‘The Brothers of St Margaret of Antioch perhaps?’ she says casually.
Silence. Then a lazy frown. Nothing in the eyes.
‘The Brothers of who?’
‘St Margaret of Antioch,’ she whispers like a sigh of endearment. Or the prelude to a poisoned kiss. Two can play at provocation, she thinks.
‘Never heard of them. Who are they – a new supping club I haven’t heard of? Sounds too biblical for my tastes.’
He looks genuine, she thinks. But then he’s a writer of conceits and inventions. A provocateur. He’s probably told more lies than he has truths.
‘It’s just a name I heard somewhere,’ she says. ‘It’s of no account.’
In the afternoon, Southwark opens its arms to those seeking respite from the self-denial of Lent. The Tabard, the Jackdaw, the Good Husband, the Turk’s Head – every hostelry between the Lambeth marshes and Battle creek – throws open its doors to the tide of eager citizens crossing the bridge in search of the pleasures that the new faith frowns upon. Waiting for them are the fakers, the dancers, the tumblers, the swordsmen, the dice-kings, the card-sharps, the whole purse-diving, eye-for-an-opportunity crew. Fire-jugglers light their way. Street musicians serenade them with sackbut and tambour. Master Heathercrop, the bear-warden, leads old Sackerson by a chain through his nose all the way down Long Southwark. The beast ambles obediently, as though he’s thinking that if he can just get through this, they might let him go home to his German forest, to grub for fruit and play with his grand-cubs. Behind him, leashed in by their handlers, come the mastiffs, eyeing Sackerson hungrily with their yellow eyes – waiting for the bear-pit to open and the bloody business to begin again.
Outside the Jackdaw, under an old sheet painted with imitation scales, squats Timothy. He has one arm thrust out through a tear, an approximation of a dragon’s head fashioned out of painted cloth and paper set upon his fist. The mouth opens quite realistically to the motion of his fingers. Only the flame is missing, which Timothy tries to replace with a roaring noise from beneath his scaly cloth. ‘See the dragon! See the dragon! A farthing a go!’ shouts Farzad, who’s in charge of the money. ‘See the fiery dragon that burned the Pope’s arse black!’ They make three shillings before Bianca calls them in to help her serve the customers.
As she works, she lets her mind return to the time spent in Kit Marlowe’s company. She’s as certain as she can be that her mention of the Brothers of St Margaret of Antioch meant nothing to him.
He’s in the taproom now, she notices – sitting with Walter Burridge and a young lad she hasn’t seen before. Burridge looks as though he’s trying to convince the lad to agree to a business proposition, while Marlowe watches with languid interest. The three of them leave a short while later. Something Marlowe had said to her earlier echoes in her mind as she watches them go: Pretty girls, pretty boys, but mostly tobacco… She wonders which particular appetite Marlowe is thinking of satisfying this time.
Nicholas arrives at dusk, weary after the ride from Gloucestershire. The Jackdaw is busy when he enters. Timothy is playing one of his newly learned Venetian spagnoletti, his dragon-companion Farzad beating out the rhythm on a tambour.
‘Mistress Bianca!’ Nicholas calls out across the taproom.
She turns and sees him standing inside the doorway, his gaberdine riding cloak mud-stained, his wiry black hair unruly beneath his leather hat. He’s smiling. Remembering another of Kit Marlowe’s provocations – He seems the sort of fellow looking for somewhere to sell his heart. Have you not thought of buying it? I’ve seen how he looks at you – she finds herself blushing.
‘How long have you been standing there?’
‘Not long.’
But his answer serves only to make her blush a deeper crimson.
Behind him, Ned fills the doorway, a bundle of fur cradled in his huge arms.
‘And what is that, pray?’ Bianca asks, recovering her composure.
‘Say good morrow to Mistress Buffle, Mistress Bianca,’ Ned says, holding out the dog for inspection. ‘I told Rose I’d bring her back a present. And Ned Monkton is a man of his word.’
Rose lets out a shriek of delight. Bianca looks from the dog to Ned, to Nicholas, across to Rose and back to the dog again. Defeated, she gives a weary sigh. ‘Well, I can only recommend that you keep Buffle away from the bellmen’s hounds or she’ll get eaten alive.’ She shakes her head. ‘A dog! God give me fortitude! Don’t I have enough dumb creatures to look after, as it is?’
She stalks off towards the parlour. Rose scoops up Buffle and starts to fuss over her. And as she does so, she leans closer to Nicholas and whispers into his ear, ‘See what happens, Master Nicholas, if a gallant don’t bring his woman a favour when he returns from a jaunt?’
‘Have you done all as I instructed?’ Nicholas asks later in Bruno’s chamber.
‘To the letter.’
‘With the ingredients I prescribed? Lavender, crushed garlic, camomile, clematis…’
Bianca nods.
‘And in the correct measures?’
‘Nicholas! I’m an apothecary! I know how to mix medicines.’
He removes the cloth bandage from Bruno’s head and inspects the wound, sniffing for the telltale stink of putrefaction. He places two fingers against the carotid artery on the left side of Bruno’s neck and gauges the strength of the pulse. Then, beckoning to Bianca to bring a candle nearer, he gently lifts Bruno’s eyelids and peers into his eyes.
‘Well?’ she asks fearfully.
He sighs, though whether through satisfaction or resignation, Bianca cannot tell.
‘Your cousin really is a game little cockerel. To be honest, I hadn’t expected him to survive this long.’
‘But does he mend? Tell me, Nicholas – I need to know. Graziano comes every day to seek after his condition. His crew want to take him home.’
‘There’s little suppuration. To my mind, he does seem stronger. But whether he will live – whether he will ever recover to his former self – that is still in God’s hands.’
‘Ah, the physician’s old alibi!’ she says derisively. ‘I thought you’d decided not to believe in God any more, like Kit Marlowe.’
He stands up, frowning. ‘Marlowe? Please don’t tell me he’s still hanging around.’
Bianca puts a fresh dressing over Bruno’s wound, then says as nonchalantly as she can manage, ‘Nicholas, I have to tell you about something that happened while you were away. I’m not sure you’re going to approve.’
An expression of jealous foreboding enters his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me: you’ve fallen in love with Master Provocateur–’
Her angry cry of ‘Nicholas!’ is even heard by Timothy, who’s at the foot of the stairs, fixing a broken string on his lute.
‘What in the name of Jesu possessed you to do it?’ Nicholas asks Bianca later, when she’s told him about the little rectangle of silk hidden in Bruno’s glove, and of her meeting with Munt and Tyrrell.
‘Curiosity, I suppose. I needed to know what Bruno had got himself mixed up in.’
‘But to go to Petty Wales – to walk into this Munt fellow’s warehouse – alone. What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that you weren’t there to come with me,’ she replies, her voice sounding unusually defensive.
‘And if I had been, I’d have told you to burn the silk and the Sannazaro on the nearest fire, and stay well away from these Brothers of St Margaret, or whoever they are.’