VII. The Deptford Deception
The day was blustery, the wind kicking up a fine spray off the Thames as Thomas hailed a four-foot-wide wherry from the south shore below the Bridge. The boatman rowed over. Thomas climbed aboard and asked to be taken to Deptford. He placed two pennies in the boatman’s hand.
Thomas held his unstrung bow wrapped in muslin. The quiver at his belt angled out from the fullness of his hose. Fortunately, in London there was nothing odd in someone well-dressed going about armed for archery. The Queen herself had made it mandatory for all respectable men to practice archery regularly, though the main spaces for that practice lay on the north side of the river, in Finsbury Field and across the Spital. Still, for all the oarsman knew, his passenger was off to practice at Bermondsey or some other such location where rich men dallied.
Thomas glanced back up the river. Right now the Queen’s barge was somewhere above London Bridge, so he still had time to seek for the assassin that Mortimer had babbled about. Deptford wasn’t too great an area to search. There were fields, meadows, but much of it along the water was shipyards now. And the priest had referenced a creek.
As they got closer, the oarsman said, “Y’know, there’s a fine beer house in Horsleydown, got some targets set up even, last I knew.”
“Yes, I know of it, but deliver me below the shipyards and I’ll give you a groat to spend at the Beer House yourself.”
This must have appealed to the oarsman. They shot along the river, the wind blowing gusts of spray over them, in and out among the hundreds of wherries and awning-covered tilt boats, and then around the ships at anchor at the Custom House wharf, and still others resting below the southside taverns. The oarsman navigated them out past all those. Glancing back, Thomas spotted the Queen’s barge and an entourage of smaller boats all swarming just below London Bridge.
The wherry gave wide berth to the King’s Ship Yard, where one ship like the ribbed skeleton of a whale sat up on blocks. Men, tiny by comparison, swarmed over it. One after the other, the boat passed the upper, middle, and lower watergates.
The oarsman pointed to a bluff ahead. “Tha’s the Deptford common green,” he said.
“All right. Put in there.”
They pulled up alongside the first dock below it. Thomas handed the boatman his bonus, and climbed out, tugging his cloak around him. Off the dock, he headed up toward higher ground. Before climbing up, he paused to cast aside the muslin and string his bow, then headed east in the direction of Deptford Creek.
On his left along the river lay more docks and wharfs and, on the elevated ground behind them, another two taverns. Sailors from anchored ships occupied tables on the lawn and watched him pass by. Ahead, the wharfs came to an end. Then there was just river mud and reeds, much of which would be immersed at high tide. The marshy land beyond sloped up to a meadow.
He glanced back the way he’d come. The Queen’s barge had reached the middle of the river now and looked to be abreast of the Tower. Wouldn’t be long before the efforts of her dozen oarsmen brought it even with the meadow. And he still hadn’t come upon any creek. He hastened up the rise behind the second tavern—and there was met with a strange sight.
At the edge of the bank overlooking the Thames, a well-dressed young man stood aiming a caliver musket out across the river. The caliver’s barrel perched on a fork rest stuck in the ground. That struck him as odd, because the caliver didn’t require such support—except that this young man stood and held his musket as still as a statue.
Thomas crouched low, bow drawn, as he approached. He found there, lying unconscious in the meadow grass, three other figures. Each of them had a mug beside him as if they were resting between servings of ale. Other than the grass, the only thing moving was the slowly burning match cord of the caliver. Even if the musket were to go off momentarily, it was aimed at nothing. This made little sense.
Thomas rose to his feet beside the young man, whose glassy brown eyes continued to look out across the water, unfocused as though he slept, his body as motionless as if he’d been carved in this position. He stood exactly like someone who’d been ensorcelled as a teind.
Gun poised to fire but aimed at no target—here was the perfect scapegoat, no doubt, but where were the Yvags? There was no open portal, no signs of a gateway at all. Given that this spelled young man wasn’t going to shoot anyone, where was the true assassin? The creek—where was the creek?
Thomas hurried on through the meadow grass toward a line of white poplar trees. Past those, he made out a glitter of water snaking away from the river.
The lower sections of the poplars were dark and gray, the upper bark white and smooth. Between the darker, crooked boles of the first tree, a figure hid, dark gray clothes and cap blending into the shadows there. Thomas just made out a bearded face. That man was aiming his own musket at the river, its barrel braced against the tree.
With a quick glance at the river, Thomas spotted the approaching barge. Below, the barrel of the second caliver moved in a slow pivot as the shadowy figure tracked the barge’s approach.
The lone assassin remained utterly focused upon the barge, sparing no glance anywhere else. After all, who was there to interrupt his perfectly executed act? He had put all the others to sleep.
Thomas broke into a run toward the trees. He fired his first arrow. It nicked the poplar’s trunk and struck the rifleman, who must have pulled the trigger and set off the charge in the same instant. The gun blasted, and a bluish cloud of smoke filled the air. Thomas couldn’t look to see what if any damage the shot had done. The assassin turned and stared at him now, wide-eyed and angry. Behind Thomas and up the rise, the young spellbound man’s gun also discharged. Perched as he was at the top of the bank in full view from the river, he would be the one pursued and arrested. There was no helping him just now.
In the trees, the assassin turned to run.
Thomas’s second arrow caught him high up in the shoulder. His gun went flying and he tumbled down toward the creek.
He scrambled up again and ran, but, reaching the trees, Thomas had a clear shot at him now, and his third arrow found its mark dead center. The man’s cap spun away as the body seemed to leap down into the creek.
Thomas glanced back. On the promontory above, the young man was stumbling about in place. Probably the sound of his gun discharging had awakened him from whatever spell had been cast. He dropped to one knee, then got unsteadily to his feet again. The tall grass swayed and thrashed, so presumably the other three prostrate figures were stirring as well. They wouldn’t know what had happened, either, wouldn’t know to flee.
Thomas headed down to the creek as two of the tilt boats that had accompanied the barge beached. Men in black jerkins and wide-brimmed hats bounded over the side and charged up the bank. Some carried guns, others pole arms. One group came running straight at him. He stopped.
The men neared, and he called out and pointed. “The real assassin’s there. That’s his gun!” At which point one of the queen’s guards reversed his musket and struck the butt of it against Thomas’s chin; the world exploded with elaborate fireworks.