‘And if someone else – the wrong woman – comes?’
‘The one you want is small, a little taller than yourself, and considerably older. Thirty-one or two, I believe. Plump-breasted, round-faced and bright-eyed. The late king liked his mistresses beautiful, but this one, they say, is jovial with more charm of character than of appearance. Indeed, Mistress Shore is famed as unmistakable.’
‘And if I still get her wrong?’
‘Ask her name, my love, and if she denies it, or gives another, follow her at a distance to be sure. Your judgement must rule the situation. I shall overcome any difficulties afterwards. You need not fear mistakes.’
‘Of course I do. Mistakes can be fatal. You told me so yourself.’
‘No venture of espionage is without its risks, and I have spent my life overcoming them while righting the mistakes of others. Take confidence, little one. You will do very well.’
Tyballis was feeling somewhat less confident, but as she approached the Bell Tower she saw a small bustling woman already hurrying through the archway. The woman, pretty and plump-breasted, was not ostentatiously dressed but her gown and cape were fur-trimmed and elegant. Tyballis straightened, lifted her head and walked briskly towards her. With the benefit of silken sophistication, she pretended importance.
‘Mistress Shore?’
The woman pursed full pink lips. ‘Forgive me, my lady. I am not authorised to speak to anyone and cannot assist you.’
Tyballis said, summoning hauteur, ‘I have a message for you, Mistress Shore, but if you will not accept it, then your mission is wasted and you must return at some other time.’
Mistress Shore hesitated. ‘Then may I hear the message, my lady? And ask who it is from?’
‘Not standing in full daylight, you will not,’ said Tyballis, turning at once. She crossed immediately to the shadows of St Margaret’s Church. Dutifully, Mistress Shore kept one step behind. They entered the cool of the nave together and the sun blinked out. Tyballis kept back against the wall near the entrance. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I have word from a mutual friend. You know exactly who I mean. He is at present meeting with someone regarding his safe removal from this country. The suggestion is being considered at this very moment. Your own information must either wait, madam, or be entrusted to myself.’
Mistress Shore lowered her eyes. ‘I would prefer to wait.’
‘I understand,’ Tyballis said with some impatience. ‘But Thomas will be ill pleased. His discussion is now taking place with my husband, Lord Feayton, and the information you bring may be imperative to his final decision. Once my husband and I leave, we cannot return. The opportunity will be passed. But your distrust does you credit, madam. It is a shame, but caution, however inconvenient, is a virtue in situations such as these. I will not press you further.’
Mistress Shore stretched out a careful hand, touching the silken elbow of the small imperious lady. ‘Perhaps, if the situation is so particularly urgent …’
‘Urgent?’ Tyballis stared at the cautiously hovering fingers. ‘Not to me, mistress. But to the marquess, most assuredly. You must make your choice according to your conscience. However, I imagine my credentials speak for themselves. I could hardly know of your assignation had his lordship not acquainted me with the circumstances, entrusting me with both his message and eventually – with yours.’
‘I see,’ whispered Mistress Shore. ‘Then I need to speak with you at some length, my lady.’
It was more than an hour later when Tyballis finally scurried from the Abbey’s courtyard, disappearing at once into the surrounding alleys of Westminster, her severe black gown blending into the shadows. She had hoped to find Andrew already waiting for her in the designated place, but he was not there and although she waited some minutes, he did not come. She then complied with his orders and began to make her own way back to the safety of Crosby’s Place. She would not take a river carrier, so walked, dodging through the Ludgate by late afternoon and entering London alone.
It was some time before she realised she was being followed.
Chapter Sixty-One
Well dressed and solitary, she risked the sporadic interest of any opportunistic thief, while the late hour had thinned the crowds, leaving no one to protect her, to cry, ‘Stop thief,’ or deter a crime by recognising the villain. It was also in deserted streets that rapists roamed. And it was in the empty darkness that assassins, like Andrew Cobham himself, did their business.
Tyballis looked around and saw no one, but when she quickened her pace, the following footsteps also quickened. She slowed. One step behind her the echo halted, then matched her speed. Remarkably patient for a thief. Knowing enough of them and understanding their tactics, she therefore doubted her pattering shadow had only robbery in mind. ‘I,’ she thought with some asperity, ‘am supposed to be the spy. They are not supposed to be spying on me.’ Then she turned abruptly, dodging from the direct route into Honey Lane. She halted at once, crushed back against the wall of St Mary’s churchyard. For a moment she stopped breathing.
He peered cautiously around the corner after her, careful not to follow until sure the way was clear and empty. He could not see into the silent darkness, but Tyballis saw him. Not an old man but certainly older than she, he was elegantly dressed and she remembered seeing him earlier that day, a nameless courtier in the group around the queen’s ladies, perhaps a servant of Dorset. So, this was someone sent specifically to follow her and was therefore the assassin she had imagined. Tyballis took the knife from its stitching within her sleeve where Andrew had secured it that morning. With a deep breath and a quick tug, the stitches parted. Then, as the man scurried past, she grasped the hilt and stepped out into his path.
Andrew had taught her how to imitate the posture, the appearance and the confidence of a lady. He had taught how to pluck her eyebrows to an almost invisible arch and how to shave her forehead, heightening her hairline into globe-like elegance. But he had also taught her to secrete a small knife inside the cuff of her sleeve, and finally he had taught her how to fight with it.
Tyballis, her blade already raised, sliced immediately across the man’s face. There was neither time to notice his expression, nor to prepare for his retaliation. Tyballis cut again. The first slash ripped through the thin skin of his forehead and an immediate stream of blood blinded him. Astonished, he staggered back. The second cut opened his cheek. He groaned and stumbled against the wall, peering through blood, his sword drawn.
Obeying Andrew’s tutorage, Tyballis then turned and ran. ‘Your advantage is in surprise,’ he had told her. ‘You do not have the strength to stay and grapple.’ Now she rushed to hide rather than attempting escape, for the pound of the man’s feet was fast behind her, and as she ducked into an alcoved doorway, he had seen. He stood before her, blocking escape. It was his sword she watched, catching a beam of early moonlight within the darkling, and attentive to the menace of the steel, she was distracted. Then suddenly a large, cold hand, fingers blood slick, gripped her throat. His face was now so close that Tyballis tasted his breath. Still bleeding, mouth snarling, hat lost and hair wild, he spat at her and his fingers tightened. Her own fingers flexed on her knife hilt, and as she struggled for breath, she stabbed directly into his groin. Deflected by his codpiece, her blade lost impetus, but entered the flesh of his upper thigh. The man howled, but grabbed her tighter. Then everything changed.