‘You’ve worked a miracle,’ Bianca says, the words spilling out of her when Nicholas arrives, summoned from Poynes Alley by Timothy barely ten minutes after returning from St Mary Rounceval. ‘You’ve saved him!’ And for a moment Nicholas thinks she’s about to throw herself into his arms. In fact he’s somewhat disappointed when she doesn’t.
Bruno is lying on his mattress, propped up on the pillow, his eyes open, a slow, measured rhythm to his breathing. Nicholas makes his examination.
‘The wound seems clean, no smell of putrefaction. The flesh is a little red, but otherwise healthy.’
Bruno’s eyes flicker over Nicholas’s face, unquestioning as an infant’s. ‘I understand I have you to thank for my life, Signor Nicholas,’ he says in a voice that falls as lightly as winter leaves.
‘Wait until I’ve removed the sutures before you thank me,’ Nicholas says, with a man-to-man smile.
‘What’s a little hurt after so comfortable a sleep?’ Bruno asks, bravely trying to smile back.
‘Graziano wants to know if he can be moved to the Sirena?’ says Bianca when they’ve left Bruno to rest.
‘I think so.’ He looks at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Does he know what you’ve discovered?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Best to keep it that way.’
‘Did you learn anything new from your visit to Dr Pelham?’
‘Yes. Would you walk with me to Poynes Alley?’
‘Why?’
‘We need to talk, privily.’
‘You said something similar to me at Gravesend,’ she says with an ironic laugh. ‘It turned out not to be what I was expecting.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, Nicholas – when we were abed at the Swan, remember?’
Is that the faintest of blushes she sees on his cheeks?
‘Strictly speaking, we weren’t actually abed, Mistress Bianca. We were on the bed. Talking. I assure you, your modesty was never in danger.’
She sighs sweetly, lifts her farthingale an inch or two off the floor and balances on her toes as if about to break into a measure. ‘Hey nonny, nonny, what a fortunate maid am I!’ she trills.
If he notices the sarcasm in her voice, he doesn’t show it.
The rain has stopped. Tendrils of mist are forming on the water, and from the eves of the houses along the riverbank the bats are darting out to sweep the evening air. A tilt-boat emerges from the piers of London Bridge like a beetle crawling on glass.
‘So the young Mercy Brooke was in love with two men,’ says Bianca as they stand together on the little balcony at Poynes Alley, looking out over the river.
Nicholas has just completed his account of his visit to Charles Pelham’s house. ‘Did you know Fiorzi had ever come into England?’ he asks.
‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘He never spoke of it?’
‘Yes, Nicholas, all the time. The cardinal was in the habit of telling me his every secret, down to the last detail of his privy conversations with the Pope. Is there anything else I can tell you? What the queen had for supper last night, perhaps?’
‘Foolish of me to ask,’ says Nicholas, rolling his eyes.
For a while they stand side-by-side, staring out at the skyline of the north bank – at the wharves around Billingsgate and the houses rising towards Thames Street – saying nothing. Then Bianca asks, ‘There’s something I don’t understand. Why are the Brothers of Antioch so sure that the “M” in Dr Pelham’s letter is Mary Tudor and not Mercy Havington?’
‘Because Arcampora has convinced Thomas Tyrrell of it.’
‘And Tyrrell has convinced Lowell and Kirkbie?’
‘Exactly. It’s a conspiracy they were already predisposed to believe. All it took was Arcampora to confirm it for them. When we want to believe something is true, we’re only too happy to lay aside our critical faculties.’
‘So Arcampora manufactured proof enough to convince them,’ Bianca says, shaking her head in wonder.
‘He’s keeping Alba’s dream alive. He’d do anything to bring down the new faith in England.’ Nicholas raises his left hand and taps his right index finger against the ball of the thumb. ‘First, there’s the letter that was intercepted by Alba’s men in Zeeland, which mentions a girl child being born to “M” at St James’s Palace. It was probably intended for the young William Havington – who, I imagine, was away from his pregnant betrothed, serving in the Netherlands. I don’t know who sent it. Perhaps it was Dr Pelham. Perhaps it was William’s father. Either way, it ended up in Spanish hands. Alba’s men took the “M” to mean Mary. Arcampora probably found it amongst Alba’s records.’ Another tap, middle finger against open palm. ‘Then there’s Dr Pelham’s letter – a letter written by a man who had been a physician in Mary’s household. That was taken from Pelham’s house by Isabel Lowell, around Christmas last.’
‘How did she know about Pelham?’
‘Arcampora told her. Last Christmas he went to the College of Physicians and spun them a tale about an old acquaintance he wanted to trace. In truth, he was after one of Mary’s physicians. Pelham was the only one left alive who’d served in her household.’
‘And Isabel Wylde found the letter amongst Pelham’s papers?’
‘Stole it from under his nose – which wouldn’t have been difficult, in the circumstances. It gave credibility to that first letter, written thirty years earlier.’ Nicholas brushes his fourth finger against the tip of his left thumb. ‘Finally, there’s Mary’s Will, and the letter about the codicil that was added at the close of her life.’
‘The codicil where she admits she wasn’t pregnant…’
‘Exactly. Arcampora helpfully furnishes the Brothers with a supposed secret testament that it’s a forgery. That’s what the letter we deciphered claimed: that the codicil was written in a different hand from the rest of the Will. That it had been added expressly to deceive. In other words, it claimed Mary had made no such retraction. I’d lay odds it was written recently – probably by Arcampora himself.’
‘And you think Isabel Wylde – Isabel Lowell – is John Lowell’s daughter?’
‘I think she deliberately set about seducing Sir Joshua to get close to Samuel.’
‘That’s monstrous, Nicholas.’
‘They’re playing for very high stakes, remember.’
Bianca stares out at the driftwood carried on the current, swept along by forces it is too powerless to resist. ‘But was there a child?’ she whispers. ‘And if there was, did she grow up to become Samuel Wylde’s mother?’
‘The Brothers of Antioch believe so.’
‘But Lowell and Kirkbie were part of Mary’s inner circle. Surely they must know.’
‘They were out of the realm at the time, on an embassy to Philip of Spain. And Tyrrell was not close enough to the queen to know the truth. But both John Lumley and Abigail Pelham told me of the febrile atmosphere at Mary’s court. Wild rumours were rife. Those of the new faith feared that even if the pregnancy should prove false, the Spanish faction would attempt to insinuate an infant into the birthing chamber – claim it as Mary’s heir. On the other side there were zealots of the old religion who believed that a child had been born, and that Protestant agents had stolen it away.’
‘So that the throne would pass undisputed to Elizabeth?’
‘Yes. The truth may well end up being what the victors in a civil war between the faiths decide it is.’
‘And what of Mercy Havington? Do the Brothers of Antioch hold her guilty of being complicit in the stealing-away of this supposed child?’