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‘Names, man,’ Andrew demanded.

‘There’s a Mister Yate and a Mister Perryvall, though I heard tell as how Perryvall were drowned some months back. Then the mighty Baron Throckmorton – and a Lord Feayton what’s been a few times. I can’t remember no more, sir.’

But Andrew had already left, and was marching through the long shadows back to the stolen wherry he had left tethered at the Southwark steps. It was already a fine Thursday morning when he arrived at the London residence of the Baron of Throckmorton, and hammered on the front door.

It took some time for the steward to answer the summons, and when he did he appeared to be in a state of dishevelled confusion as he informed Mister Cobham that the baron was not at home. ‘Where has he gone and when will he return?’ Andrew demanded.

After obtaining the information he needed, he left abruptly and strode towards Gilt Spur Street to Pie Corner. It was now well past midday, but the thought of a missed dinner did not enter Andrew Cobham’s head.

At Cobham Hall in the Portsoken Ward, Ralph finally sank down beside the faithfully permanent fire, and thrust the young spit-boy Harry into Elizabeth Ingwood’s wary embrace. ‘What,’ demanded Elizabeth, ‘am I supposed to do with this?’

Harry wriggled free. ‘Don’t trouble yerself, lady. I don’t need nuffing.’

‘He needs a good dinner and a good wash, little bugger,’ said Ralph. ‘And a smile, since the lad’s done his duty by Mister Cobham and talked his guts out. But now there’s another task he must do. There’s a house right over at St Giles. I’ll escort both of you there and explain what’s afoot in more detail, but it’s you have to take the brat inside, Elizabeth. I’m known there now, so can’t go in. Harry’ll say you’re his sister, bringing him back to work. There’ll be just a bunch of servants inside, like as not, though with a risk of someone more important poking around. But there’s a hiding place under the floorboards upstairs. That’s what the lad’s going to show you. And the papers inside that hiding place are valuable as gold. Mister Cobham needs them. Grab the lot and stuff them down your shift. I’ll be waiting in the fields outside and will take you both straight to the annexe at Crosby’s. Mister Cobham will meet us all there this evening.’

Chapter Seventy

Tyballis heard the baron’s arrival downstairs with the slam of the door, shouts of insult and demand, and finally peace as the perfumes of roast beef spiralled up to her bedchamber. The meat smelled more burned than succulent, but Tyballis had not eaten that day and only cabbage gruel the day before. She would have welcomed any food, burned or otherwise. Sometime later the baron’s footsteps resounded on the stairs. The door was unlocked and Throckmorton marched in. He kicked the door shut behind him though did not bother to lock it again. There were stains of wine and meat juices on his shirt and half open doublet, his mouth was greasy and his eyes shifted with a lack of focus that suggested advanced intoxication. Tyballis scrambled back as far as the headboard permitted. She edged her fingers beneath the bolster, feeling for the hidden candlestick.

‘Well?’ Throckmorton said, voice slurred. ‘Has a few days without food taught you anything? Are you ready for the rest of your punishment?’

One thing that Tyballis had learned from her husband was that men were more dangerous drunk than sober. She said quietly, ‘Punishment for what, my lord? I don’t even know you, and never crossed you. I offered to help Lord Marrott and collect information for him. Why should I be punished?’

The baron looked momentarily confused. Then he brightened, remembering. ‘You were involved in my cousin’s death. Your house it was, you murdering trollop. What do you say to that?’

‘I was not living there at the time, my lord.’ She shook her head. ‘The previous baron was visiting my late husband, who often worked for him. They were both killed by an unknown hand. The constable investigated and someone in the Lord Marrott’s employ was suspected. Captain Hetchcomb would be my guess.’

‘Marrott’s my – friend,’ spat the baron. His breath smelled and there was chewed meat between his teeth. ‘It’s Marrott told me to take you away. Told me to do what I like with you. She’s a liar, he told me. Pretends she’ll spy for us against Feayton. But more likely she’ll spy for Feayton against us. And she knows too much now. Finish her off. So, your troublemaking ends here.’

‘F-Feayton will find out what you’ve done,’ Tyballis stuttered. Her fingers closed around the stem of the hidden candlestick behind her. ‘You’ll be arrested. Executed. Marrott, too.’

Throckmorton shook his head. His legs straddled hers, and his hair flicked against her face and stung her eyes. ‘Lord Marrott’s on the high seas as we speak, and I’m a lord now. Lords can do what they like. They get away with murder all the time. Lock up their wives, rape the milkmaids, beat their servants. Common practice, it is, they all say so. And now, I’m a lord too. So, please me and I might let you live a few days. Come on, whore, do your job. You know how to please a man.’

Tyballis tightened her grip on the candlestick. ‘If you kill me you’ll have to face the law – the Protector.’

‘Gloucester? He’s finished. He’ll be dead before the week’s out. Hastings, Morton – they know how to deal with the likes of him. The little king’s ours, and will be back with his mother tomorrow, doing what the queen tells him – issuing orders, arrests, executions. Feayton’s the fool. Dorset and Hastings will rule the land in the king’s name and my friend Marrott will be welcomed back.’ As he spoke, he leaned over her, grabbing at her neck. She felt his nails scratch along her flesh.

‘You!’ Tyballis yelled. ‘You’re worse than your filthy cousin.’ But other words were floating at the back of her mind. Insistent reminders. Andrew’s voice in her head. Don’t wait for anything, don’t stop to think, don’t talk or plead. Don’t give a man time to prepare – to retaliate – or strike. Attack before he sees what you’re doing. And make it hard. Strike to kill. The first blow must finish him. Let him back at you and you may not have the strength to defend yourself. She struck.

Drunk and indecisive, unsure whether hungry for blood or rape, the baron was head down and aiming for the opening of her gown and the visible rise of her breasts. The candlestick was solid oak, large, ornate and heavy. Using all the strength she had, she smashed it over his head, her hand tingling and the vibration shuddering through her wrist. The second blow must be immediate, her memory’s echoes reminded her. You can never be sure the first attack has succeeded, so assume the worst. Do not give him time to recover. Strike again, hard and fast. She brought up both knees, slamming straight up into his groin as she brought the candlestick down a second time on the back of his skull. His full weight slumped, crushing Tyballis beneath him. Grasping the baron’s hair, she flung him off her, then stared at her hands, warm with blood. Wriggling free, she clambered from the bed but looked back, wondering if she had killed him. The blood still spread where he lay on his back, head lolling, mouth open. She grabbed the candlestick once more, quietly opened the unlocked door and began to tiptoe downstairs.

The woman was standing, hands on her hips, glaring up through the shadows. She screeched, ‘What?’ and reached out, hands clawing. Tyballis tried to duck and fell backwards onto the stairs, her heels missing the tread and scrabbling for the next step. As she tumbled, the woman was already on top of her. Tyballis screamed, ‘Wait!’ and swung the candlestick. It caught the woman’s forehead, glancing off. Mary Notgrin blinked and shook her head as though irritated by a wasp. She fisted one hand. Tyballis shrank back as the fist smashed into her face, the shock and pain intense. She wondered if her nose had been broken, which made her think of Andrew. Again she wielded the candlestick. The woman grabbed her wrist, bent it backwards, snatched her weapon from her and with a snarl, flung Tyballis down and sat on top of her. Her haunches squelched down, her pelvis grinding, Mary grunted, ‘There’s blood on you, hussy, and your tits is all hanging out. So, what you done to my little Esmund, then? How’s you got away?’