When Davey came home the next morning he found Andrew sitting beside Elizabeth’s mattress in the hall, the great fire blazing bright behind them. Startled, he hurried over. But he could not look at the terrible wounds nor pretend them inconsequential, so he made a quick excuse and ran upstairs to find Tyballis.
Ralph and Nat came down early and offered to cook, should anyone want food; to slice cheese for breakfast, and then prepare a pottage dinner. Felicia shooed them off and said she would do the cooking. George Switt hurried outside to the Portsoken communal oven to buy the morning’s fresh bread. ‘Bring manchet, not cheat, if you can find any,’ Ralph called after him. ‘I’ll pay the difference.’
Casper Wallop tumbled down the stairs to rub his cold hands in front of the fire. ‘Cosy,’ he remarked, gazing down with interest at the patient. ‘These nice big flames will help close up them mucky flaps of skin quite quick, I reckon. Them folks living in hot countries, Italy and Spain and the like, they stab each other all the time, they do, and no one dies of it. Well, it stands to reason, for otherwise them crusaders would never have come home again, and them heathen Moors would all be long dead. Which they ain’t. There’s hundreds still wandering them hot desert sands, for it’s the heat will stick the meat back on their bones. Now, talking of bones, seems there’s a fair number of them in the head, being the skull, that is. And there’s a fair number I can see right now, being as the skin is all rolled back just like a parchment under a raker’s shovel.’
Andrew sat next to the hearth, his back against the wall, legs bent up and supporting his forehead. He still wore the clothes, now bloodstained, that he had worn the day before and it appeared he had passed the night where he now sat. He looked up briefly. ‘Don’t be a fool, Casper,’ he said. ‘Lizzie needs neither your medical advice nor exaggerated descriptions.’
‘Well,’ said Casper, affronted, ‘if I ain’t wanted, I’ll go and fix up them wine tubs ready for the merchant coming this afternoon.’
‘Bring some wine back here,’ Andrew told him. ‘Sufficient for myself and Lizzie too. And, Casper – a generous sufficiency.’
Elizabeth did not speak. She was awake but did not open her eyes.
Almost a week later, on the twelfth day of February 1483, his grace King Edward, being the fourth of that name, lost his temper with his best friend and trusted Chamberlain, William, Baron Hastings. Without troubling to call a meeting of his council, the king promptly called for his lawyer and his scribe, and made a rare proclamation depriving his Chamberlain of the highly profitable post of Master of the Mint, a position Hastings had been unofficially awarded for life. This unexpected and extraordinary ruling was pronounced as indefinite, and from that date Bartholomew Reed was startled but overjoyed to find himself promoted in Hastings’ place.
The Mint’s official engraver, Ralph Shaa, was informed within the hour and stopped work in amazement, his quill, feather quivering, hovering halfway between his table and his open mouth. Never before throughout their many years of enduring friendship had the monarch demoted Sir William in the slightest degree; on the contrary, he had always heaped him with honours. This sudden loss of a rich and important revenue was unique and therefore constituted a clear warning: no further tirades against the queen’s close family would be permitted.
Baron Hastings stood glaring at his king, both fists quivering at his sides. ‘Your grace,’ he said between clenched teeth, ‘I protest most strongly. I came here in good faith and with your grace’s health foremost in my mind. It is only your grace’s safety that forced me to speak, knowing you would disbelieve, but considering the warning imperative even without proof. The danger is too great to ignore. Your highness, I beg you to give this matter some credence.’
Edward looked down at him coldly from the royal dais. ‘One more word, William, and you will lose Calais as well. I shall give it to Lord Rivers; we both know how long he’s dreamed of that particular post. Or perhaps you would be delighted that Rivers prospers directly through your slanders?’
‘Your grace.’ Lord Hastings knelt. ‘If you choose to reward the man who plots your murder, while you punish the true friend who seeks to save your life, then may history judge the outcome.’
The king narrowed his eyes. ‘Get out, William,’ he hissed, ‘while you still keep your head and titles.’
Hastings bowed silently, stood and, walking slowly backwards, said only, ‘If I have mistaken the truth, my king, then I beg you to forgive me. I will say no more of my fears, but as I love you with all my heart, so I swear these warnings are given in good faith, and not through spite towards those I believe plot against you. I shall pray for your continued health, your grace. Long may you reign.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Andrew leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out and up, ankles crossed and feet wedged high against the wall. The fire had burned gradually lower throughout the day, but the sparks still flared as the logs crumbled to soot and the last flames spluttered. Andrew looked absently into the waning blaze and his voice was soft, as if speaking to himself. ‘I cannot stay here indefinitely, you know, my dear.’
Still in bed, Elizabeth was half-sitting, supported by pillows. She also faced the fire, her back solid to the rest of the world. She screwed up her nose, further distorting the dark ridges of healing scars. ‘Go then. Bugger off. But if I can’t have you, I’ll have no other bastard tutting over me. Peering at me, wondering, muttering. Poor dear, how pathetic, how tragic but she was always ugly, after all, and what a shocking life she lived. She has certainly brought it all on herself. So, take your fancy sheets, and I’ll get back to my own chamber. I don’t need your help no more, and can sit myself on the pot to shit.’
‘Self pity, my dear.’ Andrew turned towards her and smiled. ‘You still need help with some things. It will do the others some good to concentrate on nursing instead of thieving. And it may do you good to practise humility.’
‘Bastard!’ Elizabeth declared. ‘And what would you know of humility?’
‘I know what it sounds like in others.’
‘All right. Fuck off and send someone else to help me piss. But I don’t want her. Or fucking Felicia, scarce hiding her bloody disapproval.’ Elizabeth turned away again. ‘Nor Ralph, too fucking timid to look me in the face. Nor pompous Luke-fucking-Parris, quivering at the wicked touch of me. Send me Davey. Then bugger off and leave me alone, if that’s what you want.’
‘Under the circumstances,’ Andrew decided, ‘both your self pity and your stupidity are entirely understandable. But I have spent more than five days at your bedside, and there is little more I can do for you. You still need liquid food but the cuts seem clean of infection. I’ve dosed you with every tonic and balm I can think of, and have kept down the worst of the pain. Once long, long ago you asked me to bring you new clothes. That I shall do, since you must soon face the world again. But then I must leave. My work suffers.’
‘She does, you mean.’
‘Does her misery diminish your own?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Of course it does.’
Every lodger within the house had come daily, offering help. They had cooked for Elizabeth and Andrew, and for each other. Most had tried to sit close, to hold the patient’s hands, to help her drink, comforted and comfortable. Some had avoided close contact but had helped from a distance, braving the sleet and the gales to bring back fresh food and medicines. Casper had offered to bleed her and was refused, but he stayed and told fireside stories, acting the clown. Davey brought sweetmeats, which Elizabeth could not eat. She had accepted everything except their company. She had, in particular, turned away from Tyballis.