Bianca looks round to be sure it’s actually happened, tears welling in her eyes, an uncontrollable trembling in her limbs.
Further down the bridge, the same drunken reveller still lies in his doorway, contentedly snoring his way towards the dawn.
22
The river is coming alive, the crisp morning calm broken by the shouts of the labourers and the watermen, the metallic yelps of block and tackle, the taut creaking of cable and hawser. In the Customs House the clerks are opening their ledgers. Out on the water the tilt-boats and wherries ply for early trade. Weaving imperiously between them are the silk-canopied private barges bearing the lawyers and the churchmen, the courtiers and the privy secretaries to the grand houses and the palaces along the Thames: Greenwich and Richmond, Whitehall and Lambeth, Baynard’s Castle and Hampton Court.
Bianca stands sore-eyed with Bruno and Nicholas on the forecastle of the Sirena di Venezia. Below them, on the wharf, men stand ready to untie the lines that hold the vessel fast. In little more than a few minutes, the Sirena and her precious cargo will be on their way. To the east, the sun has already cleared the rooftops and spires of Gravesend and Tilbury and the desolate flatness of the estuary beyond.
Bianca turns to look back at the busy main deck. By the larboard chains, she sees Samuel deep in conversation with his grandmother. Santo Fiorzi is standing close by, beaming with pride and contentment. She wonders what the boy must be thinking, facing a future that only hours ago he could not possibly have imagined: no longer discarded and shut away, no longer subject to the dangerous ambitions of others, but loved, safe amongst his kin.
‘Come with us, Cousin,’ Bruno says, scanning her face for the slightest sign that Bianca might consent. ‘It’s not too late.’
‘I told Arcampora another person aboard would be too risky,’ she says with a grin.
‘That was a lie, Cousin – though it was told for a just reason.’
‘And it would be a lie if I were to tell you this is not my home now, Bruno. No, I will not come with you. But remember me to everyone who might have cause to wonder what became of Bianca Merton. Tell them she is happy – mostly.’
Bruno sighs in resignation. He turns to Nicholas, who looks a little less alarming now that Bianca has had time to wash the dried blood from his face and tend his bruises. ‘Signor Nicholas, you saved my life. I owe you my enduring gratitude. Though I confess you had us all somewhat mistrustful last night – until Bianca explained everything.’
Nicholas tries to return Bruno’s thanks with a self-deprecating smile, but the crack in his lip turns it into a twisted grimace. ‘I’m truly sorry for that. But a certain kind of crime requires a certain kind of justice. There was no other way.’
Bruno nods gravely. Then he puts aside whatever dark thoughts he might be harbouring. ‘I would ask one last service of you, Nicholas.’
‘You have only to name it.’
‘Take care of my cousin Bianca for me.’
Not even the damage to his lip can stop Nicholas laughing at that request. ‘If you care for my opinion, Signor Bruno, I can’t think of a maid in all London who needs less taking care of.’
‘Then please,’ says Bruno, rolling his eyes skywards, ‘at least try to keep that curiosity of hers from biting anyone. It’s as dangerous as a rabid dog!’
They make their way down the larboard ladder and onto the main deck, where Mercy Havington takes Nicholas by the hand. Her eyes are sparkling with a girlish delight and the years seem to have fallen from her face.
‘Dr Shelby, when we last said farewell, I did not think to see you again. I’m glad I’ve had the chance to take a proper leave of you.’
‘And I hope you’ve managed to convince the cardinal that I am no traitor to his enterprise, madam.’
‘He knows, Dr Shelby. He knows.’
‘There is, however, the small matter of Robert Cecil,’ says Nicholas, wondering how he’s going to explain the disappearance of Mercy Havington and her grandson to the Lord Treasurer’s son. And whether he’ll want his money back.
Lady Havington squeezes his hand. ‘After our last conversation, I have no doubt your imagination will come up with a convincing enough tale. You’ll find a way. If it’s of any assistance, I’d rather everyone thought Samuel and I had simply disappeared. Make them believe we’re dead, if you must. It will be better for everyone. Even my son-in-law Joshua.’
From out in the river comes the splash of the kedge-anchor being dropped. The saturnine figure of sailing master Luzzi steps up to tell Nicholas and Bianca it is time to go ashore.
‘Pray, give me a just few moments more, Signor Luzzi,’ Bianca says.
Seeing something in her eyes, he concedes. ‘The tide is fair for a while yet, Mistress. The fellows on the lines will be grateful for a little extra ease.’
Bianca kisses Samuel on the cheek and bids him farewell. Then she crosses to where Santo Fiorzi is taking his last look at the great span of the bridge, the multitude of windows reflecting the light of the morning sun.
‘Your Eminence, I would beg a kindness of you before you go.’
‘Name it, Passerotto.’
She drops to her knees, looks up into the cardinal’s stern grey eyes and makes the sign of the cross over her breast, as she remembers the sound of two bodies hitting deep water.
‘Bless me, Holy Father, for I have sinned. It is over three years since my last confession…’
From the wharf they watch the anchor cable lift from the river and spring tight with tension, scattering cascades of watery jewels into the morning air. Slowly the Sirena di Venezia begins to swing away from Galley Quay.
‘She’s a fortunate woman, Mercy Havington,’ Nicholas muses.
Without consciously thinking, Bianca slips her arm through his. ‘She has a long and uncomfortable journey ahead of her. She’s given up her home and her faith, and she has a grandson with the falling sickness to look after in a foreign land.’
‘Yes, that’s all true,’ says Nicholas, his eyes holding Bianca’s gaze. The crack of unfurling sails reaches them from out on the river. ‘But she’s also been given a second chance at happiness. More to the point, she’s had the courage to seize it.’
‘Has the clever physician learned something he didn’t know, Dr Shelby?’ Bianca says with an impertinent smile.
‘That’s the wonderful thing about healing physic,’ he replies. ‘If you’re brave enough to look, you can discover new cures in the most unlikely places.’
Nicholas does not return to Poynes Alley. Bianca will not hear of it. He spends the next two days recovering under her care – and considering carefully the letter that had arrived barely an hour after they’d left Galley Quay together. It is from the College of Physicians. The Censors have reached a verdict.
He almost doesn’t go. Only Bianca’s gentle urging, and a sense of duty to a father who has invested so heavily in him, persuades Nicholas.
The fish stalls are closing when he arrives at the guildhall on Knightrider Street a little before midday. The fish has all been sold, the bloody boards washed down, the customers gone home. Men in leather aprons and women in smocks are clearing up, but the smell of eel, herring, pike and oyster lingers, trapped by the closeness of the buildings. The windows of the guildhall are closed, he notes. The mood inside the College will not be forgiving.
‘God give you good day, Mr Shelby,’ says Arnold Beston from behind his freshly starched ruff when Nicholas is ushered into the same upstairs chamber. Censor Frowicke sits on one side of him, Censor Prouty on the other. Faces like slate. And Mister, Nicholas notes. Not Doctor.