by S. W. Perry
In the small hours they give up. Though no one says so – for fear of invoking bad luck – each imagines Farzad waiting for them on their return, innocently wondering what all the fuss has been about.
At the Jackdaw Timothy asks, ‘Shall we wake Master Ned and Mistress Rose?’
‘No,’ sighs Bianca wearily. ‘Let them sleep. They’ve earned their joy. Let’s not spoil it until we have to.’
The petitioners begin queuing outside the Strand entrance to Cecil House before sunrise. Some have legal suits they want the Cecils to back, some desire the family’s patronage, some hope for a hearing at court, perhaps even an audience with the queen herself. More than a few would like a little of the Cecils’ largesse, to finance schemes ranging from the practical to the downright mad. They eye each other like the beasts of the wildwood, though they try not to show it, gauging advantage or otherwise by the cut of a cloak, the fabric of a doublet or the quality of a pair of shoes. Their breath forms little clouds of envy or disdain in the pallid air.
The liveried guards at the gatehouse are calling out those with appointments, from a list the clerks prepared the previous evening. Just because your name is on the list doesn’t mean you will actually get to see Sir Robert, or his father, Lord Burghley. They may not even be in residence. But if you’re called, at least you can wait in the long gallery, out of the cold.
One man to have his name called early is Reynard Gault.
In stature, Gault is commanding. He has in his eyes the hawk’s eagerness for a kill. He is a merchant venturer, a rising star of the Exchange. He invests: in Baltic timber, in Muscovy furs, in fish from the seas off New-Found Land. But he invests wisely. He has no time for argosies that sink when they meet the first big wave, or captains without a sound record of success. Speculative adventures to the Indies in search for fabled cities of gold he leaves to fools, and to his Spanish competitors.
And it has made him a rich man. Not yet forty, he has a fine house on Giltspur Street by Smithfield, where he shows visitors a whale’s horn that he tells the gullible was taken from a unicorn. He is a leading light in the Worshipful Company of Grocers, having made his original fortune in spices. And being a forward-looking fellow he has recently accepted a prominent position in the Barbary Company. After all, as he likes to tell those who come to him in search of the next big opportunity, the future lies not with princes – Christian or infidel – but with mercantile men.
Once admitted, Gault is delivered into the care of a silent individual with the Cecils’ ermine-tail emblem on his coat. To his surprise, Gault is not conveyed to the long gallery where the favoured wait, with varying success, for admittance to the presence chamber, but to an open terrace at the rear of the great house.
Robert Cecil is standing with his back towards a neatly clipped hedge. Dressed in a black gown that hides his twisted trunk, he is attended by a quartet of clerks, all busily taking down notes on wax or slate. He is the smallest man in the group, and for a moment Gault has the impression of a student reciting his thesis to a group of gowned professors. But then Cecil peremptorily waves them away.
‘God give you good morrow, Sir Robert,’ says Gault, making a low bow.
‘And in return, Gault, I shall give you pepper,’ Cecil says with a smile of congratulation.
‘Pepper, Sir Robert? I had presumed you wished to speak to me about the passage you asked me to secure aboard the Righteous.’
‘It is arranged, I trust?’
‘Yes, Sir Robert. But your passenger must be ready before the month is out,’ Gault says hurriedly. ‘Vessels tied to a wharf longer than necessary are a great burden on the investor.’
‘Oh, he’ll be aboard, one way or the other. Tell your captain to count on it.’
‘And the pepper? You wish me to arrange burden-space? I could offload a part of the Marion’s cargo.’
‘I don’t desire to ship it, Master Gault. I wish to sell it. Three hundred tons, to be exact. In chests. Value – ninety thousand pounds, according to the assessment that I and my father, the Lord Treasurer, have made of it.’
Gault whistles at the astonishing figure. He gives a slow, conspiratorial nod, meant to show a fellow venturer that he can read between the lines. ‘Spanish pepper, I take it.’
‘Portuguese, to be precise – aboard the galleon Madre de Deus, seized off the Azores by the fleet of our gallant Sir Walter Raleigh. Currently under guard at Dartmouth.’
Gault knows the story well. Save for the pestilence, tavern talk has been about little else since September last, when – after a bloody battle off Flores Island – the great ship was brought into the Devonshire harbour, her holds bulging.
‘I put the guard in place myself,’ Cecil continues, ‘else the thieving rogues who live in those parts would likely have carried all away in their galligaskins. The queen wishes the cargo sold, to the general benefit of the Treasury. I thought an eminent member of the Grocers’ Guild would know the best course for disposing of the pepper.’
Gault makes a little bow to show how grateful he is to have been considered.
‘To sell such a tonnage at once would glut the market, Sir Robert. The value would plunge before a man might make a profit.’
‘Which is why we intend to release it in manageable quantities over a period of years.’
‘Very wise, if I may say so.’
‘We will need someone to administer the sale, of course,’ Cecil says, his brow lifting a little, as if the thought has only just occurred to him. ‘Over the years we Cecils have learned many skills. Sadly, grocery is not counted amongst them.’
‘Would that person be free to use the monopoly as he saw fit, Sir Robert?’
‘I doubt very much the right man could be found to take it, otherwise.’
‘Did you have anyone in mind?’ Gault asks archly.
‘Well, seeing as how you’re here… I mean, you’re not too pressed with other enterprises at the present time, are you? You could find the time?’
‘I’m honoured, Sir Robert,’ Gault says a little too quickly, and with the smile of a man who’s eaten too much sugar. ‘I can think of no better duty for an honest merchant to perform than to assist our sovereign majesty’s Treasury in this present time of danger.’
‘What a shame more of our gentlemen don’t see things so clearly. They seem to think ships and cannon build themselves out of patriotic duty.’
Gault waits patiently for the addendum. When the Cecils make a generous offer, there is always an addendum.
‘The Worshipful Company of Grocers, Sir Reynard – prospering, I take it?’
‘Very much so, Sir Robert. We are but second amongst all the liveried companies in the city.’ Gault gives Cecil a look of immense hurt. ‘Of course we’d be first, if the Mercers hadn’t cheated.’
‘Something about a camel, was it not?’ says Cecil, with a sly tilt of his head. ‘An incident at the queen’s coronation? I seem to recall my father mentioning it. He thought it most amusing.’
Gault’s face sours. ‘The beast was part of our procession. We thought Her Grace would marvel at it. But we believe the Mercers fed it something that caused it to emit noxious fumes from its fundament. Unfortunately, Her Grace’s carriage was directly behind the beast. It was a vile trick.’
‘On the camel, the grocers or Her Majesty?’ asks Robert Cecil with a twitch of mischief on his lips. He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let that be a warning, Gault: never trust fellows with an overly vain interest in silks.’
Assuming the audience is over, Gault makes a sweeping bow. But Cecil hasn’t finished with him.
‘The Grocers’ Company licenses the apothecaries in our city, does it not?’
‘Indeed it does, Sir Robert. And we are the better for it. Trade does not prosper if charlatans are allowed to devalue the merchandise.’
‘And if I were to bring to your attention an apothecary whom I felt was one such charlatan, you would exercise your influence with the Guild to shut them down?’
‘Without question, Sir Robert. You have only to tell me his name.’
‘It’s a her, actually.
‘A woman? I wasn’t aware we licensed women.’
‘She won her approval solely by the influence of Lord Lumley. He funds the chair of anatomy at the College of Physicians. He was acting on behalf of a certain young physician who wished to advance her. A favour. I didn’t object at the time. Perhaps I should have.’
‘A female licensed apothecary! Whatever next – doctors in farthingales?’ Gault flicks a hand as though to brush away a fly. ‘I shall make it my duty to have her barred immediately, Sir Robert.’
Robert Cecil lays a hand on Gault’s arm. ‘All in good time. There is no need for haste. Not yet.’
A watery sun sits just above the great houses along the Strand, bathing nearby Lincoln’s Inn in a sickly light. ‘Look at that,’ Sir Robert says absent-mindedly. ‘The lawyers get the light before the Cecils. How on earth did my father let that happen?’
The kiss has led to a glorious intimacy, just as Nicholas has always known it would. They are lying together naked, coiled in blissful heat. Bianca is kissing his face, whispering endearments to him. He can feel the wetness of her tongue exploring the side of his neck. Why did it take me so long? he mouths happily. Why did I fight against it so resolutely? And then she nips him on the earlobe. A sharp-toothed little bite.
Sitting bolt upright, his head collides with something hard, bringing him rudely awake. Then Buffle launches another joyous assault on his ear. Nicholas groans, pushes the dog aside and crawls out from beneath the table, where he’s spent all too few hours of sleep.
The taproom is empty, save for Timothy sleeping on his pallet by the hearth. Bianca, he supposes, is still asleep in the one free lodging chamber. Ned and Rose are presumably still deep in the warm oblivion of love. Climbing stiffly to his feet, Nicholas goes to the door and lets Buffle out into the lane.
In the insipid early-morning light the houses opposite stare back at him like drowned faces. A lad in a broadcloth coat far too large for him is driving a pair of heifers towards the Mutton Lane shambles. If they knew what awaited them, Nicholas thinks, the heifers could simply turn and trample him underfoot. Yet they go uncomplainingly to their fate, compelled only by a small lad with an even smaller stick. Has Farzad fallen for such a simple deception? he wonders uncomfortably.
By the time the search was abandoned – in the small hours – the theories had already begun to bloom. Farzad had run away because he feared the plague would soon reach Southwark. Farzad was sleeping it off under a hedge, or in a doorway, having put aside his religious objections and taken drink during the celebrations. Farzad, almost eighteen and notable for his lustrous black hair and dark complexion, had at last lost his innocence to some pretty Bankside blower and was snoring contentedly in her generous embrace.
And then there were the darker theories, the ones that no one wished to give voice to: that he had left the fug of the Jackdaw’s taproom for some fresh air and fallen prey to a particularly violent cut-purse, or that while taking his ease for a moment out in the lanes, he had got into a fatal quarrel with someone who held Moors in the same contempt as he did papists.
Nicholas stretches to ease his aching joints and waits for Buffle to finish her morning patrol. Rose has a fear that the dog will be taken for fighting, and doesn’t like her being in the lane unwatched. Lazily his eyes follow her, and so he takes a deeper interest in the scene than otherwise he might.
Around the tavern entrance the boot-marks from the night’s search are preserved in the mud. They spread out like the voyage lines drawn on Robert Cecil’s globe. Just a few paces from the door, a single track turns sharply right, looping back towards the tavern wall. It is overlaid in several places, suggesting it was made before the search began. Nicholas looks at it for a moment while Buffle barks ineffectually at the departing cows. Are the footprints Farzad’s? he wonders.
He dismisses the probability immediately. Dozens of people came and went during the course of yesterday’s celebrations. This set of imprints could belong to any one of them. Enough sack and mad-dog had been consumed for a least one person to have had to steady themselves against the wall of the tavern before continuing on their way. Nevertheless, an image of Farzad in his leather cook’s apron, his cap at a jaunty angle, stepping out unnoticed into the lane to cool down, compels Nicholas to venture into the lane to take a closer look.
At the point where the solitary imprints reach the wall there is a second patch of churned mud. Multiple footprints lead out into the lane. He can picture the scene: a reveller dancing one last drunken jig in celebration of the happy couple, before being helped home by his companions.
And then he sees it.
Splashed across the old brickwork directly below the chamber where Ned and Rose are at this moment slumbering through their first dawn as husband and wife is a dark stain that holds an awful familiarity for Nicholas. A sudden tightening in his chest turns each breath into an act of protest.
It’s not a large stain. But then it doesn’t have to be. Once set free, blood finds freedom intoxicating. From his days in Holland, tending the torn and the hacked, the speared and the shattered, he knows exactly how ungovernable blood can be when it’s loosed from the body by a blade or a ball. Sometimes it can flow as though it will never stop, yet less than an hour later you’re laughing about what a close shave you’ve had. Sometimes you can die while you’re still trying to find the puncture. But splashed on a wall, however small the amount, can mean only one thing: a sudden attack, full of motion and fury.
Now he can see a very different pattern in the mud. The night’s events unfold in his mind’s eye: a body supported on either side by its assailants as they drag it away from the shelter of the wall.
Not a street robbery, then. If you’re going to cut away a purse, you don’t take the owner along with it.
Nicholas searches for signs of a blood trail. It doesn’t take him long to find them. At regular intervals, dark drops of blood keep company with the confused line of prints that head out into the lane. Some are pristine circles; others have left only a discoloration in the crust. By their distribution he can gauge the stride of the men dragging Farzad’s body. It’s a long, steady pace. Nicholas has a picture of two men practised at bearing heavy burdens. Men skilled in what they were about.
At the crossroads there is a public conduit. Three women are drawing water, the sleeves of their kirtles rolled up, their plump arms yellowed by the jaundiced sun rising over the rooftops. ‘Have you lost something, Dr Shelby?’ one of the women asks.
Her companion replies, ‘Aye, he’s dropped the wedding ring – the one he’s going to place on Mistress Merton’s finger.’
He thinks his attempt at a self-deprecating smile must look to them like the leering of a madman. He mumbles an incoherent excuse. But they have had their moment of fun at his expense and are once more lost in conversation.
At the crossroads the tracks disappear altogether, churned beyond recognition into the cloying mud. He looks back towards the Jackdaw with a heavy heart. Telling Bianca is going to be bad enough, but the news is going to turn the happiness of Master and Goodwife Monkton into gall.
Refusing to abandon Farzad, if only in his imagination, Nicholas tries each of the other three lanes issuing from the crossroads. All are narrow and overhung with the teetering fronts of tightly packed wood-and-plaster tenements. He goes into the first two only as far as it takes him to determine that the ground is too recently disturbed to show which way Farzad’s attackers carried him. Outside one house he thinks he’s picked up the trail again, but the dark spot turns out to be nothing but a rusting tin button. He turns, walks back to the crossroads and tries the third lane.
Almost immediately he sees an arc of blood-splatters in the mud. Did Farzad recover enough to struggle? Or is this the place where he died?
To his relief, there are no obvious sign that a body was laid in the
mud here. And by now, someone would have found the corpse. A public cry would have been raised.
Looking around, puzzled, but still clinging to hope, Nicholas notices a familiar tenement not far away. It is a house of no distinction whatsoever – certainly no grander than any of the others in a lane where grandiosity is measured by whether or not the sewer ditch outside has a step across it. It is a narrow two-storey timbered house, with little windows criss-crossed by cheap lead and shuttered on the inside. The studs and braces of the woodwork are cracked and faded. Nicholas walks towards it, resolving to speak to the owner. He may have heard something in the night. And being a regular at the Jackdaw – as Nicholas knows him to be – it would be best if he were forewarned.
Reaching the door, Nicholas sees that it bears the marks of numerous lock replacements, though apparently the owner is trusting enough to leave it slightly ajar. A small square of timber nailed above the latch shows the image of a hand, palm forward, the fingers together and pointing down. The once-bright paint is flaked and peeling. The sign is a talisman, Dr Shelby, he hears the owner telling him, a charm against evil. What a pity it doesn’t protect a fellow from the flux.
Nicholas remembers his last visit to this house. He had prescribed crushed cinnamon and pomegranate juice to ease the patient’s stomach pain, but had stopped short of drawing blood from the veins of the inner arm. ‘I think this has more to do with those oysters you ate yesterday than some imaginary imbalance of the humours,’ he recalls saying.
As Nicholas lifts his hand to knock, his head tilts downwards in a counter-movement to the raising of his arm. It is unintentional, but it brings into his direct view the dark smear at the foot of the door. He stares at it, an icy flood of disbelief racing through his thoughts.
Surely not here! Not by this man’s hand.