4:35pm Wednesday 28th February 2007
MAY 1583
THE blade scythed through the surface of the water. A string of droplets fell back into the river, glistening in the evening sun.
Richard Brock wiped his brow, wrapped his fingers around the oars, then leaned into the next stroke.
His shoulder muscles were burning.
For the first six miles he had been working upriver, pulling against the tide as well as the flow of the current. Now they had rounded the bend above Chiswick and he felt the current slacken, letting him pause for breath. His hands were raw, the blisters filling with blood. He let the oars hang for a moment as he caught his breath. A bead of sweat splashed the timber beneath his feet, spreading through the weathered wood.
The boat slowed, turning in the current. In the stern, Brock's passenger stirred. Phelippes had been silent for the last hour, rocked to sleep by the steady beat of the oars. Brock watched a string of drool fall from his lips and sway onto his cloak.
Then Phelippes' eyes flicked open.
"Put your back into it," he growled. "We're drifting. I said we'd reach Mortlake before sunset."
Phelippes scooped a handful of water from the river and splashed his face. "The Doctor has other work to do after the sun sets."
Brock dropped his gaze as Phelippes turned pale blue eyes in his direction. Brock hated Phelippes. He hated his scowl, hated his voice, hated the smell of him. Brock closed his eyes.
Hate was a sin, and sin must be avoided though, God knows, he found that hard. If he could not see his face, it would be easier to forget his hatred. Such a pity he was in the man's debt. He had sold himself too cheaply. Now he belonged to Phelippes.
"My hands are bleeding. I'll rest for a moment."
Brock chewed the skin on his palms, bursting the blisters, tasting the tang of his own blood. Brock was a musician, not a boatman. He was ruining the hands that earned his living.
"You can rest when we reach Mortlake.
Until then, whipjack, row," Brock dipped his oars into the current and heaved.
T HAT evening the pair had walked down Seething Lane towards the Thames, picking their way through city streets muddy from the spring rains. They passed the Tower of London and found the steps that led to the river. Phelippes had sought out his regular boatman, Carter Reed, who was leaning on the oars of his wherry. Phelippes slipped Reed twenty angels, well above the usual fare. The boatman had stared at the fistful of silver, his mouth open.
"That's very generous, Master Phelippes.
Where d'you want to go?" Then Carter looked troubled. The watermen had a reputation for overcharging their passengers. Travel on the Thames involved haggling over the fare. So any man who offered cash was either a fool or a villain.
"We need the boat. But we will not need you."
"Do I look mazed, sir? Lend the boat to a stranger?" He nodded towards the water. "You know the tides? The currents, they're different every hour.
They'd fish you out at Gravesend, wet and dead, sir. Wet and dead." He tried to hand back the coins.
Phelippes ignored the money. He stood for a moment, as if weighing the boatman's words, gazing up the river.
Wherries dotted the surface of the water, ferrying passengers from the city to the south bank. Larger vessels waited by the quays, sails furled. The Jesus of Lubeck', a slaver of seven hundred tons, was unloading Castile soap, hops, frizado, crossbow heads and fifteen hundredweight of madder.
The whole of London seemed to be moving across the water. All this time Brock sat on the steps, waiting. He was in no hurry. He closed his eyes, felt the sun on his face. The sun shone through his eyelids, a warm orange glow. This time of the year the river smelled of grass and sunshine. Come summer it would stink like an open sewer. But now it was washed clean by the spring rain.
It was good just to sit there, listening to the sound of the city. Brock would wait, until his master decided their course.
Phelippes leaned closer to the boatman.
He whispered that his young friend, Brock, would row him upriver.
Brock was strong. Brock could handle a boat. He knew the river. It was lies and Carter suspected as much. It had taken him years it master the knowledge of the Thames - his livelihood depended on it.
Carter Reed imagined his boat disappearing for good, stolen or lost, drifting down to the sea. Yet the coins in his hands felt good. He opened his fingers.
The angels glittered in his palm. His mind was on the gage of booze he could buy instead of working himself to death on the river. Phelippes clamped Carter's wrist in his own bony claw, then shook more coins from his purse. Silver angels clattered down the steps. Carter Reed watched them roll towards the water.
"To keep the others company,"
whispered Phelippes. He closed the boatman's fingers over the money. It would take Carter a month to earn that.
Reed slipped the silver into his jerkin.
If Phelippes wanted his journey to be a secret, so be it. He knew Sir Thomas Phelippes. If he could not persuade, then he would bribe. If not bribe, then threaten. Phelippes had men killed. He always got what he wanted.
To be continued..
© Copyright 2001-2012 Newsquest Media Group
http://www.thenorthernecho.co.uk/trade_directory/