She traps him in that unnerving gaze a while longer. ‘You have served the Havingtons since you were old enough to fetch and carry, have you not, Tanner?’
‘Aye, madam. My father was Sir William’s man. So was my brother, Dorney. But he’s dead now.’
‘Do you have a good memory, young Tanner Bell? Do you remember things well?’
‘I think so, my lady.’
‘Then tell me, did Lady Mercy ever say anything in your hearing that made you question Samuel’s lineage?’
‘Lineage? I don’t know what you mean, madam.’
‘In a careless moment perhaps – when she believed herself unobserved…’
‘I still don’t–’
‘His mother, Tanner! Did Mercy Havington ever speak in your hearing about Samuel’s mother?’
Tanner stares at her, transfixed with fright. ‘I know she and Sir William were inconsolable when Samuel’s mother died. My f-f-father told me so. But I never heard them speak of their daughter in my presence, other than with affection.’
‘Your father then. Did he ever mention having heard anything?’
‘My father?’ Why is she putting me through this unnerving interrogation? Tanner Bell wonders. What does she want me to say?
The cheeks of the white ceruse mask give a little shudder as Isabel Wylde expels an impatient breath. ‘Did Porter Bell ever mention anything to you – anything at all – that might suggest Lady Mercy knew Alice Havington wasn’t her child?’
Bianca looks around the chamber, hoping to spot some evidence of humanity to tell her that Munt is a man like any other, with normal human sympathies, perhaps even with a family. But there’s not a piece of plate, not an ornament, not a personal possession anywhere. Just a plain table and a few chairs. Compounding her unease, she notices a doorway set into the far wall, the arched lintel embossed with ships under sail. The door is ajar, leading to heaven knows where. Or what.
Munt gestures for her to sit. He wrings his big hands. ‘Forgive my omission, Mistress. I’m a poor host indeed. Wait here, I’ll fetch us some sack. I won’t be long. Then we can be about our business.’
Take an hour if you want, Bianca thinks with revulsion, as Munt disappears through the little doorway. Take all the time in the world. Because, for the life of me, I have no idea why I’m here. And I can hardly ask you, can I?
She looks at the little medallion cradled in her hand. At the figure of St Margaret of Antioch in the centre. At the random letters around its edge.
What could possibly tie these to Tobias Munt, merchant of Petty Wales in London? she asks herself.
She tries to picture the little chapel dedicated to the saint in Father Rossi’s church in Padua, searching her memory for something – anything – that might come to her aid. She lets her senses wander over the image in her mind. She can smell the heady fragrance of the incense. She gazes in her thoughts at the brightly painted statue of the saint: the one she has watched being paraded through the streets every feast day for as long as she can remember. She sees the pink plaster face suffused with candlelight, like the light of God into which St Margaret herself stepped after her miraculous passage through the belly of the serpent. St Margaret the martyr: swallowed by Satan, yet so holy that she emerged unharmed. Living proof that devotion to God can protect the pure in spirit from such an intimate entanglement with the Devil. St Margaret of Antioch.
Antioch. The city where the Apostles first agreed to call themselves Christians.
Now Bianca realizes what the random letters engraved around the edge of the medallion are. P… J… S… Peter… John… Simon… They’re the initials of the twelve disciples.
‘Mistress Merton.’
Munt’s voice shocks her out of her reverie. A volley of hailstones batters at the windows. She looks up. Munt has returned.
But there’s no glass in his hand. He hasn’t brought the promised drink. Just a tall, bearded man whose eyes look ready to produce a hailstorm of their own.
8
‘I think you and I need to have an honest talk, Mistress Merton,’ says the stranger. In his voice Bianca can hear the echo of great houses and grassy deer parks, of liveried servants and rolling English acres. He’s as unlike Munt as a biscuit is to a broom-handle. The alarming beard and the deep, ferocious eyes may appear piratical on the surface, but his brown doublet is pointed with gilded laces and dagged with yellow satin. His knee-high boots are made of the best leather. The sword he wears on his hip has jewels set into the guard and quillion.
‘My name is Thomas Tyrrell,’ he tells her. ‘You may have heard of me – I have some minor reputation, or so I like to think.’
Yes, I’ve heard of you, Bianca replies silently. It was your players whose antics got my tavern smashed up and put my cousin close to death.
‘A reputation?’ she says innocently, firming her jaw to disguise the fear in her voice. ‘If you have one, I’m afraid it has passed me by, Master Tyrrell.’
There’s no sudden flare of anger, no outrage at her nerve, just a cold chuckle at her boldness. ‘I’ll be content with “Your Lordship”, Mistress Merton,’ he says. ‘Let’s not add insolence towards your betters to your list of crimes.’
‘Crimes, Lord Tyrrell? I wasn’t aware I’d committed any.’
To help her, he counts them on one upraised hand. ‘Firstly, entering Master Munt’s warehouse with the intention to steal from him.’
‘I had an appointment,’ she protests. ‘Or at least my cousin did. And, as you can see, I haven’t stolen anything.’
‘Secondly, encouraging this loyal and devoted subject of the queen, Master Munt, towards treason.’
‘Treason? Since when was trading in rice considered treason?’
She wonders if he’s noticed the sudden busyness in her throat.
‘Thirdly – and this is the one I think you should consider very carefully, Mistress Merton – attacking him so violently that I was forced to run you through with my sword, lest he lose his life to your wild and unprovoked assault.’
She can see by his eyes that he’ll do it. And get away with it, too – a man of his station. He even has a tame witness who’ll lie through his teeth and claim she came at him like a wildcat. Now she understands the nature of the pit she’s fallen into. Only I didn’t fall, she thinks; I came here of my own will.
What is Bruno to this man? she wonders. Is he friend or enemy? And what does Lord Pricey-Boots think I am? His friend’s friend? His friend’s enemy? Or his enemy’s friend? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the three years I’ve been in London, it’s that a body may be all three in a single hour. We’re like two people blindfolded in a dark room, trying to find each other. Except that one of us has a sword.
‘What is it you want of me, Lord Tyrrell?’ she asks.
‘Mistress Merton, where is Bruno Barrani?’
‘I think you both know that, don’t you? He’s at my tavern, the Jackdaw on Bankside.’
‘But does he recover?’ Tyrrell asks. ‘You see, it’s the measure of his incapacity that I’m have a little trouble in establishing.’
‘Under my protection, yes, he recovers. But it’s early days. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Protection? You’re protecting him?’ says Tyrrell warily.
‘Of course I am. He’s my cousin.’
Munt coughs apologetically. ‘She has the token, my lord. Barrani would not have entrusted it to her if he thought she intended to deceive the Brothers.’