I was puzzled at the sight. ‘Does the king not hunt today?’ I asked.
‘Not this last year,’ Seagrave replied, in a confidential whisper, enjoying airing his superior knowledge. ‘He had a bad tiltyard accident — fell from his horse and the beast rolled over him. For several hours his physicians feared the worst.’
‘I heard nothing of this,’ I said.
‘It was kept very quiet. He recovered… after a fashion.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Simply that he is not the man he was. And the court is not the court it was. Few dances and maskings now. The king is troubled in his legs and moves about with difficulty. And he has had to give up his love of hunting. It irks him sore and when the king is irked… well, let us just say he becomes difficult to serve.’
I stared across at the thickset figure opposite, talking jovially with his north-country guest and found it difficult to identify this ebullient figure with the melancholy sufferer described by my companion. Another thought that troubled me was why Hugh Seagrave was sharing with me information that must certainly be confidential. If the king really was a sick man and troubled in mind, he would not want it known and that would mean that if Hugh’s indiscretion was detected he would be in serious trouble.
Suddenly a signal horn rang out away to our left. I saw the king raise a crossbow to his shoulder. Behind him and a little to one side one of his attendants also lifted his weapon. With a crash and a hullabaloo from the pursuing horsemen, a fine full-antlered stag burst through the undergrowth. I heard, rather than saw the crossbow bolts zing towards it. The animal’s headlong flight carried him several more yards before his front legs buckled and he skidded into the ground, antlers tearing up the ferns. Immediately the watchers broke into loud applause and the king received their congratulations (though which bolt had struck the fatal blow, I cannot say).
As I watched I saw Cromwell lean across and say something to the king. Henry nodded. The minister rose and called for his horse. I pointed this out to my companion. ‘We should get back to the palace,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I know a short way. Follow me.’
We very quickly found ourselves in the thickest part of the woodland and on a narrow track that only allowed us to go in single file. After about fifteen minutes I saw Hugh rein in his horse with an oath and leap from the saddle. He stooped to examine his mount’s near foreleg.
He looked up with a rueful expression. ‘Sorry about this. Wretched creature’s gone lame. You’d better ride on. I’ll only hold you up. It’s not far. This track will take you all the way.’
He drew his horse to the side to let me pass. ‘Be sure to call in on us before you leave the palace,’ he said cheerily as I rode forward.
I jogged on along a path that seemed to become narrower, with several overhanging branches beneath which I had to duck. It was after I had negotiated one of these obstacles and turned a sharp right-angled bend that I found my way barred by a man in a brown cloak, standing ten yards away and pointing a handgun at me.
Chapter 36
Startled, I brought Golding to an abrupt, protesting halt.
I was now no more than five paces from my assailant, a short, stocky man with a swarthy face. He was grinning at me along the short barrel of what I instantly knew was a wheellock pistol.
‘Master Thomas Treviot,’ the man said and his accent left me in no doubt whatsoever about his identity. ‘I regret this, sincerely I do. But, unfortunately, you have enemies who wish me to do this. So, I must bid you farewell.’ He took a careful sighting along the barrel but at this range he could not possibly miss. I had no space in which to turn my horse. The location for my assassination had been chosen carefully. If I cried out there would be no one to hear me. Escape was impossible. I was seconds from death. I mumbled the only thing I could think of.
‘Look, however much you’re being paid…’
The man merely grinned, displaying a row of blackened teeth. ‘Do not try the bribe, Master Treviot. I have my professional reputation to consider.’
Ned’s words came back to me, his plea that I should not share Robert’s fate. That was precisely what I was about to do. Why, oh why, had I not listened?
‘You don’t need to do this!’ I called out. ‘You have no grudge against me.’
‘There is nothing personal about it,’ he replied. ‘I am a mere agent. If you have made enemies…’ He shrugged. I realised that he was savouring the moment.
Suddenly — miraculously almost — that realisation cut through my panic; allowed me to think. There was no one in these dense, silent woods who could come to my aid. Il Ombra knew this as well as I. He had no need to hurry. He had plenty of time to do a clean professional job. Could I, perhaps, play on his self-confidence… make him relax, just slightly. ‘Please, oh please, spare me,’ I whined.
The Italian shook his head. ‘Impossibile.’
‘Then, in God’s name, give me a moment or two for prayer,’ I implored with a show of trembling helplessness.
‘Very well.’ He nodded and lowered his pistol slightly.
That was my chance. I leaned forward, pulled on the rein and tapped Golding’s flanks with my heels. ‘Stand,’ I whispered.
Immediately, the grey reared up, his front hooves thrashing air. The Italian staggered back, raising his hands defensively to cover his head. The pistol flew from his grasp, discharged with a bang as it hit the ground and lay hidden among the ferns. Il Ombra turned, looking for a path through the dense undergrowth. I did not wait for him to find one. I urged Golding forward, straight at the assassin. He fled along the track, his only means of escape. Within yards I ran him down. He flung himself among the ferns to his left. I leaped from the saddle and was on him instantly. We rolled around on the ground. He grasped my throat. I pummelled his face with my fists. My assailant was strong and lithe. He slipped from my grasp and staggered to his knees. I grabbed his legs and brought him down again. Now the fight began in earnest. My foe clawed with hands, struck out with booted feet and, when he could get close enough, tried to bite with his stained teeth. My responses were equally savage. Physically we were well matched but I had the advantage of unbridled fury. Weeks of grief and rage at what this man had done to my friend at last found their outlet. Anger at what I and others had suffered gave added puissance to my muscles. Slowly I felt my enemy weaken. He groaned. He shouted. He implored me, in his own language and in bastard English, to stop. His entreaties had the opposite effect. I pounded his face, my gauntlets tearing into his flesh. When eventually he lay silent I went on hitting him. Then I jumped up and aimed kick after kick at his inert body. Had I not been interrupted, I would certainly have killed the man but now I became aware of rapid hoofbeats and shouts.
I was surrounded by three of the king’s guards, all with drawn swords.
‘What’s all this?’ the captain demanded.
Struggling for breath, I tried to reply. ‘This fellow… tried to kill me… You’ll find his pistol… over there, somewhere.’ I pointed to the ferns and brambles where it had fallen. Then I sank to the ground, trembling all over.
The soldiers dismounted. One went in search of Il Ombra’s weapon while another examined the prostrate Italian. ‘He’s breathing,’ was the verdict, ‘but only just.’
‘Both of you have some explaining to do,’ the captain said. ‘Making affray in the purlieus of His Majesty’s house is a capital offence.’
His subordinate returned from among the bushes and handed over the gun.
‘Mother of God!’ the captain exclaimed. ‘What’s this?’
‘A wheellock pistol,’ I gasped.
‘I’ve heard of these,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never seen one.’ He cast a professional appraising eye over the weapon. ‘No one is allowed to carry firearms in the court except His Majesty’s guard. To do so is treason. You say it was brought here by this fellow?’