‘I’ll have that trollop first,’ one man grinned at Tyballis, the side of his head singed, his basinet gone. ‘I’ll fuck her then roast the bitch.’
‘Keep your stupid fancies to yourself,’ growled his leader. ‘This is important work, not no Southwark games. You’ll obey my orders, turnip head, or answer to Lord Marrott. Now, herd these buggers. Get them into one small room somewhere, lock them in, and make sure there’s no mistakes.’
‘Where?’ the other man stared around.
‘Search,’ roared the leader, and turned back towards Ralph and Casper. ‘You – look after your wounded and forget any stupid heroics. We’ve more men expected, enough to take over this house and kill every bugger in it.’
Casper was stuttering with fury, teeth clenched, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘You – you – I’ll gouge out your eyeballs and stuff them up your arses. I’ll split your noses from hole to chin till you suck snot. I’ll – I’ll –’
The ruffians’ leader squinted through the smoke and shadows, turned his sword and clipped Casper over the head with the pommel. Casper bit his lip, gurgled faintly and slumped to the ground. The leader looked questioningly at Ralph. ‘Your turn, beetle brain. Wot tricks you got planned, then?’
Ralph glared, looking over to where Elizabeth lay, blood trickling from her lips. Finally he said, ‘Let me see to my girl. I won’t fight you.’
‘Mighty sensible,’ nodded the man. He leaned down, taking Casper’s remaining knife. ‘The fight’s over. You don’t give me no more trouble, I’ll hurt no one else till Feayton comes back.’
Ralph had already taken Elizabeth in his arms, wiping the blood from her face with his sleeve. She opened her eyes, blinked and closed them again, sinking gratefully into his embrace. Tyballis and George Switt, both silent and peering through smoke, were bewildered by pain. Ralph smiled weakly. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he whispered to Tyballis. ‘Let them tie us up. When he comes back, you know what’ll happen.’
Someone kicked him in the ribs. ‘Shurrup and gerrup. I’ve found the perfect cell. Time to follow orders, and no talking.’
Chapter Fifty
Andrew Cobham’s storeroom had once been the minstrel’s gallery of a great hall, used for celebrations, feasting and music. Then years ago someone had enclosed and divided the space, erecting cheap plank walls and creating two separate chambers, one small, one larger. The main door carried a great iron lock, for Andrew was a man of locks and secrets and he used the larger chamber for storing many things. And here Tyballis was now dragged, the others slung in with her, some tied, some left groaning, and the door was locked behind them. There was no window, no burning fire, and no light of any kind.
Ralph, his hands roped behind his back, strode the confines, knocking blindly into straw pallets, heaped stools and other unrecognisable furniture stacked against the walls. Casper, tied by wrists and ankles, rolled on the ground cursing with loud and inventive indignation. Tyballis, appearing too weak to cause trouble, had not been tied. Now she crawled upright and lurched to Casper’s side. ‘Hush,’ she pleaded. ‘I think I can untie you, but they may be able to hear us. Stay still and keep quiet.’
Casper croaked, ‘Can’t use hands.’
‘Your hands are fine,’ Tyballis objected.
‘Your’n,’ Casper said, rolling into a crouched but sitting position.
‘Oh. Well, they’ve stopped hurting so much.’ Tyballis shook her head. ‘My fingers are burned, but I’ll be all right.’
Elizabeth, muttering under her breath as she managed to struggle from her own bindings, was trying to loosen the ropes on Ralph’s wrists. George Switt remained on the ground, trembling and speechless, encrusted blood dark across his chest.
Ralph had just been freed when they heard the lock grate outside, and immediately everyone collapsed on the floor again, feigning unconsciousness. Then the door creaked open and Felicia, Jon and their four small children were shoved inside. Once again the door was locked.
Edmund and Walter, small, sleepy and confused, clung to Felicia’s skirts. She carried Gyles, fast asleep in her arms. Jon stumbled, crashing into Ellen who had crouched sobbing in a corner. Ralph and Elizabeth began explaining what had happened. ‘And Luke?’ Felicia said. ‘Is he dead? Still upstairs in the attic? Have they found him?’
Ralph shook his head. ‘We’ve not seen Luke. Perhaps he got away. Perhaps he’s run for help.’
‘Or just run,’ muttered Elizabeth.
Tyballis said quietly, ‘It’s very difficult to see, but there is everything here, if we can find it. I know this storeroom well.’
‘Everything?’ demanded Casper, sitting up and rubbing his head. ‘Knives? Axes? Guns?’
‘Cannon?’ sniggered Elizabeth.
‘Food?’ hoped Felicia.
‘If everyone would just stand very still so I can get my bearings,’ Tyballis said, ‘I shall be able to find some light.’ She began to pace the available space, her hands outstretched, feeling for familiarity. Then she stopped suddenly, knelt, fumbled for a moment and finally straightened. She held up four fat candles and a tinderbox, gave one candle each to Ralph, Casper, Felicia and Elizabeth, then sparked the tinderbox to each wick. The little flames rose pale and tentative, lengthening into golden plumes. The smell of sweet honeycomb lingered amongst the cobwebs. ‘There,’ said Tyballis. ‘Now let’s find bedding and see to Mister Switt.’
‘Drew don’t use no candles,’ objected Elizabeth, holding hers high so the dancing shadows fled.
Tyballis smiled. ‘He only likes firelight. But there’s a small stack of unused candles here in the chest, and tinderboxes, and a whole load of other things around the room. No food, of course. And no cannon, I’m afraid, but there is a sword somewhere and several knives, too. Now there’s light, I can find everything. But Mister Switt first, I think.’
Scrummaging on their knees, the candlelight soaring, they discovered sufficient bedding, though some of it was damp, for a luxury of sleeping arrangements, and Felicia quickly put her three small boys to bed. Mister Switt lay sweating on the larger mattress as Elizabeth and Felicia unlaced his doublet and shirt, and wiped the blood from his wounds. ‘Water?’ hoped Elizabeth.
Tyballis shook her head. ‘There is beer, and a small keg of wine, undrinkable I think, though it could be used for treating wounds.’ She fetched rags and a jug of the wine, smelling musty. George Switt groaned and closed his eyes again. His exposed ribs arched grubby white, protruding from a concave belly. A sparse and wiry grey stubble clustered around his shrunken nipples. Partially undressed, he seemed older.
Without the possibility of counting time nor knowing whether still day, finally they slept. Ralph took Elizabeth in his arms and cuddled down against the wall. On the same mattress Casper stretched and snored, twitching in his furious dreams. On another mattress, Jon and Felicia kept their arms around their children. Jon escaped quickly into sleep, but Felicia lay awake, listening nervously for heavy footsteps and the clank of metal.
Tyballis lay beside George Switt. His wounds had seemed more serious in the light. Several ribs were broken, but a deep gash to the chest was the more troubling injury. The bleeding did not stop, even when bandaged, and she thought his lungs had perhaps been punctured. Yet he remained awake, restless and murmuring. His voice gurgled, guttural, as he swallowed blood. Tyballis whispered to him, ‘Are you in pain, Mister Switt?’
‘Pain? Ah, no, my dear. Not to compare with other pains I’ve suffered.’ He blinked up at her. The remaining stub of a candle stayed lit beside them. Tyballis smiled into his eyes. She had never before noticed what a bright glassy blue they were. Not yet milky, not facing death.