‘Me, I followed your fine Captain Hetchcomb most of the day. Never noticed me, he didn’t, not for a blink.’ Casper cackled and scratched his groin. ‘’Tis clear as the hair up me nose, the bugger’s bin scouting The Tower boundaries and testing the waters as you might say.’
Andrew nodded. ‘I’ll report to the duke shortly. In the meantime, where is Tyballis? I had expected her here.’
Casper shook his head. ‘Our Tybbs is still out on whatever tasty trail you sent her, Mister Cobham. She ain’t been back since I got home.’
‘Trail?’ Andrew frowned suddenly. ‘I sent her on none. I gave her no mission at all today, and suggested she rest. When did you get back?’
‘Over an hour past.’ Casper, evidently unconcerned, replenished his own cup. ‘But our Mistress Blessop gets ideas of her own, she does,’ he continued, mouth full. ‘No doubt she’s off on some daft chase. She’ll be back for supper, you’ll see. There ain’t none as can worst our Tybbs.’
‘In other words, you have no idea at all where she is gone?’
‘Well, nor I have,’ admitted Casper. ‘Since I was out when she left, and she never said naught about leaving for nowhere last I seen of her. But she’s a growed woman, and afore it’s dark she’ll be back.’
“Then your orders are to see to her comfort when she returns,” Andrew said, frowning slightly. “Ask her to remain within the house, to rest, and to wait here for me. Sadly, I have a host of duties which cannot any longer be delayed. I shall not be back as soon as I might wish. But,” and the frown turned to smile, “you may inform Mistress Blessop, that she will remain constantly safe in my thoughts.”
Casper grinned. “I’ll look after her, Mister Cobham. Don’t you worry.”
“I may find her first,” Andrew nodded, “since I presume she has returned to Cobham Hall, which is where I must shortly go myself.”
Andrew presented his brief report to the duke, but Tyballis was still not home when he returned to the annexe. There was rabbit stew for supper. Andrew pushed the dish away, ordered more wine and strolled to the window. It was early June, and the evening skies were light and the birds still sang. The first signs of a hazy twilight edged beyond the rooftops, but couples still strolled the streets, curfew had not rung and the city gates were still open.
Having already changed his rough undershirt for the silk-lined comfort of his bedrobe, Andrew now strode to the empty bedchamber, and began to dress again. He chose the old worn velvets that were amongst the few clothes truly his own. He then buckled on his sword, clipped his penknife into the turned leather cuff of his boot and slipped another bone-handled blade into the specially made sheath within his belt. He pulled a deep-hooded cape around his shoulders, spoke two brief words to his personal servant, and very quietly left the house.
It was finally dark as Andrew approached the Aldgate. The gatekeeper was lounging against the stone wall, enjoying a last cup of beer before the bells of St Martin’s le Grand chimed for the nine o’clock curfew. Andrew walked through the high open archway, quite alone as he crossed the bridge over the great ditch, turned right from Aldgate Without and approached the Portsoken Ward.
The distant fires of the tanneries were smoking and the puffing breeze up from the sea brought the familiar stench of the Ward’s main business. But without pause, Andrew kept walking until he came to the rambling and ruined gardens of his own home.
Chapter Sixty-Four
A bleak silence absorbed the old stone, the greenery outside rambled and weeds clogged the paths. A chicken squawked, running free through the shrubbery. Andrew unlocked his front door and smelled abandonment. He strode through the great cold hall and its muffled echoes to his bedchamber. No one had slept there since he had shared the bed with Tyballis. But she was not present. Mouse droppings and a spider’s web were the only additions.
He then took the main staircase to the attic door and walked directly in. The sour smell strengthened at once. Luke’s scrawled papers and books were strewn across the table. Andrew went beyond and entered the bedchamber.
Luke lay in bed, naked and sweating. The bed linen stank. Andrew crossed immediately to the bedside, sat on the edge of the damp mattress and wiped back the hair from his brother’s pale and uncomprehending stare. ‘You are sick, child,’ Andrew said. ‘How long have you been like this?’
Luke blinked. ‘You! Is it really you? Are you come, Drew? To take me away? To bury me?’
‘Damned fool,’ Andrew muttered, and quickly threw back the bedcovers, abruptly exploring his brother’s body. He touched Luke’s neck, feeling beneath his jaw, then down under the straggles of sweat-slicked hair. He pushed his fingers beneath both armpits, searching for the signs of the Great Mortality. The young man’s chest was sunken and sallow but unmarked, no rash of token haemorrhage or spreading bruises darkened the skin. Andrew looked further, pushing Luke’s legs apart and feeling for buboes in the unwashed groin. Finally he sat back, sighed deeply and again pulled up the bedcovers. He said, ‘You have no signs of the pestilence, child. Nor of the pox. I am not sure how to recognise the later stages of the ague, but if you have truly been ill an age, that would have killed you by now. Nor do you have the dysentery, since you have soiled your bed only with sweat.’ He paused, thinking, then said, ‘When did you last eat, child?’
‘Eat?’ croaked Luke, fractious and dry-lipped. ‘And what should I eat, then? Where would I find food, with no one here to provide it, or to cook or to care for me? I am dying without a soul to notice, or even to mind. When I’m dead, perhaps you and Maman will cry, though perhaps you won’t even do that. I am utterly lost.’
Andrew frowned. ‘Do you tell me you have lain here, little brother, for day upon day, without the sense to find yourself food? And are simply starving?’
‘Simply?’ objected Luke, trying to raise himself on one elbow, but finding no strength, fell back weakly against the pillows. ‘Tell me what is simple about misery? And terrible hunger? And the poverty of abandonment?’
Andrew fashioned a torch, lit it and strode out into the gardens, kicking through the tangled damp undergrowth… Eventually he returned directly to the kitchens, filled a small cauldron with water and added the herbs, salads and roots he had found, now well-scrubbed.
Back at his brother’s bedside, he sat, holding the cup to Luke’s mouth. ‘Drink slowly,’ he ordered.
‘I’m not hungry anymore,’ Luke whined. ‘My gums hurt too much. They’re all blistered with spots and bloody cracks. And the heat will burn me. I am delicate, Drew.’
‘You are a damnable nuisance,’ Andrew said firmly. ‘And you will drink or I shall force you. Sip first, and then swallow slowly. Tomorrow I’ll buy you something more appetising.’
‘If I am such a nuisance,’ moaned Luke, ‘you had better leave me to starve.’
Andrew sighed. ‘I will not leave you for now, child,’ he said. ‘But I had other matters to attend to, and it never occurred to me you’d fail so entirely to look after yourself. Before, when the house was full of the folk you so persistently despised, you seemed well able enough to cope.’
‘You were here then.’ Luke sniffed, gulping the soup. It dribbled down his chin. Andrew leaned over and wiped it off. ‘You brought me nice things and gave me money and sometimes you cooked for me. Then when you went away for long times, I was stronger. I could look after myself. And there was Mistress Blessop. She brought nice platters up to my attic. Now there’s no one. The food ran out when those horrid men came and locked everyone in. Then what little bits were left got full of maggots. I had no money, so I couldn’t buy anything at all.’