I took out the copy of Tyndale’s book that Robert had given me but before I began to read another thought struck me. Robert had but just returned from the Netherlands where, to judge from his brief letters, he had been in some difficulty, perhaps in danger. I recalled what he had said about Tyndale’s death — strangled and burned for a heretic. Since Robert held the author in such high regard, could it have been that he, too, had fallen foul of the Dutch authorities? Might some agent of their Catholic rulers have followed him to London with orders to kill him? I recalled Robert’s last, brief note, ‘I am returned safely and have much to tell you.’ What dark news had he been bringing from over the sea? Was he silenced to stop him passing it on?
So many questions. No answers. The coroner was seeking them in his own ponderous way but I had little confidence in his ability to uncover the truth. My easiest option would have been to leave everything to the authorities but that was not possible — not only because of the outrage I felt at my friend’s brutal and cowardly murder, but also because I did not know whether I was safe. And, if my life was under threat, might not the same be true of those closest to me? Anxiety impelled me to make an urgent journey to Hemmings.
Chapter 12
I was out on the Rochester and Canterbury road by first light, riding with a pair of well-armed servants. I had to get down to the manor as quickly as possible. An ungovernable fear gripped me: might not the mysterious assassin or his paymaster have marked my mother and son for death? If I was their target, they would soon have realised that their plot had failed. The news of Robert’s murder had been all over London within a couple of hours. For aught I knew, fresh plans were already afoot for another attempt on my life and, if on mine, why not also on the lives of those I loved?
There was another reason for my impromptu visit — I wanted to see Lizzie. One clear idea that had disentangled itself from the nocturnal jumble in my mind was that she might be able to help me. She had spent much of her life in the company of violent men — desperate vagrants, soldiers turned highway robbers, child-stealing gypsies, hucksters of every hue and cut-throats who would, as they said, ‘skene a weasand-pipe’ for a purseful of groats. The more I thought about the events of the previous day, the more convinced I became that the assassin must be a professional. That or a madman. He could obviously handle an arquebus with deadly accuracy (though just how he had managed it was still a mystery). He was bold enough to discharge his weapon in full view of other people, and agile enough to make his getaway quickly and safely. As I rode along the rutted road between trees silvered with frost, I tried to form a mental picture of Robert’s slayer. If I discounted the idea of a lunatic, it seemed that the man we were dealing with must be one who was not new to his craft. He had killed before. Whether or not he was foreign, he must be someone existing on the margins of society, a member of the law-defying underworld. He could not live in total isolation. He needed accomplices; people he could turn to for contacts, for shelter, for information. If I could gain access to that criminal Hades, I might be able to find some leads.
We reached Hemmings late in the afternoon. I saw Dickon stabled, took a few loosening strides round the yard and splashed icy water from a butt over my face. Then I went indoors through the domestic quarters. Entering the small hall from the screens passage a wave of warm air met me. A good fire blazed in the hearth and a semicircle of chairs and stools was arranged before it. I approached this barrier and found Lizzie kneeling on the rushes with little Raphael. She was holding out a bright red apple to him and encouraging him to walk in order to grasp it. Both of them were absorbed in the game and I was able to watch unnoticed for several seconds. The boy seemed very sturdy as he wobbled forward, holding out one hand for the fruit and clutching his skirts with the other. His hair was darkening now and when I looked at him I did not automatically think of Jane. When he fell, Lizzie did not lift him; she simply waved the apple until Raphael got to his feet unaided.
‘The boy is doing well,’ I said quietly.
Lizzie looked up, a quick smile dissolving rapidly into a frown. I was pleased to see that she no longer covered her scar, which had faded to a thin white line. ‘We are honoured,’ she said, rising and picking up the child as she did so. ‘Raphy, look, here’s your father come to visit.’
The boy surveyed me uncertainly, then turned his face away and buried it in Lizzie’s neck. She came forward and held him out to me. ‘Here, you two need to get to know each other.’ As I clumsily took the boy in my arms, Lizzie walked away. ‘I have to prepare his food,’ she said and strode through the screens doorway.
I sat in an armed chair with Raphael on my lap but immediately he squealed, slipped to the floor and tried to follow his nurse. After a few staggered paces he fell and lay on the rushes. His face creased into an expression of desolation and he let out an anguished wail. When I tried to pick him up he struggled and refused to be comforted. I picked up the apple and held it out but the child’s interest in this colourful lure had waned. I set him on his feet and tried to help him walk but he pulled away with surprising force. In doing so he rolled over backwards. His head was within inches of the fire. I quickly grabbed him and pulled him away. This, of course, frightened him and he now began howling in real earnest.
Fortunately Lizzie returned at this moment carrying a bowl and spoon. These she set down and, with a scowl in my direction, picked up Raphael and jogged him gently until his tears had subsided. My presence was clearly superfluous.
‘I had better go and see my mother,’ I said, rising. ‘Where is she?’
‘In her chamber, as ever. She seldom leaves it.’
‘Right. When I come down I shall want to talk to you.’
Lizzie shrugged by way of response and I left her to her duties.
The atmosphere in my mother’s room was close almost to the point of being stifling. The windows were fast closed and the shutters only half open. Smoke seeped from the smouldering fire and the light was so dim that it was some moments before I could discern her. She was sitting to one side of the hearth, upright in a padded chair, wrapped in furs, staring motionless straight ahead.
‘Good day, Mother.’ I stooped to kiss her cheek.
She inclined her head slightly. ‘Who’s that?’ Her voice was faint and wheezy.
‘It’s Tom, Mother, come to see how you are.’
‘Tom? My Tom?’ Her wrinkles seemed to deepen with the effort of understanding what I said. ‘Tom isn’t here… not any more. He’s gone.’
‘It’s your son Tom. I’m still here. I’ve been in London… in the shop. I’ve ridden down to see you.’ I took her hand in mine.
‘Tom’s gone,’ she murmured. ‘Gone… gone.’
I opened the shutters fully and, though the outside air was cold, I threw wide the casement, letting in a breeze to disperse the stuffy atmosphere.
‘Where’s your maid? Where’s Margaret?’ I demanded.
The only response was a puzzled frown and the repetition of the word, ‘Gone.’
Distraught and angry, I hurried down to the kitchen. The cook was there with two scullions. They looked at me warily from across the table, as though they feared I might strike them. When I demanded to know Margaret’s whereabouts they looked sheepishly from one to the other and it was the cook who answered. ‘Left, Master Thomas. Not two days since.’
‘Left? Why?’