She swallowed, taking deep breaths as her body swung and rolled to his touch. She mumbled into the rug, ‘I just want what – you’re doing.’
‘Not good enough,’ he said. ‘Tell me. Just as last time I told you.’
‘I can’t,’ she objected, small voiced. ‘I don’t know how. I don’t know the words.’
He chuckled. ‘You’ve not lived in Whistle Alley all your life without knowing those words. Now, forget timidity, my own love, and tell me what you want. And I shall do it, and more. Then, when you’re entirely worn out, and quite ready for sleep, I shall wake you again. And I know precisely how to reawaken you, I promise. Then you will lead, and take me with you.’
It was two hours later that Andrew stood naked by the unshuttered window, staring out at the night. ‘Asleep, little one?’ he asked gently.
She opened her eyes. ‘Mmm.’
‘It has stopped raining,’ he said, more to himself than to her. ‘And the stars are as bright as candles.’ He turned and wandered back to her, looking down. ‘It’s the small hours, my beloved, when the demons of memory and doubt plague the strongest of us. After a day of pain and dealing death, it’s good to have company.’ He knelt beside her, one fingertip tracing around the sleep-soft aureole of her nipple. ‘Come, little one. I’ll take you to bed.’ He lifted her and carried her into the bedchamber, where the fire had already guttered and sunk but the warmth lay around the room like lazy wandering fingers. He laid her beneath the covers, tucking her in, and climbed in beside her. Then he cupped her body from behind, kissed her neck and fell deeply asleep.
Chapter Forty-Five
It was considerably later that day when Andrew Cobham faced the Lord Hastings across his lordship’s withdrawing room. He stood wide-legged, his hands behind his back, and frowned. Hastings sat, legs stretched out before him, his fingertips tapping together across the snug swell of his velveted belly.
Andrew said, ‘If you choose to distrust me, my lord, then I accept your doubts as precautionary justice. But the information I bring is, as always, correct. The report I have this morning sent to the Duke of Gloucester is, in precise detail, the same as I have now related to you. But his grace of Gloucester cannot receive this information for five days at least, and by then whatever actions he decides are appropriate may be too late. It is why I have come to you, my lord. What you choose to do with this information, if anything, is not my place to question. But I ask that you accept my tale as truth.’
Lord Hastings narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet you call yourself Lord Feayton, sir. I have made enquiries. That title is false. You are an impostor, and I could have you thrown into gaol.’
Mister Cobham inclined his head. ‘The title is a cover. My apologies for appearing to mislead you, my lord. But his grace the duke knows my real name, and has sanctioned my use of a false one. Without a title, I would never have ensured the access I need, nor gained acquaintance with Lord Marrott and the Marquess of Dorset. My anonymity serves my work, my lord, and does not profit me in any other manner.’
‘Yet to me, you come in the guise of pretence,’ Hastings said, his tapping fingertips relentlessly rhythmic. ‘I am asked to believe a story from the lips of a liar. And you dare pass the blame for your impersonation to the king’s own brother?’
Andrew smiled. ‘Never in my life have I implied that any blame lies with his grace, neither in respect of my actions nor for those of any other. But I have my orders, my lord, and will obey them.’
‘Very well.’ Hastings stopped tapping, and tented his fingertips, regarding Andrew Cobham over their peaks. ‘Tell me your true name now, sir. Come on, out with it and let’s be done with pretence.’
Andrew bowed. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I do not have his grace the duke’s permission to reveal my true identity.’
Hastings leaned forwards. ‘Are you implying you do not trust me, sir?’
The smile persisted. ‘By no means, my lord. I came here to bring information I believe imperative to the safety of our king and kingdom. Having fulfilled my responsibility, and with your permission, my lord, I will now retire. My work elsewhere is not yet over.’
Hastings sat back with a sigh. ‘Off then, be off with you. You bring me neither proof nor culprit, and you come in false guise. I’ll not call for the guards, but I’ll not act on your tales, nor take your information to his highness. If the Duke of Gloucester believes you, he’ll make his own decisions.’
Bowing low, Andrew backed until standing by the door, one hand to the handle. ‘And Baron Throckmorton’s written confession?’ he said, looking up briefly. ‘Was this not proof enough, my lord? The baron has now been murdered. Yet his confession remains in your hands, and serves no purpose.’
Hastings watched him for one moment in silence. Then, eyes narrowed again, he spoke through his teeth. ‘If you dare to question my decisions, sir, I will have you arrested and beaten for insolence. You will leave quickly, and you will not return. I shall not again permit your entrance here. Now, go.’
Casper Wallop was waiting outside the door. ‘And?’ he said, trotting quickly at Mister Cobham’s swirling coat-tails. ‘I means, what happened, my lord?’
The corridors were bright with flaring candles from a hundred sconces. The flames echoed and reflected in the long windows, rosy glass and diamond facets. Andrew said nothing until they were well distant from Lord Hastings’ chambers. Then he stopped suddenly and said, ‘The fool’s afraid. He’s frightened to pass on Throckmorton’s confession. He’s wasted my time.’
‘Frightened of Lord Marrott?’ demanded Casper, shocked.
Andrew shook his head. ‘Frightened of the king.’
‘But the king –’
‘Precisely. But his highness won’t countenance the truth. He accuses Hastings of fabricating slander simply to topple Woodville power, since they’re his principal competition. Hastings has already lost considerable favour by trying to save his sovereign’s life. He’s now busily negotiating a peace with the king in order to get his position back, and meanwhile he’ll not risk another fall in grace.’
‘Bloody Woodvilles,’ muttered Casper.
‘But hardly the most intelligent place to ponder such opinions quite so loudly, my friend,’ Andrew said. ‘Now I need to see Catesby. Then I’m going home. This entire business is becoming tedious. It seems the great lords of this realm think only of their coronets, and will protect only their own skins.’
‘Only just come to that conclusion, ’ave we, then?’
Andrew clipped his companion around the ear. ‘Behave yourself. Or I shall send you home while I go on alone.’
‘I’d follow anyway,’ grinned Casper.
They collected their swords from the guard’s armoury, the ostler quickly brought out the horse and Andrew remounted, not Throckmorton’s sad old beast but a fine bay from Crosby’s stables. Casper took the bit, and led the horse out towards Ludgate and St Paul’s. It was a bright morning. The previous day’s rain sparkled in every gutter, spangled windows and pooled between the sodden doorways. A faint hint of rainbow tinged the sky, the cathedral’s spire cut the arc and the puddles were bathed in a wavering violet.
But Mister Catesby was out and Andrew left no written message. ‘Inform your master,’ he told the apprentice, ‘that he is needed concerning the business he shares with Lord Feayton. And tell him that the Lord Hastings is in need of some more appropriate – direction. I shall return tomorrow.’ But he did not immediately ride home. Instead he signalled to Casper to follow, and set off for Bradstrete.