by Jane Feather
“ ’Twas one of Privy Seal's barges, sir,” Will explained. “The oarsmen knew it well. Lord Cromwell keeps it at the steps for ’is own convenience.”
“So our friend was a guest of Lord Cromwell,” Jack mused. “An important one if ’e gets to use Privy Seal's own barge.” Now he pinched his lower lip between finger and thumb.
“Well, I don’t know about that, sir,” Will said thoughtfully. “I spoke wi’ the bargemen. Right scornful they were of ’im. ’E ’adn’t given ’em a sweetener, mind you, an’ that put ’em in a bad ’umor. But I got the impression ’e was more of a servant like. On orders from ’is master.”
So, no guest but a servant. That was something Lord Hugh would find interesting. Jack glanced up at the smoke-blackened timbers above. “What took ye so long to get back ’ere? ’Tis past ten now an’ ye say our man was dropped off at Greenwich mid-mornin’.”
“Aye, but ’e didn’t leave until this evenin’,” Will explained. “I thought I’d do best to see what ’e was up to. ’Ang around a bit, see what else I could pick up.”
“You always was an obstinate bugger, Will,” Jack observed without heat. “Takin’ matters into yer own ’ands. Writin’ yer own orders.”
“No point leavin’ a job ’alf done,” Will pointed out. “Anyway, I found our man in a tavern drinkin’ deep. I ’ad a pot or two of ale with ’im, but powerful closemouthed ’e was.”
“Privy Seal's man. More than ’is life's worth to blab,” Jack declared.
“Aye, I thought so. ’E seemed scared silly, lookin’ over ’is shoulder, sweatin’ like a pig, jumpin’ at the least sound. An’ no one came anywhere near ’im. Folks looked at ’im as if ’e was some kind o’ river rat. Got so I felt they was lookin’ at me in the same way so I left ’im to ’is drink and ’ung around outside, waitin’. Our man come out about mid-afternoon an’ goes to the docks. ’E goes aboard a ship an’ that's the last I seen of ’im. The ship sailed around five on the evenin’ tide.”
“Where to?”
“France.” Will spat on the floor. “Neat little craft, fast too. One of Privy Seal's runners, they said. Goes back an’ forth with ’is spies, is what I ’eard. No one wanted to talk much even though I bought a good few pots of ale.”
“No one in their right mind tells Privy Seal's secrets.”
“So ye’ll pass it on to Lord Hugh?”
“Oh, aye. Ye did a good job, Will. ’E’ll ’ave summat to say to ye, I’ll be bound.”
Will looked satisfied. “I’ll be off to me bed, then. Bit short o’ sleep I am, one way an’ another,” he added pointedly.
“Reckon ye can take the day off tomorrow, if’n ye fancies a visit to the ’ouse over the river.” Jack grinned and laid a finger to the side of his nose.
“Mebbe I will an’ mebbe I won’t,” Will returned with a similar grin. “I bid ye good night, sir.”
“’Night, Will.”
Jack sat over his tankard a while longer. Something was up in Lord Hugh's household and Jack for once was not in his master's confidence. First Master Robin had fallen ill and Lord Hugh had rushed him from the house. The next thing, Lord Hugh, looking like something the cat had dragged in, had ordered Jack to have an escort ready and provisioned at dawn to go into Derbyshire with his lady and the little girls. There’d been no explanation either for the master's injuries or for his orders, and Lord Hugh had gone off again immediately, all bruised and battered as he was, leaving an injured horse in the stables.
Jack had chosen the escort, given his instructions, and left the bustle and chaos of the stable yard for the peace and his thoughts in the Dog and Duck, where Will had found him. And Tyler appeared to be missing now as well. Not that Jack thought much of him. Too slimy by half. Still it was a puzzle to add to all the others.
He tossed a coin on the table and stood up, adjusting the set of his sword at his hip. Lord Hugh had told him where to send a message as soon as Lady Guinevere and her escort had left but Jack reckoned he’d not be sorry to be disturbed earlier for an account of Will's day.
Jack rode through the streets to Ludgate Hill, keeping to the center of the road, his sword in his hand. At the top of the hill he came to a cluster of cottages. Lord Hugh's second-string horse was tethered to an apple tree in the small front garden of one of the cottages. Despite the late hour, lamplight showed faintly through a crack in the shutters and smoke curled from the chimney.
Jack hobbled his horse in the garden and knocked on the door with the hilt of his sword.
The bolts scraped back and the door was opened. Lord Hugh stood in the light, his sword in his hand as if he was expecting trouble.
“Jack? What the devil's amiss?”
“Summat I thought ye’d like to know straightway, sir.” Jack thought he had never seen Lord Hugh look so dreadful, not even after a day on a battlefield. Heavy bags pouched beneath his black-shadowed eyes, his mouth was drawn with pain, his complexion sallow and parchmentlike.
“ ’Ow's Master Robin?” Jack asked making no attempt to conceal his anxiety.
“Better, I thank you.” Hugh stood back and held the door wider. “Come you in.”
Jack entered the cottage. Robin was lying on a pallet in the corner, on another before the fire slept an old woman covered by a thin blanket.
Hugh sat down on the stool beside his son's pallet and gestured to Jack that he should take its pair. He returned to tending his son, bathing the sweat from the boy's brow with lavender water. “The fever's broken,” he said. “He’ll live, thank God.”
“Thank God,” echoed Jack. He looked around the small room. Despite this happy news, the atmosphere was more suited to a charnel house, he thought. Lord Hugh seemed to have shrunk, the brilliant hue of his eyes dulled. His arm and one hand were bandaged and he moved with obvious pain. But it was more than physical pain. It was a pain that seemed to come from deep within him.
“Will Malfrey came back, sir.”
“Oh? What had he been up to?” Hugh sounded as if the information was of little interest.
“Seems like the man you was interested in, sir, could be one of Privy Seal's servants.”
Hugh didn’t seem to react for a minute, then slowly he raised his head and looked at Jack. His hand stilled on Robin's brow. “What makes Will think that?”
Jack gave him an account of Will's day. “Powerful scared ’e was,” Jack said. “Will said ’e was as jumpy as a rabbit headin’ fer the pot. An’ folk kept away from ’im. Will didn’t like the way they looked at ’im too when ’e was drinkin’ with the fellow, so ’e up an’ left ’im, jest watched ’im until he went on the ship.”
“He's certain it was one of Privy Seal's ships?” Hugh turned back to Robin who moaned softly and tried to brush away the cloth from his brow.
“Certain as ’e could be, sir.”
Hugh busied himself with Robin, lifting him to put a cup of water to his lips, wiping his mouth, smoothing the sheet.
Jack stood uncertainly, wondering if Lord Hugh had really heard him. He didn’t seem to be reacting at all.
But Hugh had heard. Had heard and understood the implications. But were they significant? His mind twisted, examining, looking for flaws. Privy Seal's servants acted under the orders of only one man. The man who had accosted him at the revels hadn’t seemed like a servant. But then Thomas Cromwell had servants in every walk of life. The fact that it was Privy Seal's ship didn’t necessarily mean anything. Cromwell's friends, acquaintances, a guest at his revels, could have been given the freedom of one of his vessels. He could be generous when it suited him.
Was it possible that he had been wrong? That Guinevere had had nothing to do with Robin's poisoning, with the attempts upon his own life? Tyler had been her man. She and Crowder had brought him into the house.
Hope fluttered in his brain, set his heart racing. But he told himself he mustn’t give in to it. It couldn’t be possible that he had been wrong. So much evidence, so much history, such compelling motive was aga
inst her. He had to think clearly, not rush to believe something that he would give a year of his life if it were true.
He remembered the man who had attacked him in the lane on his wedding day. A man who talked of orders. Who was left to bleed to death in the alley because no one would go near him. If he had been one of Privy Seal's men, one of his agents who prowled and snooped for his master around that part of London, it was possible that folk would have known him and if so they wouldn’t have offered a finger of help. Flail Crummock, as Cromwell was known to the general populace, was loathed as much as he was feared.
He closed his eyes, rubbed his face hard.
Jack could see a change in Lord Hugh. He seemed suddenly to sit straighter, the color in his eyes deepened, his skin seemed to fill out, to lose its waxy texture.
“They told me this afternoon that that man Tyler's gone missing, sir,” Jack said into the intense silence.
“I know,” Hugh said slowly, opening his eyes. “You’ll find him trampled to death in a lane at the bottom of Ludgate Hill.” Hugh stared at the wall. It was possible Tyler's body was still where he’d fallen. It was possible Tyler's body might hold some clue. He looked down at Robin. The boy was asleep again, his breathing peaceful and even. Hugh rose to his feet with sudden energy. “Let's see if Tyler's body can tell us anything, Jack.”
“Aye, sir,” Jack said, sounding as confused as he felt. “But ’ow d’ye know where ’e is?”
Hugh indicated his bandaged wounds and said shortly, “He very nearly did away with me this morning.”
He went to the pallet before the fire and gently shook Martha awake. “Martha, I have business to attend to. I must leave you. Robin's asleep. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”
Martha sat up, immediately awake. She regarded Jack with mild curiosity and gave him a brief nod. He bowed his head in polite response.
Martha thrust aside the blanket and got to her feet somewhat stiffly. She went to Robin and examined him briefly before nodding. “Aye, he's out of the woods now, poor lad. But before he's to go ’ome, ye’d best ’ave sulphur burned in his chamber, an’ get rid of ’is clothes, any-thin’ that's to touch ’im. I don’t know what poison caused the damage, but it might linger still. A pestilence that's for sure.”
Hugh nodded. “I’ll fetch him later and he’ll sleep in a different chamber.” He flung his cloak around his shoulders. “Come, Jack.”
They rode to the bottom of Ludgate Hill in silence. Jack made no attempt to ask for enlightenment. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be forthcoming.
Hugh reined in his horse and looked around. He had been so abstracted that morning he had been properly aware only of the crowds and noticed little else of his surroundings. He’d simply followed Tyler's suggested way out of the throng.
There were several lanes stretching dark and dank from the bottom of the hill. “This way.” Hugh gestured with his whip towards one leading off to the left that looked familiar. Tyler's body might not still be there, but who in this city would trouble to rid a lane of a dead body?
Unless, of course, he was one of Privy Seal's agents and his master had sent out search parties for his spy? Again his heart leaped, again he forced himself to be realistic. Even if the body was still there, it could well have been plundered and if there had been anything to tie the man to Privy Seal it would no longer be there. And without conclusive evidence could he risk believing in Guinevere's innocence?
They both drew their swords and entered the lane gingerly. It was dark and apparently deserted. A few yards in, Hugh discerned a darker shape on the ground. He pointed with his sword and then dismounted. He didn’t dare to hope. And yet he was filled with it.
Jack dismounted and felt in his saddlebag for flint and tinder. As carefully as before they approached the shape. Tyler lay, his face in the mud. Jack struck a light and knelt with Hugh beside the body. It didn’t look as if it had been disturbed but it was so badly trampled it was hard to tell.
“Go through his pockets,” Hugh instructed, turning the man over. Gritting his teeth, he slipped his hand inside the man's bloody shirt, feeling for inner pockets, while Jack examined the outer garments.
Hugh's fingers closed over something hard beneath the lining of the doublet. “See here,” he murmured, drawing a soft leather pouch from a cunningly sewn pocket. His fingers shook slightly as he loosened the strings and tipped the contents into the palm of his hand.
Jack brought the light closer to shine upon a miniature seal, the kind used by travelers … the kind used by spies. Hugh examined it in the light.
“Privy Seal's,” he said softly, his voice flat, hiding the rush of emotion. “Tyler would have used it to identify missives that he sent to his master, and to mislead those Cromwell wished misled.” He replaced the seal in the pouch, drew the strings tight, and tucked it back into the pocket in the doublet. For a minute he sat back on his heels and let the incredible joy sweep through him.
Jack rearranged the clothes, turning the body back into the mud. Instinctively they both looked around. Were they being watched? No one must know that they had identified Tyler as one of Privy Seal's men. Cromwell had his spies in every corner of the city, and that kind of knowledge brought the arrest in the night, or the knife in the back.
Jack looked curiously at Lord Hugh, squatting in the mud beside the body. He seemed mesmerized, immobile, staring down.
“Sir?” Jack said tentatively. “We should get out of here.”
“Yes … yes, of course.” Hugh stood up. What little starlight there was on this overcast night couldn’t penetrate the alley. The air around him smelled of death.
But at home lay his wife. His warm, loving wife. His guiltless wife. He was so full of joy he almost shouted aloud. He couldn’t wait to hold her. To pour out his sorrow for doubting her, to kiss the grief from her eyes, to repair the damage he had done. He could put this right. She loved him. She had said so. She would welcome him, would be as eager and ready as he to start anew, with no shadows between them.
“Let us go home, Jack.” He turned back to his horse.
They rode in silence, Hugh urging his horse to greater speed. In the stableyard Hugh, despite his injuries, almost jumped from his horse in his haste. “My thanks for your help this night, Jack.” He handed him his reins and made his way to the house.
The house downstairs was dark. No lamps or candles wasting when everyone within was abed. Hugh lit a candle from the banked fire in the hall and trod softly upstairs.
No light showed beneath the door of their bedchamber. He laid a hand on the latch.
He stepped quietly into the chamber. The fire was almost out, just a faint glow of embers in the hearth. And immediately he knew that something was dreadfully wrong. There was no one in the room. He didn’t have to look to know that. All spirit, all sense of Guinevere was leeched from the room they had shared. Everything that belonged to her had gone, the chamber was as sparsely furnished, as lacking in feminine softness, as it had been before their wedding.
He stepped farther in, went to the bed, knowing that it would be empty. The rich coverlets, the soft pillows were gone. The white sheets gleamed in the darkness, mocking him.
He spun to the night table and lit a candle. She would have left him a note. She would not have walked out of his life without a word. He searched, frantically, turning over the bolster, peering in the empty armoire, lifting the jug and ewer. There was nothing. It was as if she had never entered the chamber.
He left, half running to the chamber the girls shared with Tilly. The door was ajar. The chamber was as empty as his own. The fire extinguished. No kittens mewled at him.
He stood, hands crossed over his chest, shivering deep inside with the knowledge of what he had lost.
His relationship with Guinevere had started with death. Death had laced their love with suspicion … death's own peculiar venom. Suspicion. A serpent that fed upon its own tail.
He saw her now, so still, so quiet, the golden light
behind her, as she’d listened to his vicious accusations. Once again he heard her say: “I love you, Hugh.”
He had thrust her from him, judged her a liar, a murderer. He had believed that a woman who had given up everything for the sake of her daughters was capable of hurting his son.
He lay down on the bed where her children had slept and stared up into the darkness.
28
Moorfields, you say?” Hugh raised his head from his folded arms where they rested on the mantelshelf above the dull glow of the banked fire and turned to look at Master Milton. A flicker of life entered his hollow-eyed regard.
“Aye, m’lord.” The steward thrust his hands into the loose sleeves of his gown and clasped his elbows. It was barely dawn and chilly in the hall, the fire not yet stirred into its daytime blaze. He had been dragged from his bed by an urgent summons to wait upon his master. Despite this, he had the complacent air of one delivering momentous information.
“Just afore I went to my bed I heard Master Crowder asking the cook for details of the lodging house his sister ran in Moorfields. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, sir. Master Crowder didn’t say anything about leaving the house. If he had, of course I’d not have gone to my bed,” Milton added a mite defensively, as if he could in the absence of his lord somehow have prevented the Lady Guinevere and her entourage from doing whatever pleased them.
He paused, then said, “But I asked in the stables and apparently they all left just afore eleven. They took their horses. Magister Howard, the little maids, Mistress Tilly, Master Crowder, even the huntsman, Greene. All gone. Lady Pippa said to the grooms that they had to go because the air in the house was unhealthful and they didn’t want to get sick like Master Robin.”
Milton regarded his lordship with a certain shrewdness. “It seemed a trifle sudden I thought. I understood they were to leave anyway this morning for Derbyshire,” he said with a faint question in his voice.
