Like Eli, Rivkah practiced medicine among Bankside’s poorest, seldom being paid. But the denizens of Bankside’s underworld had taken Eli and Rivkah to their collective bosom and saw to it in myriad ways that they did not starve. Only a few months ago, the roof of their house had been burned by sailors whipped into an anti-Semitic frenzy by rumors that the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting were being killed by the Jews. The community had come together, not only to put out the fire in time to save the rest of the structure but also in the aftermath: Kat had taken in Eli and Rivkah until their house was repaired; Tom the Thatcher had put on a new roof in record time, gratis; Black Jack Sims, the most powerful crime boss in Southwark, had let it be known that anyone helping the two physicians would be looked on with favor and anyone trying to hurt them would be dead. In vain did Eli try to explain to Black Jack that Eli’s Hippocratic Oath forbade him to cause harm to his patients, even indirectly. Black Jack just grinned.
“Think of death as a permanent cure for their ills,” he said.
* * *
“And you must drink plenty of fluids. Preferably water,” Rivkah was saying, eyeing the wineskin Nick was trying to conceal under his cloak. He had stopped by The Angel on his way over to purchase it as a gift for his friend. “I’ll be back tomorrow at the same time.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Thomas said meekly.
Nick would have laughed out loud at the change from tough soldier to cowed patient if Thomas hadn’t looked so ill. Nick handed Rivkah her basket, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod at the door, indicating she wanted a private word. He followed her to the landing outside Thomas’s second-floor door.
“How is he?” Nick asked, nodding back at the room. “He looks terrible.”
“Very ill,” Rivkah replied. “But with plenty of rest and good food, he should recover. That’s all I can tell you.”
Rivkah and Eli were notoriously closemouthed about their patients. Another reason Black Jack Sims had taken a shine to them. He knew they would not blab about his ailments and therefore would not inform his enemies of his poor health.
“I heard a rumor you were attacked.”
Nick silently cursed. John would not have told her. His money was on Will Shakespeare, who reveled in gossip as much as in witty word play. Most of Eli and Rivkah’s patients frequented The Black Sheep, and Will was almost always to be found there propping up the bar.
“A spot of bother on the London Road,” Nick said.
Rivkah raised her eyebrows. “You call an assassination attempt a ‘spot of bother’? Either you are trying to impress me with your bravery or you think my sex too feeble to be told the truth? In both instances, you are gravely mistaken.”
“Sorry,” he said, hoping he sounded as meek as Thomas had done a few moments before. He told her what had happened, careful to leave out all mention of her countryman del Toro. Guiltily, he allowed her to believe he had been in Oxford to visit family.
“But why would anyone want to kill you?” she said. “Besides me, of course.”
“Probably a robbery,” Nick said, hating himself for deceiving her. “Lucky that Edmund was with me.”
Rivkah held his gaze as if waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, she nodded curtly, gave Hector a kiss on the nose, and was gone, clomping rapidly down the stairs in her stout boots—Rivkah was much too level-headed to wear fashionable shoes with high cork soles in wet weather yet another thing he admired her for. Nick crossed to the window on the landing and looked down. Rivkah had covered her head with a deep hood and was walking purposefully along the street, a small anonymous figure but one he would know anywhere, even in pitch-blackness. At the corner, she turned south toward the river and was lost to view. Nick had the sinking feeling that he had somehow hurt her deeply.
When he returned to the room, Thomas was sitting up in bed. Dressed in a nightshirt, his face looked pale, with dark hollows under his cheekbones. “Thanks for the wine,” he croaked. “You’re a pal.”
Thomas really did look at death’s door, Nick decided.
“Sorry, old chap,” he said, deliberately lightening his tone so as to disguise his concern. “Your doctor gave specific instructions that you were to drink only water.” He reached for a beaker, unstopped the wineskin, and squirted in a generous amount. “But don’t worry,” Nick said, grinning. “I’ll keep you company. Cheers.”
“You bastard.”
In the end, Nick relented and poured a small amount of wine in the bottom of Thomas’s beaker, topping it up with water.
“Tastes like vinegar,” Thomas grumbled.
“Just promise you won’t tell Rivkah.”
“Are you insane?”
Nick surveyed the man who was rapidly becoming his friend despite their underlying rivalry. Sent to the Tower by the Queen a few months before, Sir Thomas had eventually been revealed as a fellow agent working for Cecil. Refusing to clear himself in order to protect the secrecy of his mission, Sir Thomas had impressed Nick by his courage. The only thing Nick had against him was Sir Thomas’s obvious attraction to Rivkah. Now Nick was concerned that his friend, like him, was a target for whoever was trying to clear the board of Walsingham’s spy network.
“So you think someone is going to come after me?” Thomas asked when Nick had finished telling him what was going on.
“You’re a sitting duck here,” Nick said. He watched as his friend was overcome by a fit of coughing. At last, Thomas lay back on the pillows exhausted and gave Nick a weak smile.
“More like a crow.”
“I’m serious, Thomas. Why don’t you go home?”
Thomas was married to the former Lady Wakefield, a distant cousin of the Queen’s, and owned a fine house and land on the southern coast somewhere. The trouble was, he and his wife didn’t get on and lived their lives more or less apart.
“If I did that, I’d be pushing up daisies in no time,” Thomas said. “She’s probably down on her knees right now beseeching God to make her a widow.” He gave Nick a weak grin. “I’m touched by your concern, but I’ll be all right.” He drew a dagger from beneath his pillow. “I’m not entirely without resources.”
Nick let it drop. Thomas was a proud man, and it would do no good to mollycoddle him. He hoped it was true that Thomas was recovering. The influenza was deadly, and far more people were carried off by it than recovered from it. And the season for it had only just begun. It was an odd phenomenon, but Nick had often noticed that when the weather was at its coldest in late December and January, sicknesses of all kinds seemed to take a holiday. It was only when the season began to turn from winter to spring in late February, when snow and ice turned to rain, that people began to sicken. Eli and Rivkah speculated it had something to do with water in the air. They had long suspected that contagions thrived on fluids, especially in the way they were spread from one person to another through coughing and sneezing. But when Nick had asked them why the plague was more virulent in the drier, warmer months of summer, they owned that they did not know.
“The plague must be spread by some other means we do not yet know of,” Eli said, frowning. “But I have often noticed that those who live in clean homes and who keep a cat to keep away the rats are less likely to contract the disease.”
* * *
“Maybe del Toro was sent to Oxford to lure you out. He gives you the slip and hires a thug to kill you,” Thomas said.
“Perhaps.” But Nick was certain del Toro had been operating alone. When would he have had the time to organize an assassination? Unless there had been another agent already in place, the man Edmund had killed.
Nick had first picked up del Toro’s trail at an inn called The Red Bull on the northern edge of the city. Given that toro was Spanish for bull, Nick had wondered if del Toro had a sick sense of humor. That certainly tallied with the cruel way in which Winchelsea had been tortured. Or maybe the name of the inn was merely coincidence, seeing as it lay closest to the main road to Oxford. Either way, it seemed like a foolish risk t
o take for a secret agent. Even as del Toro was setting off for Oxford with Nick shadowing him, Simon Winchelsea’s body was being pulled out of the Thames at Wood Wharf. It would have been entirely feasible for del Toro to murder Winchelsea the night before; it was not a huge distance from The Red Bull to the wharf, certainly walking distance for a fit man.
But why would the Spanish send an assassin to pick off English agents on their home turf? Considering the fragile relationship between the two countries since England had sent forces to aid the Spanish Netherlands in their rebellion against Philip II, their hated overlord, it was the equivalent of striking a tinderbox in a room full of gunpowder.
And now Nick had to include Henry Gavell and Richard Stace as suspects. He told Thomas what had happened at Wood Wharf.
“They’re certainly vicious enough to torture a man to death,” Nick said. “But what I don’t understand is motive. Could Winchelsea have discovered something about them that night in The Angel? Seen them talking to someone?”
Thomas shrugged. “Del Toro’s a much more likely suspect than those two, I would have thought. Gavell and Stace are Essex’s creatures and don’t take a shit without his permission. Essex has too much to lose at court if it came out he was eliminating the competition. If you ask me, Walsingham’s illness is making him senile. And Cecil has always hated Essex and would like nothing better than to bring him down. I still like del Toro for it. What do you know of him?” A little color had come back into his cheeks, as if talk of their common profession had put new life into him.
“He’s a bit of a mystery. Just recently joined the staff of the Spanish ambassador in Paris,” Nick said. “He could very well be a trained assassin. We need to find him.”
Nick frowned. Although that did not explain how the attempt on Nick’s life had been bungled. Trained assassins did not contract out killings but operated alone.
“And you say he didn’t make contact with anyone?”
“Not unless you count the whore,” Nick replied.
Thomas gave a lewd grin, then fell into another bout of coughing. Nick waited until he had recovered, then got to his feet. “I’ll check in with you in a couple of days. Anything you need?”
“More wine would be nice.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Nick said. “Don’t forget to eat your cheese.” He grinned. “It looks delicious.”
“Most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of,” Thomas said, eyeing it askance. “Rivkah says there’s something in the mold that brings down a fever. Sounds like a load of cobblers to me.”
“She’s usually right.”
“Don’t I know it.” Thomas stretched luxuriously in the bed and grinned. “She is the most amazing woman I have ever met.”
“You’re married,” Nick said.
“Your point?”
* * *
Once back on the street, Nick wondered what he should do next. Mercifully, the rain had stopped, so he decided to return to Leicester House.
Instead of entering by the main gate on the Strand, Nick went through a small archway that opened into a side court on the eastern side of the house and followed a path into the gardens at the back. If he was to be acting as a double agent for Walsingham inside Essex’s spy network, then he needed to know every mode of exit in case he needed to leave in a hurry. This type of reconnaissance had saved his life on numerous occasions in the past. Few of his friends and family noticed that Nick always positioned himself in a room with a clear sightline to all the entrances and exits; few noticed that he always had a dagger or sword within easy reach, or that, however relaxed he appeared, his body was always tensed for action. In addition, such was the bond between Nick and his dog that the merest twitch of Hector’s fur, the slightest growl from deep within his throat, served as an infallible warning of danger.
As Nick rounded the corner of the house, he heard voices coming from a ground-floor room. Judging from its location, Nick guessed it was Essex’s study. Signaling Hector to keep quiet, he flattened himself against the wall beside the window and listened in.
“It’s good to have you back, Annie.”
Nick chanced a peek through the window and saw Essex with his arms around Annie, his face buried in her hair.
“I’ve missed you. Where did you go? You’ve been gone for two weeks.”
Annie stepped back from the embrace, and Nick ducked out of sight.
“I had to go back to Ireland,” she said. “Family business.”
“You didn’t tell me that.” Essex’s voice was peevish. “You just disappeared.”
“I didn’t think I needed your permission.” Annie’s voice was haughty, and it reminded Nick, and should have reminded Essex, that she was no low-born mistress but a proud scion of an ancient Irish family.
“I worry about you,” Essex said, his voice more conciliatory. “One day someone is going to see through those disguises of yours.”
Nick heard Annie laugh, a high, derisive sound. “I doubt it.” Then, her voice softer, “No need, my love. I’m well able to take care of myself.”
“I hope so.”
Nick heard Essex pacing.
“What do you think of Holt?”
“I think he’s very clever,” Annie said. “I think he needs watching.”
“That’s your job, then. I can’t rely on Edmund. Although he did do us a favor by saving Holt’s life. I confess I didn’t think he had it in him. I was trying to come up with a way to get close to Walsingham’s network, and Edmund delivered Holt for us. Walsingham’s planning some kind of coup, I feel it in my bones, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him make me look like an amateur if he pulls it off. I intend to use Holt to find out.”
“He won’t give up anything,” Annie said. “He plays his cards too close to his chest.”
“Use your charm, Annie. God knows it worked with me.”
Nick chanced another look through the window and saw Annie put her arms around Essex’s neck. Then she kissed him. Essex gave a deep groan, pushed her against a wall, and started fumbling with her skirts. Over his shoulder, Annie looked straight at Nick through the window and winked.
Startled, Nick ducked out of sight. She had been aware of his presence all along. He felt like a fool.
The most valuable thing he had learned was that Annie had been away from London for two weeks, exactly corresponding to the time Nick himself had been following del Toro to Oxford and back. Essex’s comment about Annie’s disguises made him wonder if the whore he had seen in The Spotted Cow had in fact been Annie. If this was so, who was she working for, seeing as Essex had not known where she was? Was she a double agent for the Spanish?
Nick suspected that Annie would do anything to reinstate the former glory of her family, and if the Queen was dragging her feet in providing money and support, then perhaps the Spanish were a better bet. Catholic Ireland had long been an ally of Spain, one of the reasons the English wanted to get a foothold there to prevent Spain from launching an invasion from both east and west. Was Annie capable of changing political allegiances as easily as she assumed disguises? One moment a whore, the next a fine lady and the lover of an earl? No one, Nick suspected, least of all Essex, knew who the real Annie was. That made her supremely dangerous.
* * *
Bankside
“Stuff what Walsingham said about you working alone,” John said. “From now on, I’m going to stick to you like glue.”
Nick had just finished telling John about the conversation he had overheard at Leicester House and how Essex was using him to find out what Walsingham was up to, not just who had killed Winchelsea. He also told him of his suspicions about Annie.
As the son of the old Earl of Blackwell’s steward, John was not only loyal to Nick as a friend but fanatically loyal to the entire Holt family. Nick knew it was useless to beg John to reconsider, and when he thought about it, he concluded that he did indeed need a guardian angel at his back if he was going to negotiate the treacherous waters he now fou
nd himself in.
More and more, Nick was beginning to feel as if he were being used as a pawn in a very complicated game. He could not put his finger on who was the prime mover, whether Walsingham or Essex or Annie, but he was convinced that one of them was orchestrating these events. Walsingham had stonewalled him when Nick had asked who Winchelsea had been following that night to Wood Wharf. He knew he had to find this out another way. Another reason he needed John.
As for the assassination attempt on him, Nick was becoming more and more convinced it had something to do with his surveillance of del Toro. But whether it was the missing Spaniard who had arranged the ambush on the London Road or someone else and for some other reason, Nick did not know. Perhaps if Nick used himself as bait while John watched from the shadows, they would be able to lure the assassin into the open. If Walsingham and Essex could play a double game, then so could Nick.
They were walking along the bank of the Thames at dusk in order to keep their conversation from the ears of Maggie and any patrons of The Black Sheep who were beginning to straggle in after work. Maggie had looked at them oddly as they left, obviously thinking it was a strange time to go for a stroll in one of the most dangerous places in London. Nick knew she would pump John for information when they returned but also knew his friend would lie through his teeth, even to his beloved wife, to protect Nick’s cover as a secret agent.
The Course of All Treasons Page 10