‘When I return, I would like nothing better,’ he says. ‘But I cannot tarry here. Time will not allow it. I must be on my way.’
And though it lasts but a brief moment before Bianca masters it, he sees in her amber eyes a flash of disappointment.
Or there again, perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps it’s fear.
At the livery yard by the Tabard, Nicholas sees to his delight that the chestnut palfrey is back. He pays a week’s hire in advance. He leaves instructions that the mare be saddled and ready for collection the day after tomorrow. And he asks, or so the Tabard’s ostler will affirm later, for an empty hemp sack, purpose unknown.
Less than an hour later, according to Robert Cecil’s man, he’s at Billingsgate water-stairs, buying himself a seat on the Long Ferry to Gravesend.
The only other sighting of him, before he returns to London the next morning, will be made by the Gravesend night-watch. They think they have him on the Hythe a little after midnight, in the company of a man known to them: Porter Bell. When called upon to do so by the Kent coroner, the watch will be unable to describe him in much detail, due to the darkness.
But from the description Cecil’s man gives them, they’re pretty sure it’s him – standing by the water’s edge, deep in conversation, they will say in their evidence. Only occasionally looking out at the dark shapes of the ships moored in the Hope Reach. Just two men reliving some past shared experience. Or perhaps a common loss. Causing no hurt to the Queen’s Peace. No reason to approach them. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except that, for the first time the watchmen can remember, Porter Bell appeared not to be drunk.
PART 3
Tilbury
1
Nicholas reaches Havington Manor early in the morning of Easter Eve. The little valley is deep in shadow, darkening clouds dragging misty tendrils of rain across the western sky. He has ridden as hard as he dares, slept little and rested the mare just enough to keep her sound. In the time it has taken him, he has come to a conclusion about Mercy Havington.
To his immense relief, he finds her brother-in-law is out visiting tenants. It makes him wonder what his own father would be doing now at Barnthorpe. Probably checking the barley wasn’t growing knee-bent, or searching for signs of locust and caterpillar.
A servant escorts Nicholas to the dairy, where Lady Havington is skimming fat off the milk in the cheese-pans, assisted by two maids. A line of swollen muslin sacks full of broken curds hang from a beam. The liquid drains into a row of pails beneath, making a noise like the aftermath of a heavy shower.
‘Why, Dr Shelby! What a joyous surprise,’ she says upon seeing him. ‘You’re lucky I’m still here. I leave tomorrow for London.’ She pushes a strand of straw-coloured hair back into place beneath her simple linen coif. ‘Forgive me for receiving you in so uncivil a place, but I seem to be fighting a futile campaign against broad-clover. If the cows graze it, we’re lucky to get one good cheese in three.’
‘My mother swears by a high ceiling, madam,’ Nicholas says, smiling in sympathy. ‘She keeps our cheeses in the rafters – less heat from the cattle when they’re milked.’ It’s a far better opening play, he thinks, than I heard you might have had a child by a handsome Catholic chaplain – but your husband always believed it was his.
‘I’ve never met a physician who could opine on cheese,’ she says coquettishly, her wide, generous mouth arcing into an inviting smile. And in that smile Nicholas sees precisely how Santo Fiorzi and William Havington were captured all those years ago.
‘My family farms in Suffolk, madam,’ he explains. ‘When I wasn’t studying Galen, Hippocrates and Vesalius at Cambridge, I was pulling turnips or carting truckles of cheese.’
‘It is a blessing to have happy memories, is it not?’
He replies with some platitude or other, forgotten before the words are out of his mouth. But he’s really wondering if she still thinks of Santo Fiorzi. Or is he now just a hazy ghost to look back upon with a fond smile when thoughts of times past come stealing up unannounced?
‘I would be grateful if we could speak privily, madam,’ he says.
Mercy Havington wipes her hands on her kirtle. ‘Privily? Is this about Samuel?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
On the surface, her look of mild surprise seems genuine enough, but to Nicholas – now that he knows her secret – it seems just a little too practised. She leads him out into the yard, into the shadow of an empty cattle byre.
‘Well, Dr Shelby. Is this privy enough for what you have to say?’
He begins almost apologetically. ‘Lady Havington, I am the son of a Suffolk yeoman; I have no skill for dissembling. I must speak plainly, even at the risk of causing grave offence. Will you hear me out?’
‘It would be unkind of me not to, Dr Shelby. After all, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to watch a country lady fussing in her dairy.’
‘I want to ask you about your daughter, Alice.’
‘My Alice is dead, Dr Shelby – in God’s peace these past sixteen years. What is she to you, that requires that we disturb her now?’
‘It is for the sake of her son – your grandchild – that I ask.’
Mercy Havington considers this for a long time. Her gaze is fixed somewhere in the dark interior of the byre. She seems to be struggling with a dilemma that has no favourable answer.
‘Is it important to Samuel that I answer your questions, Dr Shelby?’ she says at length. ‘Will it help him in his sickness?’
‘Madam, the question I need answered is perhaps even more important to Samuel’s welfare than the matter of his health.’
There is no mistaking the sudden look of alarm in Mercy Havington’s eyes. ‘What do you wish to know, Dr Shelby?’
‘The true identity of Alice Havington’s father.’
She returns his questioning look with silence. He searches her eyes for anger. All he sees is a courage he cannot help but admire. Answer one way, he thinks, and Samuel will be the innocent pawn of other men’s ambitions – forgivable, no threat to the state, its queen or its religion. But answer in another, and the comfortable world of Havington Manor will be hurled into the fire of a war between the faiths, closely followed by every house, hearth and family in England.
A long, slow breath, exhaled like someone who’s just had a close shave with death. A disturbing stillness. Hands tightened suddenly into fists. All the telltale signs that Mercy Havington has been expecting this moment, in one form or another, for more than thirty years.
‘Are you suggesting I betrayed my late husband?’ she says evenly. ‘Have you come to our house only to call me a whore?’
For a moment Nicholas fears he’s lost her.
‘On the contrary, madam,’ he says, surprised by the huskiness in his own voice. ‘The picture I have in my mind is of a young maid who finds herself very much in love with two men. A young woman not afraid to permit herself joy. At this point there is no need to give this young woman a name. Agreed?’
A slow, sad smile.
‘How extraordinarily adroit of you, Dr Shelby. Agreed. What else do you see in this wild imagination of yours?’
‘I see a young chamberer at the court of Mary Tudor. Pretty, vivacious, with a maid’s love of life. A young woman who knows her heart too well to allow it to be imprisoned by certain stern male courtiers. Is it possible you also can see her?’