Meanwhile, although the new position was not yet strictly legal, Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, the queen’s eldest son and stepson to the monarch of the realm, was blissfully content. He decided he preferred the marchpanes flavoured with Seville orange, and began to separate these within the cask.
Dorset’s uncle, the Earl Rivers, had long since been appointed Deputy Constable of The Tower of London. Although a mightily important appointment, it added little to his power or authority, for being kept permanently at Ludlow Castle on the boarders of Wales, the earl could take neither command nor satisfaction in the position at The Tower. Indeed, as with many of the king’s gifts of command, this constituted royal recognition without the slightest ability to profit from it. His highness’s useful though devious habit of appointing those quite unable to implement the particular powers he had allotted them, was indeed long practised. Now, however, with careful instructions to his agent Mister Dymmock, the Earl Rivers had requested his authority as Deputy Constable be transferred to his nephew the Marquess of Dorset.
The gift was not his to give. It was strictly within the monarch’s domain to grant or to disqualify, but since his highness would not know of it until too late, the letters patent were drawn up and official seals were affixed. The Tower was the citadel of London, and its containment would be imperative once matters had been finalised. Control of The Tower would ensure control of London’s guards and armaments. There were no mistakes. Mister Dymmock was trustworthy and efficient.
Meanwhile, Lord Geoffrey Marrott was awaiting confirmation that his supplier of special merchandise had been equally efficiently eliminated. The confirmation was late arriving, but delays in such matters were common enough. Throckmorton’s brother had been dispatched without the slightest problem, and no doubt the delay with this one was due simply to the weather. The weather was unusually foul for March. His lordship, however, enjoyed a large bright fire and was not incommoded by the rain.
It was another hour before he became fractious. Marrott finally began to suspect trouble and called for his page, sending the boy running to the stables. The page returned with a small, scruffy man, not dressed in a style usually seen within the palace chambers. Marrott stood abruptly and scowled.
‘No word yet?’ he asked curtly.
The man dropped to one knee and bowed his head. ‘My lord, nothing.’
‘See to it immediately,’ commanded his lordship.
Tyballis sat in the firelight, watching the flames spring up the huge chimney as the logs scorched and blackened. She had been there alone for several hours when she heard the front doors open. The click was familiar and she knew someone was either leaving or entering the house. But this time it seemed too quiet, too surreptitious, and she looked up quickly. She saw only the swirl of a dark red oiled buckram cape as it flicked out through the doorway. The door closed as quietly as it had been opened. Tyballis stood just one moment, and then ran to fetch her pattens and cloak.
By the time she left the house, she had missed him. Instead she followed the footprints, a man’s boots carrying mud from the garden out onto the streets. They led to the Aldgate. The rain was pounding onto her hood, blinding and deafening, but as she hurried through the steel grey she saw the figure ahead, his cape billowing as he marched beneath the narrow arched gateway into the city. Her own footsteps were silenced by the downpour and she kept her distance, choosing the darker side of the lanes and keeping to the overhanging shadows. The man strode on. He did not look back.
They were heading towards Little East Cheap where Tyballis had first seen him at the apothecary’s. Her curiosity increased and her determination hardened, but she realised with misgivings that if required to face him and perhaps accuse him, she would know neither what to say nor what to do. Her quarry then ducked into the apothecary’s shop as she had expected, but when he reappeared he changed direction, cutting up towards Bishopsgate. Soaked and hunched, Tyballis followed.
Some distance north, Andrew stood in the pounding rain and waited. He leaned against the great conduit, but it offered no shelter. His hat drooped over his ears and his thick black hair dripped ceaselessly into his collar. When he saw a solitary horseman ride towards him from Bradstrete, he strode forwards to meet him.
Ralph said, ‘No one at Throckmorton House. Nat’s scouring the side streets all around and Casper’s run back south. But there’s another possibility. Where’s the Blessop household?’
Andrew said ‘Come with me,’ and set off east.
The gutters were washed clean and the rain ran in rivulets over the cobbles Andrew led the way to the opening of Whistle Alley, and the horseman followed. The lightning sprang again and the thunder echoed directly above. As the rumbles faded Andrew heard faint footsteps running through the empty streets. He turned quickly. Through the curtains of rain he saw the shadow duck behind the wall. He turned again and saw a man he recognised from the Westminster stables, and knew him as Marrott’s groom. He drew his sword. If there were two, there would be more. He kept walking, and Ralph still followed.
No one stopped them until they came to the Blessop house, and there Andrew stood, looking down. The great body was slumped, part-curled, part-spread, knees to the churned mud, face in puddles of blood.
Borin’s eyes were open, staring glazed and blind to the slithering slush beneath his cheek. His nose was underwater where the rain pooled. His lashes sparkled, the rain draining from the flat planes of his brow and cheekbones. His mouth contorted, lips squashed into the earth, sagged, spittle-clogged, as if still breathing. His hat had fallen, his hair was soaked, but even from above the great slice through the back of his neck was visible. The rain continued to sluice, drenching the mountain of his body and clearing the blood. It washed both flesh and bone, for he had been almost decapitated.
A low voice behind Andrew said, ‘More force than necessary, you think, my lord? But with such a brute, there’s little point in prolonging the risk.’
Andrew turned. ‘A fighter with few skills will always overcompensate,’ he said softly. ‘Doubtless you show more talent with your master’s horses.’
The groom scowled and shook his head. Raindrops scattered from the brim of his hat. ‘I’ve many duties, my lord, and groom is only my cover, as your lordship knows full well. Was this creature yours then, that you care about his end? I only followed orders, sir, and this man stood in my way.’
‘You’re after Throckmorton, I assume,’ Andrew said.
‘That I am, my lord. This brute carried him off, then barred the way to the house where he’d put him. His lordship is still inside.’
Andrew knew himself surrounded. He looked over his shoulder, but Ralph was no longer there. He nodded, lifted one foot and kicked in the Blessop door.
It was black inside and the darkness smelled of stale mould, dirt and urine. The heavy rain closed off the daylight and without candle or fire, only shadow entered. Andrew did not wait for his eyes to adjust, and marched directly into the gloom. He heard before he saw.