‘He let me,’ Tyballis spluttered. ‘He sent me off. Go up – go look.’
‘If you hurt my baby,’ Mary threatened, ‘then I’ll finish you, I will. And here was me giving what little food I had, you greedy trollop. I fed you from my own poor pot, I did. And there’s the thanks.’
‘Your precious baron’s a rich man,’ Tyballis wheezed. ‘Why doesn’t he buy you food? Because he’s a mean bastard. He doesn’t deserve loyalty.’
‘You speak ill o’ my baby,’ Mary warned, ‘and I’ll rip your lying tongue out your throat.’
Tyballis sank back. Mary’s breath smelled of cow dung, the sweat beneath her armpits was rancid stale and her huge weight made Tyballis dizzy. She closed her eyes, feeling faint as she whispered, ‘Your Esmund needs you. He wants you – upstairs. He’s all right, but he’s – bleeding. Only a nose-bleed. But he needs his dearest nurse.’
Mary sat in silence, considering this information with some care. No sound came from upstairs. The dust beams hung motionless in the day’s warmth, waiting for developments. Eventually Mary began to move, upending first from the buttocks to the knees, and then slowly upright. The dust swirled again. Remaining flat, Tyballis lay squashed and gasping. Mary looked down on her with a snort. Her grubby hems brushed over Tyballis’s face as the woman stalked to the stairs and began to thump upwards.
Tyballis rolled over and crawled to the door. Standing in the corner, bright in its tasselled scabbard, Throckmorton’s sword leaned against the wall where he had unbuckled and left it. Tyballis looked from the door to the sword, and back again. She tested the door handle. The door opened. Snatching up the sword, she hurtled outside, and ran. She was halfway up the road when she remembered telling Andrew, ‘A woman can’t wear a sword, can she? How ludicrous. How ridiculously conspicuous.’ Now she refastened her belt around it, buckled it tight though fumble fingered, and looked around for a dark place to rest, catch her breath and readjust her clothing. Gilt Spur Street was not so far from the dangers of London, and if seen so dishevelled by some ruffian lounging nearby, she risked rape and the same fate she had just escaped. She also risked arrest for she was covered in blood, and the blood was not her own, nor did she have a cloak to disguise it. She could only hide.
A tiny alley ran off to the right and Tyballis hurried into its darkness. She huddled there, calming her breathing and clearing her head. She could smell Throckmorton’s blood on her, and Mary Notgrin’s sweat smeared over her skirts. Then she leaned over and vomited bile. Muck splashed on her shoes, its stench as nauseating as the others. Then staggering on a little, she found her legs would no longer obey her, so she sank to the damp ground where shadows striped the mud and leaned back against the wall behind her. Her breath sounded shallow in her own ears. At least she wasn’t hungry, for the thought of food made her belly churn. Other thoughts disgusted her even more. She hoped she had killed Throckmorton, but she also hoped she had not. Killing a man – even such a man – was a black weight, settling like a brick in her stomach. She remembered his head hanging loose on its scrawny neck, then soaking the sheets in slime. Tyballis started to cry.
Just a short distance south, Andrew strode briskly up Gilt Spur Street and rounded the bend into Pie Corner. He marched directly to the tiny house at the end and, without knocking, immediately opened the door and entered the darkness within. The house was unlit. Noise of considerable disturbance echoed from upstairs, sounds of sobbing, choking and swearing. He took the steps several at a stride and entered the only upper chamber.
It was some time later when he left, and at once began to search every cranny and every inch of the surrounding area.
Now cold, Tyballis had curled within the deepest shadows, her back to the open alleyway, warming her body with her arms. She heard footsteps once, and shivered, cringing closer into her hiding place, her fingers hovering over the hilt of the sword at her hip. But the footsteps passed her by, and eventually she slept a little, although her dreams soon turned to demons. She woke to pain. The blood on her clothes had dried, but the stains were thick and hard. Entering London, even if it was not yet curfew, would expose her to the many folk leaving and entering. Past curfew, and the gates would be locked. Should she find her way into the city, and even in the dark, she did not think she could make it all the way to Crosby’s annexe without being stopped either by the law or by some new assailant. There was a more obvious path, where she was less likely to be seen and could rest often along the way. But it would take all night and she was not sure of the right roads. It meant avoiding London, and following the shadow of the wall across to the north of Portsoken. Then she would more easily recognise the streets and find her way home. She expected no one living there anymore except perhaps Luke, and he would be incapable of looking after her but she could look after herself until one day Andrew would surely come. Even without knowing what had happened to her, or of the house in Gilt Spur Street, nor even of Throckmorton’s involvement, he would surely search for her when he had time, and eventually return to the Portsoken Ward and Cobham Hall.
Just minutes before curfew, Andrew re-entered London and briskly crossed the city’s breadth towards Bishopsgate, where Ralph, Elizabeth and the child Harry waited for him at the Crosby annexe. Casper had ensured a large fire, but it was a warm evening and the previous day’s rain puddles had all dried. The Crosby servants had been instructed to retire early and it was Casper who let his master in.
They sat around the blazing hearth, Harry cross-legged on the floor. Ralph and Elizabeth, greatly impressed by their surroundings, squeezed together on the settle. Andrew stood, one elbow to the great wooden slab supporting the fireplace. He read quickly through the papers they had brought from the house in St Giles. He looked up and nodded. ‘This is sufficient to cost Hastings his head,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall take these documents to the duke immediately. He will see Hastings at the meeting tomorrow, so he must have these first. But Tyballis is still out there somewhere. I’d hoped she’d come directly here after escaping Throckmorton. She might still arrive tonight if she got through the gates before curfew, though I doubt it. It’s too late now. But I won’t leave her out there alone in the cold. After speaking to the duke, unless she’s arrived back here in the meantime, then I’m off again. If I’ve not returned by morning, Casper, you stay here with the boy. Gloucester may ask to question him again before the council meeting. Ralph, Elizabeth – you go back to Portsoken. She might go there if I don’t find her first.’
Harry sniffed and chewed his thumbnail. He had been served with a sumptuous supper and was now sleepy. Casper looked at him with vague dislike. ‘Me? Looking after this cruddy little brat? You reckons me for a babysitter, then?’
‘And should Tyballis arrive here while I’m gone,’ continued Andrew without any indication of sympathy, ‘you will upend one of the pageboys from his pallet and send him immediately to Portsoken to inform me. You’ll then ensure Tyballis is given whatever she requires, be it food, bath, rest or a physician. While lodging here, I’m authorised to call on Gloucester’s personal physician at any time should I think it necessary. You will do so in my name if needed.’