Rob nodded with sympathy. “On the run too, he was, my old man.”
“This discussion of criminal brotherhood, fascinating though it is,” Nicholas murmured, “is of no immediate importance. My recovery, if that is what it is, echoes what happened when I was a child, and that interests me more. So what saved me then, and what saves me now? And you, David? And this other wretch? And beyond even that, what happens now? Am I safe to meet with others yet? Do I carry sickness in my clothes?”
“I’ll burn your clothes if you wish, my lord.”
“These are foul now, and certainly should be burned. I have others in the saddle bags – but should they all be destroyed? And what of Adrian, and Sysabel?” Nicholas sat forward again, blinking in the increasing daylight. “I left them in Nottingham. I thought to keep them safe from me, and me from them, since any one of us could have caught the thing. It spreads like smoke through the air, they say, so is all of Nottingham infected?”
“Shut away here, my lord, and speaking to no one, we cannot know.”
“They will know at court,” Nicholas said. “After tomorrow, unless I relapse, I shall go to see my father, and find out. And at court there are others I need to see, and matters to decide. I cannot risk asking to see his highness at this point, and in any case I doubt he’s at Westminster. But I may approach Kendall or Brampton. Then, once I’m strong enough, we’re off to Wrotham under Wychwood.”
Rob frowned. “Ain’t never heard of no place like that.”
“Gloucestershire,” said Nicholas, “and my wife.”
“Which reminds me, talking of wives,” nodded Rob, “you knows, I suppose, of the queen?”
The court was deep in mourning. Where there had always been music, now there was silence, the echoes of footsteps or the gentle murmur of reverential sympathy. Where there had been dancing and laughter, the pace was now careful and sedate. Where there had been colour now there was shadow, and where there had been hope, now there was none.
The Earl of Chatwyn regarded his son with vague distrust, and said, “I cannot say you’re that welcome, tell the truth, my boy. This whole place has been as dark and dismal as the inside of my boot, and drunken feasts all cancelled this ten days and more. The king, poor soul, is as wretched as I’ve seen him. They got on well, you know, him and his consort. He misses her. Rides out with his falconer most days, I hear, to get the wind in his eyes and his mind on other things. When there’s no royal duties, he spends his time in silence. And it’s dark blue, black or morado we’re wearing as you should know, boy.” He eyed his son’s rich green velvets. “That cote could be taken for an insult – and what’s more – it needs a brush and a swab. You’re not looking your best and if you must come here uninvited, at least I expect you to do me credit.”
Nicholas had been standing politely in his father’s presence, but now sank heavily to the chair beside him. “You’ve finished complaining, I hope?” he muttered. “My apologies for the clothes – it was the best I could do. As for everything else, I feel myself lucky to be alive. You came close to running out of heirs altogether.”
The earl leaned back, tenting his fingers over the large black damask swell of his belly. “Been fighting again, my boy? Or got pissed and fallen off the battlements? And where the devil’s that silly little wife of yours? Not flung her in the moat already, I hope?”
“I’ve decided to like her after all. She’s growing on me. But there have been other complications.” Nicholas briefly informed his father of recent events. He offered no details. “Since Chatwyn Castle was a seething hulk of soot and rank discomfort, I decided to visit Adrian. Unfortunately the pestilence hit Nottingham some two or three days before I did. His household was dying under his nose, though the fool didn’t know it. I caught the damn disease. I sent Emma to her father’s and came south to die alone. Not alone exactly since Witton was with me as usual, but I made sure no one else could catch the foul thing from me. I was sick, but not badly. Witton saw me through it and caught nothing himself. I seem to have the luck of the devil, since this is the second time. Now I need to know what’s going on in the city, and I’m planning a change in direction for myself. So I came to you.”
The earl narrowed his eyes, pushing instinctively back in his chair. “The luck of the devil? Perhaps. But also the devil’s intentions, it seems. You will leave this place now, Nicholas, and take whatever vile humours you carry with you. Do you mean to come here – of all places – and to me of all people – and risk bringing the pestilence with you?”
“I carry nothing.” Nicholas remained where he was. “It’s five days since I’ve felt as fine as a summer’s day. Whatever spreads this thing has gone. The companions I have are well, and so am I. I came here in good faith, and in need of advice.”
The earl stood in a hurry, kicking away the chair and stepping back to the wall behind him. “My advice is to get out – to leave immediately,” he said at once. “And if you will not move, then I shall. The court is already a place of black regrets and mourning. You wish to bring more misery? You should never have come.”
Nicholas sighed. “You ran last time too, I remember, though took Peter with you. You left the rest of us to die. Three of us did.”
“Your mother,” puffed the earl, “was already – the signs were clear – and the smaller children – she could have left if she wished. If you think to pass the responsibility – and after all this time – and want to poison me now with the same spreading sickness? For what – for revenge?”
“Your breath stinks of wine. No drunken feasts while the court’s in mourning? But there’s wine still to be had in your quarters.” Nicholas stood slowly, and went to the door. “Go get pissed again, father. You have a better excuse now, and can drink deep to forget me – and the fate that awaits you.”
“The doctor,” stammered his father. “Send for a medick. Call him.”
His son smiled, cold eyed. “But the doctor cannot help you, Papa. There’s no cure for the sickness you’ve already had all your life.”
The corridors of Westminster Palace whispered with banners of deep purple and fluttering black curtains. Still in mourning after her grace’s death, the footsteps were hushed, the minstrels were quiet, and no feasts were celebrated. Nicholas walked quietly, leaving his father’s quarters and those more illustrious passageways where long windows looked out to the gardens and the great sconces flared with torchlight. He then headed into the narrow corridors, those less lit, less windowed, but busier since more minor nobility inhabited the lower echelons than the higher.
He had no difficulty finding his uncle’s chambers. They were small, cramped, and at the back of the palace where the gently drifting perfumes of horse shit and mashed turnip announced those quarters of convenience only to the stables. Jerrid Chatwyn was not unlike his elder brother the earl, but, as the earl liked to point out, had never sat on the Royal Council. They had much in common, however. Jerrid was now slumped before the small grate and its little cheerful flames, a large cup in one hand, and the wine jug in the other. He was snoring.
“The family failing reigns,” remarked Nicholas, entering without being announced. “Pissed and passed out.”
His uncle opened one bright blue eye. “What else to do, my boy, when denied ordinary entertainment, and lacking the coin for other pleasures. Even the Winchester Geese have lately put up their prices, you know. It don’t please me, but probably pleases the wretched bishop as he raises the rents.”
Nicholas sat without being invited, and stretched his legs to the fire. His knees were aching and his lower back throbbed. He sighed, and said, “Don’t tell me you can’t even afford the washhouses?”