‘A small glass, thank you.’
‘And Mistress Merton?’ Lumley enquires as he raises his glass to Nicholas. ‘Is she fully recovered from her ordeal?’
Her ordeal. The events that simple phrase conceals seem to have happened an age ago, Nicholas thinks; yet it has been barely two months.
‘I believe she is, my lord. And again, I must thank you for her apothecary’s licence.’ Nicholas smiles self-consciously. ‘We must thank you.’
‘We?’ echoes Lumley with a raise of his wintry brows. He smiles. ‘Good! I favour the sound of we. You deserve happiness, after all you’ve been through.’
‘I didn’t mean it in that manner, my lord,’ says Nicholas, blushing. ‘At least, I–’
Lumley spares him further agony. ‘What brings you here? It’s a fair walk from Southwark.’
‘I thought you might be able to help me in a case I’m involved in: a young lad with the falling sickness.’
‘My library at Nonsuch is always open to you. You know that.’
‘That is kind of you, my lord. But what I’m searching for is not to be found in medical books. And I hesitate to speak of it where we may be overheard.’
Without asking why, Lumley says, ‘Come with me – my guests can bear my absence for a while.’
He leads Nicholas back into the house, along a panelled gallery and out into a small inner courtyard. Gravel paths cut geometrically through flowerbeds bordered by neatly trimmed box hedges. At the centre is a small statue of a leaping horse, a miniature of the original Nicholas has seen in the great inner courtyard at Nonsuch Palace, Lumley’s magnificent mansion in the Surrey countryside. He wonders if John Lumley comes here privately to hear the Catholic Mass, away from prying eyes and ears.
‘Is here privy enough for your needs?’ Lumley asks. ‘Or must we find ourselves a deep cave where Robert Cecil may not overhear us?’
Nicholas looks sheepishly at the gravel. From the moment they first met, Lumley has been able to see through his artifice.
‘He has not sent me to you, my lord, not this time. But in the matter of the boy with the falling sickness, he does have – shall we say – an interest. The boy’s grandmother is kinswoman to his wife.’
‘Then you’d better tell me how I may help you.’
Nicholas gives Lumley a brief account of his visit to Cleevely and his meeting with Arcampora. He makes no mention of Tanner Bell’s body, or the apparent evidence of trepanning he’d seen on it, even though Lumley has such an interest in anatomy that he endows the College of Physicians with an annuity to provide a reader in the discipline. And he says nothing about Bianca’s cousin or Lord Tyrrell’s letters. For the time being, he thinks, such secrets are best kept between himself and Bianca alone.
‘Being a patron of the College of Physicians and close to its president and senior Fellows, I wondered if perhaps you were familiar with Arcampora’s reputation, my lord. Even Robert Cecil has been able to discover little about him.’
Lumley appears to choose his words carefully. ‘I’ve heard him spoken of. Little more than hearsay, really. But it’s hearsay from men who in the past have not lied to me. Sir Joshua Wylde must be paying him handsomely.’
‘Why so, my lord?’
‘Because nothing but a significant amount of money would bring him into a realm whose religion he holds to be an abomination.’
Is it money – or something far more precious to the old religion? Nicholas wonders. ‘Is there a way I might meet with these gentlemen, my lord?’
‘Sadly, Nicholas, that will not be possible. They are men presently living beyond our shores for their own safety.’
Nicholas understands immediately. ‘Is that because Robert Cecil might call them traitors?’
‘Cecil may call them what he likes – they have hides tough enough to bear it. I would prefer to call them men who desire the re-establishment of a properly pious England.’
‘Are you in touch with these men, my lord?’
Lumley smiles and raises a finger in gentle caution. ‘That would be treason, Nicholas, wouldn’t it? Let me say simply that while I approve of their aim, I do not approve of their methods.’
‘And what exactly is it these men have to say about Arcampora?’
‘That he was expelled from Basle, for pursuing studies the professors found heretical and dangerously provocative.’
‘I knew he left. I didn’t know why.’
‘Are you also aware he’s sold his services to some of the great Catholic households in Europe? Including that of Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, the Duke of Alba?’
At once Nicholas hears Mercy Havington’s voice in his head, speaking of Porter Bell’s drunken outburst. He was in this very tavern, swearing the Duke of Alba and the Devil were at Cleevely… And he recalls his translation of Tyrrell’s second letter: The following was intercepted by agents of the Holy Office of the Faith in the rebellious province of Zeeland, and passed to His Excellency the Duke of Alba without alteration…
‘Alba, the Iron Duke,’ whispers Nicholas to himself. The garden suddenly seems colder, as the recollection floods back like a silent wraith rising in a churchyard.
Alba had been dead almost five years by the time Nicholas arrived in the Netherlands, but just the mention of his name still put the fear of God into people. Memories were still raw – memories of whole towns butchered to the last newborn babe by Alba’s soldiers. The Dutch had even coined a name for the brutality: ‘Spanish fury’. If even a fragment of Alba’s hatred for the new faith survives in Arcampora, then perhaps he is the force behind the Brothers of Antioch. ‘So it wasn’t a drunken fancy, after all,’ Nicholas whispers, realizing Porter Bell must have seen Arcampora in Holland, during his captivity there – must somehow have learned of the physician’s connection to Alba.
Lumley’s voice breaks into his consciousness. ‘Nicholas? You seem distracted.’
‘Forgive me, my lord. I was thinking out loud. It was something the boy’s grandmother told me.’
‘I hope I have been of help, Nicholas.’
‘You have, my lord.’
‘Then come and meet some of my guests. They have healthy purses, but like so many of their station they tend to melancholia, as far as their health is concerned. You might come away with the kernel of a new, prosperous practice.’
‘That’s kind of you, my lord. But I wonder if I might trouble you just a little further…’
‘Of course.’
‘How well do you know Lord Tyrrell?’
Lumley looks at him askance. ‘Thomas Tyrrell? We haven’t spoken more than half a dozen times in thirty years. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought that both of you being staunch defenders of the old faith, you might be closer.’
Lumley fixes him with his mournful eyes. ‘Nicholas, I’m glad to see you once more, I truly am, but this is beginning to sound like an interrogation. Are you sure Robert Cecil hasn’t sent you?’
‘Forgive me, my lord, if I sound uncivil, but this is a matter of great consequence. I promise you I have not come to waste your time.’
Lumley maintains his gaze a moment, then gives an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I was growing weary of all that chatter in the orchard anyway.’
‘So you do know him?’
‘We met during the preparations for Mary’s wedding to Philip of Spain. To speak truly, I was surprised Tyrrell did not flee abroad when Mary died and Elizabeth restored the Protestant Church.’
‘Why do think that might have been, my lord?’
‘Perhaps, like me, he can’t abandon England, even though England has abandoned him – and his faith.’