In the shade of a broad yew tree he tells her about his meeting with the Lord Treasurer’s son.
‘Again?’ Bianca says in horror. ‘You’re going to be Cecil’s man again?’
‘It’s not like the last time, Bianca. This is different.’
‘How? I thought your stomach had had enough of his rotten meat.’
‘For a start, he’s not asking me to spy on anyone, to betray anyone – he’s simply requesting my help. I was going to Cleevely anyway. And he’s paying me well for it. Very well.’
‘He’s a serpent, Nicholas. Robert Cecil crawls around on his belly, sniffing out those who question his queen’s religion, with that little serpent’s tongue of his.’ She wriggles her fingers in front of her mouth, in case his imagination needs a little help.
‘He’s the son of the most important courtier in the land. Besides, if the Censors stop me practising, how else will I earn a living? I can’t be your paid man for ever. My father mortgaged his farm to pay for my doctorate in medicine.’
‘And what exactly does Robert Cecil want you to do, for all this money?’
‘There’s a young lad whose father has cast him away, down in Gloucestershire. He suffers from epilepsy. The grandmother thinks the physician his father has employed to care for him might be a charlatan. She’s kin to Robert Cecil’s wife.’
‘And why should any of this concern you? Save for the money?’
That stings him. ‘The boy is the son of someone I served under in the Low Countries. Sir Joshua Wylde probably saved my life. I owe him this, at the very least. All he’s asking is that I make a discreet observation.’
‘You – discreet?’ exclaims Bianca with a snort. ‘Last time you worked for Robert Cecil it ended up with a manhunt, me in fear for my life and an execution on Tower Hill! What, in Christ’s holy wounds, was discreet about any of that, Nicholas?’
Provoked, he replies without thinking, ‘Bianca Merton is versed in discretion now, is she? There’s nothing discreet about the way you cling to Marlowe’s every word like a maid dancing around the maypole.’
The explosion is like a charge of black powder set off by a careless match.
‘Coglione! Al diavolo con te!’ she shouts, loudly enough for a couple on the other side of the fishponds to turn their heads. ‘Ma che dici?’
Nicholas knows a few Italian curses, from his time treating the mercenaries in the army of the House of Orange. Even if he didn’t, he’d have to be deaf and blind not to know that Bianca is hardly being complimentary. Foolishly he holds his ground.
‘Tell me, what do you know of Marlowe? I mean really know.’
‘What does it matter to you?’
‘There’s talk about him.’
Bianca rams her fists against her hips. ‘Talk? This is Bankside, Nicholas. You can buy talk as easily as you can buy ale and pleasure.’
‘Remember, I was at Cambridge with Marlowe. They say he went abroad for the Privy Counciclass="underline" a real spy. Spying on Catholics. Apparently he only got his degree because of it – probably as a reward. He’s a provocateur, with a dangerous taste for other people’s secrets. I also seem to remember that a couple of years ago he stood trial for killing a man in a fight.’ He adopts a faux innocence. ‘Self-defence apparently. If you believe it.’
‘You really don’t like him, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. And now he’s planning to put on a play about a summoning-up of demons – in your tavern. How is that going to look, when some superstitious busybody goes to the Master of the Revels’ office and cries blasphemy?’
‘I know what all this is about. You’re jealous!’
‘Of Christopher Marlowe? Don’t be ridiculous.’
Bianca tilts her jaw at him aggressively. The words fly out of her mouth as if they have a life of their own. ‘You have no claim on me, Nicholas Shelby. You’re already married!’
Frettoloso, that’s what her Italian mother had always called her – hasty. She sees by the look in his eyes how she’s opened his still-healing wounds. Worse still, she’s just betrayed her innermost feelings.
‘Forgive me,’ she says, lowering her head. ‘I should never have said that.’
Nicholas does not reply. He stands stoically in the shadow of the yew tree, like an old ox awaiting the slaughterman, too tired, too drained of spirit to think of escape. After what seems like an age he says softly, ‘I can’t help how I feel. I don’t even know how I feel.’
Tentatively she touches his arm.
‘You loved her, Nicholas. I understand that. I admire the strength of it, I really do. I’ve told you before that I’d feel myself blessed if a man should have such a love for me.’
He opens his mouth to speak, but she raises a finger to stop him.
‘Perhaps one day a man will love me that much. And perhaps one day you will find a way to allow your love for Eleanor its proper weight in the scales. If you don’t, you’ll never be able to set the balance evenly. It will always fall to one side. You will have given your whole life over to grief. And that would be a fearful waste.’ She turns from him and stares into the depths of the pond. A pike turns lazily in the shallows, the sunlight glinting on its sinewy back. The next instant it has vanished into the depths. ‘In the meanwhile, I have my own life to lead,’ she says, as though addressing the departed fish. ‘And I’ll lead it on my own terms. Not yours.’
The lengthening shadows point the way east, back to the Jackdaw. The setting sun strikes petals of fire from the windows of Winchester House. It paints the building on London Bridge with a wash of dirty gold. Nicholas and Bianca walk in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, their own recriminations. Both know there is no escaping what has passed between them.
As they approach the Mutton Lane river stairs, Nicholas is the first to spot a familiar figure running towards them.
Breathless, Timothy bends almost double before his mistress. He looks like he’s been in a brawl, even though – with his lute and his songs – he’s the most peaceable boy in all Southwark. His jerkin is untied and there’s a smear on one shoulder that looks uncomfortably like freshly spilt blood. For a moment Bianca fears he’s fallen victim to a cut-purse.
‘Mercy! Are you hurt?’ she asks, lifting him up. ‘Whatever is amiss?’
His eyes dart between her and Nicholas, wide with alarm. When he finds his breath he has but one word to speak.
‘Murder!’
7
The evidence of the fracas is everywhere: overturned tables and benches, spilled plates, clay jugs shattered on the taproom flagstones…
Bruno lies behind an overturned table, a little black raven felled by a hunter’s lucky shot. He seems so peaceful that he might almost be taking a nap, dreaming of the Veneto sun, were it not for the blood that spreads like a gentle flood tide against the shores of his unfamiliar world. His companions stand in a defensive semicircle around him. It’s taken all Graziano’s persuasion to stop them chasing Bruno’s assailants across Bankside and putting them to the blade.
Nicholas kneels down to examine his body. Bianca begins to pray for her cousin, lapsing into Italian. She is battling to hold back the tears.