Bianca shakes her head and laughs. Whenever her flights of fancy soar too high, there’s always Rose waiting with her bow, ready to bring them plummeting to earth. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.
She admires the gloves for a while longer. Then she twists her mouth to one side and says, ‘Rose, have you noticed anything about these gloves? They’re different sizes. The right glove is bigger.’
‘Perhaps God made Venetians with one hand larger than the other – for all that waving-about they do.’
‘It’s thicker on the back. It’s been overstuffed.’
‘Maybe it’s been repaired.’
Bianca returns her cousin’s possessions to the sack, placing the gloves in last, gently, like an offering.
‘You’re probably right, Rose dear. You’d best find a chest with a lock that we can put all this in. This is Southwark after all, and I can’t keep watch all the time.’
Pulling the drawstring tight, she tells herself, Bruno will need them again. I’m certain of it. Just like when Nicholas went into the river to drown his grief, it’s not yet his time to die.
‘Your verdict, please, Dr Shelby,’ says Mercy Havington as they ride away from Cleevely. ‘Is the man a mountebank or not?’
Nicholas considers her question carefully before answering.
‘At first, I thought so. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘You believe him to be genuine?’
‘He was knowledgeable – as far as anyone can be, about the falling sickness. As for the treatment, I’ve heard wilder suggestions made in all seriousness.’
Lady Havington sighs. ‘I’d hoped you’d find him a fraud. At least then I could have asked Sir Joshua to dismiss him.’
‘Arcampora seemed utterly convinced he could find a cure for your grandson’s malady.’
‘But look how sickly Samuel appeared. The treatment cannot be in his best interests.’
‘I confess that did cause me worry. So did Arcampora’s talk about Samuel being somehow unusual – apart from the ordinary.’
‘He is. He’s my grandson.’
‘Of course. But once or twice I felt as though he and Isabel Wylde were speaking about a quite different Samuel. Something is not right, but I can’t put my finger on it.’
They ride on to the little drover’s inn at Cleevely village, where Ned Monkton is waiting for them. He is not alone. He has company.
‘God’s blood! What’s that?’ asks Nicholas as they join him at a table in a dark corner.
‘What’s it look like, Master Nick?’ says Ned proudly, grinning at the creature nestling contentedly in his huge lap.
‘It’s a dog!’
‘I promised Rose I’d bring her something pretty.’
Nicholas runs a hand through his hair, perplexed. ‘If I remember only one thing about the ride here from Southwark, Ned, it is that you don’t have a dog. Please don’t tell me you’ve stolen it. They won’t have stocks here big enough to fit you.’
‘Course I ain’t stolen it,’ protests Ned, stroking the beast’s pink belly. ‘I won Buffle fair and square, in a game of primero.’
‘Buffle?’
‘On account of the bufflehead what let me win her off him.’
The beast gazes adoringly up at Ned with a spaniel’s grin on its face, though the provenance of the rest of the animal is anyone’s guess. It puts a paw up into Ned’s great auburn beard, as though it intends to make itself a nest.
‘Well, I think she’s a very fine little dog,’ says Lady Havington.
Ned gently takes the dog’s paws from his beard and waves it. ‘Say good morrow to Lady Havington and Master Nicholas, Buffle,’ he says in a child’s voice, utterly at odds with his size and scowling red face.
Jesu, they’re both at it now, thinks Nicholas, remembering the sow Isabel and rolling his eyes heavenwards. But he can’t resist a smile. It’s barely five months since Ned Monkton lost his young brother Jacob to the Bankside killer. He deserves a little joy. ‘So you were gaming at cards?’ he says, trying to patch his threadbare authority.
‘You wanted me to spy out the lie of the land, Master Nick. Cards is a great way of getting a fellow to natter.’
‘Aside from the dog…’
‘Buffle.’
‘Aside from Buffle, what else did you manage to prise out of the honest folk of Cleevely?’
‘For a start, they all have an opinion about what’s going on, up at Cleevely House.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The boy is possessed by demons; he’s an addle-pate without enough brains to stop himself falling in a heap; he ate a surfeit of eels and that’s what’s made him moon-struck. Take your pick. It’s naught I haven’t heard people say about my little brother Jacob, when he were alive,’ says Ned despondently. ‘Warms your ’art, don’t it – some folk’s consideration for their fellow man.’ He gives the dog a sliver of cold mutton from his trencher. Buffle repays him with a look of bottomless devotion.
‘And what of Arcampora or Isabel Wylde?’
‘Apparently Lady Wylde awards herself more airs than the Queen of Spain.’
‘We noticed.’
Ned bows his head towards Mercy Havington. ‘Then, if you’ll excuse me, m’lady, there was the uproar with your servant. They all knew about that.’
‘That would be Porter Bell,’ Lady Havington explains with a regretful smile. ‘It was the moment William and I realized we could no longer keep him in the household.’
‘What happened?’ Nicholas asks.
‘It was the day Porter finally lost all command of his anger – around Shrovetide last. He was in this very tavern, swearing the Duke of Alba and the Devil were at Cleevely. He was ranting that he would hasten there at once, to murder them both. I had to come down here myself to calm him. He was so in his cups it took all my wits to stop him attempting it.’
‘Alba was dead by the time I went to Holland with Sir Joshua,’ says Nicholas. ‘But I never met man nor woman of the Orange faction who didn’t tremble at the mention of his name.’ He thinks for a minute. ‘I seem to recall Porter served in the Netherlands, didn’t he – during Alba’s time in command of the Spanish forces?’
‘Yes, Porter went with my husband. He was returning from foraging for the company when he was taken prisoner, poor fellow. He spent a harsh time in a Spanish cell. It changed him utterly. He sought solace in ale. When his son Dorney was killed – well, that was the last straw.’ She looks at Nicholas with a tearful gleam in her eyes. ‘You must have known Dorney, Dr Shelby. He was with Sir Joshua around your time.’
‘I did, madam.’
‘Dear, dear Dorney. We miss him greatly. My husband was heartbroken at the news. Dorney was more friend to him than groom, despite the years between them. How well did you know him?’
‘At the end, madam, I think better than any man. He died in my arms, a Spanish ball in his back.’
‘Oh,’ whispers Mercy Havington, placing a hand in front of her mouth.
‘He didn’t suffer,’ says Nicholas quickly, trying to spare her further pain. ‘He was beyond physic. I thought he’d simply fallen asleep.’ He adds this to the list of all the other lies he’s told to the grieving.
She reaches out and softly touches his arm. ‘To know that you were with Dorney at the end is a comfort. My husband blamed himself for letting the lad go with Sir Joshua.’
‘Rest assured, madam, Sir William would have had to fetter Dorney by the ankles to prevent him going.’
She smiles. ‘You have a generous heart, Dr Shelby. Your patients must have great confidence in you.’