Catesby nodded, sitting forwards. ‘Surely they’ll sidestep Throckmorton. Collect over time from different apothecaries, or order new supplies directly from Venice.’
‘Too dangerous. They need a middle man to take the blame should the business be discovered.’
‘Then they’ll find another courier.’
‘They have tried.’ Andrew was standing, his elbow to the long marble lintel. He was drinking deep. ‘I have been watching, Will, and following,’ he nodded. ‘Every sneaking wretch they employ – and I have spoken with most and threatened some – has been sent to search out another, more trustworthy dealer. But merchants in poison are not easily found on the open market and both barons Throckmorton long sweated over eradicating anyone fighting for a share of the death they dealt. Indeed, I have been busy in that direction myself.’
‘You still hold the last package, I believe.’
‘I do,’ Andrew said. ‘And intend keeping hold of it.’
Catesby frowned. ‘And you have it here? At Crosby’s? But if it should ever be discovered, and if his grace the duke were ever to be accused –’
‘With respect, my friend, being neither fool nor traitor,’ Andrew said, retaining his smile, ‘I keep the package elsewhere.’
Catesby blushed and shook his head. ‘I’ve no need to know where it is. Indeed, I prefer not to. But these new instructions at Ludlow will not be questioned either. Rivers may surprise some, and be suspected of seeking too much control. If so, he will simply claim a concern for security. Many will recognise his concern as principally for himself but, after all, the power-hungry are admired, not reviled, and he will not be condemned.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Andrew said, ‘I shall inform his grace. This means their plans are near completion, and Rivers cannot risk failing this time. He must act before he finds himself recalled and a new favourite given charge of the prince. These tightening regulations are a proof to me, if not to others.’
‘Not to the king.’
Andrew drained his cup. ‘There is no clear proof against any of the Woodvilles. Nor will there be,’ he said. ‘They are not fools, and Rivers in particular is a man of culture and intelligence. Marrott is their willing dupe, but he is sufficiently close to Dorset to share the suspicion should proof against him be discovered. And although there remains nothing in writing, to the Duke of Gloucester,’ he said, ‘the proof will be clear.’
Catesby wrinkled his nose. ‘And suppose – just suppose you are wrong. What if it is all this wretch Marrott, and the Woodvilles are not involved at all?’
‘I am never wrong,’ said Andrew Cobham.
The last days of February turned unexpectedly mild. The sun slipped through the windows of Crosby’s small annexed buildings, finding the starched white linen of the hurrying servants, the spangle of sudden light on gold and glass, and the patina of grime on Casper Wallop’s livery sleeves. Lord Feayton’s personal manservant was both respected and disliked. Indeed the steward, a Yorkshire man owning to a natural dislike of southerners on principle, informed the household that Casper, one-eyed and toothless, nigh bald, bandy and as ugly as a toad, was without doubt a demonic sorcerer. The servants therefore regarded Lord Feayton with singular sympathy and hesitant suspicion. His habits being considered irregular and frequently eccentric, he was, they decided, either the trusted friend of the Duke of Gloucester and so requiring protection from the warlock in the nest, or the devil incarnate, subjugating demons to his service.
The sun shone on the fluttering sails of the little carvel from Flanders as she sailed into St Katherine’s docks that afternoon dipped her oars and dropped anchor, she rode the swell while she waited for the English customs. Her crew scurried to lower the sails, climbing the swaying mast and rigging as the choppy waters gradually calmed and the tide ebbed.
Many watched from the land, since ships trading in winter were rare and few braved seasonal storms at sea. The customs men were already rowing out to board. The swarming wharfside labourers, crane operators and itinerant workers watched closely from the bank, ready to unload as soon as the carvel docked. Several agents of London’s merchant traders watched from the more pleasant shelter of the adjacent tavern. A cluster of less-important buyers gossiped, waiting by the old pier. And there were others. A thin man, dressed respectably and warm wrapped in a sheepskin cape stood in the tavern’s shadows. He was well armed, and his fingers strayed often to the pommel of the sword at his side. Alone and wary, his eyes never left the splash of the custom’s boat.
Then there were those who watched the fat carvel, and the thin man both. These did not stand together. One was small and squat. He sat half in the outlying gutter and he was, it seemed, exceedingly drunk. His hat, brimmed and feathered, hid his brow, though with close attention it was evident that the man was one-eyed. A black hole disarranged the symmetry of his face. But few noticed him. Small, pissed and seemingly unarmed, some lump in the gutter was of necessity disregarded.
Another man, although unusually tall, was equally unnoticeable. His clothes were dark and shabby. He lounged, back to the alley wall, brick dust on his shoulders. Too narrow for entering light, the shadowed alley led away from the docks and the river. The tall man did not appear to be watching anything or anyone in particular, and no one watched him. His cape hid whatever arms he carried, and equally disguised his station. He was, perhaps, someone used to remaining unseen.
Finally the carvel docked. Cleared by customs, it pulled to shore and was roped with the usual thud of straining timbers, the shouts of the sailors and the rattle of the gangplank slammed down between water and land. The merchants’ agents hurried on board, the huge wooden crane rumbled alongside and the sailors began to haul up their crates. The thin man also moved forwards. He pulled up the collar of his sheepskin, straightened his scabbard and ambled, seemingly careless, to a place beside the ship’s rising keel. The great curved sides streamed river water, rocking a little, faces peering down from along the gunwales. One face nodded a curt recognition. The thin man, looking up, nodded back.
The tall dark man from the alley had gone but the drunken lout had evidently recovered a little, and, hitching up his hose beneath a filthy torn shirt, now lumbered, swaying, across the cobbles. It seemed he had some interest in the ship after all for he kept a close watch on the unloading of its cargo as he edged closer.
It started to drizzle and the wan winter sunshine blinked out. An east wind gusted in from the sea. A small black kestrel rose keening into the damp mist and a pair of gulls balanced splay-footed on the ship’s boom, noisy and squabbling.
The thin man, sidestepping the barrage of heavy-set sailors now hurrying in the opposite direction, sidled up the gangplank and quickly boarded the ship, immediately disappearing from view.
The old drunk was now clinging to the crane, in need, it seemed, of something to hold him up. As the crane swung, so he ducked. Not too drunk to mind his head but drunk enough to need support. Then with a squeal he fell. His feet slipped on the wet cobbles and he landed heavily, arse in the puddles and one hand protecting his groin. He began to roar, rolled over on the ground and roared again. Now wedged before the crane’s huge wheels, he wheezed in pain. The crane driver paused. ‘Here, mate, t’was none of my doing. Got no sense? You should stay clear.’
‘Castrated me, you have, you bastard,’ yelled the wounded drunk. He sat up and turned to the gawping sailors. ‘Here look, mates. This slimy turd has sliced my cods, and left me prickless.’