Luckily, Piers recovered consciousness in a very short space of time, but his looks were so ghastly that I was reluctant to leave him. The cook had her hands full with two of the kitchen maids in hysterics and the kennel boy clinging to her skirts and shaking from head to foot. Fortunately, he had, for the moment at least, stopped vomiting.
Piers freed himself from my clasp with more speed than gratitude and gave me a push. ‘For heaven’s sake go and find out what’s happening, Master Chapman. See if there’s anything to be done. Perhaps things aren’t as bad as William thinks.’
There was a desperation in his voice. He knew perfectly well that his hopes could have no foundation. As indeed proved to be the case. One glance at the housekeeper’s ravaged throat was enough to tell me that there was no chance of her being alive: the dead mastiff had done his evil work all too thoroughly. I wasn’t surprised that the bereaved husband had hacked him to death so savagely.
Timothy was looking green as he watched while two stable-hands loaded the corpse on to a hurriedly improvised litter — a large piece of sacking knotted at each corner — and then, with two others, bore their gruesome burden back to the house.
I gripped Timothy’s elbow. ‘I must talk to you,’ I whispered.
‘Not now,’ he answered testily. ‘Are you and that boy packed and ready to go? It’s no good looking at me like that. I’m on the Protector’s business and I can’t let an unfortunate accident like this delay me. There’s no question of foul play that I can see. Although what the woman was doing up and about and outside in the compound before the main gate was unlocked is another matter. However, that’s not our business, praise be! Get hold of young Master Daubenay, if he still wants to accompany us, and tell him we’re off.’
Fast recovering the tone of his mind, Timothy strode through the gateway and across the courtyard with me following at his heels, wondering what to do for the best. It struck me that William Blancheflower had not as yet mentioned the fact that the side-door had been bolted from within, and guessed that in all the ensuing horror and confusion, he had most probably forgotten the fact. He might remember it later, or he might think himself mistaken, depending on how much grief warped his memory and clouded his judgement. Taking everything into consideration, most notably Timothy’s urgent desire to get away, I decided, not for the first time in recent weeks, to say nothing; although it disturbed me a little that I was growing so practised in the art of deception.
I thought at first that Piers Daubenay was going to refuse to go with us, his grief at the housekeeper’s death seeming so extreme. But in the end, realizing that there was nothing he could do if he stayed, he decided to accompany us. Besides which, he was anxious to discover if Gideon Fitzalan had been found.
For my own part, I could not help wondering at the intensity of his mourning for Eleanor Blancheflower’s death. True, it had been unusually gruesome, but I could not rid myself of the suspicion that there was more to it than that. Had they, at some time, been lovers? She, I judged, was somewhere nearer forty than thirty, while he was a mere stripling. But that meant nothing. I had known many a lad attracted by older women, and many a woman, especially if she were married to an older man, excited by youth and fresh looks. And maybe his earlier remarks about her age had been an attempt to mislead us concerning his true feelings for her. Well, I didn’t suppose he would tell me if I asked him. And it was not my place to intrude.
We spent Thursday night at a small hostelry bordering the London road, Piers, true to his boast, refusing to share a bed with Timothy and me, preferring a stable loft where he could cry himself to sleep in private. His eyes were still swollen with weeping when we set off the following morning at cock-crow. Timothy reminded us both that it was Friday the thirteenth and begged us, although not himself superstitious, to be extra careful.
We reached London without mishap, riding through a busy and overcrowded Westminster and along an even busier Strand, entering by the Lud Gate a little before noon, not having stopped, to my great annoyance, for dinner. I was still sulking about this as we came within sight of St Paul’s. But suddenly all other considerations were put to flight. People were running through the streets waving their arms and shouting, ‘Treason! Treason at the Tower! High treason!’
SIX
Timothy, Piers and I reined in our horses and pulled them into the side of the road. I looked questioningly at the spymaster.
He shook his head, indicating that he was as much at a loss as I was. Then he leant from the saddle and grabbed a blue-capped apprentice who was shouting as loudly as anyone, ‘Treason! High treason!’
‘What’s happening?’ he demanded. ‘What treason?’
The lad regarded him vacantly for a moment or two before shrugging his narrow shoulders.
‘Lord, I don’t know, master. But everyone’s saying it. I just joined in.’
Timothy pushed him away with a snort of disgust and raised himself in his stirrups, peering over the heads of the people around us, obviously hoping for the sight of someone he knew. The little crowd had greatly increased even in the short time that we had been there, shop-owners and householders pouring out of doors, attracted by the rumpus and anxious to discover what was going on. Everyone milled around aimlessly, begging enlightenment of his neighbours, but getting no satisfaction and growing more frustrated and alarmed by the second.
Suddenly, Timothy’s gaze sharpened and homed in on a small, sandy-haired man struggling through the crowd from the direction of Cheapside. He was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.
‘Simon! Simon Finglass!’ Timothy bellowed in a stentorian voice which I hardly recognized as his; indeed, until that moment, I would have thought him incapable of making so much noise.
In spite of the hubbub, it was loud enough to attract the other man’s attention. He lifted his head and stood on tiptoe, trying to locate the source of the summons. After a while he spotted Timothy’s frantically waving arm and fought his way through the mob to our side. A little breathlessly he gripped the horse’s reins to steady himself and looked up enquiringly into Timothy’s face.
‘What’s happening?’ the spymaster reiterated. ‘Treason at the Tower? What are these fools talking about?’
‘You’re back, are you?’ The sandy head nodded approval. ‘Good thing. If half what’s being rumoured is true, I guess you’ll be needed at the Tower. Where’ve you been?’
‘On the duke’s business,’ Timothy snapped, ‘and none of yours! Just answer my question, will you? What is this all about?’
Simon Finglass shrugged. ‘Don’t know for certain,’ he admitted. ‘Only know what they’re saying.’
He paused, sucking his teeth. Timothy turned purple in the face and, to save him an apoplexy, I leant forward, gently stroking my restless mount between the ears, and asked, ‘What is it “they” are saying?’
The cacophony around us was now deafening and, once again, as just a few weeks previously, I sensed the near-hysteria of the crowd, a product of that febrile atmosphere which had lain like a pall over the city ever since King Edward died. I dismounted, indicating that Timothy and Piers should do the same, and led the way into the comparative peace and quiet of St Paul’s churchyard. Here, at least, we could hear ourselves speak.