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‘Ay,’ croaked the man. ‘Ay, he’s in the Fleet. Deid and buried, wi’ gaol fever.’

Heneage laughed at this nonsense. ‘Oh, really,’ he remonstrated. ‘If that was true, you’d have told me at once, you’re not mad.’

‘Mr Heneage,’ said the man, breathing carefully. ‘I wouldnae willingly tell ye where yer ain arsehole was, not if yer catamite begged me to.’

Heneage blinked at him. ‘When I’ve finished with Edmund Carey and his interfering brother, I will take you apart, piece by piece.’

The carriage jolted into motion, causing the northerner to whine through his teeth very satisfactorily as he fell helplessly off the bench and in a huddle onto the narrow floor. Heneage left him there, so he could get the benefit of the bone-jolting movement of the coach. Generally anybody but an invalid or a woman would prefer to ride but for some purposes, such as privately transporting prisoners, a carriage was unimproveable.

***

Julie Granville heard the hammering on the prison gate and went to look, along with a crowd of children. When Newton opened the postern a plump man was standing there, four square in fur-trimmed velvet and at his back at least eight hard-faced men at arms.

He stood with his arms folded while Newton bowed and scraped and tried to argue in a wheedling tone of voice about his authority and his position and his properly paid-for office.

One of the men at arms stepped forward and cuffed Newton. ‘Don’t delay Mr Vice Chancellor,’ he said. ‘This is in the name of the Queen.’

Newton cringed and stepped back. The men at arms filed through with the Vice Chancellor in the middle.

Julie picked up her skirts and ran across the courtyard, down the steps to Bolton’s Ward. The gaol servant now sitting there was an odious man she had had dealings with before who leered at her bodice and told her he didn’t want a penny for garnish, but a nice loving kiss. For a moment she couldn’t think what to do, whether she should let him or not, but her guts revolted at the thought. She could hear the sounds of the upper parts of the gaol being searched while the prisoners were harried into groups according to ward in the courtyard. Her children would be frightened without her, but one of her gossips would look after them, she knew. Meanwhile she didn’t have time to argue with a lecherous gaoler.

She went up close to him, putting up her mouth as if yielding, and when he reached for her she kneed him as hard as she could in the balls. He made a pleasing oof noise and reeled against the wall, and she took the keys off his belt, opened the heavy door with it.

Her eyes took a few minutes to adjust to the dimness, but she could see Robin Carey over near his brother, sitting cross-legged, talking quietly to him. He looked up as the door opened, saw her and came instantly to his feet.

‘What is it, mistress?’

‘The Vice Chancellor…Mr Heneage…he’s searching the gaol.’

For a moment Robin looked astonished.

‘But he’s only had Dodd for a couple of hours…’ he said to himself in a voice of bewilderment. Then he stood absolutely still and she had no idea what he was thinking because his face had gone stiff like a mask.

He looked at her considering. ‘Mistress,’ he said, quite conversationally. ‘Will you help me?’

She hesitated. What would happen to her, to her children? Could she, dare she trust him? His family were important and rich, perhaps they might help her? Or perhaps they would simply use her and forget her. She didn’t know.

She saw Edmund was raising his head again, looking at her. His eyes were less vividly blue than his brother’s, more of a sea-grey colour, but the memory of the kindness and laughter in them steadied her.

Her heart was thumping hard. She came in, shut the door behind her and locked it with the key, then came across to him.

‘That won’t hold them very long, I’m afraid. Newton has the master keys,’ she said.

‘Do you have the key for his ankle chain?’

‘Probably.’

They tried a couple, found the right one and unlocked it, revealing a wide bracelet of ulcers on the bony ankle. Robin bit his lip when he saw it, then raised his head and looked around. Some of the other beggars and sick men in the ward were looking up, a couple of them were moving anxiously as far away from the brothers as they could, being tethered.

‘Over there,’ Robin said, pointing at an alcove under one of the high semi-circular barred windows that were at ground level of the courtyard. ‘I’ll carry Edmund, you bring his bedding.’

Edmund was trying to struggle upright, but his brother simply picked him up in his arms and straightened his knees.

‘Oh, shut up, Ned,’ Robin told him. ‘You don’t weigh anything like as much as several of the women I’ve carried into my bed.’

Julie scooped up the straw pallet that had cost her sixpence, trying not to think about its likely population of lice and fleas, took the pillow and the blanket and followed as Robin carried his brother briskly over to the alcove, apologising politely as he stepped over prone bodies and cursing once when he nearly slipped on a turd. Julie put down the pallet and Robin laid Edmund gently down on it, arranged the blanket and pillow and then stood and leaned his arm on the pillar of the arch. There was a querulous tone in Edmund’s voice, though Julie couldn’t quite make out the words.

‘Ned, you’re a prize idiot. Heneage isn’t going to get you and nor are you going to hang for coining. I’m going to hang you myself for causing me so much trouble. Mistress Granville,’ Robin added gently to her. ‘I really think you ought to leave.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she blurted out, cut to the quick that he would dismiss her like that.

‘Mistress, life might get a little tense in here for a while. Those other poor sods can’t escape but you can.’

She sniffed at him, turned her shoulder and went resolutely, holding her breath when necessary, to unlock all the other ankle chains in the room. Some of the beggars were too far gone to move, but those that could instantly crawled or staggered out of the way to the stone benches at the side of room. Robin watched her without further comment. She came back and sat down on the stone floor next to Edmund, spread out her skirts and put her knife in her lap. Then she took Edmund’s hand in her own and stroked it.

‘You know he’s married, mistress,’ she heard Robin’s voice above her. He was looking down, not unkindly.

‘So am I, sir,’ she said.

Whether Edmund’s brother would have been tactless enough to ask the question he must have been wondering about, she never found out. Somebody tried the door, found it locked, hammered a couple of times and then there was a sequence of shouts as others were sent scuttling off to find the gaoler and Mr Vice Chancellor.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ Robin said, mainly to himself, drawing his sword and stepping out a little to block the alcove’s opening with his body. She heard him muttering to himself and thought he might be praying, hoped fervently that the Lord God of Hosts would hear and perhaps send a few angels to help, then smiled at herself for being childish. It was odd she could do it. Her heart was thumping so hard and her hands had gone cold.

The gaoler’s keys scraped and clattered in the lock, it was flung open and two men at arms came in, clubs in their hands. They stopped when they saw Robin standing there, waiting for them, sword bare.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said, and Julie could hear that he was smiling.

The Vice Chancellor pushed past and stood between his two henchmen, his little mouth pursed and pouched with anger.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Carey?’ he demanded. ‘Your brother is guilty of forgery, which is a hanging offence, witchcraft which is a burning offence, and treason which is a…’

‘Hanging, drawing and quartering offence,’ drawled Robin. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘Are you going to hand him over to me in a sensible fashion or are you going to be stupid?’ demanded Heneage.