Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн бесплатно серию книг txt) 📗
Since his return from the wars in Europe Thomas had mostly remained on his small estate and overseen the planting of crops and the raising of his sheep and tending to the welfare of his tenants. On the rare visits he had made to London he had attended the royal court on a handful of occasions and, with the one exception during the reign of Catholic Queen Mary, he had not drawn any attention to himself. Even then, when he had shed a small amount of blood for which the penalty was the severing of a hand, he had not made any claim on his religion to assuage his punishment. In the event, he had been given only a small fine which some might well attribute to Mary’s preferment of a fellow Catholic. Thomas could hardly believe that his summons several years later could be due to any settling of such an old score.
He had not made common cause with any of those who protested for the rights of Catholics in public, or who plotted in private. That was a very dangerous game. Sir Robert Cecil’s spies were numerous and the rewards for those who informed against Catholics most tempting for anyone who bore a grudge or whose greed ruled them. There were some aristocrats whose faith had been used to justify the confiscation of their estates, and even their condemnation for treason. Many men had acquired great fortunes as a result of persecuting Catholics, just as many men had become rich during the earlier dissolution of the monasteries by King Henry. The same men now supported Elizabeth, as long as she guaranteed their rights over their recently acquired fortunes.
It was hard for Thomas to credit that his modest wealth had attracted the attention of Cecil or one of his faction. The only motive Robert Cecil could have for requesting his presence in London must concern the visit of the young knight from the Order. Thomas felt a shiver trace its way down his spine. If that was the reason then he had been deluding himself if he had thought that his quiet retreat in the depths of the countryside had removed him from scrutiny. It seemed that little escaped the far-seeing eyes of Cecil and his men, Thomas reflected irritably, and muttered a curse at the knights who had forced him to leave the Order. Long after he had resigned himself to spending his remaining days living a quiet life, they had grudgingly asked for his help. No doubt they would cast him out the moment the crisis passed and they felt able to dispense with his services.
The tolling of a distant bell announcing the fourth hour of the afternoon sounded and broke into Thomas’s train of thought. He stretched himself up in the saddle and eased his horse to the side of the road to see the way ahead more clearly. The loose column of travellers and wagons had just crested a low ridge which afforded a view of the capital beneath a thick pall of wood smoke. The snow resting on the rooftops already looked dirty. Half a mile away stood the great market of Smithfield where the meat traders brought in their flocks from across the country to be sold and butchered. A short distance from the pens and long rows of stalls was an open patch of ground where several thick charred timbers rose up above small mounds of compacted ash. In one place the ash was fresh and still smouldered, melting any snow that fell on it.
This was where heretics were put to death by being burned alive, Thomas knew. Once, ten years before, he had been in a vast crowd that witnessed the execution of three Protestant priests who had defied Queen Mary’s edicts by preaching in public after their licences had been revoked. The Queen had inflicted the spectacle on her entire court and had watched with prim satisfaction from an ornately padded chair set up on a dais erected for the event. Thomas could well recall the piercing screams of the men. The priests had writhed amid the flames spreading rapidly through the faggots piled below the small plinth on which their feet rested. In minutes a whirling torrent of brilliant yellow and red engulfed the bodies, which could yet be seen — blackened figures squirming against the chains that bound them as their cries of torment rose above the crackle of burning wood. The memory, still vivid even now, chilled Thomas’s heart. He averted his gaze from the stakes and clicked his tongue to urge his horse into a trot.
Beyond Smithfield was the city wall. Once it had been a formidable line of defence but had long since fallen into neglect. There were gaps in its length where sections had collapsed, and the ditch that had once surrounded the city was now filled in with generations of rubbish and human waste. A powerful stench filled the chilly air as Thomas passed through the wide arch at Newgate and entered London. The sounds of the great city assaulted him from all sides. The cries of street traders, the bawling of infants and the shouts of those striving to be heard above the din filled his ears, just as the odours of baking bread, cooked and rancid meat, and the stink of sewage filled his nostrils. The main thoroughfares of London were crowded by the buildings pressing in from each side and looming overhead where each storey of a building projected out above the one beneath, lending the streets a murky gloom that depressed Thomas’s soul.
It was with some relief as the light faded beyond the jagged lines of the rooftops and cast London into the realm of shadows that he turned on to the wider road along Holborn. Thomas ignored the hawkers who hurried alongside his horse trying to sell him snacks or handkerchiefs, and he kept a close eye on his saddlebags to ensure that no cutpurse attempted to snatch anything as he rode by. At length, he saw the entrance to Drury Lane and turned his mount into a somewhat quieter street. The shops on either side were well appointed and neatly painted signs advertised a variety of expensive goods: fine cloth, wines and cheeses, silverware and glassware imported from Europe. In between the shops were large houses, increasing in size and opulence as the lane approached Aldwych and the Thames a short distance beyond.
As the last of the daylight faded, Thomas stopped a boy running an errand with a small parcel tucked securely under his arm. He asked for Cecil’s house and was directed to an imposing property occupying the comer that Drury Lane shared with another street. The facade fronted Drury Lane with finely carved timbers and geometric patterns of brickwork. A gate to the side led into a small courtyard with stables and a pair of burly servants barred Thomas’s way until he announced his appointment with their master, having dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a groom. He was led through a door into the rear of the house and handed over to one of the neatly dressed house servants wearing the same blue as the messenger who had arrived at Thomas’s estate the day before.
Once more Thomas explained the purpose of his visit and was taken through the main hall of the house and up a flight of stairs and along a corridor illuminated by candles that dimly revealed paintings hanging on the panelled walls, almost every one of them depicting a hunting scene or a dour-looking family member. There was only one painting depicting a religious scene, Thomas noted, before he was led into a small waiting room lined with wooden benches and warmed and illuminated by a fire. A slender young man was busy adding several fresh logs to the modest blaze. He looked over his shoulder as Thomas was shown into the room. His features were dark and delicate-looking, and his eyes were brown and lent his gaze a piercing aspect that Thomas found vaguely unsettling.
‘I will inform the master’s secretary that you have arrived, sir,’ the servant announced. ‘Do you wish me to bring you any refreshment while you wait?’
‘I would be grateful for a cup of warmed mead. ’
‘Mead?’ The servant’s eyebrows rose a fraction and Thomas could not help being amused by the man’s inability to place him neatly in some niche on the hierarchy of London’s social classes. His clothes were well made but unadorned and his hair was close cut, like his beard, with no attempt at the precise styling of the more fashionable type of gentleman. Thomas could have passed for a well-to-do tradesman or a country yeoman, but his business with Sir Robert Cecil hinted at something more and the servant bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sir. Mead it is.’
