Your servant,
W
‘Well,’ she said, dropping the letter on her lap. ‘Perhaps things are not so bad as I supposed.’
‘Good news, my lady?’
‘I see now why I was allowed to walk free from the Tower. If they had simply released me, I would have had to return to the palace, there to await the King’s command. Whereas now I can pursue my mission in secret, without my uncle questioning why I have been freed at all. When he finds out, he will be furious. And when he is furious, he acts.’
‘Is there anything I can do, my lady?’
‘Indeed there is.’ She ran her finger around her plate, amassing the last few crumbs of bread. ‘You can fetch me Tacitus.’
Sir William’s letter had rekindled her hopes, just as she now used it to kindle the stuttering fire, the tentative flames growing in confidence as she added more wood to strengthen the blaze. Gradually, the runaway servants woke and collected their bread, but none of them spoke, preferring to sit apart. Instead she flicked through yesterday’s Intelligencer that Phibae’s husband had left on the floor.
‘WAR!’ shouted the provocative headline, emblazoned across a whole third of the front page. Underneath followed a supposed description of the preparations for battle, although none of the quoted figures had much credibility. But then the pamphlets had never been about fact so much as about emotion, and this edition certainly excelled at that.
The Dutch turn tail before a Single Cannonball has been Fired! Van Wassenaer leads his ragged ships back across the Sea as the brave Duke of York rides for the Fleet with His Majesty the King. The butter-boxes scare of our English roar!
She smiled, for although she doubted matters were as simple as that, the sentiments still resounded. Then a dull scrape drew her attention to the ceiling; of a sudden, no one in the room was breathing. But when the trapdoor was heaved open, and a pair of boots appeared, everyone relaxed.
‘Tacitus,’ greeted Mercia, as the servant boy jumped the last rung of the ladder to the floor. ‘You came quickly.’
‘It is my pleasure, my lady,’ he replied, as Phibae followed him down. In the room above, an unseen person closed the trapdoor and dragged the chest across.
‘Do you not have duties with Lady Cartwright? I had thought it would be hours, maybe tomorrow, before we could speak.’
‘Lady Cartwright is still abed, my lady. There was a gathering last night, to see off the King.’
‘Another gathering.’ She rolled her eyes in an attempt at conspiracy. ‘How fares your reading?’
‘Not badly. But my lady, although my mistress sleeps … I don’t know how long I can stay.’
‘Of course.’ She pointed out two stools in the corner of the room. ‘Shall we sit?’
He hurried across the shabby rugs, some more hole than fabric, the frayed threads clearly chewed in parts. Waiting for the women to take the stools, he tumbled to the floor in a gymnastic sweep, crossing his legs and leaning against the wall.
‘Do you not want a seat?’ Mercia asked. ‘There are plenty of others.’
‘No, my lady. Would you like to know what I’ve found out?’
‘I can see you understand why I have summoned you. Yes, please tell me what you know.’
He hesitated. ‘You have been gentle to me, my lady, but … I won’t get into trouble for this, will I?’
‘He is worried he will be dismissed from service, my lady,’ said Phibae. ‘Or worse, if Lady Cartwright decides to punish him by asking he be sent to the Barbados.’
Mercia looked him in the eye. ‘Tacitus, I swear I will tell nobody of your part in this. Will you take my word?’
He blinked, but then he looked at Phibae; she smiled, and his nervous eyes softened.
‘I will.’ But then his face fell. ‘But there’s not much to tell of, in truth. Only small things.’
‘That may be all I need, Tacitus.’
‘’Tis about Mrs Howe, mostly. I’ve never seen her myself, because she lives away from Court, but one time Lady Herrick was with my mistress and her friends, and … it is those ladies you were interested in, wasn’t it? Mrs Howe, Lady Herrick, and my mistress?’
‘That is right.’
‘Well, they talked about Miss Whent first, how she was foolish and … naïve. Is that the word?’
‘It is a word.’
‘And that her … looseness, I think … has – brought its reward? Forced her to leave the palace. Does that make sense? It seems unkind to me.’
‘In the context of court prattle, I should say it does make sense. And it is unkind. Has Miss Whent been released, then?’
‘Two days since, I heard, my lady,’ broke in Phibae. ‘And most upset.’
Mercia thought of her own interrogation. ‘I am … not surprised.’
‘Later, they talked of Mrs Howe.’ More confident now, Tacitus leant forward. ‘Lady Herrick was in a very bad mood. She said Mrs Howe had come to the palace to see Sir Stephen, in a panic.’
‘Did she know about what?’
‘Only that Mrs Howe was complaining about Mr Howe, my lady. But then Sir Stephen made Lady Herrick leave the room, she said, and I think that must have made her unhappy, because she called Mrs Howe’ – he screwed up his eyes – ‘an … upstart?’
‘And that is another word.’
‘Then they talked a bit more about Mr Howe. They said he’s been trying to talk with Sir Geoffrey Allcot when he should … keep to his own concerns.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes, that’s it. And they said Mrs Howe should look to her husband, or she’d lose him to some other woman. What did they say … that she was standing aloof because she’d travelled abroad, just like—’ He swallowed. ‘Oh, I mean …’
‘Just like me?’
He glanced down. ‘Maybe.’
‘Do not be troubled, Tacitus. I care little for what those women think.’ She gave him a smile. ‘Please, continue.’
‘They … said it wasn’t her that was better, it was them. That she always keeps herself apart because they live at Court and she doesn’t. And then they looked at me and said they couldn’t imagine Mrs Howe owning a black, because her husband wouldn’t let her.’
‘I am sorry, Tacitus.’
‘And that’s all I know, my lady.’ He bit his lip. ‘I don’t think ’tis much.’
‘It may be,’ she mused. ‘And what of Lady Cartwright? Has she been anywhere unusual of late, done anything strange?’
He wiggled his head. ‘She gets up late, meets her friends, sometimes meets Sir Geoffrey or another man. She goes to bed late. I don’t think she’s left the palace for days.’
She raised her head. ‘Another man in particular?’
‘Yes, but … I’m always told to go away when she meets him. Like that other man she used to meet, but she hasn’t seen him for some weeks, I don’t think.’
‘Other man?’ Her jaw twitched. ‘Do you know who?’
‘I’m sorry, my lady, but no.’
‘You are sure you cannot remember?’
His eyes darted about, as though he were pained. ‘I never saw him, my lady. Never heard my mistress talk of him.’ He frowned. ‘That’s odd, because she talks to her friends about everything.’
‘I wonder.’ She sucked in her lips. ‘Is there anything else? About the war, for instance, or the Dutch?’
‘My mistress doesn’t much talk of anything other than what happens at the palace. But Lady Herrick, I remember how she said no one need worry about the war, because she knew it would end quickly. I hope so.’ He gazed into the corner. ‘Fighting is not good.’
‘Not usually, no.’ As she turned from Tacitus, digesting his report, she became aware of the other residents of the safe house talking: her attention had been solely on the teenager this whole time. ‘Thank you, Tacitus,’ she said. ‘You have been of great help.’
In truth, she did not know how useful his information would be, but at least he had been able to share some morsels of interest. That Cornelia Howe h
ad been panicked intrigued her, and she wondered whether that could be related to events. But Cornelia was only one of her suspects, whereas following the trail of Julien Bellecour could lead her to whichever of the women Virgo might be. It had not escaped her notice that the tragic Frenchman had left his reports at a Southwark whorehouse and then been found dead in a stables in that same locale. And so she decided to return across the river, leaving the sanctuary of the safe house to brave the crowded streets.
After a hurried wash in a bowl of shallow water, she heaved up her dress to ascend the ladder, emerging into the unassuming room above with a little less dignity than before. One of the men who had brought her to the hideout was reading in a corner, a Bible it seemed, and he agreed to take her out into the city, provided she wear a blindfold and hide under a pile of empty sacks. He set off with his cart, but if she had hoped to learn her whereabouts by judging their route, she was disappointed: it took all of her effort to wedge herself in as the cart juddered over countless ruts and dips.
Eventually, they stopped. Pushing aside the sacks, the driver removed the blindfold and helped her out.
‘You see that church?’ he said, pointing to the entrance of the alley they were in. ‘That’s St Helen’s. Be here when the clock strikes seven and I’ll take you back. If you’re late, I won’t stay.’
The man was as sceptical as Phibae’s husband, but she thanked him and waited until he trundled away before coming out of the alley into the shadow of the church. She pulled up her cloak to hide her face, looking left and right to gain her bearings.
To her left was a tavern, its sign a faded lion flecked with red, surrounded by a row of shopfronts. To her right the road was surprisingly empty, although a row of houses was packed the one atop the other on each side. She started in that direction, but an aged woman crouching near her feet reached up a scrawny arm to stop her.
‘Woah, dear,’ she whined through what blackened teeth she had left. ‘Not that way.’
‘Why not?’ said Mercia, shaking her arm loose.
The old woman spat. ‘See that door there, halfway down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now see that cross on it?’
‘The red cross, yes.’ A chill came upon her. ‘Oh.’
‘That’s right, dear. Man and wife, five kids, all locked away.’ She coughed. ‘Don’t expect they’ll last, but as long as they don’t come out, we don’t need to worry.’
Mercia peered down the street. ‘Can no one help?’
‘Too late for that. I’m watching to be sure no one goes in – and no one comes out.’
Appalled at her indifference, Mercia nonetheless obeyed her instruction and hurried the other way, past the tavern and the storefronts. It had rained overnight, and the shallow channel in the middle of the street was churned up more than normal; the stench from the filth was horrendous, and she kept to the left as far as she could, wishing she had iron pattens under her boots to raise her above the ooze. Still, the going was easier than it could have been, even if the obstinate hawkers lined up in her way made her weave in and out, left and right.
Wanting to avoid the squashed bustle of London Bridge, she was aiming for a wherry stand to take her across the river. She asked a passing sweep how to reach the nearest mooring; he nearly knocked the milk jug from a young girl’s hands as he swung his brush towards a side street in response. Thanking him, she leapt the middle channel just before a convoy of drays came past, not without a curse from the driver up front, and a corresponding neigh from his horse.
Entering the side street, a rat or two scurried from her boots, and she crested a low rise, descending towards a patch of glittering sunlight. Forced to sidle sideways past an unmoving apprentice, she sent a trio of gulls flapping as she came out by the Thames. To her right, steps led to a creaking wherry, where she paid the boatman to take her across.
‘Ain’t you warm, love?’ he asked, incessantly staring as he rowed.
‘You mean my cloak?’ She pulled her hood close. ‘I am … unwell.’
He inched back, as much as he could. ‘Not … that, is it?’
‘Only a chill.’
Not looking reassured, the oarsman rowed faster, straining his arm muscles to speed them to the south bank despite the adverse breeze. When they arrived, he pushed off as soon as Mercia had both feet onshore, leaving a waiting peddler to shake his fist over his half-full basket of knives.
Mercia took advantage of the cutler’s anger to slip unnoticed into the Southwark streets. Although the first stables she found were not the ones she sought, she was yet in luck, for word of Bellecour’s death had spread fast. An excitable young stable hand was keen to discuss the gruesome news.
‘Found him right in a bucket, Hal did,’ he said. ‘When he came to change the straw of the morning. Bastard foreign he was, too.’
‘How could he tell? This Hal.’
The boy leant on his rusty pitchfork. ‘You just can, can’t you?’
‘Can you? I … heard he had a knife in his neck.’
‘Knife in his neck, face in the water. Nothing on him.’
‘Sorry?’
‘No coin, rings, nothing.’ He smirked. ‘He was wearing clothes.’
‘Where did you say he was found?’
He hadn’t, but he gave her directions to the stables she wanted all the same. Finding them quickly, she entered the yard to find a half-naked worker slugging a beaker of ale. In the midst of a band of placid horses, he set down his cup as Mercia approached.
‘Morning,’ he smiled, wiping sweat from his chest with a cloth. ‘After a horse?’
She reached into her pocket and took out a shilling. ‘I should rather learn more about the man who died here last week.’
He cocked his head, sucking in his layer of belly fat. ‘Right warm today for that cloak.’
‘So people keep saying. Do you want the coin or not?’
‘I won’t say no. Another of them lot, eh?’
She held out the coin. ‘Them lot?’
‘Them folk who like to hear about bad stuff. Murders, fights, that kind of thing.’ He licked his lips. ‘Don’t matter to me who you are, ladybird. Could come from the palace itself and probably do.’ Taking the coin, he pointed behind her. ‘Where you’re standing is right where I found him.’
She turned to look at the dusty spot. ‘Would you describe it?’
‘Keen, ain’t you? Name’s Hal, by the way.’ He grinned. ‘You one of them girls who like their men rough?’
‘Shall we keep to the matter at hand, Hal?’
‘I wager you are.’ He traced a finger across his chest. ‘It was cold, the morning I found him.’
‘I do not care about the weather. Tell me about the dead man.’
‘Very keen.’ He dropped to the ground. ‘He looked like this. Knife towards the left, here.’ He jabbed at his neck. ‘And his face covered in water in the bucket.’ He made a bubbling noise, his cheeks vibrating on the earth.
‘He had no possessions?’
Hal got to his feet, hay falling from his knees. ‘Nothing but the shirt and breeches he was wearing. And his shoes. Told the harmans quick, but the man who came weren’t a constable. Least not one who works round here.’
‘Do you know all the constables in Southwark?’
‘You … get to.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘No, that cove weren’t no harman. He talked too fine. Came with another fellow and a cart and took the body away. Didn’t say nothing, other than I should mind not to talk. Well, fuck that.’
‘Nicely put.’
‘I could see he was foreign when I lifted him from the bucket. Like that other woman who came to ask after him, couple of days back.’
Her head jerked up. ‘What other woman?’
‘Asking questions like you are. Talked funny.’
‘Are you sure she was foreign?’
He blew out through his cheeks as if he were one of his horses. ‘She talked strange,’ he said, ‘but I suppose she didn’t ne
ed to be foreign. Might have been disguising herself. But why do that?’ He winked. ‘Besides, if nothing’s going to happen, I think you’ve exhausted your coin.’
She felt inside her pocket for a second shilling. ‘You can have this if you tell me how the woman looked.’
‘I’d rather have something else. No?’ He grabbed for the coin. ‘She was a little shorter than you, but looked the same kind of age.’ He grinned. ‘Early twenties?’
‘Try thirties.’
‘Just being kind. She had brown hair sticking from under her hat. Not much on the chest, not that I noticed. Nose a bit crooked, small mark on her cheek. Far too thin, but not ugly neither.’
She stared at him. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘I ain’t stupid, ladybird.’
‘Please. Are you certain?’
‘I ain’t blind, either. I’ve a good eye for you women.’
Oblivious to his pique, Mercia gaped at the spot where Bellecour had been found.
Hal had just described Cornelia Howe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
There was one other place she needed to visit in Southwark. Once again drawing up her hood, she made the short walk to the last location she had seen Bellecour alive, the location where he had dropped his ill-gained intelligence.
She arrived at the whorehouse without incident, sticking to the river before heading inland at the bear pits. No women were waiting outside today, but then it was morning, and the rotten door was firmly closed. Steeling herself, she knocked, waited, and knocked again. And then again.
A window above opened with a grinding squeak.
‘Fuck off!’
She looked up at the young face sneering through.
‘I need to speak to someone,’ she said. ‘It is important.’
‘And I need you to fuck off.’
‘I have coin.’
The girl chewed on her bottom lip. ‘How much?’
‘Enough. Will you come down and talk?’
The mangling continued apace. ‘What about?’
‘I just want to know something.’ She reached into her pocket and jangled her purse. ‘Or do you not care for money?’
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