The Accusation Read online

  He did not mentioned the letter which he had found attached to the body. But he had not destroyed it either.

  It was raining again.

  A fine silver drizzle formed a mist across the slopes and as he crossed the bridge into Southwark and rode towards the Kentish marshes, and the sanctuary of the cathedral at Canterbury, he pulled up the hood of his cape and urged the horse into a canter. But he rode only as far as the village of Bourton, for this time, with only his own shadowed hall waiting for him, there was no motive for riding through the night.

  The local inn was a low building edging the road on the south side of the village square, and this was not market day. Only children played in the square, pretending not to hear their mothers' cries that pottage and black bread waited.

  The room Charles ordered was at the back and overlooked the stream, quieter than that overlooking the green. He had insisted that the room not be shared, supper to be served in the private parlour, and then not to be disturbed until he chose to awake the following morning. His saddle bags had been carried in, and set on the floor in the furthest corner. The bed aired, two hot bricks placed between sheet and blankets, and the eiderdown was well feathered. Charles threw his boots to the empty hearth, flung off his other clothes and let them lie where they fell, snuffed out the candle and climbed into bed.

  Weary and stiff from riding most of the day, his thoughts hustled him back to comforts of the past and those he had cared for, now dead. In all the world there was no one left whom he loved. They had all gone. Both grandparents to the anger of fat King Harry. Others to the rigid ideology of the young King Edward VI who had inherited his father's arrogant obstinacy. The rest to the present queen. It was more than a year ago that he had searched out his old nurse, for when his mother was executed, she had instructed him to bestow a thankful purse on those who had served her longest. But Charles had discovered that the woman who had fed him at her breast and loved him for long years, had been burned at the stake just a month previously.

  He could not think of anyone left alive, who had the power to creep into his heart. But the memory of his nurse brought other memories of younger women when he was a younger man. He remembered the endless nights of both passion and warming comfort, when he had rarely slept alone unless he chose to.

  Absurd and pointless memories.

  But he had loved and been loved, He remembered skin softer than the pillow where he now lay, smoother than the sheet beneath him now. He remembered silken curling hair between his fingers, and the twitch of a woman's thighs when those fingers found her vulnerability. He remembered the sweet breath of the women he kissed, and the glitter in their eyes as they clung to him, the deeper touching, the deeper breathing, and the moonlight through the cracks in the shutters, pooling on stomach, breasts and groin.

  Turning on his back, he realised that his own body was responding to his memories. A feeble and unrequited avenue of women he had adored, even if only for one night, and others for a year.

  And so lost in reminiscence, Charles drifted into a restless sleep which trudged through the morning's dawn when the inn's service of breakfast ale, bread and cheese, had closed, and the innkeeper's wife already washing the cups and platters.

  He left the inn at midday. It stopped raining. Droplets hung like shimmering bubbles from tree branches and turned cobwebs to diamond necklaces.

  He once bought a diamond necklace for a woman he had thought he loved. Two diamonds, four pearls, and a collar of gold. She had worn it that night, but nothing else, its sparkle framing the swell of her breasts. Remembering the look of her and his own desire at her nakedness, the necklace glittering in the candlelight, Charles was once again travelling not only towards Canterbury, but also within his own thoughts. He relived the pleasure and the disappointment, wandering the alleyways of lost youth.

  Not so old perhaps, since he was only twenty six, but the future felt heavy with threat. Since he now loved no one, no one he loved could be executed. But once he loved his country, and now that was also dying. Which left himself alone to face the axe. Yet death still haunted his days, since some headless soul had been left swinging like a carcass in a butcher's shop, and had for some reason, been a warning.

  The horse stumbled and Charles was jolted awake. He dismounted, examined her leg, caressed her neck and nose, and remounted. He felt no sense of urgency but intended reaching Canterbury before dark. Late summer, now the long pale evenings were shortening, but there was little summer warmth and a single day without rain seemed a gift.

  The back streets of Canterbury were as narrow and lightless between overhanging buttresses as any in London, but Charles knew the city well since his own manor was nearby, and he trotted down the shadowed cobbles until the open doors, the singing and the sounds of fighting welcomed him to The Harlequin. Dismounting, he threw the reigns to the ostler and wandered inside.

  "A private bedchamber and a hot supper," he told the innkeeper, pulling off his riding gloves and adding, "Also one jug of heated hippocras and one of Burgundy. In the bedchamber. And as far distant from your drunken customers as possible."

  "There be a bedchamber up in the eaves, m'lord," the innkeeper told him, "If'n your lordship doesn't mind three flights o' stairs."

  "It will do well," Charles answered. "I still have the use of my legs, I believe."

  "I shall get the girl to show you up, m'lord, and t'will be just a moment afore the wine and a hot supper."

  The cup of hippocras, heavily spiced, in one hand, Charles was sitting on the window seat, gazing down through the small casement window. It was almost dark now, a deepening twilight glowing with its own silhouettes. He saw a young woman, dressed almost in rags, peeping in at the inn's open doors, but seeing the raucous beginnings of a fight between those disputing payment, was frightened and hurried off, hobbling down the alley towards the distant shadows.

  Not so tired, Charles remained where he was. Then he set down his cup, pulled his boots back on, retrieved his oiled cape from the hook, and went out, locking the door behind him. He sauntered down the stairs, found the main doors open, and wandered out into the evening's falling mist.

  He walked aimlessly. He had no direction, only memories. Those most recent seemed most tedious. His attempts to comfort the Lady Katherine had been tentative and highly unsuccessful.

  She had told him, "I imagine you think yourself kind, my lord, and are no doubt proud of your determination to fulfil your oath to my mother. But I am uninterested in your pride, sir, and wish only to be left alone."

  Having regarded her for some moments, sitting facing his own small fire in the grand solar, he finally answered, "Should I need the solace of pride, madam, I believe I'd choose something a good deal more virtuous than simply keeping a promise to the woman I cared for. Giving you permanent and free use of this house might constitute something more worthy."

  Looking up, Katherine had blushed. "Since I have heard that you are now one of the richest men in the kingdom, sir, I should hardly expect you to charge me rent. But I will gladly pay what you ask. In grain, perhaps, oats, or salad greens?"

  "Your sarcasm achieves little, my lady, since the grain, oats and salads are all growing on my property at the toil of my household." Charles had smiled. The Lady Katherine had not smiled back.

  "What other sort of payment would you like, sir? Have you the courage to ask?"

  He chuckled. He had enjoyed the pressure of her breasts against his arm that first day, and the soft tear stained cheeks below his own, the warmth of her body against his and the grip of her small hand. "I am far too much of a coward, madam. And since clearly you do not need my comfort nor desire my company, I shall leave you to the comforts of your nurse."

  Now, brushing away these trickles of pointless memory, Charles walked towards the cathedral, with no particular aim in mind.

  Chapter Six

  A little more than a month back, Fortune had left Jon's family house with a package of belongings, but it was long since s
he sold her good hair brush, spare chemise, stockings and apron, and lost her only remaining headdress in the scrummage of beggars outside Lord Buttery's pantry door. Now she owned only the clothes she slept in, her guilty conscience, and a brain as practical and determined as she could manage.

  A woman on the streets without pots, pans, spoons or a fire, had to make do with food ready cooked, and that cost more. Yet sixpence would last two full days and Fortune bought a hot pigeon pie, a small roll of black cheat bread, and a pork codling. She sat in the graveyard and, slowly while savouring each bite, ate half, saving the other half for later. Leaning back against the cathedral wall, and sighing with contentment, she felt quite absurdly well fed. Replete. She even closed her eyes, and at once Jon's smile floated amiably through her mind.

  She spent the rest of the day searching once again for honest work. As usual she found nothing, but the next day ate the remainder of the food, drank water from the well, and slept warm and sound in the barn.

  Three days later she was starving again.

  The second man was slightly drunk. He appeared exceptionally large and she felt exceptionally intimidated, but Fortune waited several hours for anyone to approach her and could not afford to turn this one away. He loomed over her and when he spoke, it sounded ominously slurred from too much strong beer. He demanded, "How much?" and Fortune told him. He didn't argue the price. With no friendly prostitutes for neighbours to ask for advice, she decided on her own charges. Long ago Jon had told of a woman who had come to him for help, a woman of shame he called her, a sixpenny harlot from the back alleys. So, since that was now what Fortune knew herself to be, she charged the same.

  He paid, and asked if she had a room nearby to go to. She shook her head and apologised politely. He frowned, and started to unhook himself.

  "Mouth, then," he said, staring glassily into her eyes.

  His words were not distinct and Fortune assumed she had not heard him properly. She said, "I'm sorry, but what did you say?"

  "Mouth, stupid bitch," he said, blowing beer fumes. "Get on your knees."

  She was astonished, and wondered if he wanted her to beg. But the ground at the base of the old wall was wet. The drizzle was a chilly mist and she had no desire to beg nor kiss a drunken stranger smelling most unpleasant. So she said, "No, I'm sorry, but I don't want to do any of that. Please get on with it, or I shall have to give your money back."

  He looked annoyed and pushed her hard back against the wall. One huge hand groped inside her torn cape and grabbed her breast, yanking as if this was furniture. She did not dare complain or say anything more to annoy him. With his other hand he hauled up her skirts and shoved one knee between her legs, unhooked his codpiece quickly, bent over and shoved himself inside. It hurt far more than she had expected. He felt like iron battering against her thumping and thudding as he worked. Mercifully it didn't take long. He didn't groan, or even gasp as the other man had, but was silent until the end when he stopped suddenly, pulled a bit of a face, and yanked himself out. He closed his clothes and Fortune waited patiently for him to go away. But he watched her a moment,and bent forwards again, one hand hard around her neck.

  She squeaked, "What?" and tried to wriggle free.

  He turned his other hand into a huge fist and with considerable emphasis, raised it and smashed his knuckles into her mouth. "I sees you again, whore," he said through clenched teeth, "you does what I wants, see? Next time I tells you to suck, you sucks. You remember that, whore, and you better remember me."

  He hit her again before he loped off. One more crashing thump, this time on her nose. Then he disappeared into the darkness.

  Fortune had fallen, helplessly crumpled in the oozing freeze of the mud. She stayed there for some time, trying hard not to cry but to wait until the pain and shock subsided when she might find the strength to stagger to safety. Eventually she clambered up, carefully keeping her bruised head low. It was a long way back to the barn but she was desperate for shelter, warmth, and the clean water of the adjacent well. She didn't care if she had to crawl, but she needed to get as far away as she could. The walk took twice as long as usual, and this time, although yearning for sleep, she washed first, and washed her face too. She discovered sticky clots of blood around her nostrils and lips, and this took considerable effort to wipe away without aggravating the pain. Indeed, her head and legs hurt a great deal. Yet soon she felt clean and refreshed as she climbed am amongst the straw, tucked her skirts hard between her legs, and eventually fell asleep.

  Managing to get to the well again early the next morning, she washed once more, and tried to clean some of the mud from her clothes, since she had no others. Eventually she felt she had succeeded, and went back to the barn for a further rest. But this time the washing, however cold the water, did not made her feel completely clean. She felt irredeemably soiled as if nothing could ever make her decent again.

  Exhaustion and misery took her and the sun was high when she woke the second time. It was the crash that woke her. The barn door slammed back, a burst of golden light flooded across the straw, and she sat up with a jerk and a pounding headache, staring into the dazzle. Two men stood there, one with a pitchfork, both glaring. Fortune recognised them. It was the farm steward and his son. They threw her out.

  She dragged back to Canterbury by the country lanes while trying to talk sense to herself. Her second brute of a customer had at least made no attempt to steal back his money and the six pennies would keep her in food for three days if she was extremely careful. With bread alone she could survive. Now unable to go back to the barn, she needed to find another safe corner in which to sleep. She wondered if the cathedral was locked at night, or if some parish priest might take pity on her and let her sleep on one of the pews.

  That first day was mellow and the sun smiled. The next day it poured with rain once more. The third day saw the last of her money, and a northerly gale blew up behind the church steeples as the rain turned to sleet. After that it was another three very hungry days before the bitter and increasing pain compelled her to sell her reluctant body again.

  Not daring to risk going back to the same street where she had tramped twice before. too frightened that the second man would find her again, she discovered another alley close enough to houses for possible custom, yet far enough from the busy centre. She was impelled to avoid both the Watch, and the lanes where other more experienced women already walked, there were many other women. Life was hard and getting harder, and Fortune was not the only starving creature on the streets. So many lost and wretched souls who plodded through the nights' shadows alone, searching for the means to keep themselves alive.

  Fortune leaned against a crumbling brick wall, aware that her path was well used. First that awful and fateful decision and the appalling humiliation that followed, but each woman promising herself it would be the only time. Deciding just once, and never again. But a second time and inevitably, a third. So finally accepting the road to ruin, and the acknowledgement of no alternative but to be a whore. Fortune wondered whether becoming accustomed made it easier. And the money of course, enough for a little too much strong beer, the path of forgetfulness. A dull mind would be a safe mind.

  It was a black night. There was no moon and thick cloud hid the stars. She pulled her hair into her collar like a scarf around her neck. The possibility of returning to John's family flickered at the back of her desperation, but she knew not only would they take one look at her condition and close the door in her face, but the thought of begging them for charity disgusted her as much as the sweaty intimacy of strangers.

  A firm hand on her shoulder made her turn quickly. The third man was unlike the others, and Fortune breathed in deeply, half gasp. She half expected him to arrest her and she feared he was an inquisitor, and turned to run, but the hand that had clasped her shoulder was alight with rings, two rubies and a thumb ring of onyx in heavy gold. His clothes were equally sumptuous, and she guessed the sheen of velvet beneath his short fur trimm
ed cape. This was likely a nobleman and not the sort of person Fortune would have expected to accost a beggarly harlot in the back streets of Canterbury.

  Much relieved and almost excited, she looked up at him, saying quickly, "Nine pence, sir." Then, looking down again at her ruined shoes, "But I have no room, nor - bed."

  Charles shook his head slightly and murmured, "How sad. I sympathise. But I have both, so you had better come with me."

  Following, tripping over her own feet, Fortune banished curiosity until they arrived at the Harlequin Inn. Here she expected to be thrown from the premises, but the gentleman took her elbow and ushered her to the stairway. No one would question a man so clearly a lord, and he led her up to the large room beneath the eaves.

  She walked in, Charles closed the door behind her, and she stood very still, staring and impressed.

  He turned, looking directly at her. "I saw you earlier," he told her. "I know something of the misfortunes that are now attacking our country, but since I have never experienced extreme hunger, nor the lack of a warm bed, I felt it just to help someone who suffers from the lack of both."

  So this one was kind. Yet she had no desire to be the object of charity, however much she needed it. His clothes were even more sumptuous in the sudden light, for he lit two tall beeswax candles which smelled sweet and banished all the shadows.

  Eventually he took up the pewter jug from the table and poured the wine, rich crimson in the candlelight, one cup for himself which he drained immediately, and the other for her. Thanking him, she took it carefully and sipped. Unused to wine except in church, and this was heady and strong, but she thought it might give courage, so drank half. It warmed and comforted her, but embarrassed by many things including his focused attention, she mumbled, "Will you pay me first, my lord?"

  "Ah yes," said Charles. "The necessity of commerce." And he unbuckled his sword, laid it on the table beside the wine jug, and untied his purse. He took out a handful of silver coins and without bothering to count them, handed them to Fortune. She held out both palms, clutched the money and gasped. Knowing there was at the least a sovereign, perhaps even two, but not wishing to be so impolite as to investigate more closely, she rummaged for her own purse, and tipped the astonishing weight into the empty leather. She looked up, bemused.