‘So the queen was, in fact, pregnant,’ whispers Bianca, laying the translations between them on the table.
‘Apparently.’
‘But why would the child have been taken to – what does it say?’ Bianca retrieves document and finds the line. ‘“A place of protection against the malevolent designs of the ungodly?”’
‘That’s where I started to become really worried,’ Nicholas says, his brow creasing. ‘Samuel is about sixteen, which means his mother must have been born around the time Mary Tudor died.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Sir Joshua Wylde told me, at Woodbridge. He said Alice Wylde was scarcely seventeen when she died, just after Samuel was born.’
‘So when the letters talk about the Queen’s Majesty…’
‘Exactly. It’s not Elizabeth’s majesty, it’s her predecessor’s – Mary Tudor.’
Almost too afraid to speak, Bianca mouths the letter M.
‘I thought perhaps M might mean Mercy Havington. The time would be about right. But so far as I know, when she was an infant Alice was always with Mercy. She didn’t need taking into protection, least of all from the ungodly.’
Nicholas squares away the papers, like a lawyer coming to the end of his argument – an argument he’d do almost anything not to have to prosecute.
‘These papers infer that Mary bore a child. A daughter with the falling sickness. A daughter spirited away at birth, so as not to fall into the hands of the ungodly – in Mary’s eyes, the new faith.’
‘And that daughter gave birth to a son,’ whispers Bianca. ‘Samuel Wylde.’
‘If these letters are authentic, Samuel has a rightful claim to the English crown. A Catholic claim.’
Bianca raises a hand to her mouth. ‘Which means this conspiracy could reach as far as the Holy Father in Rome.’
‘But according to the new faith, he’s not the Holy Father, is he? To England, he’s the Antichrist.’
Bianca stares at Nicholas, ashen-faced. ‘Jesu!’ she breathes. ‘What have I got us into?
The lanes are empty when Nicholas and Bianca slip quietly out of the Jackdaw. The night threatens rain. They can smell it in the air. Beneath a fractured moon glimpsed through a wind-blown tattered grey veil, they hurry towards Bianca’s physic garden to cache away Tyrrell’s papers.
Nicholas had wanted to carry them, but Bianca had refused, consigning the slim package to the depths of her bodice. ‘I got us into this,’ she’d said. ‘I’ll get us out of it.’ Their greatest fear now is not of running into cut-purses, but of the Southwark bellmen. The watch is known to vary its rounds, the better to catch house-divers and footpads. Or possessors of dangerous secrets.
‘I can’t go to Robert Cecil. Not now,’ Nicholas says in a low voice as they hug the walls beneath the overhanging buildings to stay hidden. ‘We’re on our own.’
‘Whyever not?’
‘Because these letters connect you to Arcampora and Tyrrell, and to a Romish cardinal and a credible plot to put a Catholic heir to Mary Tudor on the throne of England.’
‘You can tell him that Bruno and I are innocent – that we didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Bianca, you went to Munt’s warehouse. You came back with Tyrrell’s papers. On top of that, the cardinal’s emissary is unconscious in your tavern, and you’ve made yourself his go-between.’
‘I suppose that does look bad, doesn’t it?’
He rolls his eyes to the heavens. ‘Have you heard the tale of Perkin Warbeck?’
‘No, Nicholas. I haven’t. I don’t recall any Warbecks in Padua. Is this going to be one of your morality lectures?’
‘You may mock me, Bianca, but it might just make you understand the danger you’ve got yourself involved in.’
‘If you must, then…’
‘Over a century ago England was riven by the Wars of the Cousins – a civil strife between two great houses, York and Lancaster. Each house took a different-coloured rose as its emblem – you can see them today, combined as the Tudor rose, symbol of Elizabeth’s descent from the victor, her grandfather…’
‘Roses?’ Bianca snorts. ‘Only the English could have a war over gardening.’
‘Do you want to hear about him, or not?’
‘I’m sorry. Go on.’
‘During that conflict, the two young heirs of the Yorkist King Edward were confined in the Tower. They disappeared – never to be seen again.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Murdered, or so it is said.’
‘By who? This Warbeck?’
‘No, by their Uncle Richard. It was Richard whom the queen’s grandfather – the seventh Henry – vanquished.’
‘So who was Warbeck?’
‘He appeared later, during Henry’s reign. He claimed to be one of those missing princes.’
‘The rightful heir to the throne – in place of Elizabeth’s grandfather?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Was he telling the truth?’
‘He was well schooled enough to make some people think so – including men of high position. But truth wasn’t the issue. Henry was never going to let him live long enough to contest the issue. In the end, Perkin Warbeck hanged.’
Bianca considers this for a moment. ‘And you think Samuel Wylde could be the Warbeck of Elizabeth’s reign?’
‘Can you imagine what would happen today, if the Brothers of Antioch were to prove Samuel Wylde has a legitimate claim to Elizabeth’s crown? And not merely her crown, but the very souls of her subjects? It would herald a war not of roses, but of faiths.’
He describes to her how he sees it: brother set against brother, father against son. The Catholic clans, so long subdued and humbled, rising in arms. The Spanish and French joining to raise a vast host that England could not possibly repel. ‘Under Mary Tudor, three hundred Protestant souls were burned away in just five years. I believe these Brothers of Antioch want the fires lit again. Samuel is not yet a man. Fires lit in his name could burn for decades. To stop that happening, Robert Cecil – or his friends on the Privy Council – will kill everyone remotely connected with Tyrrell’s papers. You, me, Bruno, Samuel Wylde…’
‘Then we destroy the papers,’ Bianca says brightly. ‘Get rid of them.’
‘And wait for Tyrrell and his people to come calling? Presumably the Brothers of Antioch expect some form of response from your Cardinal Fiorzi. What happens when they realize that you’re an imposter? They’ve already killed Tanner Bell. And his friend Finney, for all I know.’
They walk on, unable to speak, silenced by the enormity of what Nicholas has said. And then Bianca does something that’s become a habit recently – she stops suddenly and turns, looking back down the lane.
‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘What have you seen?’
Should I tell Nicholas about the man in the brown cloak? she wonders. What good would it do? It would only add to his fears. Besides, the lane is empty – no matter how hard I peer into the darkness, trying to people it with watching eyes.