Chaos Read online

  A. D. Swanston

  * * *

  Chaos

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Andrew Swanston read law at Cambridge, but was inspired to write by his lifelong interest in early modern history. His Thomas Hill novels – The King’s Spy, The King’s Exile and The King’s Return – are set against the backdrops of the English Civil War, Cromwell’s Commonwealth and the early Restoration respectively. He is also the author of Waterloo: The Bravest Man and Beautiful Star and Other Stories. His first historical thriller set during the reign of Elizabeth I – Incendium (published in paperback as The Incendium Plot) – introduced readers to the academic, lawyer and intelligencer Dr Christopher Radcliff, whose adventures continue in Chaos. Andrew Swanston lives in Surrey.

  Also by A. D. Swanston

  The King’s Spy

  The King’s Exile

  The King’s Return

  Incendium

  Waterloo: The Bravest Man

  Beautiful Star and Other Stories

  For my family

  CHRONOLOGY

  1530Ambrose Dudley born

  Gabriel Browne born

  1532Robert Dudley born

  1534Caroline Lovelace born

  1540Christopher Radcliff born

  1542Henry VIII’s ‘Great Debasement’ of the currency

  1547Henry dies

  Edward VI becomes king

  Protectorate established

  1549Popular uprisings

  1551‘Dudley testons’ first appear

  Simon Lovelace born

  1553Edward dies

  Mary I becomes queen

  Earl of Warwick and Guilford Dudley executed

  Ambrose and Robert Dudley held in the Tower of London

  1556Christopher Radcliff matriculates at Pembroke Hall

  1558Mary dies

  Elizabeth I becomes queen

  1559Christopher Radcliff graduates and becomes a tutor

  1560Amy Robsart, wife of Robert Dudley, dies

  1562Revaluation of the coinage

  1566Christopher Radcliff appointed recruiter for Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester

  1567Edward Allington dies

  1569Christopher Radcliff convicted of assault and gaoled in Norwich; rescued by Leicester and travels to London

  Katherine Allington follows

  1572Massacre of Huguenots in France

  Christopher Radcliff foils Incendium plot

  Caroline Lovelace dies in Bedlam

  1574CHAOS

  CHAPTER 1

  London, February 1574

  On the first day of February Christopher and Katherine had been on their way to Ludgate Hill from the house of her aunt, Isabel Tranter, in Wood Street and only by chance had found themselves at Smithfield as the clock of the church of St Martin struck twelve. Caught up in the crowd – at least one hundred strong, fuelled by ale and beer and seemingly impervious to the cold – they had been unable to drag themselves away and for reasons that neither of them could have explained, stood arm in arm, silent and expectant.

  In their pens, pigs waiting to be butchered sensed the excitement, grunting and squealing and snapping at each other. Their steaming breath rose in the freezing air to mingle with that of the onlookers. It was as if the animals knew that the place which had witnessed so many executions was about to witness another.

  Pie-sellers and fishwives with trays of oysters taken that morning from the beds downriver from the bridge touted their wares at double the prices they would normally ask and the tradesmen and -women who had gathered for the spectacle paid a penny for a small beaker of ale supplied by the girls sent out from the Crossed Keys or twopence for a tankard of kiss-the-donkey – a foul concoction, but popular on hanging and burning days.

  Christopher felt a tug at his gown and looked down to see a filthy, barefoot child with palm open in the hope of a coin. He shook his head and shooed the child away. Give one a farthing in a crowd like this and, like ants, another ten would appear. Instinctively he checked that his purse was safe under his shirt and put a hand on the hilt of the slim blade tucked into his belt. Pickpockets and cutpurses would be moving through the crowd on the hunt for easy pickings. He had heard that an hour at a burning or a hanging could be worth a week’s hard toil at Cheapside market or Billingsgate.

  A cheer went up and a flat cart drawn by a half-starved pony trundled into the square from the direction of Newgate. An old woman only partially covered by the shreds of a filthy shift sat huddled on it, bound and tied and unable to protect herself from hands reaching out to scratch at her eyes or tug at her hair. Neither the magistrate, a fat, ruddy-faced man, nor the two blue-coated constables guarding her made much effort to stop them. An exposed breast hung loose and spent like the udder of a cow too old to give milk. A trickle of blood ran down a mud-caked cheek. Shaking with cold and fear, the woman raised her eyes to her tormentors and sent forth a stream of yellow spittle.

  Beside Christopher a tall man in a leather jerkin hoisted his blubbering daughter on to his shoulders. ‘There, child,’ he growled, ‘you’ll see her burn from there. Now shut your mouth or you’ll join the witch.’ The child sniffed and did as she was told.

  The magistrate and his constables used their staffs to clear a path through the crush, cracking knees and ankles as they went and ignoring the howls of protest. When they reached the middle of the square the constables dragged the woman off the cart and tied her to a post surrounded by a pyre of dry faggots laid ready for her. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and her mouth opened and closed as if she was trying to speak but could not. From the window of a house overlooking the square the contents of a shit bucket were thrown down and splattered over her. The crowd bellowed their approval. ‘Burn the witch.’ ‘Send her to hell.’ Each voice louder and more insistent than the last.

  A butcher in a blood-soaked leather apron, brandishing a heavy-looking meat cleaver, stepped forward and faced the crowd, which had formed itself into a semicircle perhaps ten paces back from the unlit fire. ‘Let me have the bitch,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll cut her up for the swine.’ Unwilling to be deprived of their entertainment, harsh voices soon shouted him down and he sloped off muttering obscenities.

  A young mother with a child at her breast threw a stone with her free hand at the woman. Her aim was true and blood ran in a bright red stream from the woman’s head. Again the crowd cheered. But when another old woman – this one covered only by a ragged kirtle – jumped out of the crowd and, holding her arms aloft, proclaimed tearfully that her sister was no witch and guilty of no crime, she was jeered until a constable shoved her roughly to the ground and ordered her to hold her tongue. The woman scrambled back i
nto the crowd on her hands and knees and disappeared from sight.

  A constable rang a bell and the magistrate held up his arms for silence. When he could be heard he spoke in a voice powerful enough to carry around the square. ‘I am Gilbert Knoyll, magistrate of this ward. This woman …’ he paused briefly to consult a constable, ‘… Jane Riley has been tried and found guilty of the crime of murder by witchcraft and has been sentenced to death by burning. Let all here take note that the same fate awaits any who offend God and the Crown in this way.’ He took a moment to cast his eyes over the grinning faces, saw that they would tolerate no more delay and signalled to the constables to put their torches to the pyre. They did so and watched while the kindling caught. The crowd strained to see the flames.

  At first, there were but thin wisps of smoke. The woman had regained her voice. She struggled feebly against her binding and in a pitiful croak called down God’s wrath on her killers. When the faggots caught and flames began to lick about her feet, she shrieked and shrieked and went on shrieking until one of the constables threw half a pail of water over her to slow the fire’s progress and prolong her suffering. Soon the flames took hold again. Very quickly, they raced up her legs, her eyes opened wide in silent agony and she slumped forward, held in place only by the rope. Her head fell to her chest, her hair crackled and finally, in the torment of fire, she died. Intent upon the spectacle, the crowd, at first raucous, had gone eerily silent.

  The stench of burning flesh – a sweet, sickly, gut-churning stench – filled the square. The pigs caught it and shrieked their terror, threatening to trample their post-and-rail pen to the ground and run amok around the square.

  Their entertainment over, the crowd began to disperse – men into the Crossed Keys, women to their homes or to work. Christopher covered his nose and tried to cough the smell from his mouth and throat. Katherine turned her head to him and hid her face against his shoulder. He could hear her whispering the Lord’s Prayer and put his arm around her. It did not stop her shaking.

  They did not wait for what remained of the woman to be swept up and removed for disposal in the river or at some unmarked spot in Moorfields or Holborn, but hurried on to Ludgate Hill. They spoke no more that day of what they had seen.

  CHAPTER 2

  The clock of the church of St Martin struck seven. It had been as harsh a winter as any could remember and as yet no sign of spring. More snow had fallen in the night and icicles hung outside the window of the bed chamber. Christopher put a hand on the swell of a hip and squeezed gently. Katherine rolled over to face him and propped herself up on an elbow. Despite their excesses, her skin glowed and her green eyes shone. She brushed aside a strand of her auburn hair and traced a line down his cheek with a finger. ‘How you have changed, Christopher,’ she said quietly. ‘There was never such ferocity in you as I felt last night. It was as if some ungodly hand had drawn it from you.’

  He ran a dry tongue over his lips and tried to work some saliva into his mouth. ‘It is injustice that draws it from me. Injustice and unnecessary suffering. The slaughter of innocent Huguenot women and children; a gobber-toothed old crone dying in agony on the fire.’ The woman they had seen perish in the flames had been found guilty not only of practising witchcraft but also of causing her one-eyed husband to be seized by convulsions so severe that he had swallowed his tongue and choked to death. One neighbour had testified that he had seen her flying through the night sky, another that she had found a headless cat on her doorstep. Among the woman’s possessions had been discovered a pestle and mortar suitable for crushing the poisonous berries of the laurel or the yew, and a child’s rag doll with a single eye. Evidence enough for her to be tried at the assizes and sentenced to die in the flames.

  ‘Did you not think her a witch?’ asked Katherine.

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘The marks were on her. The jury was in no doubt.’

  Christopher pushed himself up. ‘I cannot buy a penny news sheet without its being full of reports of witch trials, yet how many of those who are tried can so much as lift a hand to defend themselves? As for the marks, you have three moles on your back, yet I do not think you a witch. The woman was old and ignorant – nothing more. Some may believe in the devil’s handmaidens. I do not. Wise women with a knowledge of plants and herbs and their healing properties, even an ability to see into the future, I can believe in, but a pact with Satan? Nonsense. Superstition born of ignorance. Burning her was an act of barbarity. It recalled the streets of Paris and horrors I wish never to witness again.’

  Katherine climbed over him to reach the smock lying on the floor. She pulled it into the bed and held it to her breasts to warm it before putting it on. ‘Enough. I too regret the manner of the witch’s death but I believe her execution was necessary. You will not persuade me otherwise and eighteen months have passed since the bloodshed in Paris. I understand that it still causes you anguish but let us not begin the day by speaking of it.’

  ‘The slaughter in France has made irrational fools out of sensible folk. Fear of papists has become fear of the ungodly and fear of the ungodly has become fear of papists. Suddenly there are witches and conjurors and evil all about us. Suddenly that which was once thought absurd is commonplace – witches who fly at night, conjurors who commune with the devil. Fantasy is taken as fact and innocent men and women suffer. The gods of anarchy and chaos must be rubbing their hands with glee at what is to come.’

  ‘Christopher, that is blasphemous. And you exaggerate.’

  ‘Do I? You did not see what I saw on the streets of Paris and Amiens.’ Not only did Katherine not see the unspeakable horrors of the slaughter in Paris, as a Catholic she was inclined to disbelieve half the stories she heard about that terrible time.

  ‘I did not, and thank God for it. I pray the images that plague your nights and your mind will soon leave you.’ She reached out to touch his cheek. ‘Now, dress yourself and come down to the kitchen or you’ll die of cold in this chamber. That window shutter must be repaired. It is no protection in the winter. The wind blew through it all night. Did you not hear it rattling?’ She slipped into the smock and covered it with a simple gown.

  ‘I was too busy with my dreams.’ As if to banish them, he shook his head like a terrier with a rat. ‘Be off, wench, light the fire and prepare breakfast. My stomach is empty and my mouth full of dust. I need food and drink.’

  Katherine threw a shoe at him. ‘I am neither wench nor cook, Dr Radcliff, and you will guard your tongue or sleep alone and go hungry.’ When she slammed the door, the shutter rattled alarmingly.

  Christopher knew that no amount of food or drink would rid his mind of what he had seen on St Bartholomew’s Day in Paris two summers before. It never did. And the dreams, although less frequent, were no less intense. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  As so often after love-making his thoughts turned to the strange journey that had brought him to this place at this time. From commoner pupil to Doctor of Law at Pembroke Hall, from convicted killer – albeit by accident in a drunken tavern brawl on the day of his mother’s funeral – to service as intelligencer for the Earl of Leicester. Once the verbal swordplay of disputation in the comfort of a Cambridge college, now an endless search for England’s enemies among the alleys and hovels and the halls and mansions of London. Unlike Katherine, he did not see the hand of God in this, or in any earthly affairs, such as his own misfortune. He had lashed out; the man had fallen, cracked his head and died. He had been tried and convicted, only saved from hanging by the testimony of John Young, Master of Pembroke Hall, and would have languished in Norwich gaol until he died had the earl not used his influence to have him released. Christopher had been a good recruiter of clever young men to Leicester’s service and the earl had offered him a position as an intelligencer in London. The hand at work had been an earthly one. God had not been present.

  He had grown close to Katherine after the death of her husband, Edward Allington, and she had travelled with him to the
city, in part to care for her ageing Aunt Isabel, in part to be near him. She a devout Catholic, he a doubting Protestant, they argued often, on occasions bitterly, and, recently, even more often. He had wondered if they were nearing a fork in the road, at which they would either travel on in the same direction or go their separate ways.

  Of course, there was no purpose in peering into a future he could not predict or in dwelling on what fate had brought him, yet sometimes he could not help himself. Even a lawyer’s rigorous mind did not always behave rationally.

  Katherine called from the kitchen: ‘Make haste, Christopher. The fire is lit and your breakfast is on the table.’ He stretched his long legs, forced himself out of the bed and struggled into the woollen shirt and trousers he had discarded the night before. He held up the little hand mirror that had once belonged to his mother, grimaced at what he saw and ran a hand through his thick yellow hair and over the stubble on his chin and cheeks. It was past time that he visited the jolly little barber in Fleet Street who would shave him, anoint him with lavender oil or rose water – ‘purchased at great cost from an avaricious apothecary, sir’ – pass on whatever gossip he had picked up as he trimmed beards and pared nails, and offer to let his blood – ‘nothing finer for improving the balance of the humours, sir’ – and all for three pence. The barber – barber-surgeon, he tried to insist upon – was one of a dozen or so tradesmen who had no inkling that their customer was the Earl of Leicester’s chief intelligencer in London and cheerfully chattered away like songbirds: blatherers to a man. Much of what they said was empty twaddle but now and again a shiny nugget emerged from the heap of dross. It was worth encouraging them and paying attention just in case. He took a deep breath and, a little unsteadily, went down to the kitchen.

  Katherine had prodded the fire into life and laid out manchet bread, beef and a jug of small beer. ‘Why will you not permit me to find you a new housekeeper, Christopher?’ she demanded. ‘There is little enough food in the house without some of it humming with maggots.’ When his elderly housekeeper had died the previous year Christopher had not troubled to replace her but chose to manage alone or to be ministered to by Katherine. He had hoped that the lack of a housekeeper might induce her to spend more nights here than at her aunt’s house, but the hope had been misplaced. She had made it clear that, much as she loved him, she lived in Wood Street, not on Ludgate Hill. A widow, she insisted, must maintain at least an appearance of respectability. Privately, Christopher thought this absurd but he knew better than to try to persuade her otherwise. Katherine was not a lady who readily changed her mind.