Chapter Forty-Eight
It was not empty, since she was there herself, but felt all the chill and rejection of emptiness surrounding her. She had only ever slept here in his arms, and without his arms she became strangely depressed, as though all the usual warmth now evaded her. Not Andrew’s vast and crumpled bed, his vast and dust cocooned bedchamber, nor his vastly looming absence had changed, but Tyballis spent much of the remaining night hours peering dismally from beneath the swathes of counterpane, hoping he might somehow return. He did not.
He had left the previous evening after Casper had rushed panting into the hall, shouting that the king was dead. She had not seen Andrew since, though Casper had returned many hours later, quietly this time, and related his messages only to her. She was the only one still sitting up, curled half-dozing by the hearth. It was during the small hours shortly before dawn that Casper crept in the second time. She had jumped up at once, hoping it was Andrew. Casper had then whispered the news: the king was still alive, but had been so close to death that the doctor had pronounced it inevitable, and Andrew, after seeing the Lord Chamberlain, had ridden immediately for Yorkshire, and would not return for two weeks at least, it being a five-day journey or more in each direction. Tyballis, Casper announced, was to stay at home and say nothing to anyone.
‘Well,’ Tyballis sniffed, ‘what an exciting prospect. Hopefully I’m permitted to walk the gardens at least?’ And she glared into Casper’s blind eye, then turned and marched off to Andrew’s empty bed.
On the morning of Wednesday, the second day of April, London was informed of his highness’s illness. Twice-daily bulletins were announced at St Paul’s Cross, and rumour ran quicker than the Thames. Officially the royal doctors were ensuring a rapid recovery and the king was expected to leave his sickbed within the week. Rumour said otherwise. Rumour spoke of the royal fishing trip some time previously, and how cold it had been on the river that day. Rumour also muttered of the king’s more than generous appetite, and how gluttony and a surfeit of exotic foods could frequently produce a fatal flux.
Tyballis, having no intention of remaining permanently at home and seeing no logical reason to do so, went with Felicia to St Paul’s and stood amongst a large crowd to hear the latest bulletins. The crowd fidgeted and men muttered to their neighbours, not only alarmed should their beloved sovereign die, but remembering the dangers of a child on the throne. Previous kings, Richard II and Henry VI for example, had inherited the crown as children, but each had sunk disregarded as the great lords battled and royal guardians fought for power. ‘And who do you think we’ll have ruling, if that happens again now?’ they said. ‘Why, an upstart Woodville queen and her upstart Woodville family, of course, that’s who. They’ll strip poor England’s coffers bare within a month.’
Others shook their heads. ‘The duke will be made Lord Protector,’ they said. ‘Follows precedent.’
‘Gloucester? He’s a long way away, and will do best to stay in Yorkshire. It’ll be bloody war if he tries to oust the Woodvilles, and it’ll rage through London’s very streets.’
‘It will be war indeed,’ Tyballis whispered to Felicia, ‘if Drew tells the duke that the king has been poisoned.’
‘Listen,’ Felicia said. ‘His grace is already recovered. There’ll be feasting at the palace again in a week.’
It was in the crowd that Tyballis noticed Robert Webb, and waved. He hurried over, pushing through the squash. ‘It’s been a long time, Mister Webb. This is my friend, Felicia. And I believe you recently met another friend of mine.’
‘Since the last time – gaol – most unfortunate circumstances,’ the constable apologised, blushing slightly, ‘and now the shocking business of your husband, mistress, I know a good deal more about Borin Blessop, and his mother too, and will cast no blame on you for leaving them last year. But to lose a husband in such a manner must have been mighty difficult. If I can help, I would be happy to do what I can. But then there’s the house. The property rightly belongs to you, and you should claim it.’
Tyballis nodded. ‘I mean to sell it.’
‘I was honoured to speak with Lord Feayton before Easter, when that terrible business, tragic it was, with the baron himself slaughtered just like his brother before him.’
‘Baron Throckmorton,’ said Tyballis with some severity, ‘was a wicked man. He was lucky someone didn’t kill him off months ago.’
‘That’s as may be,’ mumbled Robert Webb, ‘but I don’t reckon a man can be counted as lucky when he’s sawed nearly in two and left to gape like a boar on a spit. On the battlefield a sword will cleave a body in that manner, you know, without armour to slow it. But in London’s streets, no! I count myself fortunate never to have fought in them terrible wars for bringing the throne back to the Yorkist’s.’
‘There might be another war,’ Tyballis said, lowering her voice. ‘If the king dies and the Woodvilles try to seize power.’
The constable frowned. ‘Now, now mistress, no need to repeat them nasty rumours. With the good Lord’s help, our king will live another forty years.’
‘Indeed,’ Tyballis mumbled, ‘I pray for his highness’s recovery.’ For if the king died and poison was proved, she wondered how often she might ever enjoy her lover’s company again.
The afternoon bulletin finished, and with little change announced regarding his highness’s condition, the crowd began dispersing. The constable sighed. ‘I’ll put word out, if it’s a sale you want on your house,’ he said. ‘But with the uncertainty – the king’s health – well, there’s not likely to be a ready market. People’s frightened of what might happen, rioting and buildings torched. But I’ll do what I can. Just as long as you’re sure you won’t sooner take possession.’ He put his face down a little to hers, speaking with greater confidentiality. ‘I hear – nothing improper suggested, of course, mistress – you’ve taken lodgings in Lord Feayton’s own property. Grand, it must be.’
‘Oh, it is indeed,’ Felicia quickly interrupted. ‘I live there too, you know. Mister – his lordship, that is, has taken in a considerable number of lodgers since the house is so large and with sweeping gardens, the grandest in the whole Portsoken Ward, and conveniently close to the Aldgate. And if you are thinking of the vicinity to the tanneries, I must tell you they are sufficiently distant for the smells hardly to bother us at all. Well, except when summer winds come from the east, of course – but that is quite another matter.’
Rob Webb smiled and turned again to Tyballis. ‘Then it’s no wonder you’ll be selling the old house, mistress. Though being as it’s where you were born, I thought maybe a sentimental attachment … but I shall put the word about and see if there’s anyone buying. In the meantime, I wish you well, and if ever …’ He cleared his throat, blushing. ‘If you should ever feel the need of a brotherly hand – maybe even a husbandly hand – then please do think of me. It’s a hard world for a young widow, I reckon, especially if the king … but that’s not to be thought of.’ He tipped his hat and bowed slightly. ‘I hope to see you again, mistress, and not too far off in the future neither.’
On the way home Tyballis said, ‘I hope you don’t intend repeating that nonsense to anyone, Felicia.’
And Felicia simpered. ‘My dear Tybbs, the man virtually proposed marriage. And a respectable constable too, which means he has public position, and property of some kind too. You should consider it, my dear.’
‘I’ve not the slightest intention of ever belonging to any man ever again,’ Tyballis snorted. ‘Besides, being a widow is far more comfortable. It’s the best way for a woman to claim her own rights and make her own decisions.’