‘Are there no animals that do tricks?’ said Gant.
‘Why, yes,’ said his guide knowledgeably. ‘There is no marvel that London has not seen. We have had a fish that talked, a cat that sang, an ape that did somersaults to order and a camel that danced a jig. One old sailor even taught a snake to play on a set of pipes. It is all here.’
‘Do you have a horse that can fly?’
‘There is no such animal.’
‘London has never witnessed this miracle?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘It will,’ said Gant with a smile. ‘It will.’
‘Hold still!’ she chided softly. ‘I must bathe the wound before I can bind it up for you. Do not shake your head so. Be patient for a while longer.’
‘I want no bandage around my head,’ said Nicholas.
‘You will have what I decree,’ decided Anne Hendrik with affectionate firmness. ‘And you will take more care next time you walk through Clerkenwell.’
‘But I found what I sought, Anne.’
‘A broken crown and a bloody face?’
‘That was a small price to pay.’
‘You might have endured far worse if the watchmen had not disturbed your assailant.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Take no chances, Nick. Think on those who care for you.’
‘I do.’
He squeezed her hand then let her finish her work. The blow on his head had opened up a long cut on his temple and sent a dark bruise looping down the side of his face like a crescent. His wound looked far worse than it felt but he submitted to her tender ministrations and let her bandage away. He also let her put his soiled clothes into a washtub to soak. Anne was shocked when he first returned home in such a condition. That shock had now given way to an anxiety that was tinged with a faint jealousy.
‘Who is this young lady with the miniature?’
‘Marion Carrick is his sister.’
‘I know that. But why do you jump to her command?’
‘It was an entreaty,’ he explained. ‘Over the very grave of her brother, she asked me to find his killer. I could not refuse such an appeal.’
‘That is clear, sir.’
‘Why have you become so cold towards me?’
‘I?’ she said coldly. ‘You are mistaken.’
‘Not as mistaken as you, I think.’
Anne turned away. ‘I am deeply sorry for what happened to her brother but that gives her no rights over you.’ She let her irritation build before she blurted out her protest. ‘I would not have you lose your life over a pretty face.’
‘Nor shall I,’ said Nicholas, taking her in his arms to pull her close. ‘Not as long as I have a far prettier face waiting for me back at my lodging.’
He stilled her with a kiss and they were reconciled. Anne now voiced her real concern over the dangers that he faced but he calmed her. It was at moments like this — when he was injured or late home — that she realised just how much he had come to mean in her life. His was a warm and unobtrusive presence in the house but she never took him for granted. Much as she wanted a vicious murderer to be brought to justice, she did not want to risk the life of Nicholas Bracewell to achieve that end. It vexed her greatly.
‘Come, Anne,’ he consoled. ‘Put away your fear. I have troubles enough without all this to tax me.’
‘Troubles enough?’
‘Master Firethorn is in love.’
‘With his wife, it is to be hoped.’
‘With the long-suffering Margery, to be sure,’ he said. ‘But she has travelled to Cambridge and left her husband unchecked. He is not a man who should have such freedom.’
‘His wandering eye has wandered once more?’
‘This lady could prove a most perilous adventure.’
‘Who is the creature?’
‘Mistress Beatrice Capaldi. All I know of her is her name and his extravagant report.’ Nicholas clicked his tongue. ‘If he would stay true to his acting, he could rule the world. But he falters. This new love of his could lead him ruinously astray.’
‘Is she as beautiful as Mistress Carrick?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Simply curiosity.’
‘I heard an edge in your voice.’
‘Is she or is she not?’ pressed Anne.
Nicholas gave her a smile of tender sincerity.
‘Both of them pale beside you …’
His head pounded away as she embraced him afresh but it was a pain he was happy to suffer in such a worthy cause.
Time which had already hung heavy now pressed down upon him with cruel force. Andrew Carrick found life in the Tower of London even more oppressive. His cell seemed to shrink in size. Its atmosphere grew staler, its voice more hostile. During nights that stretched out to interminable lengths, he lay on his rough bed and reflected on the misery of his lot. Because he attended a wedding, he was unable to go to a funeral. Because he offended a dying queen, he could not pay his respects to a dead son. It was a running sore in his mind and it would not heal. The lawyer took every opportunity that he could to leave his cell and prowl the stairs. When he could bribe his way out into the fresh air, it was a merciful release for him.
Harry Fellowes knew something of his distress and went out of his way to offer sympathy. Carrick seized gratefully on the chance of conversation.
‘How fares Her Majesty?’ he said.
‘The situation is bleak,’ replied Fellowes.
‘What do her physicians report?’
‘They will not disclose the truth of her condition.’
‘A bad sign indeed.’
‘We must be prepared for the worst.’
Fellowes lightened the exchange by retailing bits of gossip about affairs of the day and he even coaxed a few smiles out of his friend. Carrick was quite intrigued by the plump and loquacious Clerk of Ordnance. The more he learnt about the man, the more interesting he became. Harry Fellowes was no ordinary employee of the state. Previous holders of his position had a military background but he had distinct literary inclinations. Though he matriculated at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he was a Beresford scholar, he took no degree. Instead, he became a gunner at the Tower, served as Clerk to the Armoury and translated an abstruse book about Turkey from the original Latin. The catholicity of his career was at variance with his waddling self-importance.
In the year that he moved to Ordnance, Fellowes was ordained deacon by the Bishop of London who was faced — as was the entire episcopate — with a gross deficiency of able clergy. Installed as Vicar of Grain in Kent, the new shepherd tended his flock with fluctuating enthusiasm. He also replaced his father as Master of Sevenoaks School where he continued his literary endeavours by publishing translations of Seneca as well as a book of his own poems in Latin. His income placed him in the ranks of the county squirearchy and he made wise use of his inheritance when his father died. Scholar, schoolmaster, cleric, civil servant and gunner, he took on a new role with astute buying and selling of property. Carrick surmised that it was this lucrative development of his friend’s career that made possible his additional work as a moneylender.
When Harry Fellowes exhausted his chat, the lawyer took him back to the question of the succession.
‘Where does the Earl of Chichester stand?’
‘How would I know?’ said the other evasively.
‘Is he not your Master of Ordnance?’
‘I am not privy to his thoughts, sir.’
‘You must have a notion of whom he would prefer on the throne,’ probed Carrick. ‘Might it be James VI of Scotland?’
‘That would be unthinkable!’ snapped Fellowes.
‘He can advance a strong claim.’
‘It will not be supported by the Earl of Chichester. Let Scotland suffer the eccentricities of their King. We shall not, Master Carrick.’ He adopted an ecclesiastical pose for once. ‘King James is rumoured to have strange ways.’
‘How so?’
‘My choirboys would not be safe in his presence.’
‘But the king is married.’
‘His wife may be but a cloak to his true designs,’ said Fellowes. ‘But there are other obstacles which make him a fearful choice as our monarch. The Earl will look elsewhere. However …’ He became more confidential. ‘The Scottish King will have his party and I know who will help to lead it.’