossal frame.
“I am not sure we have enough girls to satisfy you, sir. But we can try our best!” She lets out a shrieking laugh and turns to lead them inside.
Lament puts her hand on her comrade’s arm.
“I am going back to the merchant. I have a desire for more of that Flemish wine; I will procure a cask and come back. Try to leave something for me.” She slaps the laughing Pieter on the back and heads off south again along the bridge.
As she approaches the gate to the darkened warehouse, there is a muffled crash, and the sound pottery makes when it is broken with some force. Thomas must have had more of his wares than usual, thinks Lament as she reaches up to pull the chain that rings the bell within the storerooms. She stops. The gate is slightly ajar. She knows that Thomas closed it behind them.
Pushing gently against the gate, she slips through and lets her eyes become accustomed to the deeper gloom within. When she is sure of her surroundings, Lament quickly mounts the stairs to the loading dock, keeping to the sides to avoid any unnecessary squeaking. The door to the store is open, and she can make out the office door at the far end, the glow of lantern light bleeding out around its frame.
She halts when she hears raised voices, trying to discern how many and the possible reason for the increasingly angry tones. There is a choked scream followed by an agonised groan that trails into a whimper. A voice laughs cruelly, and there is another strangled moan.
Drawing her sword, Lament advances silently between the stacks of crates, bulging sacks, and barrels that form low walls on either side of her. She flings the office door open, and there before her is the scene of a butcher’s shop.
Thomas is face down over the table. Most of his clothes have been torn away, and long iron nails have fixed his hands to the wood with brutal efficiency. A bunched-up rag is stuffed into his mouth, and his eyes bulge with fear and pain.
The two other occupants of the room stare open-mouthed at the intruder. Lament recognises the lean figure holding the bloody awl which he has been twisting into the merchant’s thigh. The warehouseman pulls the awl free of the quivering flesh, causing Thomas to shriek through the gag and brandishes it at the woman who has surprised them. Lament’s sword takes him through his still gaping mouth and exits the back of his skull and out of his felt cap.
His accomplice, who Lament guesses to be the cousin, grabs for the hand axe lying on the table. The fingers missing from both of the merchant’s hands would indicate that it has already seen action. As Lament withdraws her blade from the first man’s head and lets him fall to the boards, the second gives an enraged cry and lunges forward. The axe describes an arc that Lament easily avoids, and before her assailant can return with a backhand stroke, the sword darts out and enters him through the armpit. He staggers backwards into the racks holding the wine casks and drags them down on top of him as he falls.
The merchant is dying. The wound to his thigh has severed the artery, and despite the pressure that Lament puts on the wound, the blood flows without stopping. It is impossible to free his ruined hands from the table without causing further agony, and all Lament can do is stay with him as his life flees.
“Bastards wanted money. They… they thought we had done a deal and that you… and that you had left me with a heavy purse.” A cough rakes through him, causing a spasm that twists the iron in his hands and makes him cry out.
“Fuck them! May they burn in hell!” There are several diminishing sobs and then another spasm and stillness.
Lament releases the pressure on the wound and sits on the table next to the red ruin of the man who was to be their business partner. She wipes her blade clean on the warehouseman’s shirt and slides it back into the scabbard. But before it finds its home, she hears another sound. Movement in the storeroom, and once again, the sword is in her hand.
The Watch dislike open doors at night. They have been tasked to be especially vigilant as papist spies and assassins have been reported to be increasingly active. So, seeing the open gate to the warehouse, they take it upon themselves to investigate.
Not that they are overly worried. They are two large men wearing cheap but effective breastplates; both wear kettle helmets, and they carry swords and cudgels. The taller of the two also carries a pike, although in the confines of the warehouse, it might not be of much use. But the main cause of their confidence is the huge mastiff that accompanies them, drooling jowls barely hiding teeth that can crush a man’s bones.
The lantern they bring with them illuminates the stairs and the loading dock. The door into the store is wide open, and they glance at each other as if to confirm their suspicions.
As they enter the storehouse, the mastiff begins a low growl in his thick throat. The watchman holding him allows the chain to run out through calloused fingers so that the beast is a good two yards ahead. It gives a bark that is more like the sound of a saw blade ripping through timber, and it strains against the chain as a figure appears silhouetted against the open door and lantern light at the far end of the rows of trade goods.
The figure is holding a sword, but she quickly places it on the floorboards as her eyes take in the great, snarling dog and the armed men sheltering behind it.
“Good sirs, there has been foul murder. Master Thomas has been put to the hard press by villains who were in his employ, and he has died of the injuries.” Lament makes the quick decision to tell her side of the story with all speed before the mastiff is released upon her. She knows she could best the watchmen in a fight, but the dog changes the odds considerably, which is, after all, why they have it with them.
“I have slain the murderers. I came upon them in the act of torture, and when they attacked me, I delivered them to God’s justice.” She opens her hands out at her sides to show she means no threat.
The watchman holding the dog gestures for her to go back into the office.
“Master Thomas is dead, you say. Back into the room then and show us what has occurred.” He nods to his companion, who scoops up the sword as they pass, noting the well-worn black hilt of a sword that is meant for warfare, not gentlemanly duels.
Back in the merchant’s office, it is a scene from hell. The stench of blood and emptied bowels fills the room. The watchmen visibly pale.
“It’s like the fucking shambles in here! What in Christ’s name has occurred?” The watchman with the pike finds his voice breaking, gagging on the stench.
“I was here earlier conducting some business with Master Thomas. I came back to procure a cask of his wine and found the gate open, and these two…” Lament indicates the body on the floor by the table and the other partially buried by the tumbled contents of the storage rack.
“They worked for Thomas, and before he died, he vouched safe to me that they believed I had paid him a large amount of coin, and they were pressing him to ascertain its location. I defended myself, and they died, as I told you in the storeroom.”
The watchman with the dog pulls the chain with a violent jerk to stop the mastiff from lapping up the rapidly congealing blood on the floor. He seems to be senior in rank and puffs out his iron-cased chest.
“That’s as well, but we will have to summon the justice.”
There is a groan from the corner of the room, and he swings the lantern in his free hand to illuminate the wreckage.
“This one’s not dead! George, drag him out from under there.” He keeps his eyes on Lament as the watchman called George leans his pike against the wall along with Lament’s sword, and kicking casks, boxes, and bottles out of the way, he grabs the groaning form by the ankles and drags him out into the light.
As soon as he is out into the room, the man looks around at the scene. The dead merchant, his dead cousin, the woman that the merchant called Captain, and the two watchmen with their massive blood-stained dog. He clutches the wound in his side, and a feral light, a desperate light, comes into his eyes.
“God save me from this traitorous heretic! She was in league with Thomas, the merchant. They planned to smuggle Jesuit agents into the realm from the Spanish Netherlands hidden in the shipment of wine. My poor cousin Ralph,” he points at the body on the floor, “and myself overheard them plotting. Them and a big foreign sort, Ralph said he sounded Dutch. When this one and the foreigner had left, Ralph said that we should do our loyal duty to Her Majesty and find out the details of their plan. So, we put Thomas to the hard press, and he had just confessed that they was in league with the agents of the Anti-Christ to bring murder and mayhem into our fair land, even to the body of the Queen herself, when that bitch comes back and runs through poor Ralph! I do believe she has done for me also…” He falls back against the sideboard, coughing and wheezing. Pink bubbles form in the corner of his mouth, and it is obvious that his lung has been pierced.
Lament stands there, her jaw dropped. She gives a harsh laugh and is just about to ridicule the man when she sees the looks on the faces of the watchmen. To them, this is the most serious of accusations. A papist plot to destabilise England and imperil Her Majesty. This will not be the first or last heretic they will bring to justice, and their eyes fix upon Lament with a steely resolve.
“Come now, good fellows. You cannot believe this nonsense! He and his cousin must have dreamt up this rouse in case they were caught in the act. Why would they take it upon themselves to try to extract a confession instead of bringing their suspicions to the authorities?” She looks down at her accuser, but there is no response. The man has passed out or worse.
“You will get your say in good time, but now you will accompany us to Bridewell and wait for the magistrates’ ruling on all this. I dare say that officers of the Privy Council will need to question you as well.”
Captain Lament Evyngar wishes now that she had stayed in the bawdy house with Pieter or maybe not given up her sword. She feels an impending sense of doom as only a woman who comes from a family of recusants can when she is accused of heresy and plotting regicide.
* * *
It has taken Pieter two days to track Lament down. Two days in which Lament has sat in a dirty cell on a straw pallet in Newgate.
Her full purse has brought her these meagre comforts, but she is getting increasingly bored and likely to cause a riot. Pieter gives her an all-encompassing hug, lifting her off the ground and laughing at her protestations. But he knows that it is a serious charge that has been brought against the captain, one in which he could be implicated.
Lament relates the events that occurred at the merchants, and Pieter nods, a black scowl on his scarred face.
“The only saving grace seems to be that the local constable knows the Hooper family, of whom the cousins were members. They are well known for their larceny and for running gangs of cutpurses on this side of the river. There is not much belief in the confession that the scum gave before he drowned in his blood, but it is a serious accusation and, therefore, will come before a magistrate. I also killed two men under unclear circumstances. With any luck, I will be able to pay the blood price to their family, and that will be the end of it, but I have a fear that the stain of being accused of heresy may not be so easily wiped away.” Lament takes a welcome sup from the wineskin that the big Dutchman has brought with him.
Pieter stares at her and shakes his head, a grin splitting his wide face.
“You should have stayed at the stew, my friend. Far less trouble when you are tupping wenches; you just have to dodge the French pox.” Then his face clouds over.
“They know about your families’ beliefs?”
Lament nods and takes another swig of the wine.
“Yes, unfortunately, they do. It seems that my reputation precedes me.”
“Then they should know that you have killed your fair share of Catholics. They should know that you serve the Protestant cause.” He reaches out a huge paw of a hand and takes the skin.
“Will they be looking for me?” He asks between gulps.
“You were mentioned in the accusation, but the fact that you were not there and that this seems to have become just a question of the killings… I think you will be ignored if you refrain from trouble.” They both grin at that, and then Lament’s narrow face becomes serious, and she strokes stray hair from her face as she stares at her friend. “Seriously, Pieter. Keep your head down, and do not attract any more attention than you need to. There is a zeal to seek out the heretics, an obsession, and I wouldst not have us swept into oblivion by it.”
Pieter takes his leave, saying that he will enquire as to when the magistrate will sit and decide Lament’s case, but for the present, he leaves some more coin to make the captain’s stay more comfortable.
* * *
They come for Lament in the dead of night. Four large men clad in padded leather and steel, wearing helmets. They manacle her wrists and ankles and then lead her out to the water stairs leading down to the lead-coloured surface of the Thames.
There is no moon, and the sparse cloud is blown in ribbons across the vault of the sky. Before she can protest, a heavy hood is dragged over her head, and she is manhandled down the stairs and out onto the waiting wherry that is invisible in the shadows.
Her thoughts turn immediately to escape, and just as quickly, those thoughts are disregarded. Manacled, on a wherry casting off onto the Thames at night… Even without the four guards, that would be a recipe for drowning. So, Lament calms the rising voices clamouring in her head and runs through the possible reasons why she might be moved under guard at night. Another gaol? There is no good reason to transport her at this hour. Unless they have decided that the accusations of heresy and plotting assassination have merits, then they could be taking her to a very different location, one where she might expect to be put to questioning. She knows what to expect if that is the case; she has seen it often enough in the Low Countries, administered by both sides.
That is the only explanation for this journey that her mind can conjure, and suddenly, the night has grown very cold.
