Davey Lyttle, having fully appreciated Borin Blessop’s considerable size, had stopped dancing around but did not return his sword to its scabbard. Casper clasped Borin’s hand and continued to nod and grin with as much reassurance as he could summon. Tyballis, however, in case of a sudden flying fist, kept close to Davey and said, ‘Well, Lord Feayton has particularly asked me to entrust this message to you. No one else, he said. A message for the Baron Throckmorton, and to be taken by Mister Blessop and no other.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘I can’t take it. You know Throckmorton. He despises women.’
Borin glowered, still in evident confusion. He indicated Davey and Casper. ‘But there’s him – and him. They could do it. Why me? It don’t smell right.’
‘Since it is a – sensitive and private message,’ Tyballis said, ‘Lord Feayton believes it should be delivered by someone well trusted both by himself, and by the baron. However,’ she waved a casual hand and yawned widely, ‘if you can’t be bothered, I’ll inform Lord Feayton that you didn’t want his money.’
‘What money?’ demanded Margery, standing up suddenly.
Tyballis turned to Davey. ‘Mister Lyttle, if you wouldn’t mind?’ Davey immediately untied the purse strings at his belt, emptying the little bag into his palm and holding it beneath Borin’s nose. The silver clinked. Tyballis said, ‘Rather more than usual, considering the sensitivity of the message.’
Borin grinned. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘So, what do I say?’
Margery, keeping her eyes on the money, quickly stood between her son and her daughter-in-law. ‘How do we know it’s from Lord Feayton?’ she demanded. ‘What if it’s a trick to get my Borin into trouble?’
‘How would I know Borin used to work for Lord Feayton, if his lordship hadn’t told me himself?’ sniffed Tyballis. ‘Borin certainly never told me. Who else knows? It could only be Lord Feayton. But if you prefer, I’ll inform his lordship you refuse to go. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear you don’t trust him.’
‘Little liar,’ Margery hissed, ‘causing trouble, just like always.’
‘Shurrup, Ma,’ said Borin, shoving her out of the way. ‘It’s good money and I’ll take it. I got to go to Throckmorton’s later on anyway. Easy earned, I reckon.’
‘And you knows me,’ Casper insisted. ‘I don’t forget favours. You saved my arse once, so I won’t do you no wrong. This message come straight from Lord Feayton’s estate, and so does your coin, true as our sainted knight George killed them dragons. So, take the money, my friend, and go get pissed down the tavern tonight.’
‘There are certain important instructions, my good man,’ Davey interrupted, his sword catching the first rising flickers of firelight. ‘There is a sealed message to be delivered, and you will put this into the baron’s hand personally, and show no one else. Do you understand?’
‘’Course I do,’ objected Borin. ‘I ain’t stoopid.’
‘And,’ Davey continued, ‘you will say nothing of how it came to you. You will simply say it was brought to your house by a messenger boy.’
‘Why’s that, then?’ interrupted Margery. ‘Mighty suspicious, I call it.’
‘Call it what you will, madam,’ said Davey with hauteur. ‘If your son prefers to admit to the Baron Throckmorton that he takes orders from his own wife –’
‘Shurrup, Ma,’ said Borin again. ‘I’ll do what’s asked. Just give me the money.’ He turned to Tyballis. ‘And you, you come crawling back here again, I’ll give you the walloping you deserve.’
‘I wouldn’t ever come back,’ said Tyballis, going pink, ‘not if you paid me. Not if you begged. I’m not even sure if we’re legally married since you forced me into it right at the beginning.’
‘If we’re not married,’ Borin sniggered, ‘then it’s a whore you’ve been this past five years.’
‘But if you’re not my husband,’ glared Tyballis, ‘then you’re living in my house.’ Davey quickly drew out the folded paper from the opening of his doublet and handed it to Borin. It was sealed with a huge and somewhat exaggerated smudge of red wax, though unmarked by any coat of arms. Borin received the paper between careful fingers. Davey then turned back to Tyballis and took her arm.
‘We should now report back to his lordship. I trust you’ll fulfil your obligations to the letter, Mister Blessop? Or his lordship will not be pleased.’
‘To the letter?’ muttered Borin. ‘Don’t know my letters and got no cause for reading stuff. But I’ll take the message, never fear. You go tell his lordship he can trust me. He pays this much again, I’ll do whatever he says.’
Ralph Tame was resplendent in a dark madder surcoat over an azurite silk doublet, belted tightly. His hose were rather too long for him and the sleek black wool wrinkled a little at the ankles, but he remembered not to keep hitching them up and simply hoped they would not fall down at some inappropriate moment. ‘Drew won’t mind,’ Tyballis had assured him after they purloined the clothes from Drew’s garderobe, despite having not the remotest idea whether this was true.
‘Drew’s a good deal taller and a fair bit wider,’ Ralph had pointed out. ‘His things don’t fit.’
‘You can hardly impersonate a lord in your own clothes, can you?’ Tyballis pointed out. ‘So, tighten your belt and just do your best.’
Ralph now smirked happily and called to his servant to keep up. The elderly man, bent and obsequious, wore simple dark livery and kept his head down. Scurrying at his young master’s heels, he was clearly finding it hard to keep up. Arriving at Throckmorton House and as his master was shown into the great hall, the panting servant grasped at the steward’s sleeve. ‘If it pleases you. I need a drink or am like to collapse on your nice clean tiles.’
The steward removed his sleeve from the skinny fingers. ‘Very well, wait here. I’ll send a boy with ale.’
‘Ah, thank you kindly,’ widower Switt grabbed the steward’s coat sleeve again. ‘Most thoughtful. A good man you are, and surprised I am to see how you stayed on.’ He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Would have thought – you know – what with the goings on here – you’d have left. When you realised, that is.’
The steward stared down his nose. ‘I don’t listen to gossip, my good man. Wait here. The ale will be sent directly.’
‘Ah, well, most kind.’ Mister Switt again took a good hold of the steward’s sleeve. ‘But it’ll be ale from the kitchens, and used regular by the staff, I hope,’ he said with a knowing wink. ‘Not the other stuff his lordship keeps special – if you know what I mean. Not what he gave that girl he stuck in the cellar a few days gone, for instance. Well – she didn’t last long, did she?’
Despite himself, Mister Bodge lingered. He certainly remembered the terrified and badly bruised girl who had rushed past him some time back, shouting accusations of wickedness and poisoning. ‘What about it?’ He now lowered his voice.
George Switt sighed. ‘Aarh, yes, poor lass. Expired in agony, she did. Imprisoned in your master’s cellar for his pleasure. Then when he’d done with her, she were poisoned. A nasty way to go. Escaped the cellar, she did, only to die in the gutter.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Bodge with a disdainful sniff. ‘I have a good mind to inform his lordship of your ridiculous slanders. You continue spreading such rumours, and I shall call the constable.’