Casper looked up from the grate and scowled. ‘Get going,’ he ordered, busy laying more twigs. ‘All that there female thinking stuff can wait for later. Bedtime, missus, so up you goes. Or likely I’ll have to carry you myself.’
Chapter Fifty-Five
‘Is it you indeed, Mistress Blessop?’ The face peered nervously around the partly open door.
‘Good gracious,’ mumbled Tyballis. ‘It’s only you, Mister Webb. Thank goodness. I’d thought – but never mind what I thought. There have been such unfortunate …’ Her voice faded out as Mister Webb entered the little room.
‘’Tis unfortunate everywhere, I’m afraid, mistress,’ he said. ‘There is such lawlessness throughout the city and decent citizens not safe even in their own homes. I’ve never known nothing like it before. First the king. Such a tragedy, and so unexpected. And now we don’t know what to expect next.’
‘But what don’t we know?’ Tyballis begged. ‘I have no idea what has been happening.’
The constable blinked. ‘But you could hardly have missed the troubles, since all London has started locking their doors at night. And seeing this door unbarred, well, it worried me and so I came to check. But come to think of it, you don’t look well, mistress. Not well at all.’
She had been woken by the thumping on the door and had stumbled down the stairs, wrapped in the counterpane. She found Casper already gone, a small fire spitting cheerfully on the hearth and a pale sunshine leaking in.
Now Tyballis breathed deeply and said, ‘I’ve been – out of the city for some time. So, however little you know, Mister Webb, it is far more than I do. Has the Duke of Gloucester not arrived yet?’
‘Not yet, mistress,’ Robert Webb announced, ‘and instead it’s the Marquess of Dorset and the dowager queen have taken over.’ Webb shook his head. ‘With the coronation date set, there’s lords and their men been arriving in the city every day, but no sign of the Duke of Gloucester. Now it’s the Marquess of Dorset in the queen’s name has been gathering forces and begging support, saying as how Gloucester has taken possession of the little king up north, and every nobleman must arm himself and gather forces to defend the queen and gain back her son.’
Tyballis stared in perplexity. ‘You mean the Woodvilles have been trying to muster an army?’
‘Exactly that, mistress.’ The assistant constable looked wild-eyed. ‘There’s been such a hullabaloo and folks is still frightened, hearing as how the old queen means to keep the duke out and rule from behind the throne herself. But it seems them grand lords would have none of it, shouting as how Gloucester is the proper delegated Protector and so must be guardian of his little highness, it being more just that the sovereign should be with his paternal uncle than with his maternal uncles. Most are openly hostile to the Woodvilles. It’s a strong leader we need, but what little respect Dorset had, it’s now well-nigh lost and gone.’
‘And what,’ Tyballis wondered, ‘is told as the cause of the king’s death?’
‘What should there be, mistress?’ Webb frowned. ‘Nothing official, anyway. Rumour, now – well, rumour has an answer for everything. But I’ll not spread gossip, for there’s other dangers is real enough. Perhaps I’d do best to call a doctor for you, mistress.’
‘There’s no need,’ she assured him. ‘And I’m not here alone. I have a servant – an old friend, someone I trust to look after me. Though I’d be pleased if you would come again sometime, Mister Webb, since a friendly face will seem especially welcome over the next few days.’
Constable Webb nodded fiercely. ‘With the city still in chaos, well, that I will. Should the marquess raise an armed force after all, then it’ll not be safe to leave the house.’
Over the following days Robert Webb continued to visit, and sometimes brought gifts: a hot pie from the Ordinary, fresh eggs from his mother’s chickens, a neat white bonnet his mother now considered too frivolous for her aging dignity, and a small Seville orange, carefully wrapped. She looked apologetically towards Mister Wallop. But Casper shook his head. ‘You go ahead,’ he assured her. ‘I don’t want no nasty foreign stuff. Don’t know what them things could do inside your belly.’
More important than gifts, he brought news. No armed force was in power, and peace was returning to the streets. But he continued to visit.
Tyballis, uncomfortably aware that she should not encourage Mister Webb in this tentative courtship, still accepted everything. She had no clothes and was glad of gifts. Having escaped Cobham Hall in a gown already filthy and ripped, and it had been further ruined by the river’s dirty waters. She had lost her shoes and stockings, she had no headdress, and she no longer owned a cape or hood. At first she had been forced to adopt the little left of Margery Blessop’s belongings, but her mother-in-law had been far shorter than she, and distinctly thick-waisted. Tyballis had made do with the shift and apron, and cutting a wide strip from her own spoiled shift, she had sewn this to the hem of Margery Blessop’s old gown, at least managing to cover her ankles. Then she sat by the empty pot hanging over the fire, and cried.
Mister Wallop also brought gifts. Constable Webb would most certainly not have approved, but fortunately he did not know. Casper came home each dinnertime with enough food for at least a small meal. He brought pork skin to cook with lentils. The next day he brought a whole chicken to broil, and on the following morning half a calf’s head, complete with brains and a thick cheek. A week later he brought sausages. Another time, tripe. Tyballis regarded the earthenware dish with misgivings. ‘Mister Wallop,’ she said reprovingly, ‘you have stolen this off some poor housewife’s windowsill.’
Casper ginned. ‘Where d’you reckons I got all the rest, then? Ain’t heard you complaining ’bout eating them great big eggs yesterday. Goose eggs, them were and a proper nice omelette they made, too. Enjoyed it meself, I did. You thought as how I’d gone and bought them eggs from a regular stall, then? Or maybe laid them meself?’
Ashamed to go out, Tyballis sat at home or curled in bed long past dawn. There seemed no point to the days, no aim, no inner sunshine, and little hope. Dreaming of past friendships made their lack now too obvious, and longing for those arms, loving protection and that particular embrace, simply resulted in tears, misery and regrets.
Her neighbours avoided her and she avoided them. Long aggrieved by the behaviour of Borin and Margery Blessop, not one of them had become a friend over past years. The house on one side, once occupied by Borin and Margery, was rented to passing lodgers, few staying long enough to give their names. Now having arrived suddenly in the night, dressed like a beggar and unchaperoned except by a man with the appearance of a Newgate bruiser or a Tom o’ Bedlam, there was not a respectable soul in the street prepared to give Mistress Tyballis Blessop the time of the day. Gossip spoke of many things, and Tyballis guessed what those things were. She stayed indoors.
There was cleaning enough to keep her occupied, since the empty house had accumulated enough dust and cobwebs to fill a trunk, but housekeeping in a house she no longer loved left her feeling more bereft than ever.
Late one evening Casper came rushing in carrying a huge armful of linens, dumping them down on the floor by her feet and then sitting heavily on the stool beside her. ‘Best lock the door,’ he grinned. ‘Might – just might – be followed.’