‘Is this a medical diagnosis, Dr Shelby?’
‘No, madam. Nothing so ordinary.’
‘Then pray continue.’
‘I imagine this maid setting her eye upon a handsome young chaplain to the newly crowned King of Spain. An Italian chaplain, serving his most Catholic majesty.’
‘Is he very handsome, this chaplain?’ she asks, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
‘So I am led to believe, madam.’
Lady Havington folds her arms and looks directly into his eyes. ‘And does he love her in return – despite his priestly calling?’
‘How could he possibly not?’
She seems to find his thesis agreeable. ‘Pray continue, Dr Shelby,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest. ‘This is all most intriguing.’
‘There is a problem,’ Nicholas announces sadly, clouding the idyllic scene he has created. ‘A priest enamoured of a maid is no great marvel. But this maid is of a conflicting faith. Indeed, if it were to be discovered that she was secretly a Protestant, it would go very badly for her, would it not? Given the nature of the times?’
Lady Havington nods her head. Slowly, reflectively. Then, to his immense relief, she takes the narrative from him. Makes it her own.
‘But that, Dr Shelby, is the least of our maid’s concerns. All too soon the subject of her ardour must return to Spain, with his master, the king.’ She stares into the gloom of the byre, remembering. When she turns back to him, he sees her eyes are welling with tears. ‘I ask you: what were they supposed to do? How could they deny the love that God had so inconveniently sent them? You are a young man; I am sure you can put yourself in their place. Could you deny your passions, if you knew the object of your desire was about to be torn from you?’ She dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. ‘Could you not discover that your heart had the capacity to love two people at once?’
Nicholas bites his lip. It is her story that he has come all this way to hear, not his own. ‘No, madam, I could not,’ he says, lowering his gaze.
Mercy Havington drops her arms to her sides and smiles. ‘In this tale you have spun me, Dr Shelby, does the handsome chaplain have a name, perchance?’
‘He does, madam. Santo Fiorzi.’
‘And the outcome of this liaison?’
‘A child – a girl. I believe she was spirited away soon after birth. Was that because of the mother’s faith?’
‘You must imagine the atmosphere at court then, Dr Shelby,’ Mercy Havington says. ‘It was not the first time the queen had erroneously believed herself to be with child. On the previous occasion the royal nursery had been prepared, the celebrations already begun. When it became clear that once again there was to be no heir, well – to bear a child when the queen herself could not…’
‘I understand the problem.’
‘Then there was the issue of the mother’s secret faith – and the inconvenient fact that she was, at the time, betrothed to another man. A good man.’
‘You have been most helpful, Lady Havington.’
‘And you, Dr Shelby, have woven an extraordinary tapestry. Engaging, I admit.’ A long, exaggerated intake of breath, like someone drawing in the luscious scent of an exotic flower. ‘But utterly fictitious, of course.’
‘Utterly.’
‘And told for no one’s ears but ours.’
‘You may rely upon it.’
Mercy Havington takes his arm and walks him away from the byre towards the manor house, like a mother with a son she hasn’t seen for a while, a lot of catching-up to do. And though it takes him by surprise, he allows himself to be led.
‘And the other object of the maid’s love,’ she says. ‘Have you considered him?’
‘I suspect I would picture him as a young gallant of her own faith, about to depart for the Low Countries, to fight against the religion that prevailed in England at that time. For all our maid knew, he was going to his death. Shall we name him William, just as a convenience?’
‘We shall, Dr Shelby. A fine name for such a man.’
‘And shall we allow him a safe return from battle? A marriage to the maid? A long and happy life shared together, until his recent death?’
‘A most fitting ending to the story, Dr Shelby. Most fitting indeed.’
‘Is it possible our William could have been the father of the child, and not the priest?’
She fixes him with a sad smile. ‘No, Dr Shelby. It is not. And where would be the profit in him ever having learned the truth?’
They have almost reached the house. Through the open door into the hall, Nicholas can hear voices – Lady Havington’s brother-in-law has arrived home. He must hurry if he is to put the last brushstrokes to the canvas. He pictures in his mind the lines deciphered from Tyrrell’s papers: The following was intercepted by agents of the Holy Office of the Faith in the rebellious province of Zeeland… Rejoice in the knowledge that a girl child was safely delivered…
‘Can you tell me, Lady Havington, was there ever a letter written – a letter sent abroad to William – telling him of the birth?’
She looks at Nicholas with a hint of surprised admiration. ‘Indeed there was, Dr Shelby, though I cannot imagine how you would know. The letter was intended to warm his heart and give him courage. Remember, at the time he was a young man battling the enemies of Christ in a foreign land. And he believed the child was his.’
‘Does the letter still exist?’
‘I doubt it. The courier into whose hands it was entrusted never returned. His fate is unknown, either to the author of the letter or to its intended recipient. Perhaps he fell into an ambush. The Low Countries were as dangerous then as they are today, Dr Shelby.’
He nods. ‘A final enquiry, madam; then I will trouble you no further. Has the maid heard from the child’s real father since that time – perhaps recently?’
But Mercy Havington has already let go of his arm. She strides into the house to greet her brother-in-law. She doesn’t look back at Nicholas, even though he’s certain she heard every word of his question.
An hour later Nicholas is riding down the grassy slope outside Cleevely, past the ruins of an old abbey and on towards the beech wood. Since leaving Havington Manor the weather has broken, black clouds heavy with rain hugging the hilltops. And his thoughts have turned from Mercy Havington’s long-ago romantic entanglements to something much grimmer. He can hear Bianca’s warning in his head: What if someone from Cleevely sees you?
But this is something he knows he must do. I owe this to Tanner Bell, he tells himself. I owe it to his father, Porter – not least because I didn’t have the courage to tell him I found his son’s bones lying in a pitiful pile under the leaves in this little Gloucestershire wood; that there is no possibility he will ever see either of his boys again, this side of the final resurrection.
He’s thought it through carefully. It won’t delay him long – an hour or two at the most. He will gather up as much of the remains as he can. He will put them in the hemp sack that he brought with him from the Tabard’s livery yard. Then, taking care to ensure he is unobserved, he will leave the sack at the first suitable country church he comes across on the ride back to London. Knowing the snail-like progress of officialdom in the countryside, it will be many days before the county coroner empanels a jury to investigate the bones. With no certain indication as to whose remains they are, no witnesses and no suspects, a verdict of death by assault and ambush will most likely be recorded. Possibly even a verdict of misfortune – he wouldn’t put it past a county coroner’s jury to miss completely the clear evidence of trepanning. But most important, Tanner Bell will finally be laid to rest in consecrated ground.