‘Then let me remind you of your promise, master.’
‘To be sure, to be sure …’
‘This role of mine was to win me a place as a sharer in your company,’ said Owen Elias. ‘I would wish that confirmed with all due haste.’
‘And so it shall be,’ agreed Randolph airily. ‘When we have put Firethorn to flight, you’ll be drawn in among us as a partner in the enterprise.’
‘When may I see the contract?’ pressed the other.
‘My attorney will draw it up in due course.’
Owen Elias was content. His future was assured.
Nicholas Bracewell arrived at the Tower to find Andrew Carrick in conversation with a plump individual who stood no more than five feet in height. The newcomer was introduced to Harry Fellowes and he made the most of the fortuitous encounter with the Clerk of Ordnance.
‘Master Carrick owes his sanity to you,’ said Nicholas.
‘Does he so?’
‘You are his window on the outside world, sir.’
‘Indeed, you are,’ confirmed Carrick.
‘You allow him to see beyond this bleak prison.’
Fellowes nodded fussily. ‘He should never have been committed to the Tower. The least I can do is to offer my friendship and purvey my gossip.’
‘It is much appreciated,’ said Nicholas, ‘and a ready source of wonder. Master Carrick tells me that you know the very nerves of state and hear the faintest stirrings at the Palace. Is there news of Her Majesty?’
‘None to cheer us, Master Bracewell. She fades.’
‘These are grim tidings,’ said Carrick.
‘For some,’ observed Nicholas, ‘but not for all.’
‘Yes,’ said Fellowes. ‘The court is one loud buzz of rumour. There are those who would put a new monarch on the throne before the old one has yet departed. They wonder who will rise, who fall, who will be ennobled, who disgraced. It is no time to lack friends or money to buy that friendship.’
‘What of Her Majesty’s favourites?’ asked Nicholas.
‘They are thrown into a frenzy,’ said the other, warming to his theme. ‘The Queen has spread her bounty far and wide. Robin Dudley may be dead and the dancing Hatton may have followed him to Heaven but there are still many others who hang by the thread of Her Majesty’s indulgence.’
‘Oxford, for one,’ suggested Carrick.
Fellowes was dismissive. ‘Edward de Vere does not merit her favour. He is too tiresome and quarrelsome a fellow. She will be well quit of Oxford. Raleigh is another matter. He is distraught at her illness. The Earl of Essex is likewise shocked but he seeks to turn it to his advantage. Then there is Lord Mountjoy and half a dozen like him. Royal favourites who fear that the favours will cease …’
Nicholas Bracewell and Andrew Carrick were fascinated by the depth of his knowledge and by the breadth of his indiscretion. They fed him questions and got details of scandal and intrigue by reply. Harry Fellowes was a zealous collector of gossip who loved to distribute it freely among friends. It was only when Nicholas quizzed him about the Earl of Chichester that the Clerk of Ordnance backed off. He had said all he intended on the subject. Taking his leave of the two men, he rolled off to his official duties.
Carrick immediately switched his enquiries to an area that had more import for him. Nicholas explained how he had fared on his most recent foray into Clerkenwell. The lawyer was both excited and anxious.
‘You get closer to the murderer each time,’ he said, ‘but I would not have you get too close, Master Bracewell. Remember what befell my son. Keep dear Sebastian in mind.’
‘I do so at all times.’
‘What is your next move?’
‘It must not be rushed,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now that I have located the woman, she must be confronted but only when I have more evidence. It is not she who struck the murderous blow, though her wound was left on Sebastian’s body. She has an accomplice, sir. My next task is to smoke him out.’
‘Go armed, sir.’
‘I will.’
‘Take company for your further security.’
‘It is arranged.’
‘And find this damn rogue!’
‘I found him once already.’
‘What manner of man is he?’
‘A frightened one,’ said Nicholas levelly. ‘He knows that I am looking for him.’
Frances lay half asleep and half naked on the bed in her little room at the Pickt-hatch. Marked by the violence of her loving, her last client of the night bumped his way down the stairs in a state of blissful discomfort. An hour in the arms of Frances had been true value for money. He carried his scratches with pride and his memories with boastful honour. She would be sought out again on his next visit to Clerkenwell. As he blundered out into the street, the client turned to glance up at the bedchamber he had just vacated and blew a chaste kiss up to it. He then tottered off down Turnmill Street with the words of some lewd refrain on his lips.
The man who lurked in the shadows watched him until he was out of sight and then stared up at the same window with sturdy patience. Frances appeared long enough to give a signal before she drew the ragged curtain across again. The man hurried into the building. He was a short, ugly creature in his thirties with a compressed power in his squat frame. He wore a simple buff jerkin, hose and cap. When he entered her room with a proprietary swagger, the candle illumined an unprepossessing face into which a large nose had been thrust like a squashed tomato. Beady eyes went first to the money on the little table. Frances watched with trepidation as he counted it out but she relaxed when she saw his thin smile of approval. She was safe.
Tired but comforted, she soon lay in his brawny arms.
‘It was a long night,’ she murmured.
‘Long nights pay.’
‘They were all satisfied.’
‘That left no work for me.’
‘You were there.’
Frances snuggled up to him like a child in need of a parent’s love and protection. Her snarling vitality had gone to sleep now and only her vulnerable youth remained awake. He squeezed her tightly with an indifferent affection. She lay in the dark and recalled other nights in another doomed bedchamber. The shivering returned. When his snoring began, she talked to herself.
‘My mother was fifteen when I was born. I watched her bring man after man into her bed. Some liked her, some loved her and some even paid her. But others beat her. There was something about my mother that made men beat her for sport. I watched. They took all she had then rewarded her with their fists and their feet. She spilt much blood for her profession then one day there was no more to spill.’ The shivering was at its height. ‘I swore over her grave that it would never happen to me. They would pay for their pleasure or they would suffer. Those who cheated me would never get the chance to do it again. Thanks to you, sir …’
Frances nestled against him and his snoring deepened. She was about to doze off herself when a worry surfaced.
‘What about him, sir?’ she whispered. ‘That man who came searching with a portrait of his dead friend. He will one day return. What shall we do?’
Her companion rolled over until she was subjected to the full crushing weight of his body. Her shivering stopped and she was able to sleep in peace. All was well.
Queen Elizabeth remained out of sight but not out of mind. Her prolonged absence served only to inflame speculation. When she cancelled appointments with foreign ambassadors, her sickness was established beyond all reasonable doubt. A clever linguist and a skilful diplomat, she loved to deal with emissaries in their native tongue and confound them with her grasp of the political niceties. Her Majesty revelled in all things majestic. To forego her most enjoyable duties argued the seriousness of her condition. It served to put a frenetic energy into the negotiations that were now whirring away all over London.