As Nicholas and Bianca descend the steps of the cathedral, Hella Maas close on their heels, they can already see Spanish soldiers stopping the younger men in the growing crowd. They are aided by the Den Bosch watch. What is your name, young fellow? Are you a native of this place? Account for your movements in the past hour…
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Nicholas says in a low voice. ‘We’ve found ourselves in the midst of an upturned wasps’ nest.’
‘They have no cause to blame us,’ Bianca protests. ‘You fought to save that Spaniard. We’re innocent.’
‘That’s of little comfort. Your handsome Italian priest was right. We can’t stay here – it’s out of the question. Think what would have happened if that Spanish captain had ordered a search of our room at the van der Molens’. If they’d found the wheel-lock pistol and Robert Cecil’s letter of safe-passage, then not even your Petrine cross would have been enough to save us from the gallows.’
‘I have no fear left to spare for that consideration, Nicholas,’ she says. ‘Inside, I’m still shaking from the thought that if the assassin hadn’t dropped his knife, he might have killed you, too.’
As they cross the square, Bianca notices how people stare at Hella Maas. Even though Father Albani has managed to borrow a brown cloth gown from one of the Sisters to cover her bloodstained clothes, they still nudge each other, glower at her with cold, suspicious eyes.
‘I think you would be wise to stay off the streets,’ Bianca says to her. ‘Do you have a family you can go to?’
‘None. I am alone here.’
‘Where do you live?’ Nicholas asks. ‘We’ll walk with you. It might help.’
‘I live between the water and the sky,’ the maid says mysteriously.
‘You’ll have to be a little plainer than that,’ Bianca says.
‘There is a bridge. I live in an old wreck of a boat, underneath it.’
Nicholas has to stifle a disbelieving laugh. ‘You live under a bridge?’
‘Do I look to you as though I live in a palace?’
‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean–’
But it seems the maid is used to hasty judgement. ‘It is safer for me there. The people do not bother to trouble me.’
‘Well, first we must clean you up,’ Bianca says. ‘Father Albani will want the gown returned, and we can’t leave you looking like the victim in a Greek tragedy.’
They are leaving the square now, entering a cobbled street barely wide enough for a single cart to pass. It runs down towards the canal and the van der Molens’ house. ‘Perhaps Mistress Gretie can assist,’ Nicholas suggests.
A few yards ahead of them Nicholas sees a wool merchant’s warehouse, as familiar to him as any in Woodbridge. Two storeys above the cobbles, a sturdy iron bracket thrusts out from the wall, rigged with block and tackle. Directly beneath its eye, all but blocking the lane, is one hessian-wrapped bale waiting to be hoisted. There is no sign of the labourers. Nicholas guesses they’ve either skived off to the Markt square or they’re skulking in the nearest tavern because the wool merchant is out of town.
He is about to lead Bianca and Hella Maas past the abandoned bale when he hears a shout from behind. Turning, he sees they have been followed into the alley by three men and two women. Clad in cheap broadcloth, the men are bare-headed and look malevolent. The women wear dirty linen coifs on their heads. None of them seems particularly rich when it comes to the possession of teeth.
‘You – Satan’s bitch! We want a word with you,’ one of the women calls out in coarse Dutch.
‘Burning’s too good for Lucifer’s whore,’ shouts the second woman.
One of the men notices the pulley rope looping down from the high bracket to a shackle lying on top of the wool bale. ‘But hanging will suffice,’ he calls eagerly. ‘Your vile blatherings have brought death into God’s house. It’s time to choke off your wailing once and for all.’
Bianca instinctively pulls the maid towards her, as if the two of them together might outmatch the hatred of five. Without even thinking, Nicholas moves to shield them, pushing them towards the narrow gap between the bale and the wall of the warehouse. ‘Take her to the van der Molens’,’ he says urgently. ‘Tell Jan I might need some help. It’s not far – hurry!’
Even as he speaks he knows he’s wasted his breath. Bianca Merton does not run from danger. And she has seen what he – until this instant – has not.
Hanging from the shackle at the end of the rope is a bale-hook, a curved iron rod used for manhandling the great parcels of wool. It has a wooden T-handle at one end. The other is sharpened to a wicked point. With one arm around Hella Maas’s shoulders, Bianca lifts it from the bale and brandishes it at the three men.
‘Nicholas, what’s the Dutch for “One step nearer and I’ll geld you all like spring-born lambs”?’ she asks through gritted teeth, her amber eyes blazing.
But there is no need for Nicholas to translate. The look of murderous intent on his wife’s face is universal, and she is wielding the bale-hook as expertly as if she’s been taking lessons in swordplay at Signor Bonetti’s school at Blackfriars.
The women goad their menfolk on. But there is no mistaking the personal harm Bianca intends to do them if they choose to chance their luck. They hang back, like feral dogs confronted by a burning brand. A moment later two labourers appear at the opening below the iron bracket and demand to know what’s going on. The would-be lynch mob breaks and runs, back towards the Markt square, hurling insults over their shoulders that Nicholas thinks best not to translate.
As the narrowness of their escape hits her, Bianca bends her knees and takes deep and steadying gasps of air, as though recovering from a sprint. The arm thrown protectively around Hella relaxes. Instantly the maid slips her grasp. She flees down the lane towards the canal, oblivious to Nicholas’s calls for her to stop.
From the upper floor of the warehouse, one of the labourers delivers a stream of robust but good-natured Dutch.
‘What’s he saying?’ Bianca asks.
Nicholas laughs, partly in admiration and partly in relief. ‘He wants to know what it’s like being married to a harpy. And can he have his bale-hook back?’
Bianca lifts her gaze towards the labourer and raises the hook to her lips. She gives the iron shaft a bawd’s kiss and throws it onto the top of the bale.
For a moment the two labourers can do nothing but stare down into the lane in disbelief. Then, their courage fortified by height and distance, they break into roars of joyous approval.
Playing the affronted husband, and failing miserably because it is all he can do to smother the laughter bubbling in his throat, Nicholas takes Bianca gently by the arm. ‘Come, Wife,’ he says. ‘You’re not on Bankside now.’
‘Goodness, child! You look as though you’ve been gutting a barrel of herring all by yourself,’ exclaims Gretie van der Molen as she surveys the state of Hella’s gown. Shooing Nicholas and Bianca away, she leads the girl into the parlour, calling on the twins to heat a cauldron of water on the fire. An hour later Hella is sitting at the van der Molens’ table, looking like a freshly scrubbed novice in the plain cloth gown Father Albani loaned her and tucking into a plate of Gretie’s appeltaerten.
In need of a stiff drink to settle their nerves, Nicholas and Bianca find a tavern in a little cobbled square close to the Dieze, a few minutes’ walk away. There are tables outside and the evening is warm, the sky a soft vermilion.
‘Did you hear about the Spaniard and Father Vermeiren?’ the potboy asks when he brings their drinks.