‘And what of her attacker?’ I demanded. ‘Who is he? Have you had him charged?’
Jed gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t be stupid! A gentleman of the king’s court accused of wounding a whore. It would never come before the judges. If it did what would their verdict be? We have better ways of seeing justice done.’
Ned nodded. ‘I cannot approve but what Jed says is true. Master Nathaniel Seagrave has paid for his crime. We wait to hear news from the waterfront that his body has washed up downriver.’
I gasped. ‘The man is dead — murdered?’
‘No less than he deserved,’ Jed muttered.
Ned said, ‘When you came knocking Jed thought it might be someone reporting the discovery of the corpse… or bringing less welcome news.’
‘What might that be?’
Ned turned away with a deep sigh. ‘Master Seagrave has friends — powerful friends. Some were with him that evening. They have vowed not to let his death go unavenged.’
‘Seagrave?’ The name seemed familiar. I felt sure I had seen it in one of my business ledgers. ‘Was he not a server in the king’s privy chamber?’
‘Aye, that he was, and typical of the preening halfwits who are drawn to the court like maggots to dead meat. He came here mainly for the gambling.’
Then I remembered. The name Nathaniel Seagrave featured on my blacklist of customers whose credit had run out. ‘You do well to be cautious,’ I suggested. ‘The young members of the royal household are a proud and tight band.’
‘So are we,’ Jed muttered. ‘If it comes to a fight we can take care of ourselves.’
‘No doubt.’ Ned ran a hand wearily through his fringe of white hair. ‘But what of the women?’
‘Do you really think Seagrave’s friends are so cowardly as to vent their anger on them?’ I asked.
‘Why not? To such hypocrites whores are not really women at all. When they’ve had their fill of them they look on them as vagabonds, clapperdudgeon beggars, cony-catching card-sharps, highway robbers and general gallows fodder. A man like Seagrave would boast of what he did to Lizzie and think of it as sport.’
‘Then Lizzie is especially in danger,’ I said.
‘I fear she may well be.’
‘Then she should not be here.’
‘Where could she go?’ Ned shrugged. ‘To the best of my knowledge she has no family now. A mother and sister died in the last outbreak of the sweat.’
‘May I see her?’
‘Why?’
‘What has befallen her is my fault. I must see if there is something I can do.’
‘She is greatly shocked. Indeed, I think she has suffered more in mind than body. She shuns all company.’
‘At least I must try.’
Ned shook his head. ‘We can go up to her room but I doubt…’
He led the way out of the chamber, up the staircase and along the narrow passageway. We passed two chambers, including the one in which I had been kept in January, before reaching a door on which Ned knocked, then entered. By the light of half-opened shutters I could see that there had been some attempt to make this room attractive. It boasted a wide cushioned chair that must have been expensive. There was a worn tapestry covering one wall that could only have come originally from a fine house and another wall had erotic woodcuts pinned to it. The bed was of a good size and canopied. Lizzie lay under a coloured coverlet, her face turned away from us. I could see that some of her hair had been shorn and her head swathed with bandages. The air was thick with a pungent aroma, presumably from the herbal ointment Ned had used to dress the wound.
‘How bad is the cut?’ I whispered to Ned.
With his finger he drew a line across his own left cheek from ear to mouth. ‘God be praised it missed her eye,’ he said softly.
‘Who’s there?’ Lizzie muttered without turning over.
‘It’s Ned.’ He moved across to the bed. ‘Let me look at your bandages.’
She groaned and turned over. Only her eyes and mouth were visible through slits in the dressings. ‘There’s someone else there,’ she said, as Ned bent over her.
‘Master Treviot has been good enough to call,’ Ned explained.
‘Treviot!’ Lizzie sat up suddenly as though stung. ‘Tell that smug, canting, posturing, self-satisfied moneybags to get his fat arse out of here!’
I stepped forward. ‘Lizzie, I — ’
‘Out! Out!’ she screeched, her eyes glaring at me through the visor of her cloths. ‘You damned slack-brained clodpole! Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve killed me!’
‘Not so, Lizzie — ’
‘Yes. Look at me. I was only good for one thing! Who will want to bed me now?’
Ned tried to calm her. ‘The scar may not be that bad. We shan’t know until — ’
‘Damn your lukewarm lies, monk! I’m as good as starved to death and you know it. Why did you ever bring your merchant friend here? Everything has gone wrong since then.’
I tried again. ‘Lizzie, please listen. I can help. Perhaps take you somewhere where you can recover properly; where you’ll be safer.’
It was no use. ‘Do you think I’d go anywhere with you? Jolthead!’ She lay down again and turned away from us.
We retreated to Ned’s chamber.
‘She’s right, of course,’ he observed mournfully. ‘We’re a tight, supportive community here but if she can no longer pay her way…’
‘That’s why I think I should take her into my own household.’
Ned’s thick brows rose in an incredulous stare. ‘Master Thomas. I commend your compassion, but to take a whore under your roof. The scandal!’ He shook his head. ‘Even if Lizzie agreed, I cannot think it would do either of you any good.’
‘No one need know about her past,’ I said.
Ned’s laugh was mirthless. ‘I doubt you could keep that secret from prying neighbours and gossiping servants.’
‘I have an idea that might work,’ I explained. ‘My mother is away at our country house with a small household. It’s very quiet there and my mother would value the company. If we tidy Lizzie up… some respectable clothes… Do you not think she could be made very presentable?’
‘I have little experience of ladies,’ Ned said, ‘but I think your mother would not be easily fooled.’
‘My mother, alas, is failing in mind. Sometimes she does not even know me.’
Ned stood for several moments, his brow furrowed. ‘Thomas,’ he said at last, ‘I have seen what evil tricks guilt can play. I have watched brothers punish their bodies and minds with self-imposed penances. Scourging and hair shirts are all very well for the saints but they are not right for all of us.’
‘I’m not suggesting this to quiet my own conscience,’ I replied. ‘At least I don’t think so. You heard what Lizzie said about me…’
‘She is bitter and frightened…’
‘I know what she fears.’ I recalled our visit to the unmarried women’s burial plot. ‘I want to deliver her from that fear if I can. That much I owe her. Do you have a better plan?’
Ned’s mournful silence was my answer.
‘Then will you try to persuade her to give my plan a try?’
Chapter 8
The next day I arrived at Robert’s house in Sopers Lane in good time for our appointment with the Wardens of the Goldsmiths’ Company. I was shown into the garden where his wife Margaret sat reading beneath a mulberry tree, which was just coming into full leaf. She rose to greet me and, in so doing, let slip her book. When I retrieved it she took it hastily, closed it and, placing it beside her, covered it with a piece of tapestry she had been sewing, but not before I had read the name ‘Luther’ on the fly leaf.
Margaret, a plump lady in her forties, was as serious in her demeanour as her husband. ‘I am sorry Robert is not back yet,’ she said as I seated myself at her side. ‘He had to go to Bakewell Hall. A consignment of cloths in from Suffolk, I believe. You know how it is when the clothiers arrive; all the dealers converge like wasps on a honey pot. Of course, if it had not been the clothiers, it would have been Mercers’ Company business, or City Council business or parliament — you did know he’s back in the Commons house? — and as if that wasn’t enough there always seem to be little jobs to do for Master Cromwell. What with one thing or another we rarely see him these days. ’Tis particularly hard on his children.’