Tyballis gazed in horror at her new friend. ‘How can you talk like that,’ she demanded, ‘when you know it’s what you’ll be facing yourself?’
Casper grinned. ‘I done what they says I done, sure enough, so it ain’t worth repining. I’ve had a good life as it happens, and did pretty much as I wanted. My time is up, simple as that. Comes to us all one day.’
‘But not by – hanging.’
‘One way may be as good as any other when it comes to it,’ said Casper, leaning back comfortably against the wall and taking a long breath to prepare for his speech. ‘Least I never caught the pestilence,’ he continued. ‘They say that’s a nasty way to go. Never liked the sound of them big black bulges under the arms, and I seen folks go mad with the pain. And your man Borin, he saved me from a bit of bother when that bugger had his knife in my bollocks. Having your cods cut off would be a right shame, I reckon, and spoil a man’s hope for a few good turns before the end. I’ll not be expecting you to oblige with that, mistress, being the wife of a man I respect, but there’s a few others fair willing in here, though nowhere as pretty. But I still got my capabilities, and that’s a blessing and thanks to your Borin.’ He sighed before beginning again. ‘Then there’s the yellow pox, too, with all them mucky pustules. Now, that’s no way for a decent man to pass over, though once you got it then it’s better to go than stay. You’re mucked up both ways.’
‘Please,’ begged Tyballis, ‘you’re not going to list every single vile manner of meeting a violent death, are you? Don’t tell me anymore. I can’t bear it.’
Casper seemed a little disappointed. ‘As you say, mistress, as you say. I’ll have a nice little snooze, then, till they brings the bread round for dinner.’ He tipped his head back against the wall, grunted once and was asleep.
Tyballis gazed at him with envy. She had drunk very little of the revolting beer delivered that morning, and now she was thirsty. She did not dare cry again, afraid Casper would hear her, wake and take pity, and put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. So, she stifled the tears, and the thirst, and the bleak misery welling up in her chest. She could not stifle the fear. It filled her stomach like the stones of the pressing. She felt sticky and hot. Despite the open window, the squash of humanity leeched the air and the room stank of sweat, rat urine, mouse droppings and old vomit.
She thought of Felicia, who had doubtless waited all afternoon and most of the evening for her to return with mountains of shopping. She thought of Luke, quietly scribing by the attic window, not knowing what had happened to her. She thought of Andrew Cobham galloping past the gaol, the fine feathers of his hat catching the breeze and his huge fur-trimmed sleeves flying as the horse gained speed. For some moments she remembered him as she had last seen him: the golden collar of York dazzling across his doublet, and his open surcoat turned back to show the persimmon silk lining, brilliant in the sun. His boots were polished, his spurs were silver, and he had cut his hair, neat and clean to just below his ears.
Tyballis shivered as her own sweat cooled and her thoughts turned to ice. Where she had dared to dream of strong arms around her; holding her and protecting her, now she imagined the stretching years of loneliness which, even if free, would be the best she might expect.
She opened her eyes slowly when the smell of burning oil invaded and the flare of sudden light turned the inside of her eyelids orange. She blinked, seeing a huge shadowed figure loom above her, his grip to the lantern, face lost behind the brilliance, and the sweep of his grand clothes disguising his shape.
‘This nightmare is now over, little one,’ said a soft voice. ‘Come with me, and I will take you home.’
Chapter Seventeen
Andrew Cobham took her up before him on his horse, and he rode with her along the bustling London rise of the Cornhill. Tyballis had never before sat on a horse, but she felt only the strength of the arms around her and the silky sheen of velvet firm at her back. She was sheltered from the wind and the rain and her misery had faded into sunbeams.
They rode slowly, avoiding the Cornhill stocks and the tired body slumped there amongst the debris. Tyballis did not see him, or the shoppers she passed, their faces upturned to the highness of the man and the simple stained clothes of the girl. Nor did she glimpse the shining windows of the grand houses to either side, glimmering through the drizzle. She gazed only at Andrew’s gloved hands clasping the reins before her, and the sweeping fur cuffs of his surcoat. The horse quickened pace up Bishopsgate. Now to their right, four storeys high and set well back from the smells and noise, Crosby’s slanted its shadows across their path. Arched high over Crosby’s chimneys and half-lost in the thickening cloud, a partial rainbow caught the sun into shimmering stripes of unexpected pastel beauty. Here beneath the hesitant colours, before reaching the green spread of St Helen’s Priory and between Crosby’s Place and the street, a frontage of several smaller buildings faced the public gaze. Andrew abruptly reined in and turned up a narrow lane towards the courtyard that held the stables and the back doorways of the houses.
Andrew dismounted. He held up his arms and took Tyballis down from the saddle. She mumbled, ‘I can walk, really, I can,’ but he took no notice, and as the ostler led away the steaming hunter, strode with her to an open back door at the far end of the courtyard.
It was dark inside but the staircase was wide, the balustrade smooth and the spindles of the banister carved. Andrew carried her easily, taking her quickly upstairs. He kicked open the door beyond, and the world suddenly came alive.
Two windows were smeared by raindrops but a faint tinge of pink rainbow reflected in every rosy drop. The hearth, deep and wide, was huge with fire and the heat sweltered into every corner and crackled up the chimney. It was a small room but richly comfortable with polished furniture, cushions and rugs. A padded settle stood to one side of the fireplace and here Andrew bent and sat her carefully, so she faced the flames and began to steam like washed sheets drying on a hedge in the sun. He stood, one foot to the grate and his elbow to the stone lintel, and looked down thoughtfully at her. ‘Do you wish to talk?’ he said softly. ‘If not, there is a bedchamber, the mattress is warmed, and you can sleep. I have ordered dinner to be served within the hour, since I imagine you’re hungry. And I’ve no need to go out, unless you prefer to be alone.’
‘You make me feel like an invalid.’ She gazed up at him. ‘I’m not hurt. And I don’t want to be alone. Not at all.’
He smiled faintly. ‘I’m pleased to hear it, child, since it is perfectly objectionable outside and I have a singular dislike of the cold.’
A small burning log tumbled from its place and Andrew kicked it back. She wanted his caring embrace and she wanted his breath against her cheek, but instead she simply smiled too, keeping a hopeful but tenuous grip on her pride. ‘I’d noticed.’
‘Does my scrutiny make you uncomfortable?’ He had been watching Tyballis with such care, she had blushed. ‘Being well accustomed to this city’s gaols, I risk holding them in little account. I am therefore attempting, though sadly unpractised, to understand how shocking it must have seemed to you.’ He was still watching her intently. ‘Will you trust me sufficiently,’ he continued, ‘to admit if you have been injured? I have the means to help a little – whatever the injury.’
‘I wouldn’t ever have guessed,’ Tyballis sat up, surprised, ‘that you’d spent time in prison.’