Chapter Fifteen
In spite of arousing probable suspicion concerning the source of her wealth, Tyballis decided on a Christmas feast. At first, as the one person already aware of the money she had received from Andrew Cobham, it was only Luke with whom Tyballis discussed her plans. Evidently the household had never before celebrated together, but Tyballis remembered when she was little, and her father had been sufficiently affluent to obtain at least some belly of salt pork, onions and spiced suet dumplings each Christmas, and often a good deal more. She now planned something even grander. ‘I shall spend tomorrow at Cheapside,’ she told Luke. ‘It will be the first time in my life I’ve bought so much food all at one time, so I shall enjoy every moment.’
‘You will need help with the baskets.’ Luke said at once.
Tyballis shook her head. ‘You and I? Away for the whole day together? It would arouse the anger and suspicion of every single person in the house. Thank you, but I’ve long practice at coping alone, Mister Parris.’
She then searched out Mistress Spiers, and between them they decided upon the requisite type and number of ingredients to feed the inhabitants of the house. ‘There are nine of us altogether, and the children of course,’ said Felicia. ‘Unless Elizabeth brings her brother, in which case there’ll be ten. But I hope she doesn’t, since I prefer not to speak to the horrid man. Not that I usually speak to her either, but I shall make an exception for Christmas.’
‘You see, I have a little – very little – money saved,’ admitted Tyballis, ‘for precisely such occasions. But please don’t tell anyone or I shall have Davey and Nat sneaking into my chamber and poking under the mattress.’
Felicia smiled with superior sympathy. ‘Your secrets are safe with me, I assure you. Not one of us would dream of condemning your – ingenuity, or your methods, my dear. Especially while you are so delightfully generous with your, let us call them – profits. I should never compare you to that horrid Elizabeth, not for a minute.’
Tyballis hiccupped. ‘It’s not like that, Felicia. But I’m determined we shall all have a wonderful Christmas and eat and eat and eat. I’m going to buy ale, and maybe wine too for making my own hippocras.’
‘I shall accompany you to market,’ Felicia said at once. ‘You will certainly need my advice.’
Imagining the difficulty of hiding her gold florins, Tyballis promptly shook her head. ‘Please don’t take offence,’ she said. ‘But for me this is an adventure, and I should really prefer to savour it alone.’
Two days before Christmas Eve, the city was jostling. The cheaps were busier than they had been for months and all along the Shambles the butchers displayed sheeps’ heads, stuffed intestines, hams, plucked geese, smoked bacon and haunches of pork, far more than was usual at any other time during winter. A thin sleet iced the streets, and from the Poultry up into Cheapside where the stalls narrowed the road to a bare trickle of passageway, the cobbles shone and feet slipped. But the mood remained cheerful and Tyballis clasped her basket, pulled her cape over her head and squeezed between the clamouring crowds. Having decided to steal her landlord’s pullets, she avoided the Poultry, made for the clustered counters from Old Jewry to Honey Lane by the conduit, and began to choose many interesting ingredients for the coming feast.
A troop of jugglers paraded and the spectators were tightly packed. Tyballis used her elbows and squeezed through, wondering if she would spy Davey or Nat nearby, for it seemed an ideal spot for a cut-purse. Keeping a wary hand on her own purse, she headed up towards Ironmonger Lane.
Shops were bright with novelties, painted puppets, tin whistles and wooden hoops, ideal Epiphany gifts. A barrow from the Ordinary was selling hot pastries and a stall keeper was sluicing down the blood where it had collected around his boards. Tyballis was avoiding both blood and water when a group of horsemen thundered by, sending every shopper scrambling to the walls.
The cantering horses splashed up muck and wet debris from the gutters; the leader, glorious in embroidered brocade and more fur than a baited bear, laughed with his companions riding hard at his side. One was an unusually tall man, wide-shouldered and dressed in mahogany velvet with a swirl of coat-tails lined in persimmon silk and trimmed in marten. He sat at ease in the saddle with only one hand to the reins, the other resting on the heavy silver of his belt buckle. His huge sleeves draped almost to the ground, sweeping the horse’s flanks. Both men’s hats sparkled with raindrops, but a greater brilliance shone from the golden collars across their chests, the signature of the royal House of York.
In just a few moments they were gone, disappearing up the Cheapside into Goldsmith’s Row. There were flecks of filth on her nose and cheeks but Tyballis made no attempt to wipe her face. She simply stood in churned mud and stared in silence at the place the horses had been. She had not recognised the elegant gentleman leading the party, but she knew one of his companions very well. How Andrew Cobham had acquired a great bay hunter saddled in fine soft leather and decorated with ribbons and silver buckles, she had no idea. The Portsoken stables housed only chickens and old straw, and Mister Cobham was supposed to be in Wales. She could not assume that the gold collar across his breast was worth any less than the ten florins he had inexplicably given her, and she had no idea where he could have found anything so incredibly precious, nor how he had the courage to openly wear it.
Feeling somehow very small, Tyballis turned away. It had been a shock. She had wanted, so very much, to see him again. Now the thrill died, like cold ashes after the fire. But immediately she found herself facing someone else she knew very well, and had equally not expected to see. Margery Blessop squealed and grabbed.
‘Whore. Where’ve you been hiding? I’ve got you now.’
Tyballis gasped, turned and turned again. The crowd pushed forwards. One stall holder, belligerent but eager, yelled, ‘Stop, thief.’
Arms reached for her. Although five years married to a petty criminal, and now the companion of thieves living in what seemed little more than a den of dishonesty, Tyballis had never in her life expected to be the centre of a hue and cry. She made no attempt to run, though this appeared to disappoint the crowd, which shouted repeatedly for her to stop. Instead she was held firm by both her mother-in-law and the firm officialdom of Assistant Constable Webb.
Robert Webb looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you, Mistress Blessop,’ he said with slow deliberation, ‘but ’tis my duty, not being neither by choice nor pleasure, to arrest you in the name of the law.’
Tyballis gulped. ‘What have I done?’ she whispered.
‘Murder and mayhem,’ nodded the assistant constable. ‘I’m taking you in, Tyballis Blessop, for the wicked slaughter of his lordship, Baron Throckmorton, God rest his soul, though no doubt He won’t, since I’d wager the wretch will wander many a long year lost in Purgatory. Reckon there’ll be few honest citizens saying prayers in his memory. But being a miserable miserly bastard up to his scrawny neck in nasty deeds with a whole mire of sins to repent don’t make nobody worthy of being done in, nor left to bleed out in the gutter while the ravens peck his eyes out. So, along you comes with me, mistress, and we’ll see what the courts make of it.’
Throughout this speech Tyballis stared in confusion. Finally she mumbled, ‘You’ve already got Borin for it. You think it was me, too?’
‘Once you go in,’ Mister Webb nodded, ‘Borin comes out. Not of my doing, but it’s not me as decides the law. So, let’s get it over with and come quiet, which will be the easiest for all of us.’