Lamentation

Barak said, ‘I got one of the men helping me on the search for Timothy to walk up and down that street this afternoon and report back to me. I didn’t want to go myself as Stice knows me. It’s a lane of small, newly built houses, much better places than on Needlepin Lane. Most of the houses have porches, quite deep. We could hide in one and watch until just before nine. We might even see Stice arrive.’

‘Very well.’ I looked out of the window. It was quite dark now. I thought, at Hampton Court they would be dancing by torchlight in the courtyard, sounds of loud revelry coming from the King’s banqueting house. Several more banquets, as well as hunts, were planned for the next few days. The Queen would be at all of them. Then I thought of Timothy, alone on the dangerous streets for a second night. I collected myself. ‘Let us go now,’ I said. ‘But remember, Stice is a man who will stop at nothing.’

‘Fortune favours those with justice and honour on their side,’ Nicholas said.

Barak responded, ‘If only.’

The streets were quiet as we walked up to Smithfield. Fortunately it was not a market day and the big open space was silent and deserted. We went down Little Britain Street, following the wall of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, then turned into a broad lane, a reputable row of newly built two-storey houses, most with glass windows rather than shutters, and little porches, too. Candles flickered behind most of the windows but at a house that was in darkness Barak waved us into the porch. I hoped the owner would not return expectedly; he would think himself about to be robbed.

Barak pointed to a house on the opposite side of the lane, a little further down. ‘That’s the one. There’s a big Tudor rose on the arch above the porch, as Brocket mentioned. You can just see it.’

I followed his gaze. The house’s shutters were drawn and all was silent.

We stood, waiting and watching. A serving woman came out of a nearby house with a bucket of dirty water and poured it into the channel in the centre of the road. We tensed as the light of a torch appeared at the top of the lane, and voices sounded. It was, however, only a link-boy, leading the way for a small family party who were chattering happily, returning from some visit. They disappeared into one of the houses further down the lane.

‘What time is it?’ Nicholas asked quietly. ‘It must be near nine.’

‘I think it is,’ Barak said. ‘But it doesn’t look like Stice is here yet.’

‘He could already be inside,’ I whispered. ‘At the rear of the house, perhaps.’

Barak’s eyes narrowed. ‘All right, let’s wait till the clocks chime. Stice wouldn’t be late for this one, not if he’s been all the way to Hampton Court and back to consult his master.’

We waited. When the bells rang out the hour, Barak took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go,’ he breathed. ‘Rush him as soon as the door opens.’

We half-ran across the street. I glanced up at the Tudor rose on the lintel of the porch, as Barak hammered on the door. He and Nicholas both had their hands on their sword hilts, and I grasped my knife.

I heard quick footsteps, sounding indeed as though they were coming from the rear of the house. There was the glimmer of a candle between the shutters. As soon as we heard the handle turn on the inner side of the door Barak put his shoulder to it, and crashed inside. The interior was dim, just a couple of candles in a holder on the table. By their light I saw Charles Stice stagger back, hand reaching to the sword at his waist. But Barak and Nicholas already had their blades pointed at his body.

‘Got you,’ Nicholas said triumphantly.

Then, at the edge of my vision, I saw rapid movement as the men who had been waiting on either side of the door stepped quickly out. Two more swords flashed. Barak and Nicholas turned rapidly as two well-built young men ran at them from behind. I recognized them by the candlelight: one fair with a wart on his brow, the other almost bald. Greening’s killers, Daniels and Cardmaker.

Barak and Nicholas were both quick, managing to parry the blows. Meanwhile, drawing my knife, I lunged forward, ready to plunge it into the neck of the bald man, but he was faster than me. Though still fighting against Nicholas, he managed to half-turn and elbow me in the face with his free arm. I staggered back against the wall. The distraction, however, was enough to allow Nicholas to gain the advantage, and begin to force him back.

Barak, meanwhile, was facing not only the other man in front but Stice behind. And before he could turn, step aside and face both of them, Stice raised his newly drawn sword and slashed at Barak’s sword-arm. To my horror the razor-sharp weapon, with the full force of Stice’s arm behind it, slashed down into Barak’s wrist just above his sword. Into it and through it, and I cried out at a sight I shall never forget: Barak’s severed hand, still holding his sword, flying through the air and hitting the ground.