He felt a touch on his arm and spun back. It was Hans de Worde. The touch was nothing more than a feeble parting gesture, for de Worde now took to his heels down Short Southwark. That was in the direction of Nick’s own lodging, but the impulse to run away from the approaching band of four took the player not into the unreliable darkness of Short Southwark but towards the crowds and regular lights of London Bridge. Safety in numbers, Nick instinctively thought. The Bridge was always crowded from before sunrise until late into the night.
Not breaking into a run, although he wanted to, Nick walked rapidly towards the arch that pierced the Great Stone Gate. He glanced back. It looked as if the four men were not to be distracted by de Worde’s flight down the side road. They were moving at a brisk pace after Nick. Why not go after Hans de Worde? he asked himself. This affair was nothing to do with him.
Nick felt his heart beating more quickly. He grew breathless, even though he was not yet moving very fast. There were watchmen on duty by the Great Gate but it was no use appealing for help to such timid, indolent men. These representatives of the law could scarcely bestir themselves to stop a fight on the Bridge, and they would certainly not interfere with a determined group like the foursome on Nick’s trail. Besides, whoever his pursuers were, Nick believed they were not robbers but something quite different…
He squeezed past a couple of closed carriages, the horses shifting uneasily in the narrow pathway. Inside the carriages would be well-to-do young men from north London on their way to the gaming houses and brothels on the Southwark shore. On either side of him were houses and shops, most of them shuttered at this time of the evening. Parts of the Bridge were more like a tunnel than an open lane since many of the houses jutted out so far on their upper levels that the occupants could have shaken hands across the divide. There were even places where complete floors extended right over the roadway between the sides.
Nick might have succeeded in losing himself among the people and the conveyances if it had not been for a fellow tucked into the shadow of a doorway. Drunk or exhausted, he was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin. As Nick glanced momentarily over his shoulder to see where his pursuers were he stumbled across the other’s feet. In an instant he found himself winded and flat on his face. Behind him there was a slurred curse from the figure in the doorway. Nick started to push himself up again and was surprised when helping hands raised him on each side. This was very un-London-like behaviour, and he was turning to mumble his thanks when he saw that his helpers were the caped men. They had been moving more rapidly than he realised.
Two of the men were hemming him in, on the pretence of helping him up. The one with the wide hat was already ahead and now Nick felt a blow in the small of his back from the man to the rear. These four persons were so muffled that almost nothing of their faces was visible apart from the eyes. Nick was more surprised than fearful. Fear would come later. No use appealing to any constable or watchman, even had one been within sight. His captors had an authority that suggested they were above the law.
He was hustled forward, his feet scrabbling at the ground. If they had been going any distance Nick might just have had the chance to break away. But they were not. The group moved under a wooden arch framed by columns and entered a passage that ran straight through the newest and finest edifice on the Bridge. This was Nonesuch House, which had replaced a gatehouse and drawbridge that had stood a third of the way across from the south bank. The drawbridge had been an old defence for the city but one no longer needed in these more peaceful times. So the gatehouse had been torn down and Nonesuch put up in its place. Only the rich could afford to take lodgings there.
Nick had often gazed up at Nonesuch House while he was walking across the Bridge from the Southwark side. The glittering windows and the ornamental woodwork made for a more agreeable prospect than the severed heads of traitors. Nonesuch, with its corner towers topped with onion-shaped domes, was grand enough to make most Londoners wonder what it would be like to set foot over the threshold. Nick Revill was about to find out.
There were lanterns hanging above the doors within the tunnel-like walkway, through which people and vehicles passed like shadows. The leader of the group rapped at a door to the left. It was promptly opened and Nick was half ushered, half pushed down a couple of steps and into a lobby. A maidservant was waiting on the other side of the door. She lowered her head as the group came in. A mark of deference or fear? The individual with the wide hat said nothing but gestured with a gloved hand and the two men on either side of Nick, who had not relinquished their grip since hoisting him up from the roadway, now escorted him down a wide panelled passageway. The floor was so polished that their boots squeaked across it. At the end, one of them reached out, opened a door and nudged Nick as a sign for him to enter the room. The door closed behind him.
He had expected to see someone inside but the chamber was empty. It was lavishly furnished, with desks, small tables and upholstered chairs scattered about. The wall-hangings rippled slightly in the draughts of air penetrating even such a finely constructed dwelling as this. Candles burned in sconces on the wall and a fire flickered in an elaborate chimney-piece. Facing Nick as he stood by the door was an oriel window with a quilted bench beneath. He walked across and, leaning against the bench and shielding his eyes from the light in the room, he squinted through the thick leaded panes.
The view was to the west and upstream, with Southwark to his left and the city to his right. Extending away in front of him was the black river. There were glimmers of light from the little ferries still at work as well as from the buildings on either shore, but these feeble sparks served only to intensify the cold and dark beyond the wooden walls of Nonesuch House. From beneath Nick’s feet came the unceasing rumble of the water. On this spot he was standing directly above it since the sides of Nonesuch House projected out from the piers of the Bridge. It occurred to Nick that, if it were daytime and the tide in full flow around the piers, it would be like standing on the prow of a ship. Then it occurred to him that he ought to feel afraid, taken against his will from the public street and confined in the grandeur of Nonesuch House.
Continuing to gaze at the dark river, although without really seeing it, Nick considered his predicament. He had a fair idea now of who was responsible for it. Hans de Worde, also, must have recognised the people striding towards him in Long Southwark. Recognised them not as individuals, perhaps, but for what they represented. They were surely the same ones who had called at George Bruton’s printing-house. They were…
The door opened. A shadow cut across the candlelight reflected in the windowpanes. Nick turned slowly. It was the leader of the group. He was still wearing his broad-brimmed hat and Nick could not be sure whether this was for disguise or as an affectation. Nick saw only that he was clean-shaven. Behind him came the servant who had opened the front door. She was carrying a tray on which was a pitcher and two glasses, already filled.
The man indicated that Nick should sit and, when he did, the woman offered him a glass. He took it and sipped, wondering what fate he was being softened up for. The wine was spiced and warm. By this time, the man had sat down on a chair opposite and taken the other glass. The woman placed the tray and pitcher on a nearby table. Then she exited the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Only when the man had swallowed some of the contents of his glass did he finally remove his hat. He did it with a flourish that would have done him credit on the stage. Nick had been expecting someone sinister or threatening but here was a man of about his own age, with a full head of straw-coloured hair and an open gaze. The man took another swallow from his glass.