‘Ignorant wench,’ Davey said, gulping crumbs. ‘I cannot imagine why you dream of Ludlow, since it’s a windy wet place with more crags than valleys, and overlooks the damned Welsh hordes who never cut their hair and don’t know how to say their prayers. They eat babies for breakfast in Wales, you know, and light their fires with dragons’ breath.’
‘It sounds even worse than Scotland,’ agreed Tyballis, awed. ‘So why would anyone want to go there?’
Davey mopped up the egg yolk with his crusts. ‘For the king’s boy, idiot girl, who was made Prince of Wales. Our blessed monarch’s eldest son lives there and his household inhabit the castle, though I pity them. The draughts must whistle under every door and blow out every candle.’
‘So the king does live there sometimes?’
‘Certainly not. He has more sense. Our glorious King Edward lives at Westminster with the occasional hop to Windsor and back when he’s bored staring at the same old thrones and golden chalices and wants a change. It’s his son, as I told you, being the next little Edward, who is stuck there in the west. I guess a Woodville or two looks after the brat since the queen’s brother is the prince’s tutor, and you can find a Woodville lurking wherever there’s money and power to be had.’ He regarded Tyballis with curiosity. ‘Now, just why should you need to know all this, miss? Not planning on saddling your fine palfrey and leaving us, are you?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Tyballis sniffed. ‘If I ever had a palfrey, which I never did, I’d have sold it by now. I’ve never even sat on a horse, as I’m sure you know. It was just – well – it was Luke who said he was thinking of going to Ludlow. Perhaps he wants to be a priest after all, and convert those Welsh heathens you were talking about. I was interested.’ She paused, wondering how many lies she might get away with. ‘So,’ she added, collecting the two wooden trenchers for washing, ‘who exactly is this little prince’s tutor?’
‘Earl Rivers, the queen’s brother,’ Davey told her, screwing up his very fine nose. ‘Who is said to be a nobleman of great chivalry and book learning, a master of the joust and a mighty statesman of culture and skill. He is also well known as a paragon of virtue and of strict religious adherence. And you will certainly never meet him in your life, my dear.’
‘Is he,’ wondered Tyballis, choosing her words with continued care, ‘the king’s brother?’
‘Are you deaf?’ demanded Davey. ‘Earl Rivers is a member of the Woodville family, the queen’s brother. The king’s only remaining brother is Richard of Gloucester, the hero of the recent Scottish wars, another paragon of courage and virtue – indeed, there are far too many of them – and someone else you will most certainly never meet. But these are strange questions. I’m beginning to suspect you of ulterior motives, Mistress Blessop.’
‘Nonsense.’ Tyballis hoisted up the larger platter from the table. ‘Now I’m going to take the rest of the food up to the Spiers. I shall no doubt see you later, though I suppose now you won’t bother to visit until you’re hungry again.’
The weather worsened as a gale blew in from the east. By December the sixth, the Christmas season officially began, though only one person at the ragtaggle Portsoken palace had the means to celebrate St. Nicholas’ Day and she was keeping her money secret and safe. A flurry of seasonal black storms followed the gale, a slime green sky persistently threatened snow, and lightning tweaked the clouds into sudden displays of white firecrackers. By mid-December, Andrew Cobham had still not returned from Wales and Tyballis wondered many things.
Without the distraction of their landlord’s presence and without the swelling ferment of his constant fires, the chilly household rattled and rummaged its best, more whine than whim and more desperation than daring. Sometimes, early and unseen, Tyballis hurried out to the markets and bought what produce she thought might feed the most without causing suspicion, then ate what she wanted herself and took the rest to the Spiers. The children thrived. They bounced down the stairs on their damp padded bottoms, climbed the balustrade and tumbled howling, slid the polished tiles in the hitherto forbidden kitchens, and crawled the boards before getting splinters in their knees and collapsing in wails of contrition. One day Tyballis discovered Gyles in her chamber attempting to pick the lock of her coffer. Since he was only two years old, she thought him unnecessarily precocious, stifled his yells with her hand as he tried to bite her finger, tucked him up under her arm and called for Ellen. Calling for Felicia would only have caused offence for any hinted criticism of her offspring, while calling for Jon would have brought no answer whatsoever. Ellen, however, always came running. Davey Lyttle also made sure he was not forgotten, while Ralph and Nat were a bustling breeze in and out. Tenant unity was gradually strengthening but she saw Elizabeth rarely and she saw widower Switt only when passing on the stairs. When not wishing to be alone, she invariably sought the company of the Spiers, but it was Davey who sought hers. The next time Luke Parris found her, she was in the garden, on her knees and almost under a bush, and was not, in her own opinion at least, presenting her best side.
From behind her, Luke said suddenly, ‘The hens are no longer laying, Mistress Blessop. In deep winter they take to the sheds and we find barely an egg for all their squawking. Andrew usually shuts them in, for there’s a danger from wandering foxes.’
Tyballis scrambled to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mister Parris. In truth I was searching for winter herbs and salads.’ Her basket was already full of nettles and dandelion leaves for soup, a small handful of acorns previously overlooked, some twigs of wild thyme and the bulbous root of an onion.
‘I learned about the distillation of medicinal herbs in the monastery,’ nodded Luke. ‘The monks prized valerian. But I learned about the herbs that kill as well, and you, mistress, were under a thorn apple bush, which is far better avoided.’
‘So you were a monk?’ said Tyballis, intrigued. ‘I thought that was just one of Davey’s silly stories.’
‘I was never ordained. A novice only, and that was against my will.’ He frowned. ‘I left. Mister Cobham found me.’
‘Drew has a habit of finding people in need,’ smiled Tyballis. ‘But now I can’t find him. Has he still not come back from the Welsh Marches?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Luke said. ‘Though he’s not a man who usually chooses to discuss his business with others. His message to you was unique, mistress. I’ve never known him to tell anyone else here where he’s going, or why, and only rarely discusses small matters with myself.’
Walking back together to the house, Luke carried the basket. As they took the stairs, Tyballis indicated the hall and its darkened chill. ‘See. No fire! He cannot be back, and it’s almost Christmas.’
Keeping her hoard of gold a secret made buying supplies difficult. There was not a soul in the house who would not leap to the challenge of the intrigue if they suspected her of hidden wealth, but Tyballis bought and cooked sparingly, adding grains and roots to make each dish feed more for longer. That she had some money from time to time was obvious, but it seemed, she thought sadly, that a woman’s coin was generally presumed to have come from the solitary source that everyone expected.
And so buying, planning and cooking became the distractions that Tyballis used to escape from her own thoughts. Thinking of him was, after all, another road to hopelessness. What she was beginning to want beyond all else, was what she knew could never happen.