Andrew looked back over his shoulder. ‘Ralph, take over from Nat and hold onto both horses. We may need them.’ He then turned back to Nat. ‘Get to Throckmorton. Defend him if you can, but it’s the other four bastards I want first.’
‘And that,’ Nat pointed, ‘that great ox. Whose side is he on?’
Andrew smiled, squinting through the rain as he drew his sword. ‘Mister Blessop,’ he answered, ‘at present obeys my orders.’ Nat recognised the name and raised an eyebrow.
Ralph took charge of the horses and immediately Nat ran towards the fallen baron. Throckmorton, still utterly confused, was grappling with Casper. The four armed men were now onto them both. Casper, using a short sword and a long knife, kicking and cursing, counter-attacked. The baron turned desperately around and around. Of the men surrounding him he knew only Andrew and understood neither who attacked, nor who defended. He clutched his sword but was squeezed between dancing figures, flashing steel and eight swearing, fighting men, and could not summon either courage or coherence. Nat had moved beside him, boots slipping in the mud. Borin had waded in, flailing fists and club. The rain continued to pour and the thunder rattled the roof tiles.
Andrew, sword to one man’s neck and his knife to his face, forced him quickly away and backwards against the wall. The man struggled, gaining one glancing cut to Andrew’s cheek. Andrew did not blink. He said, ‘Tell me, my friend, before you die, the name of your master. It’s worth dying quick, instead of slow. I promise the difference will be worth the bargain.’
The other man stared, panting, to where his three companions were still fighting hard. They could offer no rescue, so he glared back at Andrew, and spat into the rain. ‘Kill me however you want, bastard, and I’ll leave the devil to make the bargains.’
Andrew’s sword point pressed against the other’s jugular and the first pricks of blood sprang like tiny embroidered beads. Andrew said, ‘Bastard I may be, but I’ve some interest in mercy. I’ll not let you live, for you murdered a friend of mine. But speak your master’s name clearly, and I’ll kill you quick.’
The man gulped, and shook his head. He had dropped his knife, but was edging sideways, aiming back towards his companions. ‘Fool. I get my orders from a lord more powerful than you’d ever dream. And you’d dare kill me, just for that vile little snake?’
‘The pleasure of killing you will be entirely for myself,’ Andrew smiled. ‘Throckmorton is of little interest to me. And I know your master’s name already. Now confirm it for me, or lose your nose.’
‘You can have my name, to remember as you die in the gutter. I’m Gerent Fisher, I am, and I’ll have you, you bugger.’ He tried to twist, sticking out one foot to trip and the other to stamp. Andrew avoided both, stepped quickly backwards and grinned. Immediately his wrist flicked to the side, spinning across Gerent’s cheeks. Gerent Fisher howled. A great bloody hole appeared in the centre of his face where his nose had been, now hanging in gristle and splinters from between his eyes.
‘Your master’s name,’ Andrew repeated patiently.
With a desperate and guttural wheeze, the man said, ‘M-Marrott.’ And Andrew pressed his sword home. Gerent tumbled to the puddles at his feet.
The noise of the fighting had increased. Casper was swearing, raucous and joyful. Each man’s boots slipped and squeaked, the rain hurtled down upon them and the lightning again struck above. Steel swung against steel, Nat had fallen, but was up again at once, and Casper pushed between, his sword through the assailant’s shoulder.
Borin glared down at the man on his knees in the gutter, reached out and put both huge hands around the man’s neck, squeezing and shaking him as he had often shaken his wife. The man gulped, tongue protruding. Borin dropped him, kicked him aside, and turned to face the next. Then in front of him, Casper killed their leader. With his knife through the man’s eye, the blood was glutinous and bright. It sprayed, spattering Borin’s tunic.
Borin went yellow, doubled over, heaved and spewed. Then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned and ran. Back into the shadows of Ave Maria Alley, he galloped away from the smell of blood and his own rancid vomit.
Andrew looked up, and strode quickly back into the centre of the remaining confusion. Nat was clearly wounded, but so was his adversary, the only one of them still on his feet. The man Borin had strangled lay curled in the gutter, clutching his chest and barely breathing. The two others lay dead. Andrew thrust his sword through the last man’s chest, and nodded to Nat. ‘Ralph has the two horses there at the corner. Go to him and get your breath back. We haven’t finished yet.’
Casper said, ‘Best bit o’ bloody exercise I’ve had in many a day. So, what comes next then, my lord?’
‘There must be more than four men working the alleys,’ Andrew nodded. ‘I discovered no others coming here, but they will be on their way. We need to move north, away from this mess. Three men dead and one dying tell their own story and I’ve no desire to spend a night in gaol.’ He looked around, frowning. ‘Where’s Throckmorton?’ he demanded.
Casper peered into the rain-swept shadows. ‘Buggered if I know. Maybe with Ralph and them horses. Or maybe hid.’
‘I want him,’ Andrew said. ‘Find him. Bring him to me at the junction of Old Jewry and the conduit.’
‘Bleedin’ wet, it is,’ Casper objected. ‘And that there bloody big ogre, what run off? What about him? Weren’t no good at nothing, he weren’t. You want him, too?’
‘Evidently Borin Blessop has an interesting sensitivity,’ Andrew smiled. ‘But he served his purpose. He identified two of the men for me – the one I killed, and the one you killed. They were the assassins who murdered Davey. They will murder no one else.’
‘And this ’ere feeble bastard what he left half-strangled?’ continued Casper, eyeing the silent figure on the ground. ‘We finish him off?’
‘I think not,’ Andrew said, investigating the man with the toe of his boot. ‘It serves me to have an account taken back.’ He turned immediately and strode to the street corner where the two horses, still whinnied and rolled their eyes. Throckmorton was not there. ‘Did no one see the wretch leave?’ demanded Andrew.
Both Ralph and Nat were mounted. Ralph pointed and said, ‘Your pet giant took him. Gathered him up under his arm like a sack of lentils and hurried up that other alley. I did nothing, for I thought it must be your orders. Here, take this horse, sir – or if you prefer, I’ll go after them myself.’
‘No.’ Andrew thought a moment. ‘You’re still lame, my friend, and now Nat is wounded. Ride to Throckmorton’s house. If he’s there, one of you watch him and the other come to the conduit, where I’ll be waiting. I’ve already sent Casper searching ahead, and I’ll follow on foot.’
Chapter Forty-Three
The Marquess of Dorset was busy. A cask of sweetmeats and candied marchpanes had been presented to him as a special gift from the Castilian ambassador. Sitting alone, apart from the usual assortment of quiet servants and noisy dogs, the marquess reclined in his apartments at Westminster Palace, and was deeply involved in deciding which of the candies he liked the best. There were, however, many other equally pleasant matters on his mind.
His new appointment did not require anything much from him as yet. Indeed, the only requirement at present was to keep the whole business secret. The position did, however, promise an interesting increase in future power.
At some distance and off a different corridor from the royal apartments, Lord Marrott occupied his own solar. He was exceedingly satisfied with his friend Dorset’s recent elevation, but he had other matters on his mind and more immediate activities currently in operation where his particular responsibility was paramount. Firstly, he had been entrusted with both obtaining the necessary supplies and with keeping these safe until handing them over to those specialised in their use and administration. This had been accomplished, and now he was to eliminate the supplier. There were to be no unnecessary witnesses to the business in hand, and the particular supplier was a witness too many. The fool was also entirely untrustworthy, and had already proved himself more inept than his late brother.