Reverend Mr Veal and Roger Durrell.
While the Duke’s party were disembarking, I moved away from the ash tree, following a line of hedgerow towards the spinney. I concealed myself among the trees. Buckingham and his followers marched away from the river, making no attempt to conceal themselves; I heard one of them laughing, as if he were on a jaunt.
By this time the Shrewsbury party had vanished into the spinney. When the trees had swallowed Buckingham’s party as well, I followed cautiously. The one advantage of spying on members of the aristocracy was that they were so absorbed in their own affairs, so shrouded in a sense of their overwhelming importance in God’s creation, that they tended to be careless of what was going on around them. They (or more probably their advisors) had taken the precaution of choosing this secluded spot for the duel; but, once here, it did not occur to them to take particular precautions against being observed.
By the time I reached the spinney, the duellists and their supporters were out of sight, but I heard the sound of voices in the distance. There was a path through the trees, the soft ground churned up by the passage of a dozen or so people. I advanced slowly among the leafless trees, a mix of birch, ash saplings and the occasional oak. Though the path was clear, it was obvious from the tangled undergrowth that the spinney had not been coppiced for some years.
I was aware of a leaden sensation in my belly, together with an inconvenient urge to empty my bowels. I walked even more slowly than before. Unlike the gentlemen ahead, I was not the stuff of which heroes are made. I could imagine, all too easily, what the duellists and their entourage would do to me if they found me here.
The voices ahead were louder. Then came a deep and throaty shout, a word of command. It was followed by the clash of steel, fast, furious and shockingly harsh. All this time I was continuing to advance. The path rounded a corner and suddenly they were all in front of me.
The spinney was bounded by a low line of bushes that once had been a hedge. The path passed through a wide gap and into a small field, a close perhaps used for confining stock. Beyond it were more trees and more hedges, which cut off the view of what lay beyond.
The six swordsmen were going at each other in a blur of movement, grunting, shouting and stamping. The others had gathered in two camps, one on each side of the close. It was fortunate that everyone’s attention was drawn exclusively to the duel, otherwise I must have been seen at once. But they had eyes for nothing else.
I took in this picture in a fragment of a moment. At the same time I leapt backwards, skidding on the mud, in my effort to avoid being seen. As it was, I stumbled, almost falling into a vast yew tree beside the path. The tree swallowed me up: it was hollow inside, for its centre had been eaten away by time, leaving a sturdy palisade of offshoots and bark, thickly covered with evergreen foliage. I slowly parted two of the branches on the side of the yew nearest the field. At this point, the tree had invaded the hedgerow, and my spyhole gave me a view of the duel.
The swordsmen had put off their cloaks and hats, removed their coats and tucked up the cuffs of their shirt sleeves. Buckingham had removed his hat and golden peruke. His shaven scalp was pinker than a lobster in the pot. He towered over Shrewsbury, who was breathing hard and retreating before the onslaught of the Duke’s thrusts. The other four were hacking and slashing with the abandon of madmen. There was no science to this – no elegant dance of thrust, parry and riposte: this was as bloody and brutal as a pitched battle between rival packs of apprentices in Moorfields. In such a brawl, weight, muscle and length of arm were more important than skill or agility.
Screaming in triumph, Buckingham ran Shrewsbury through in the chest, driving the blade up into the right shoulder. The Earl dropped his sword and fell to the ground. The Duke tugged his sword free.
Holmes and Talbot were evenly matched, giving each other blow for blow, so Buckingham swung to his right to aid Jenkins, who was hard pressed by Howard. Howard saw the danger. Snarling, he flicked away the Duke’s blade, putting him off balance and causing him to lurch towards Jenkins. The latter, his sword arm impeded by Buckingham, tried to recover. But he was too late. In a fluid, unexpectedly graceful movement, Howard switched his attack from the Duke and drove his blade into Jenkin’s left side. The young soldier cried out and fell.
The duel was over as abruptly as it had begun. The bystanders rushed forward, shouting. The four remaining swordsmen stood suddenly still, their blades hanging towards the ground; they were open-mouthed, red-faced, panting like bellows; their expressions were confused and embarrassed, as if they had been unexpectedly caught out in an act of folly.
One man, a physician perhaps, knelt beside Shrewsbury and felt for his pulse. Blood was pumping on to the grass. The Earl made a feeble attempt to stand, his left arm flailing for purchase on the ground; one of his servants pressed him back down and tore off his own cloak to cover his master.
Jenkins lay silent and unmoving. Mr Veal was bending over him and shaking his head at a question from Buckingham. ‘Dead, Your Grace,’ I heard him say. ‘The poor brave fellow.’
‘Oh God’s blood,’ Buckingham said, mopping the sweat from his scalp with his sleeve.
‘And now?’ Veal said, in a lower voice I could hardly catch.
‘Dog and bitch …’ said the Duke.
That was what it sounded like, but as the words were fainter and more muffled than before, I wasn’t at all sure I had heard him accurately. He might have been saying ‘something which …’ or ‘the wound needs a stitch’ or a dozen other phrases. He was still speaking, but I could no longer hear any of the words, only see his lips moving, and his arm gesturing to the two men lying on the ground with the blood soaking into their shirts.
In a moment or two, both parties would be returning to the boats. It was time for me to leave. I retreated through the spinney and made the best speed I could, running and walking, down to the lane. The tide was high, and it was still light, so with luck Wanswell would be waiting at the alehouse. I glanced towards the river, where the boats were moored alongside the Barn Elms stairs.
To my horror, one of Buckingham’s boatmen was pointing in my direction. Ignoring the stitch in my side, I pushed myself to walk faster, praying that the boatmen would take me for a passing farmworker.
The alehouse by the landing place was crowded with men who made their living on and from the river. Several of them turned to scowl at me as I blundered into the smoke-filled, low-ceilinged room. Wanswell was one of the men drinking at the long table by the window.
‘Come – we must go,’ I said.
He raised his head. ‘Must we, master?’ He appealed to the company at large. ‘Must we, boys?’
‘No,’ someone said loudly. ‘You’re as free a man as any in London. Have a drink instead. Let’s all have a drink.’
His fellows agreed with a clatter of mugs and bottles on the table.
I brought my head down to the level of Wanswell’s. ‘Another five shillings if we go now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Or I start walking to Putney, and you lose your return fare as well as your shilling-an-hour charge for waiting.’
He accepted the offer, though for pride’s sake he took his time finishing his ale. I led the way outside, with the waterman staggering behind me. The delay had cost me five minutes, and that was too much. Roger Durrell, Mr Veal’s servant, was pounding down the lane towards the alehouse. Despite his bulk, he was capable of a surprising turn of speed. When he saw me, he stopped thirty yards away, his hand dropping to the hilt of his old cavalry
