Andrew bowed. ‘My lord, I appreciate your change of mind, and thank you for seeing me. But I think you will agree that priorities have altered.’
The baron’s sable sleeves swept the ground as he paced. ‘So it seems, so it seems,’ he said. ‘And now what, sir? Do you have the effrontery to claim prior knowledge? Do you say this is Dorset’s work?’
Again Andrew bowed. ‘I believe it the work of Lord Marrott, my lord. Whether the Marquess of Dorset, Earl Rivers or any other man is equally culpable, I can only surmise. Once again I have no proof. But I do not believe in coincidence. I do not believe that his highness is taken ill to the point of death by purely natural means while the Lord Marrott has two packets of arsenic secreted in his chambers, and has meanwhile been plotting to kill his grace the king for almost a year.’
‘It is a disaster.’ Hastings collapsed into the arms of a high-backed chair, and stared into the guttering fire. ‘But if I make an outcry, accusing Marrott, Dorset’s closest friend … arrests would lead to an escalation of enmity, and to chaos, which would not serve at all. I will not be held to blame when I have a good notion of who truly is.’
Andrew stood, his back to the last fading flames. ‘I have told you, my lord, that this attempt on his highness’s life has been the inspiration of Earl Rivers, initiated from Ludlow and instigated by the servants of the Lord Marrott. Suspicion alone is insufficient, however, and I believe there are other hands in this, although the proof remains even more obscure.’
‘The French,’ spat Lord Hastings.
Andrew spoke quietly. ‘Principally the French, my lord. Last autumn I encountered a French spy I had been tracking for some weeks. Francois Cretiene, agent of Louis of France. Before eliminating the man I questioned him at some length.’
Hastings continued to glare. ‘Tortured, you mean? And you assassinated a French agent? You’re a fool, sir. You should have brought him to me, or to his highness for questioning.’
Andrew smiled briefly. ‘I do not indulge in torture, nor believe in its results, my lord. As for elimination – the particular circumstances did not permit the luxury of choice. It was my life or his. I chose my own.’
‘So, what did this wretch tell you?’
‘That King Louis pays pensions to many English lords at court.’
Hastings snorted. ‘So he does. To me, for a start, which no doubt you know already. The French king pays our own sovereign in order to ensure peace. The pension isn’t always paid, invariably either late or intentionally forgotten. But it’s no secret. You, being who you are, sir, will surely be aware of all these facts.’
‘I am, my lord.’ Andrew nodded, patiently smiling. ‘But the French king pays other pensions, which do not arrive late, and are never forgotten. The largest sum goes to the Earl Rivers. And there are many spies in our country, my lord; some I have questioned, while others remain elusive. One is known to me, the Italian Dominico Mancini, who reports back to the French king’s doctor and counsellor. But he speaks little English and is of small consequence. Another, Jean Brassard, is a more serious threat, but I have not recently been able to trace him.’
‘So, the French send their spies here, just as we send ours to France,’ Hastings muttered. ‘What can they say of importance?’
‘That Louis XI of France wants our king dead and our country weakened and in turmoil with a child king ripe for plucking.’ Andrew sighed. ‘Then there is Henry Tudor.’
‘That spawn of bastards?’ Hastings shrunk his chin into the depths of his fur collar, glowering into the shadows of his lap. ‘Calls himself Earl of Richmond, but he’s just an exile and a wandering fool. He’s no threat.’
‘All else, yes. But he’s no fool,’ Andrew nodded, ‘and he also has a hand in this. He has no money for bribes, but he’s been sending spies, and encourages insurrection. With Edward gone, the country is expected to flounder. With a child on the throne, a puppet controlled by the powerful and greedy, England becomes vulnerable to every enemy. To France, to Henry Tudor, even perhaps to Spain.’ Andrew paused, peering down at his host. Then he said suddenly, ‘How is his highness, my lord? Is this already done? Or is there hope?’
‘Hope, perhaps, but only a narrow vein.’ Hastings looked up, grey-faced. ‘I love him, you know. Edward is not just my king. He is the greatest friend I ever had; my sovereign, my brother, my son.’ He looked down again, flushed. ‘He has given back the honours he took before, and he has forgiven me. So, if my lord passes, without further proof I cannot even prosecute Lord Marrott. But I’ll ensure the Woodvilles gain nothing from it. If his highness recovers, then I will consider – once he is strong enough – warning him again.’
‘I must accept your decision, my lord.’ Andrew’s bow was curt. ‘And I shall ride immediately for Middleham.’
‘To the Duke of Gloucester? Then first wait for the final pronouncement. I expect to be called at any time now and messengers are ready to carry the news to every county.’
In the early hours of the following morning, the doctor leant over, holding the tiny mirror to his sovereign’s lips. There was no condensation of breath.
Shortly after the messengers were dispatched with news of the monarch’s death, his highness astounded everyone and sat up in bed. Her highness the queen fell on her knees at the bedside and sobbed with joy. A request for the young Prince Edward to be summoned from his uncle’s care in Ludlow was speedily cancelled. The court was informed of the miracle, and the rush for black, morado and brunette velvets was abandoned. Other messengers were sent to the great northern cities, contradicting the original notification of death. His highness’s principal doctor rejoiced, while pointing out that his diagnosis had been proved correct, and clearly his medications had saved the precious royal life.
King Edward was pale and much weakened, but he received his friends, family and Chamberlain with a slight smile and a nod, and was able to thank them for their great solicitude and many prayers. He remained in bed, and the faint smell of vomit and diarrhoea, much disguised by herbal infusions, was studiously ignored by everyone. Although presented with a bowl of milk slops and a cup of hippocras later that afternoon, his highness refused to eat, and drank only a little light beer. He also shook his head at any further administration of the purge, and emphatically refused to be blooded. He slept most of the day and all of the following night, and awoke a little after dawn on Wednesday 2nd day of April. He was overheard cheerfully informing the Keeper of the Stool that he expected to make it to his forty-first birthday, after all. There were only three weeks to go.
The royal messenger set off for York with news of his highness’s imminent death two hours before Andrew Cobham set off in the same direction with news of his highness’s unexpected recovery.
Already mounted, hood pulled down low against the rain, Andrew spoke quietly to his servant Casper Wallop by the stables. He ordered Casper to return home at once, to inform the household and to protect Mistress Tyballis Blessop above all else. Andrew would, he said, probably return within the fortnight, but in the meantime Mistress Blessop was to stay at home, to do nothing to put her safety at risk, not to follow any of the other lodgers on their forays into London, and to be discreet in what she admitted to anyone else. Then Andrew Cobham clamped his knees to his horse’s sides and rode north into the day’s dimmed and desultory rising.