She took Ellen with her. Casper said, ‘I’m coming, too.’
Tyballis eyed him with some severity. ‘I don’t think so, Mister Wallop. If you need anything in particular, I can get it for you.’
Elle hopped up and down. She no longer froze in one of Drew’s old frayed shirts but now owned her first gown, sewed by her mother from the stained and ruined green cambric that Tyballis had recently discarded.
‘We both look pretty,’ Ellen observed. ‘You doesn’t. You ain’t got no nice new clothes.’
‘Pretty ain’t my business,’ Casper winked his only eye. ‘Nor don’t want no shopping neither. But ’tis Mister Cobham’s orders. You ain’t to go nowhere alone, missus. I gotta come, too.’
‘Drew isn’t here,’ Tyballis pointed out with a small sigh. ‘He left just after dawn and I don’t expect him back until this evening.’
‘Nought to do wiv it,’ insisted Casper. ‘You go out – I go out. No arguments.’
They left together but Casper walked a little behind, attentive and watching the crowds, shop doorways and dark openings to alleyways. Ellen danced ahead, impatient and eager. Tyballis, unperturbed, walked alone. At first she hurried through the Aldgate, avoiding a small company of liveried servants returning to The Tower from the docks. But once in the city, although a sharp wind still ruffled the rubbish in the streets and the damp chilled the air, she ambled, relieved to be away from the closed and despondent atmosphere within the house where sadness had become a habit.
Heading first for the bustle of Eastcheap, she directed her companions down Fenchurch Street into Rood Lane and then Philpot Lane where she began to inspect the first of the stalls. Too early in the spring for most fresh foods, there was little for most housewives to cook but cabbage and onion pottage, perhaps flavoured with bacon rind and ham bones, but with Easter close the markets were at least well stocked with fish, cockles, eels and duck.
‘Drew’s hens have started to lay again, so I’ll make a flan with shrimp for tomorrow,’ Tyballis told Ellen. ‘After that – well, we’re hardly likely to invite the priest to dinner, and no one will know if we break the fast.’ Casper was watching the swinging hips of a woman passing in the opposite direction, when Tyballis suddenly swirled around. ‘Who was that?’ she demanded.
‘Who? What?’ stuttered Casper, guilt ridden. ‘I weren’t looking at no one nor nothing.’
‘That man – the red-haired creature who dodged up the lane’ But no one else had noticed him. ‘Come with me,’ Tyballis insisted. ‘I need to see – if it was – though it can’t be,’ and set off at some speed away from the stalls.
Philpot Lane sloped between small houses and their kitchen gardens, high walls buttressed with overhanging shadows. Grabbing Ellen’s hand, Tyballis hurried after the man she’d seen. Startled, Casper puffed up behind, clutching his sword, his other hand to his belt where his knife was wedged. But Tyballis saw only occasional shoppers enjoying the glimpses of sunshine, children playing with hoops, wandering dogs baiting a lost pig and a pair of apprentices giggling at the revealed curves of her own hurrying ankles.
‘I saw him,’ Tyballis said, stopping abruptly. ‘I know I did. Yet, how could it have been him? After all, he was so eager to get out of the country …’
Casper caught up. ‘You means Throckmorton?’
‘I do indeed.’ Tyballis stood mid lane, looking up towards the churchyard of St Dionis, knotting her little gloved fingers and turning around and around as if caught by the wind. ‘It’s not as if the wretched man is common-looking, for he’s skinny and bandy, wears horrid bright clothes and has vivid red hair. The only other one alike was his brother, and he died months ago. Perhaps I’m simply going mad.’
‘Nor any wonder,’ said Ellen helpfully. ‘What wiv Davey – and Elizabeth – and Ralph. Ma says it’s turned her hair grey.’
Tyballis stared at her toes. ‘Throckmorton wasn’t to blame for Davey, of course – but it almost seems as though he was. And if he’s somehow come back into London, it would make all that bitter loss seem for nothing.’ She turned back to Casper. ‘Would you stay here,’ she said, ‘and see if Throckmorton comes out of any of these shops or houses? I want to run up to Fenchurch Street and see if he’s there – or if I can find whoever looked like him.’
‘Didn’t orta be alone,’ muttered Casper.
‘I shall take Ellen,’ Tyballis offered, ‘and will be back in two blinks.’
She walked quickly up to the main thoroughfare where the sun was sparkling along the little rows of windows. Fenchurch Street was busy but Tyballis could see no bobbing yellow hat, no peacock feather and no bright red hair. She peered into the shops where the vendors sat in their open doorways, abacus and weights beside them as they continued whatever craft they practised. Ellen still danced around her. ‘He ain’t here, nor never was,’ she said, tugging at Tyballis’s skirts. ‘The bastard’s on a ship wiv a bucket for spewing.’
Tyballis sighed. ‘Your mother would be very cross to hear that sort of language, Ellen.’
‘Don’t care.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘Davey talked like that. I’m gonna talk like Davey did.’
Turning to retrace her steps to Philpot Lane, quite suddenly Tyballis stopped and stood staring ahead. Two things happened at once. She saw the flick of a tall boot below a fancy pair of hose, yellow striped in bright pink clinging tight to a thin and bandy leg. The owner had entered an apothecary’s, disappearing into shadow and the pungent smell of mace, treacle and lavender. But at the moment of following, another face blocked her, a swarthy face wearing three days of dark stubble, heavy cheekbones and a wet-lipped leer.
‘Elizabeth’s friend, ain’t you,’ said the man. ‘I’ve not forgot your face, trollop, nor what your bastard man did to me. All fancy-dressed ain’t you, but a whore is a whore, however the bitch tries to cover it.’
Oliver Ingwood had a hard grip on her shoulder and the point of his knife even harder against her ribs. ‘Get Casper,’ she yelled and Ellen ran. Then Tyballis turned back to Elizabeth’s brother and kicked his kneecap with the sharp toe of her new boots. He let her go and yowled, clutching his leg. She immediately swung her shopping basket into his face and brought her knee up into his groin. She felt the unfortunate squelch of impact as Oliver sank to his knees at her feet.
A shopkeeper emerged from his interior, scowling at the rumpus. ‘What’s this, then? Take your squabbles elsewhere, woman.’
Tyballis stared down at Oliver. She said, ‘I thought you were supposed to be the best fighter on the streets,’ and stamped hard on his foot. Oliver buckled and stumbled down again. Then Tyballis looked up to answer the irritated shopkeeper, and found herself staring into pale blue eyes, neat clipped red eyebrows, and Baron Throckmorton’s startled and furious glare.
She yelled, ‘Stop, thief!’ at no one in particular. Every shopper in the street looked up. Throckmorton turned and raced down towards the river. Oliver Ingwood was hopping on one foot while trying to stab his knife into the slim body swaying in front of him, but Tyballis was too well wrapped. Ellen, scampering back up the street, bent, took a handful of mud and threw it into Oliver’s open-mouthed snarl. He swallowed muck, spat and gagged, swore loudly and hurled his knife in the child’s direction. His aim was not as good as hers had been and the knife rattled on the cobbles.
Casper had appeared at full trot. ‘I can deal with this pathetic little bastard,’ shouted Tyballis with unaccustomed fury. ‘Get after him,’ and pointed at Throckmorton’s disappearing yellow-and-pink-striped hose.
Immediately a huge vibrating roll of thunder echoed from behind the blackening clouds and the sun went out as if in shock.