Tyballis giggled. ‘That’s an awful lot of do and don’t. Too many for my very small and obviously deficient faculties to digest. But I shall try my best.’
Once beyond the bridge’s southern gate and into the tavern-lined streets of Southwark, Andrew Cobham increased his pace. The sky, already sullen with unshed rain, now glowered, barely seen between tall buildings. Each dark and slanted house frontage supported its neighbours, shedding old plaster and broken beams. The tiny windows held no glass and although some were paned in polished horn, most were only closed with oiled parchment. The dank shadows enclosed the stink of destitution and the central gutters were open sewers. Now Tyballis kept her head down.
Andrew turned abruptly and marched over the beaten earth and occasional cobbles of a tavern’s stable courtyard. He waved the scurrying ostler aside and crossed to the far entrance, leading into an even darker corridor with narrow steps at the far end. He climbed the steps and at the top he turned right, facing another door, this time closed. He kicked it open and marched in. Tyballis followed close.
‘Mister Colyngbourne,’ Andrew Cobham announced. ‘You have never previously enjoyed the pleasure of my company. You are about to get to know me rather better.’
In the middle of the chamber a stocky man sat at a small table, spooning pottage. He looked up, spluttering broth. ‘What the –’ Seeing the style of his unwanted visitors, he jumped up and wiped his mouth. ‘My apologies, my lord. My lady.’ He bowed, stiff-kneed and nervous. ‘But, with further apologies to the lady, may I point out that I am armed, sir, and my sword is at hand.’
‘I’ve not come to kill you,’ Andrew said pleasantly. ‘At least, not yet.’ He stepped forwards and took hold of the stool on which the man had been sitting. He swung it from the table and set it for Tyballis, nodding with a slight bow. ‘Sit, my dear. We will not stay long. Mister Colyngbourne, I present my wife, Lady Feayton.’
‘I’m honoured, your ladyship.’ The man looked quite otherwise. ‘But I must request an explanation, sir. I know nothing of your title or your mission.’
Andrew remained standing, looking down at the shivering man clutching the edge of the table. ‘Neither my title nor my identity are any of your business,’ he said, ‘but my – mission – is of a far more serious nature. I am, let us say, personally acquainted with his lordship, Geoffrey Marrott, and also with her grace the queen’s close relatives; her son the Marquess of Dorset, and his inestimable uncle, the worthy Earl Rivers. I have less personal knowledge of one Henry Tudor, but I know sufficient – once again, let us generalise – to be interested in what interests him.’
William Colyngbourne shook his head. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord. You refer to four different noblemen of some considerable importance. I am not – to use your word – acquainted with these mighty lords. On the contrary, sir, I am, as you see, without means. I cannot at all understand why you are here.’
‘Perhaps I should point out,’ said Andrew Cobham very softly, ‘that already you betray yourself. You refer to four noblemen. Yet I have spoken of only three – since Henry Tudor lives in exile, and his previous title is no longer recognised by the king. It is interesting that you refer to him otherwise.’
Tyballis sat straight and unmoving. Her bodice was tighter than she was used to, the small room was cold, she had walked a long way and she was a little frightened. She was also intrigued. Much shorter than Andrew but respectably dressed, the other man was clearly more nervous than she was. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘a slip of the tongue. I know nothing of such grand persons. Knowing nothing, I do not remember, or perhaps never knew, the many titles of the realm, nor of attaintings and politics since such matters hardly concern me. I am a humble man, my lord.’
‘Humility,’ said Andrew quietly, ‘is the prerequisite of honest men. That does not describe you. Being ostensibly in service to the Duchess of York, your opposing affiliations seem particularly suspect. I know a good deal of your business, and am here to warn you that you are watched.’
William Colyngbourne once again shook his head. ‘I am a tailor by trade, sir. Only that. Clearly you are mistaking me for another man entirely.’
‘I doubt that, Mister Colyngbourne, I doubt it very much.’ Andrew smiled. His hands were now on the back of the chair where Tyballis sat, and he was leaning over her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. ‘Let me make myself a little clearer, Mister Colyngbourne. I know the tentative aims and present plans of one Lord Marrott. Believe me, I know very well. And you have been seen – I have witnesses – frequently entering his court chambers. Strange, is it not, for such an honest, humble and common man? Even stranger, when I know full well that you carry messages from Henry Tudor in Brittany, and frequently take ship over the Narrow Sea. Yet Tudor and the Woodvilles are not natural allies. The servant of one should not by rights be the friend of the other, and the servant of her grace, the Duchess of York, should have no dealings with either.’
‘My lord –’
Drew smiled a little wider. ‘Remember that my lady wife is present, my good man, and she is witness to this conversation. Remember also that in killing me, you would also have to kill her. Both Lord and Lady Feayton done to death might seem a little – hard to hide, perhaps? And what, may I ask, will you explain to our retinue, which waits for us outside? Now, let us return to the conversation in hand.’ Both men stood straighter now and neither smiled. Andrew continued, choosing his words with care. ‘It does not take the cunning of a lawyer to realise that your master Henry Tudor is attempting, while keeping his own involvement entirely secret, to encourage Lord Marrott, close friend of the Woodville lords, in a certain course of action. I know exactly what that course of action is, my friend. Perhaps those grand lords, being close to his highness, know nothing of your aims. Perhaps they know, and do not approve. But remember, you are watched. You see, a recent shipment of certain noxious powders smuggled in from Venice was brought into London just a sennight gone. It was carried by a Flanders carvel into London’s docks, having been imported by an Italian gentleman known to me. This interesting shipment of the powder known as arsenic never passed through English customs and its importation was accompanied by monies paid surreptitiously. It was secretly collected by one Thomas Yate, and then delivered personally to a Mister Perryvall. This final transaction was witnessed by a certain young female known to me. I spoke to Mister Perryvall some days ago, and produced my witness. Since it is perfectly clear that Perryvall is neither medic nor apothecary, such a quantity of a substance known to be highly poisonous if administered other than by a doctor, arouses suspicion and in particular when illegally imported into the country. Under the circumstances, he had no choice but to confess. I believe he has now left London for the north. He left in rather a hurry, but before he went he gave me your name, Mister Colyngbourne. Mister Perryvall did not, he claimed, know the eventual purpose of the smuggled arsenic. But I do. An interesting quandary, don’t you think?’