Death Comes Hot Page 2

  ‘You’ve cut me!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘You cut yerself,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘Get used to it, because when I do it, you’ll feel it more.’

  ‘Why do you want to hurt me?’ I said, trying an offended tone of voice.

  ‘You know why, else you wouldn’t have tried to slide away over your roof, would ye?’ He shoved me back until I was against the wall, and now the blade was at my windpipe. I swallowed – carefully.

  ‘Hal, how do you expect a fellow to behave when you come and beat down his door? I have some people who are not friendly towards me.’

  ‘Aye, I can believe that,’ he said uncharitably. The blade was still at my throat, and I tried to keep my Adam’s apple from moving too much as I swallowed.

  ‘Have I upset you?’

  His face lurched towards me, and I tried to avoid the spittle as he shouted, ‘Have you upset me? What do you think? You sold me that powder, and it was no good, was it?’

  ‘Well, I did say that it was a little …’

  ‘You said it was fine, and you charged me for it! And now it’s all over London that I can’t even kill a priest!’

  And there you have it. A nasty case, certainly, and I could see that he might have grown annoyed with my little trade, but that was no reason to try to shave my head from my body.

  I suppose I should explain.

  Hal Westmecott was a renowned fellow in London. His rough, unkempt appearance was largely due to his business as an executioner, but when I say that, I don’t mean it was a career choice to look scruffy. It was not that he was a rough, tough fellow who prided himself on looking the part. No. Hal Westmecott looked unkempt and a mess because he was invariably drunk. When he took a slash at a victim, his blade often went awry, and his efforts tended to be met with ribald comments or horror-struck intakes of breath. Everyone had heard of him, although very few people knew what he looked like, of course. He had a face that was instantly recognizable to me now, but all that most people saw of him was his hood and mask, with two madly staring, bloodshot eyes.

  As to his poor victims – well, they must have been prey to extreme dismay on hearing who would put them out of their woes. I once heard that a nobleman, sentenced to beheading, had walked to his headsman before his ending and felt the axe’s edge with a dubious expression. No doubt he was justified. Many told of Westmecott having to take a second or third swing before he managed to take the head from its body. One had roundly condemned him after the third blow had removed his ear but missed his neck.

  It was hard on those about to die, but no easier on Westmecott, I felt. I could all too easily imagine the self-loathing and horror, every night waking screaming at the memory of the anguished souls he had forced to suffer. Even a brute like him must grow to despise himself and his office. No man can end lives daily without being affected. They must seek to escape it, and all too often the easiest escape and means of losing unwanted memories was in a bottle. A brutalized man sought oblivion so he didn’t have to look at himself in the mirror.

  Yes, his competence was questionable. When he brought down his axe, his blade oft missed his target; when he performed a hanging, even when he tried to reduce the suffering of his victims, he often missed his cue and forgot to call the family forward to jump on the body and end things more swiftly. But he wanted to do a good job, I daresay.

  The previous week he had knocked at my door, and while I tried to escape the deadly fumes emanating from his foul mouth, he told me that he had heard that I possessed a quantity of black powder, the explosive powder used to launch missiles from cannons or bullets from handguns. Someone had told this noddle-pate that I was the proud owner of a wheel-lock pistol and had a supply of powder. He wanted to buy some.

  Well, I was not happy with the idea of the fatuous brute having access to powder. What, was he going to enter the sixteenth century at last and dispatch his next unfortunate with a more humane, modern device? No, I didn’t think so either. It was not that the fellow was so deep sunk in depravity that he wished to inflict as much pain and fear as possible; it was more that he was constantly drunk, and, besides, he had no understanding of modern firearms. He could have slaughtered the by-standers.

  ‘Why do you want powder?’ I asked.

  Admittedly, many children enjoy playing with a little powder. They would use it in miniature cannons to create the setting for a battlefield when playing with toy soldiers; others played with it, setting alight long trails of the stuff. I had done that myself with my first small barrel. After drinking rather too much strong wine, I thought it would be amusing to ignite a line of powder. It lit and fizzed and sparked delightfully along my hearthstone. It was so enjoyable (and made my companion squeak and giggle so voluptuously) that I instantly created a line that swerved like a snake’s track in sand. I set one end on fire, and the trail was instantly a mass of flames and hissing as it ran along the snake-like track most satisfyingly. Indeed, it was so appealing that I made a circular spiral of powder and lit the end. There was a short sizzle, and then a loud report as the powder exploded, taking my eyebrows and moustache with it.

  I didn’t try to make pretty patterns from powder again.

  But Hal Westmecott was no child, and nor was he the sort to seek intellectual diversions with powder. If he wanted powder, it was no doubt for a specific requirement.

  ‘Do you have it or not?’ he grunted, his brows dropping alarmingly. When he did that, he reminded me of some of the apes I had seen in the bestiary, but they looked like cuddly poppets compared to this.

  I was about to deny any knowledge of powders when he pulled coins from his purse. ‘I have money,’ he said simply.

  ‘Well, of course,’ I said. ‘I only wondered why you wanted it, but if you want it, I’d be happy to help.’

  And that was that, or so I thought at the time. Because at that moment I didn’t realize what he wanted it for.

  He wanted to burn a priest to death.

  Well, each of us has our own pastimes, I suppose. Personally, there was a ginger-haired little minx who worked at the Cardinal’s Hat, down at Southwark in the Bishop of Winchester’s parish, with whom I would have enjoyed a few diversions. She would have been an enthusiastic entertainment according to all I had heard from Piers, the man who stood as apple-squire to the doxies inside. He said that she … but in any case, Hal Westmecott was not the sort of man who could afford her, let alone aspire to possess such a beauty. No, his tastes ran to an entirely different level.

  I admit candidly that, had I known what he wanted my powder for at the time, I would have been more cautious. As it was, I supplied him with a pound or so and took his money. I could afford to give him that much, because it came from a barrel I had owned for some while, and the powder had grown a little damp in my cellar. Damp powder can produce misfires or cause the firing hole to rust over, so I didn’t want to use it in my gun. I sold it to him and thought nothing more of it.

  The news came to me a little later when I was sitting in the Blue Bear with some companions.

  ‘There’s another priest to be executed,’ said one whose name was Matt, laying down a domino with the air of a man who would shortly be able to buy a barrel of ale with his winnings.

  ‘Who?’ demanded another, morosely surveying his tiles in the hope that a beneficial Creator had changed the numbers for him.

  ‘The vicar of some small church in the city. He refused to recant some sermon or other, and the authorities came down hard. He’s to be burned at the stake … Can you go?’

  ‘I’m just thinking! Give me a little time. What was he talking about?’

  ‘Who knows what these fools talk about? Something to do with idolatry, or the use of texts that no one can understand except priests, or some such or other.’

  ‘Hmm. He should have thought before he used inflammatory language,’ murmured a third. This was a tall, horse-faced man in his late twenties who affected a superior manner, although he was no better born than I was, I’d swear
. He chuckled to himself, but none of us could see why.

  ‘Are you going to take your go?’ Matt said again. He was a shortish, plump fellow with a face like a fresh apple. At different times, he could look like an apple as autumn struck, rosy-cheeked as a young maid, and other times, usually in the morning, he could look as green as a young apple that was sour as a sloe.

  His opponent, a scrawny wretch named Picksniff, grumbled and complained, but eventually threw down a piece and picked up his black leather mug and drank deeply. He had the look of a man who would as happily draw his knife and stab young Matt as continue with this game.

  Matt glanced at me and then over to the aristocratic figure slumped elegantly on a bench. ‘We should go and watch. It should be entertaining, after all.’

  I had no wish to watch another man’s final moments. It was common enough in those days for the better elements to go and view a burning or a hanging. After all, everyone needs a diversion, and from the look on Picksniff’s face, this game was not proving to be so appealing. He and Matt might enjoy the walk, but I had no wish to see it. In all truth, the mere thought had the gorge rising in my throat. ‘You fellows go,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Thus it was that I heard about Hal’s disaster only later, when the men returned to the tavern and told me.

  ‘It was the most amusing thing you ever saw,’ Matt gurgled. ‘The expression on the executioner’s face was a picture!’

  I have to rely on Matt and Picksniff for the following account. I don’t think many people could bear the thought of being burned to death at the stake without a shudder of horror. Not easily. And in some ways, of course, it would be worse to watch such an execution as a relative of the victim. Hearing their cries and screams, I mean. You know, a fellow could watch someone dangling from a hanging tree for a few minutes before running and jumping on the wriggling body to put them out of their misery. But a burning? There is little a fellow can do to stop the suffering. There is one way, and only one: bribe the executioner, so that he puts bags of powder at the groin, armpits or breast. As the heat grows, the powder ignites and pouf! End of suffering.

  That day I had better things to do than witness two or three men being slowly roasted over a pyre of faggots. I’ve heard that it takes a couple of London carts full of wood to entirely destroy a human body. It goes to show, I suppose, that the folk of London are prepared to pay for their entertainment. Personally, I find a meal at a good inn, washed down with plenty of ale and followed by a short walk to the nearest brothel, suits my temperament far better. After all, I have seen my fair share of bodies.

  But others are not so inclined. They go to Smithfield in their hordes whenever the burnings are announced, and stand at the barriers, peering excitedly as they wait for the arrival of the victims. The vendors of ancient pies and supposed sausages would wander among them, as would the hopeful harlots, offering something rather more comforting than the gristle-stuffed lumps of intestine, and the cut-purses who would invariably come away with the greatest profits of the day. There were times when I wished I was back there, watching the people and dipping into other men’s purses. I had been poor, but my troubles seemed minor compared with my more recent difficulties.

  But more of my problems later.

  That day the victims were not long in appearing. They had already been supplied with a large bowl of ale to send them on their way with a full belly that would hopefully soothe their fears as they approached their posts. Three large wagons brought the faggots, one per person. These arrived first, and the executioner’s assistants began throwing them about the two posts which were set waiting. Their job was only half done when the victims arrived.

  They didn’t walk, these fellows, but were brought to the place of execution on a wagon. All were in clerical costume and were praying. Two were older, but the third was a younger man who was, so I am told, a good-looking example, not that I ever met him, poor devil. I doubt he looked good that day. He was tall, with thin dark hair, and a way of leaning his head forward as though stretching his neck in the urgent desire to hear another’s words. His brows were constantly creased as if anxiously desiring to help others, as a priest should be. Not that it helped him.

  I did not know his brother Geoffrey at that stage, but later I heard that Geoffrey was in the crowd, as well as my friends from the inn. I imagine he was weeping and praying for some form of amnesty even at that late hour. Miracles could happen; miracles should happen, and he could not understand why his brother was there, about to die. What had he done, other than preach a sermon? He was a deeply religious man, who had never done harm to another. But in this topsy-turvy kingdom, the religion that had been imposed by the old King Henry some years before, was now to be evicted, and the Roman faith was to return by order of the Queen. No one argued with a Queen, or any other monarch. For to argue was a short path to the execution grounds. Queen Mary disliked dissent. She had been anointed Queen, and that meant she was God’s chosen ruler, in receipt of His authority. No one could argue with her, for to argue with her was to argue with God. That was heretical. Or something.

  There was to be no miraculous intervention that day.

  Matt laughed, he told me, as the wagon was brought forward, the hooded executioner walking behind with an assistant. The horses were halted, and the three priests slowly disembarked, standing in a huddle. The guards who had walked with them from the prison spread out inside the fenced ring, their polearms in their hands, some leaning on the fence, others standing in a moderately military manner. None appeared to pay much attention. They had all seen such sights before.

  Geoffrey had, too – but not like this. Later, he told me, he had tears in his eyes and a tightness at his brow as the men went about their business. It felt as if his head was in a clamp and an executioner was tightening it. He watched as the three were chained to their posts, his brother James on his own, the other two back to back on the other, the little bags hung about their necks, other bags tied between their legs, more faggots arranged about them, and then the oil sprinkled liberally over the wood. A Catholic priest intoned the last rites, making the sign of the cross, and then a burning torch was brought and thrust into the faggots by the executioner, the flames rising, the noise of crackling, the sudden flare as clothing caught, the screams and anguish, and then the reports, loud and forgiving, as powder exploded, killing two of the priests before they could be forced to suffer too much or too long.

  But one priest did not receive that same generous death. He remained in the flames, squirming, as the heat grew, coughing and calling for an end to his suffering. They say he was calling for a half hour.

  No, I didn’t go. But I heard about it from Matt and Picksniff, and that was bad enough.

  ‘Why? What went wrong?’

  The aristocrat, who was named George, took up his seat once more. ‘The fellow had hung a bag of gunpowder about the priest’s neck, so that, as the flames rose, his suffering would be put at an end. However, the powder was not good, or the fool had used the wrong powder. Perhaps he had mistaken ground pepper corns for explosive? In any event, the bag did not explode.’

  ‘It didn’t?’ I said.

  ‘No. There was a sad kind of fizzing, and then some did detonate, but he was long dead before that.’

  ‘The flames got to him?’

  ‘No!’ Matt laughed, interrupting to take up the story again. ‘He began berating the executioner for failing to serve him after he had paid for a speedy conclusion, and even as he said that, the platform he stood on collapsed, and a beam holding up the post he was bound to fell and broke his neck. It was delightfully ironic. He met a swift end as he wished, the hangman succeeded in his ambition to execute the priest, but neither achieved their aims in the manner they had anticipated.’

  George chuckled again, but it struck me that there was little humour in his face.

  And you may not believe this, but at the time it did not occur to me that this might come back to haunt me, or that there mi
ght be a child involved, or the rivalry between the Queen and her half-sister, or a runaway wife and her child. I did not think about the man lighting the fire to kill the priest. Why should I? There was more than one executioner in London. Queen Mary was determined to ensure that, no matter what, her reign would see to it that the apprenticeships for that single profession would rise, if no other did.

  I had no idea that the hideous Hal Westmecott was the priest’s executioner. No, and my powder surely was not so damp as to be useless. It was just unreliable in my pistol. I had sold it in good faith – well, moderately good faith. In any case, Matt and I set to with a fresh game of dominoes, and put the dead priest from our minds.

  It was only later, when Westmecott caught me, that I learned that the Queen’s executioner was looking for me because something had gone horribly wrong, and he blamed me.

  So you will understand why, when Hal Westmecott had me cornered after I had fled across the roof of my house and the next two besides, I was not entirely comfortable. His mouth opened, and I was forced to stare into that gaping maw once more. I winced at the odours.

  ‘You made me look a fool in front o’ the crowd,’ he said.

  ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘You gave me the wrong powder, didn’t you? You thought I was too stupid to realize.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. You wanted gunpowder, and I sold you some.’

  ‘The powder you sold me didn’t work!’ he shouted, head jutting.

  I am known for my courage, I think it is fair to say, but this man was alarming. I thought he might headbutt me in a moment, and tried to jerk away, but that only brought a stinging sensation at my throat. I winced. That blasted edge was keen. When I continued, I attempted a more soothing tone. ‘Perhaps you didn’t use it right?’

  He growled at that. ‘You think me a fool?’

  Suddenly, the blade at my throat pressed more heavily. You may find this hard to believe, but I had thought it could not press harder. Now it felt as if it must pass through and lodge in my spine. I gave a quiet moan of fear, trying to draw my neck away from danger. That sword really was astonishingly sharp. I tried to breathe more carefully. I wasn’t going to argue any further, but I confess the idea that the powder was all that sodden seemed unlikely.