‘Tell me, Mistress Pelham,’ he says, sensing the knots beginning to unravel, ‘where did your father go after he left the court?’
‘To a household of quality, Dr Shelby – as their personal physician. A God-fearing family. One that has no truck with vile Romish practices.’
‘May I ask the name of this household?’
‘It was the Havingtons of Gloucestershire,’ she says proudly, as though speaking of the Dudleys or the Devereux.
Nicholas battles to keep his voice steady. ‘Did you go with him?’
‘No. My mother insisted I remain in London, with an aunt, to better my marriage prospects. I barely saw him again until he returned. By then Father was all but a stranger to me. Nevertheless, I have performed my filial duty as God would wish me to.’ She doesn’t add, and besides, the marriage prospects came to naught, but it’s written in her eyes.
‘Could the “M” I saw mentioned in your father’s note have referred to Mercy Havington?’
Abigail Pelham frowns, as though unable to retrieve the name from her memory. Then she smiles, the lifelong disappointment in her face banished in an instant. ‘Oh, you mean dearest Mercy Brooke.’
‘Yes. Lady Havington – Sir William’s wife.’
‘Wife?’ she echoes with just the faintest lift of a disapproving eyebrow. ‘Oh, Mercy wasn’t married at the time of the b–’
Abigail Pelham thrusts a hand in front of her mouth to stop the words escaping. She turns her head from him.
‘I assure you, Mistress Pelham,’ says Nicholas as diplomatically as he can, desperate to stop her retreating into her solitude, ‘nothing you say to me will reach hostile ears. I have already spoken with Mercy Havington at some length. It’s her grandson I’m enquiring about. She has enlisted my help.’
She studies him, as though trustworthiness might show itself in the pores of his skin.
‘Well, Dr Shelby, I’m sure the birth of a bastard child is not an unfamiliar notion to a physician. It’s not as if it hasn’t occurred before.’
‘Was the birthing at St James’s Palace, Mistress Pelham?’
‘Of course. Mercy was a chamberer. She helped maintain the queen’s presence chamber in its proper state of cleanliness. At court, even those menial tasks are performed by women of good quality.’
‘But like your father, Mercy Brooke was also of the new faith, wasn’t she? How is it that she was accepted?’
‘Dr Shelby, when a storm is raging, it is a wise tree that bends with the wind. And besides, Mercy was beautiful. I may have been young, but even then I’d realized men prefer a court to be prettily decorated.’
‘You’ve been of great assistance, Mistress Pelham. I need detain you no longer.’
‘Dr Shelby, you said just now that Mercy’s grandson is in danger. What manner of danger?’
‘That I cannot tell you. But if you are open with me, it could go a long way towards ensuring his safety.’ Or it could mean his death, Nicholas thinks. It all depends on you, Abigail Pelham. ‘Do you consider it possible that Mercy’s child could have been taken from her, and another infant put in its place?’
Abigail Pelham shakes her head. ‘No, Dr Shelby. My father was all too cognizant of the dangers that attended the queen’s false pregnancies. There were rumours the Spanish faction might attempt to smuggle an infant into Mary’s laying-in chamber, if her belly should once again prove empty. I remember he was most diligent in ensuring that Mercy could not be used in such a fashion. But Mercy’s child was taken from St James’s almost as soon as it was delivered.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because it was I who took her, Dr Shelby. I and my father, together.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Mercy insisted upon it. She and Sir William had no wish to incur Mary’s jealousy if – as my father suspected – the queen’s pregnancy came to naught. Nor did they want their own child’s soul put at risk by remaining a moment longer than necessary in a papist court.’
The mother sends her heart’s felicity… The child is safely delivered unto a place of protection against the malevolent designs of the ungodly… The words seem to float before Nicholas’s eyes like spirits released from Purgatory.
‘May I ask where the child was taken to, Mistress Pelham?’
‘Why, to the Havingtons’ home in Gloucestershire, of course – into the care of Sir William’s parents.’ Abigail Pelham says, as if to a child. She frowns. ‘Dr Shelby, is the grandson now in danger because Sir William has finally learned of the questions about his lineage? Is that why you came here seeking my father’s help?’
Nicholas feels the ground rock beneath his feet. Surely Abigail Pelham cannot know of the Brothers’ belief that Samuel is Mary’s grandson.
‘Questions? What manner of questions?’ he asks, stumbling over the words.
‘I mean the gossip. The scandal – about Mercy’s other lover.’
‘Her other lover?’ Nicholas repeats, staring at her like the victim of a Bankside gulling.
‘I was only sixteen, Dr Shelby,’ she says with a sudden smile that transforms her face, ‘but I was almost in love with him myself. Every maid in the royal household was.’
‘Who?’ asks Nicholas a little too loudly, as if he’s afraid he’ll lose Abigail Pelham to her memories.
‘He was one of Philip’s young chaplains. An Italian. It was all so long ago, his name escapes me. It began with an F. Fierra… Fortese…’ She rests the spread fingers of one hand against her brow. Then she smiles. The years release their cold grip on her face, softening it. ‘I have it now! Fiorzi. That was it. Santo Fiorzi.’
19
A fine rain begins to mist the lanes around the Jackdaw as Bianca returns from delivering a salve of liquorice and eyebright to old Mother Sawyer, who lives behind St Saviour’s churchyard. The chill makes her realize how ravenous she is. To her delight, when she steps across the taproom threshold she finds the air filled with scents found nowhere else on Bankside. Farzad has cooked one of his spicy concoctions from Araby.
In a corner, three travellers who had turned up an hour ago from Kent, wanting to lodge the night before going across the river to do business in the city, are eagerly emptying their bowls. Nearby, four wherrymen from the Mutton Lane stairs are taking their ease after a day labouring on the river. Bianca notices the ale jugs on each table are almost empty. She looks around for Rose. There’s no sign of her. Or Timothy, for that matter.
In the kitchen, Farzad is stirring the cauldron with the concentration of an alchemist. ‘Have you seen Rose, Farzad?’ she asks.
‘They’re all upstairs: in Master Barrani’s chamber, Mistress,’ he says. ‘Rose said I was to stay here. I did as she told me, Mistress – without complaint.’
A sudden sense of dread grips her. She takes the stairs two at a time. Reaching the landing, she sees the door to Bruno’s chamber is open. Graziano is kneeling by the mattress. Rose is standing beside him.
He’s dead, Bianca thinks in a moment of utter desolation. I’ve lost him, and it was my fault, because I let Marlowe come here with his stupid play.
And then Rose looks up and sees her. ‘Mistress, come in, quickly!’ she cries, the words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘It’s Master Bruno! His eyes are open! He’s awake.’
And as confirmation that she’s not making reality out of wishing, Bianca hears Graziano announce, ‘Grazie a Dio! È un miracolo!’ in a reverential voice that sounds as if it’s come straight from the altar of the little church of St Margaret in Padua.