‘Your real father never saw you?’
‘Just once.’ Andrew sighed, ruffling her hair. ‘You are making me remember the things I’ve long disdained to remember. But yes. After I killed her husband, my mother took me to see my real father. He admitted us into his home on The Strand, and we inspected each other with curiosity but little approval. I had looked in few mirrors at that age, but now I know he greatly resembled me. He must have known it, too. But he refused to acknowledge me legally, and refused to take me into his household, which is what my mother asked. He insulted her, and threw us both out. I broke the wine cup I had been holding, and threw the pieces at his feet. I never saw him again. But four years later he died without heirs. His secretary came to our door, handed my mother papers she could not read, and informed us that my father had bequeathed me a little money, and an old house in the Portsoken Ward.’
‘So, he did acknowledge you. And you do remember him.’
‘All I clearly remember is the great blazing fire in his hearth. A massive hearth, taking half the wall.’ Andrew laughed. ‘As a child I had always been cold. We could rarely afford kindling or faggots, and never logs or charcoal. I stood before that old ugly man and his haughty scowl. But all I saw were the flames and how high they sprang. Instead of loving my father, who was a stranger, and cold, I fell in love with the utter bliss of heat.’
Tyballis clung to him, her fingers pressed to the back of his neck and into his hair. ‘So, that’s why you don’t care for the house he left you. You won’t look after it. And you filled it with strangers and thieves.’
‘Not strangers. Not entirely.’ He smiled, playing absently across her breasts. ‘I could not love my father’s house, a place he rarely saw, the minor acquisition of a wealthy man. But Davey, Ralph – I met all of them while working for the Duke of Gloucester. The lost souls, the miserable and inane, those who chose a life without morals because morals are too expensive, or too demanding, or too heavy for a weak man to carry. I had long abandoned my own morals. A man who murders his step-father? Morals need keeping clean, a job I had no talent for. So, I felt akin, and sympathised. I gave a warm place which meant life to them, at little cost to me.’
‘So, your real father was Lord Leays. And Lord Feayton? Who is he?’
‘A foolish adaptation. I could not adopt his real identity, since he was known, and known to have died childless. His name was Ferant, Baron Leays. I rearranged the letters. But for myself I chose not to continue as Andrew Parris, so took my mother’s name Cobham, being without pretensions.’
‘What did you do – with the body?’
He paused, looking up at her a moment in silence. Then he said, ‘As I still do. The river takes them.’
‘Still?’ Her whisper was so soft it was no more than a breath.
He answered without further pause. ‘You want me, little one? And want to know me, and know my past? Then accept the truth. My mother discards the truth and lives her dreams. That’s the path to madness. If you dislike my truths, you can tell me so. And make your choice to stay – or leave.’
She shivered. ‘I’m not frightened of anything you’ve done, Drew. Once I wondered if you’d killed the other Throckmorton. When I first met you, you were carrying – something. And Throckmorton was found dead that night. I even thought you’d killed Borin.’
‘I considered killing Blessop for you. But I did not.’ He held her tighter, kissing her earlobe. ‘The night I first met you, I came down to the river for a purpose. The tide below the bridge takes a body directly to the sea. He was a French spy, Francois Cretiene, bringing bribes from King Louis.’
‘You killed him?’
‘I eradicated him. He knew me and was preparing to inform Marrott – even Dorset. He attacked me, which made my decision remarkably easy.’
‘Is it always easy?’
‘There is nothing in life I called easy, until I met you, little one.’ He paused for a moment, watching her. Tyballis sighed, ‘Killing cannot be right – should not be right – even though, after everything you tried to do, the king was poisoned anyway. So much death.’
‘It is not pleasant,’ he smiled, ‘to have one’s efforts proved impotent. But I am not alone in this game, and those working against me had the greater power. Lord Marrott, Baron Throckmorton, perhaps even Earl Rivers, Dorset and others. I do not presume to rival their ambitions.’
‘And the Duke of Gloucester?’
‘When I was finally sure of a plot against the king, I convinced the duke, but could offer no proof. The duke warned his highness, but the king laughed. When finally I obtained it, I gave Throckmorton’s written confession to Hastings. He chose, for his own safety’s sake, to destroy that proof. I have not told the duke this. Should he ever discover it, he will be furious and I pity Hastings. But I do not mourn King Edward. I never knew him as a man, and believe the Duke of Gloucester will rule England well. He will be a fine protector of the realm. And I shall continue in his service.’
They stood to watch the duke enter London, his nephew riding at his side. The boy king wore pale blue, matching his eyes, his hair a fluff of blond beneath his hat. Twelve years old and nervous, he had lost the uncle he knew well, and gained another he had rarely met before. He had been warned of his mother’s hasty absence, of the circumstances and of the reason for it. But the terrible details of his father’s death were too great to confide at such a moment. And now his people lined the streets and cheered him, and he was excited.
Still in mourning for his brother, the Duke of Gloucester wore black. His horse was black, his black surcoat lined in black marten, the sleeves martin-trimmed sweeping to the stirrups. His hat was black, his hose, boots and gloves all black. His grey eyes were narrowed to the wind, watching the crowds along the way. The procession was slow, and bouncing and rumbling over the cobbles some way behind his grace were the carts carrying the weapons, bearing the Woodville badge, taken from Rivers’ escort. All two thousand had been dismissed, and now the duke and young king were escorted by three hundred Yorkshire men, and a small band accompanying the Duke of Buckingham, who rode to the king’s left.
Andrew Cobham bowed low as the Duke of Gloucester passed. The duke saw and acknowledged him, bowing imperceptibly from the waist. He did not notice the woman close beside, but Tyballis curtsied as low as she dared while trying to keep her hems from the mud. Once the horses had passed, she whispered up at Andrew, ‘Do you think he saw me?’
Andrew’s mouth twitched slightly, but he said, ‘Undoubtedly, my love. There is not a man who could miss you today. You look enchanting.’
Instructed by Andrew, she had taken a new gown from the Crosby Annexe garderobe. Casper Wallop, cheerful now back in the service he enjoyed, had brushed down the long-creased damask and Andrew had helped her dress, then stood her in front of the long mirror, showing her off. The bodice was lined satin, the colour of ripe wheat, deep-cut but trimmed for modesty in crisp white gauze. Beneath her breasts the under-gown was held tight by the stomacher in wide pleats, then swept into the stiffened saffron skirts of the over-gown, patterned in gold to her toes. The outer sleeves, cuffs to her hems, were of the same material and glimmered, the gold thread catching the sun. Tyballis had never dared be so grand before. As Andrew helped her pin the little white-and-gold headdress over her curls, she whispered, ‘You know, don’t you, my love, that I am shockingly improper in all this grandeur? The legislation is very strict. I am nobody, and nobodies should not be wearing satin or brocade. I am dressed well above my station.’
He grinned, clipping the last pin above her ear. ‘I am Lord Feayton,’ he pointed out. ‘And you are my lady.’