‘And what is that?’
‘Write the letter an’ sign it. But put in something about you hearing the accusation from some other fellow, who mistook Dr Shelby for a different man entirely. A simple mistake. You was only doing what you thought at the time was your duty. The Privy Council can’t blame you for that, can they? That way Master Nicholas is cleared, an’ you get to look like an honourable man with a conscience.’
Vaesy comes round his desk. He moves stiffly, as though even the air he walks through is an adversary. Looking down on him, Ned can see just how threadbare he looks, his once-smart doublet patched and poorly washed. One of the ribbons around the knees of his hose has a tear in it. His severe face is deeply lined, the eyes tired. But there is still defiance in them, and the bitter anger of a once-powerful man reduced to an insignificant shadow.
‘Why should I consider, for so long as a single breath, doing what you demand?’ he asks.
‘Because it’s better than losing even the little that remains. There can’t be many fools left in London still willing to shell out for your quackery, Vaesy. But there’ll be none at all once the word gets around that you’ve an enemy like me haunting your doorstep. An’ on the chance there is still a clod-pate or two sick enough – foolish enough – to call on you for physic in their time of need, well, you won’t be able to visit their sickbed, will you? Especially when it’s dark.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You claim to be a learned man. Work it out for yourself.’
‘Are you threatening me with harm, Monkton? Me, a knight of the realm – a gentleman?’
‘Let’s just say the night-watch can’t be everywhere at once.’
Vaesy sneers. ‘If any harm comes to me, if my body is found slain, where do you think the magistrates will look for the culprit? Ditworth will lead them straight to the door of whatever hovel you hail from. Have you thought of that, you oversized cock-pimp?’
To his astonishment, Ned lets the insult wash over him. He imagines a terrible silence must be falling upon Southwark at this moment; if anyone there had dared to call him the husband of a whore, blood would be about to flow. Perhaps Rose is right, he thinks. Perhaps I really am a new Ned. He leans over Vaesy and whispers, in a very civil voice, ‘There won’t be a body, Sir Fulke. I’m a Banksider – I know where to put one into the river so as it never comes out again.’
For a moment Vaesy does nothing. He does not look up at Ned; and Rose, if she were here, would put his stillness down to the once-great anatomist finally accepting that he’s been bested by the better man. Ned himself simply waits, not too sure what he will do if Vaesy calls his bluff.
Then Vaesy gives a very small sigh of resignation. He goes back to the desk, takes up a sheet of paper and a quill from the inkpot and begins to write. ‘Who shall we call this fellow, the one who told me about Shelby?’ he asks after he’s written a few words.
‘Call ’im what you like,’ says Ned. ‘Call ’im Tom-o-Bedlam. Call ’im nothing at all. Just so long as you write that you’re sure now that he was talkin’ about someone other than Dr Nicholas Shelby.’
Vaesy writes on. He signs with a flourish and hands Ned the sheet of paper.
Ned stares at the words. He lets his eyes run over them, back and forth in a random sweep. Though they mean nothing to him, he understands how crucial they are to Master Nicholas, and so he sees every stroke of the nib, the ink still gleaming, as a man dying of thirst might see the opening raindrops of a sudden and unexpected shower. He barely hears Vaesy give a sharp, contemptuous laugh.
‘You can’t read it, can you? You haven’t the skill with letters.’
Ned looks down at Vaesy across the slope of the letter. Even now he doesn’t take the bait. He turns surprisingly lightly on his heels and heads towards the door, calling over his shoulder, ‘My Rose will tell me if you’ve played me false. In which case, I will see you again.’
Vaesy allows him three paces before he says coldly, ‘You’re as ignorant as a beast from the bear-garden, Monkton. You just dance tricks, to impress with your strength.’
Without breaking stride, Ned replies, ‘An’ I remember what Dr Shelby said about you not being able to tell an ’amstring from an ’ernia. Master Nicholas would be ten times the physician you are, even if he’d never studied medicine at all, Sir Fulke Vaesy.’
The ‘sir’ is delivered with as much thick sauce of contempt as Ned can ladle. He doesn’t consider the effect it will have on Vaesy, because inside he is glowing with satisfaction. He’s thinking there’s no need to trouble Rose with reading the letter to ensure Vaesy hasn’t gulled him – he can take it straight to Lord Lumley’s town house on Woodroffe Lane for forwarding to the Privy Council. If Lumley is at Nonsuch, his London steward can authenticate it. With luck and a following wind, he could be back on Bankside within two hours. He pictures Rose’s smile when he tells her what he’s accomplished.
He is almost at the door when it opens of its own accord. Ned pauses, one hand out for the latch, the other holding tight to the letter that will bring Master Nicholas and Mistress Bianca back home. Ditworth is standing on the other side of the frame, his face full of relieved expectation that this huge intruder is on his way out, hopefully never to be seen again. He lets his hand fall from the latch, flattens himself against the wall in case Ned thinks he might try to stop him leaving.
And then his expression changes from meekness to one of astonished fear.
In the same instant Ned hears movement in the study behind him. He wonders if Vaesy has changed his mind and is about to try to snatch the letter from him. He turns, ready to flick the man away as easily as he might a persistent fly.
Vaesy is already halfway across the space between the desk and the spot where Ned is standing, and if Ned were a man given to philosophical contemplation, he would see that in those eyes the bitterness, the blame, the resentment at all the lowly, worthless fools who have helped topple his once-great edifice of self-importance have spilled over.
In their place is murderous revenge. In Vaesy’s hand, a gleaming stiletto – the sort a rich and successful knight of the realm might wear at his belt in a happier life.
23
The Valais, Switzerland, 13th August 1594
They are climbing into the heavens. Bianca thinks there should be cherubs up here, blowing golden trumpets. If she raises her hand, she will surely touch God’s fingers. Yet in all the hours they have been travelling the mountain tops seem not to have come one inch closer. Not that they can see them now, the darkening clouds have bitten off the peaks. Behind them, the ragged track curves away into the purple shadows of the valley. To look down makes her stomach lurch and her head spin. Down there, the chiming of steeple bells marks the hours with distant voices barely heard over the sighing of the wind. But up here time seems an inconsequential thing, humbled by the vast emptiness. Great hunks of grey stone jut fiercely on either side of the worn path, like the tumbled ruins of ancient temples smashed down by a spiteful god.
Nicholas has found three new mules to rent, from the village of Martigny. The animals must remain unnamed (no more a Cecil or an Essex, a Coke or a Popham) because levity belongs to the past. Laughter has no place amongst the mountains. A silent determination is required here. Besides, Nicholas is too aware of the tension between his wife and Hella Maas – still striding out a hundred yards ahead – to suggest anything so flippant as naming the mules.