Category: A Broken Instrument

To circumvent these problems a canal was dug to link Brussels via the River Rupel, thus establishing a direct link with the Scheldt and with Antwerp. The canal was finished in 1561 and shortly afterwards most of the docks were dug.

Living in Brussels

 

He’s right there. Right there on that barge, eating his bread and cheese, that fat bastard. Helmsley drew back from the shutters in the lockmaster’s office and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. I could take him right now and be back in Brussels back in Master Owen’s favor by sunset tomorrow.

“No.” Jean’s voice was as matter of fact as always, but with an undercurrent of discomfort. “Not enough men. Tough fucker. Remember the market.”

Helmsley spun to face him. “But he’s right there!” He heard the whine in his voice and got a grip on himself. It was wrong of him to show such lack of composure in front of Jean. He took a deep breath. “You’re right. What do you suggest? Where can we get more men?”

“Breda Piet’s in Antwerp.” A spasm of pain passed over Jean’s face. “Pardon.” He hurried through the back door of the office in the directions of the jakes. Bad meat at mid day had done for him. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 14: HELMSLEY: SET THE TRAP” →

Beneath the interplay of the big battalions, at least until 1590, smaller parties of troops fought, intrigued, and killed ceaselessly for the control of villages.

The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road

Geoffrey Parker

 

“I once ate a fat man’s stomach.”

Nick glanced over and gave the barge boy the cold eye. “The fuck did you just say?”

It was the second day on the canal. They had tied up at Vilvoorde for the night, negotiated the locks there just after dawn and continued towards Antwerp. The barge master, the crewman, and the boy all kept to themselves and that had suited Nick just fine. The cloak and the brandy staved off the chill, so he slept as much as possible and tried not to poke or pick at the stitches on his belly. The boy had crept close to where Nick was sitting and busied himself with a mess of cordage before essaying that somewhat disturbing conversational gambit. Continue reading “CHAPTER 13: NICK: A FAT MAN’S STOMACH” →

Sir Thomas Gresham’s major gift to the City, the Royal exchange, was built as a lasting monument to London’s position in these markets, and it quickly became the center of economic life in the City.

The Jewel House

Deborah Harkness

 

Poley awoke mid morning, full of purpose, plans, and piss. As he stood over his chamber pot, he felt like a terrier with its teeth in a rat at last. He knew the author of his woes. This Denby fucker might think himself protected and above it all, but Poley had bested stronger. Had to find out more about him. What did he do at Court, where did he get his intelligence?

But first, coin.

Poley shook his cock dry, tucked it away. The name popped into his mind and he grinned, sharp and joyless. Alewife Kate Harvey. She would be good for some coin. Her late husband had knocked her about something fierce but left her the drinking house when he died of being stabbed. Poley had been always careful to treat her with respect and kindness and she responded well to that. Like a beaten dog, grateful for the smallest kindness. And like a dog, Kate Harvey had her uses. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 12: POLEY: A VISIT TO THE ‘CHANGE” →

Flowers and rushes on the walls of rooms (painted with oils or size) gave way to tapestries which could ‘be made from all sorts of material, such as velvet, damask, brocade, brocatelle, Bruges Satin, caddis’.

The Structures of Everyday Life

Fernand Braudel

 

It was a normal business day and Frau Margritte Cornieliuszoon was attending to her correspondence in her counting room. A letter of credit for Donati et Cie. The bill of lading for the last shipment north to Amsterdam to be checked against a coded invoice. On her desk, the pile of items to be dealt with grew smaller while the pile of items dealt with grew larger as time passed. The sunlight through the window moved across the room. The movement of the sun was accompanied by several different sounds. The rustle of paper, the click of an abacus, the scratch of a quill, ‘gritte’s breathing, all were audible as the sunbeam made its progress across the room. Its light made the bright colors of the tapestry glow for a time. Then the polished doors of the cabinet gleamed brown as the light traversed them. Henryk felt the warmth on his shoes and enjoyed how the light contrasted the brown leather with the green tile upon which he stood. He waited for the right moment and then cleared his throat.

She was in the midst of writing a letter to a group of bankers in Bruges, checking her latest intelligence on the position of the English pound against the Spanish escudo, when her majordomo, Henryk, cleared his throat. She put down her notes, finished writing her sentence, then looked up to where he was standing in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“There is a man asking to see you, Frau. Well dressed. Polite. Possibly from the Court. From the British Isles, by his accent. He says his name is Hugh Owen.”

She carefully set the letter aside and gathered the loose pages of her notes together. She took care to make sure that they were all facing down. She thumbed through the letters and memorandums in both piles, double checking that none of them referenced overtly illegal business. She was pleased to note that her fingers did not tremble despite the apprehension gathering in her stomach.

So now is the time for me to make my decision. I was hoping I might have had longer. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 11: ‘GRITTE: THE FRIGHTENERS” →

His (Hugh Owen’s) reports from England included not merely verbatim reports from courtrooms but even letters from privy councilors. Spanish and English espionage was mainly directed to gathering information on movements of troops and shipping. Owen’s services were chiefly valued for his work in this field.

The First Earl of Salisbury’s Pursuit of Hugh Owen

Francis Edwards

 

“Fuck!” The hard-flung potato left Helmsley’s ear stinging. “Damnation!” Before he could dodge, fish guts smeared his doublet. It wasn’t his favorite doublet, he wasn’t a complete fool, wearing something precious to possible violence, but the red velvet with the black side buttons had sentimental value. And now it was ruined. Almost as ruined as his plans. Desperate, he slid around a midget doing something perverted to someone supine on the market’s besmirched cobbles. He strove to catch a glimpse of the far side of the market. There! Not a bad trick, exchanging his hat for a hood, but the whoreson’s bulky shape was unmistakable. “Jean!” He pointed across the brawl that just moments before had been a weekly market. “There!”

At the yell of his name, Jean looked around. He saw where Helmsley was pointing and dropped the man he had just headbutted. Bulling his way through the rioting crowd, he made much better progress than his master, and reached the far side of the market several moments before Helmsley.

Helmsley dodged around three market provosts who were liberally applying peace and quiet with their staves and headed towards Jean who was standing just inside an alley. As he was about to reach Jean, a man burst out of the alley, stumbling, tying up his codpiece. Helmsley noted with a sinking heart the blood splashed on the man’s shoes. He realized his sinking heart was well justified when he came up beside Jean and beheld the scene in the alley. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 10: HELMSLEY: A DOG’S BREAKFAST” →

Daily life within a small radius was provided for by weekly or daily markets in the town… Supplies came in from the surrounding areas…

The Structures of Everyday Life

Fernand Braudel

 

Nick was sitting in the back garden, at a table set on an area of slate slabs. There was a clay pitcher of ale and two wooden mugs on the table. In the summer, the leafy vines wrapped through the beams above his head would give pleasant shade, but now were only studded with buds, promising greenery to come. The two trees and the flowers laid out in their pots and urns were all showing bright green. Vegetables were poking green lines of shoots from their ordered beds.  He was enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun. It was a nice day, the sun breaking through the white clouds scudding across the sky. Nick drank in the sun and the colors, so refreshing after the long grey and cold of the Netherlands winter. He hiked up his doublet and checked the stitches. Not bad. Some redness, swelling, still tender, but no pus, no stink. But still tender enough to put paid to any dreams of bed play. His lips quirked in remembrance of that morning’s encounter between himself and ‘gritte and his cock twitched a bit as he recalled the feel of her. He tilted his head back, taking the sun’s rays full on his face.

“What a beached whale! Or is it a walrus, basking on a rock?” Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 9: NICK: A SMALL BOY WITH A LARGE CHEESE” →

…the very different approach of another privy councillor who sponsored a spy network, the still youthful earl of Essex. Quite simply, Essex was enthusiastic about the use and importance of spies, and spent heavily in allowing his close friends the Bacon brothers, in particular, to build up a network for him in the early fifteen-nineties.

An Elizabethan Spy Who Came in from the Cold: the Return of Anthony Standen to England in 1593

Paul Hammer

 

“And that’s how I gained the Queen’s favor. And it was hard earned, I tell you, for winkling that Italian poisoner out of his hole was no easy task! The Queen gave me her hand to kiss and said that there was none braver.”

Molly giggled and squeezed his cock. “Why, Bob Poley, I should be honored then, that the same lips that kissed Good Bess’s hand were not ten minutes ago kissing my bubbies.”

“Oh, yes. Powerful honored, I should think.”

The main room of The Ram and Daggers was packed with men sitting at their mid day meal, making the room loud and smoky. It had all the signs of a London Ordinary: scattering of tables in the middle of the main large room, booths providing a modicum of privacy lining the walls, servers busy bringing food and drink to the tables, clearing away dirty dishes, filling empty cups, a bustling hubbub of noise. But there was one way in which the Ram differed from other London ordinaries, and that was in the attire of the servers. They were all women, young pretty ones, and their bodices were low cut. So low cut that their breasts were exposed entire. That accounted for how happy the patrons were to pay double for food that could be found cheaper elsewhere.

Poley was in his element. He had his back to a wall and a woman on his lap. To be sure, he had troubles enough to kill a stoat. He was masterless, flat-pursed, and some foul fucker was undoing all his hard work in the Low Countries. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 8: POLEY: DESCRIBED BY A GRAN” →

For to him they entrusted the task of penetrating the disguises and intrigues of those who menaced them; not the least of Owen’s talents was that he never underestimated the skill of the Earl of Salisbury and others who countered his objectives. In the cold war of the sixteenth century Owen emerged as a man to whom desperate exiles looked to make their residence in Hapsburg territories the safe haven it was meant to be.

The Spanish Elizabethans

Albert Loomie

 

“Aye. They were my men.” Richard Helmsley gave a handful of stuivers and groeschen to the watchmen and turned to leave the alley. “The big one was Braathuis and the small one Edgewine. That coin should be enough coin for a burial and marker.”

Jean lifted his eyebrows as Richard exited the alley and entered into the busy Brussels street. Richard nodded and answered the unasked question. “It’s them. I knew those two to be entirely worthless, but I thought even such as they would be able to handle one fat man. Apparently I was wrong. Though, from the signs, they did at least draw blood.”

The two men set off down the street, dodging around a cart carrying firewood. They created an interesting contrast, the two of them. Richard, tall and skinny with black hair, was well dressed in black velvet doublet and trunks cut with red. He stepped delicately around the pig shit so as to smudge his new boots, elaborately stitched in the latest fashion, as little as possible. A sword with well worn hilt hung at his side. Jean was short with an amazing collection of boils on his face. When he spoke, which was infrequent and short, missing teeth made black holes in his mouth. Some sort of mange had been at work in his hair which was tufted and an odd orange color. A broad bladed knife, almost a cleaver, hung at his belt. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 7: HELMSLEY: DOING THE LORD’S WORK” →

This general overview of women working in trade in the early modern Netherlands shows that, although there were some restrictions, women were able to become active in trade on different levels, and in diverse products. The examples mentioned above show that even married women could act as independent traders.

Women and work in the early modern Netherlands: women’s work in trade

Danielle van den Heuvel

 

“He’s blessed with fat.”

“I know that you’re an Anabaptist and therefore prey to all manner of all strange fancies, as well as the everlasting hellfire, but that is a strange comment, even for you.”

“All I meant, Frau Cornieliuszoon, is that without the extra armor of his fatty gut, Mynheer Crossby’s bowels would have surely been pierced. And then death would have followed, sure as salvation is a matter of Free Will. If all my years of patching the wounded have taught me anything, it’s that.”

“I take your meaning, Doctor. It is indeed a blessing.”

“And armorial padding is not the only use for gut fat. Why, I recall one time in Muenster, during the siege, when I was one of Jan of Leyden’s child judges – “

“Enough! I have told you before, no more tales of Muenster and the evil that befell it. Now take your leave of us. You have my thanks, Doctor, for without your skill, Mynheer Crossby would have not survived. Go back to Grotius and tell him to wait word from me.”

“Your servant, Frau Cornieliuszoon.”

Footsteps moved away and a door closed.

“You can open your eyes, Nick. I know that you’ve been awake and listening some moments now.” Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 6: NICK: HEALING UP” →

Parts of it (London) would have resembled a vast building site, while other areas were left to slow neglect and in Stow’s words, became ‘sore decayed’.

London: The Biography

Peter Ackroyd

 

Moody caught the eye of one of the murder as he was leaving through the Iron Gate. The murder knew Moody well, marked him ever since he’d taken one of them down with a well aimed rock, then stomped to death the broken winged one. So this one gave voice, informing the rest of the murder as to its intent, and took ebon wing.

It swooped across the open meadows surrounding the Tower walls, following Moody as he left the Tower Liberty and made his way down Thames Street. It spilled air and landed on the topmost timbers of a house being raised from the ruins of an old religious hall. Pausing to search for bugs in the oaken timbers, still green and oozing sap, it cocked its head this way and that, beady bright eyes observing both wood and busy street below. Moody could change his doublet, his hat, duck behind this wagon and that chair vendor with his wares strung high on a pole, do all these things and confound a human pursuer. But the eyes above tracked all those maneuvers and never lost sight. Continue reading “(Broken Instrument) CHAPTER 5: MOODY: RAVEN 1 MOODY 0” →