‘So Nicholas was wrong – about Samuel’s value to them?’
‘Oh no, child. Zealots like that will clutch at any straw, even if by doing so they crush it between their fingers. They will care only that they fan the flames of hatred between the faiths.’
On Botolph Lane they find the sign of the Blind Archer fifty yards south of Thames Street. A more salubrious establishment than the taverns along the wharves, it boasts a decorated timber frieze running along the overhang of the first floor, freshly painted in vivid red, yellow and green. Bianca decides it’s just what the Jackdaw needs.
She will not enter with him. The last part of Santo Fiorzi’s extraordinary journey must be made by him alone. But she does have a parting question – not for him, but for Mercy Havington.
‘Please, Your Eminence, will you ask her if she has any news of Nicholas?’
The fact that he doesn’t answer is lost on her, because she’s too busy watching Santo Fiorzi step through the doorway into the shadows beyond, too busy taking innocent pleasure in the pride in his gait, the anticipation in his step – though what tumult of emotions he must be suffering, she can only imagine. As he disappears, her last mental image of him is not as a scarlet-robed cardinal with a voice like God’s holy thunder, but as a young man who simply forgot to fall out of love.
12
Nicholas can hear the church bells proclaiming Evensong when Arcampora leads the riders into the courtyard of a fine half-timbered mansion, one of a number of newly built houses in the fields and orchards between Holborn and Gray’s Inn.
Thomas Tyrrell receives them in a spacious panelled upstairs room at the back of the house. The windows look out over Gray’s Inn. Nicholas can just make out a scattering of black-gowned lawyers strolling leisurely towards the chapel. They’ll have plenty of work drawing up the arraignment, he thinks, when Robert Cecil gets to work on their treasonous neighbour. But not yet. Not until Samuel is safe, and Bruno is well on his way to Venice. Though quite how he will achieve this, Nicholas still hasn’t determined.
With his scowling face and his martial beard, Tyrrell would make a perfect portrait to hang at Cleevely House alongside all those Wylde ancestors. He looks ready to bow to no man. Yet as soon as he sees Samuel, he drops to one knee in obeisance.
Another one well and truly gulled, thinks Nicholas. Just like Isabel Lowell, Tyrrell has bought every last piece of Arcampora’s great lie.
‘Why did you not make yourself known immediately?’ Tyrrell asks Nicholas, when Arcampora introduces him as another of Bruno’s emissaries. ‘You could so easily have avoided such rude handling.’
‘I was on my way to Cleevely to do just that, when this pair of bravos’ – a nod towards Florin and Dunstan – ‘decided to have their sport with me.’
‘Do you have proof of who you say you are?’
‘I knew when your letter would arrive at Cleevely. I knew what it would say. If I wasn’t in the intimate service of Cardinal Fiorzi, how else could I possibly possess such knowledge?’
‘But do you have material proof?’ Tyrrell says, offering his right hand, palm upwards, fingers spread, in the expectation that Nicholas has something to offer him.
Nicholas feels the heat drain out of his body. In its place comes the clammy dread of exposure. What is it Tyrrell expects him to offer?
It was something Munt let slip… he hears Bianca say in his head, as she comes to his aid. He and Bruno each have a medallion… proof of identity…
Even so, Nicholas can’t answer for a moment because the breath won’t come back into his lungs. Tyrrell’s face clouds with suspicion.
‘If you’re speaking of the medallion of St Margaret of Antioch,’ Nicholas manages at length, ‘only Signor Barrani and Mistress Merton are permitted to carry one. His Eminence doesn’t hand them out like trinkets. What if I were to be taken by Privy Council watchers? They could use it to trap every single one of His Eminence’s agents.’
Is Tyrrell satisfied by this explanation? It’s impossible for Nicholas to tell. But he drops the expectant hand. ‘You have had a long journey,’ he says, addressing the others as though Nicholas is no longer of importance. ‘Take your ease. Word should come soon about the time and place of the examination. In the meantime, the prince should rest.’
Tyrrell guides Arcampora to the window, away from where Samuel – flanked by Dunstan and Florin – is standing. He lowers his voice, but Nicholas is just close enough to hear the exchange.
‘How goes the prince’s cure, Dr Arcampora?’
‘Steadily, milord. Do not forget, I counselled patience from the very start.’
‘But you are content?’
‘Cautiously so. When this business with Barrani is over, and I am permitted to return to Cleevely, I expect to make swifter progress. I will need further subjects, of course.’
Subjects.
Nicholas thinks of Tanner Bell’s silent howls of torment and of Finney’s fox-chewed remains. He gives serious consideration to lunging at Arcampora and attempting to strangle him with his bare hands. He wonders if he could inflict fatal damage before Dunstan and Florin stopped him. But Tyrrell’s next question roots him to the spot.
‘And what of the Havington woman? Has Mistress Isabel succeeded in determining if it was she alone who stole away the prince’s mother from the queen’s lying-in chamber, or was the crime committed by others of her heretical faction?’
‘That, milord, remains unknown as yet. Arcampora is sure only that the child was taken because the heretics feared for the survival of their abominable superstitions, if her true identity became known. As to exactly whose hands took her from the cradle…’ He shrugs, like a hawk disgorging a pellet. ‘We should be thankful they did not kill her.’
‘Whatever the truth, there will have to be a reckoning when this matter is concluded, Dr Arcampora.’
‘Arcampora would not have it otherwise, milord. You may rest assured, there will be no womanish tears spilt by me, or by the Lady Isabel.’
‘But the prince may still harbour a fondness for the woman, given how long he has believed her to be his grandmother.’
‘Fear not, milord. The prince will look to me, when the time comes for a reckoning. In the meantime, I urge that we get this inconvenience over as swiftly as possible.’
Nicholas tries desperately to look disinterested as he seizes his chance. ‘I could go to Signor Barrani now, if you wish, my lord. I could press him to agree the place and time of the examination,’ he says. ‘Dr Arcampora is correct: the sooner Cardinal Fiorzi’s emissary is satisfied, the sooner the prince will ascend his rightful throne.’
‘That is an eminently practical suggestion, Dr Shelby,’ says Tyrrell. ‘We have all waited long enough. Perhaps you will make that point to Signor Barrani on my behalf.’
Nicholas can’t believe his luck. He struggles to remain impassive, allowing Tyrrell to show him down the wide stairs and to the door, where he stands looking out over Red Lion Fields in the dusk, while his horse is retrieved from the stables. He’s not yet sure where he’ll go: the Sirena… the Jackdaw… Poynes Alley… All he knows is that it will be anywhere but here. And when he’s decided, then he’ll try to resurrect his plan from the thicket of thorns in which it’s become entangled.
‘This gentleman will accompany you, Dr Shelby,’ he hears Tyrrell say behind him, just as a groom emerges from the stables with his horse.