‘Mercy, no. Our Lord has not yet bestowed such blessings upon me. They are good lads from my lands in Ireland.’
‘You teach your servants how to kill with the sword? I had not realized Ireland was such a lawless place.’
He laughs at her misunderstanding. ‘It is, Mistress. Very lawless. But these lads are not learning how to kill; they are learning how to live.’
‘You’re turning them into gallant little English gentlemen?’ she suggests with a hint of sarcasm. In her experience, English gallants are no less reluctant to brawl with the sword than those who had paid court to her in Padua. At the Jackdaw she’s had Ned and Nicholas eject more than a few.
‘After a fashion, yes,’ he admits. ‘I have apprenticed them to the Barbary Company. I take the brightest from my Leinster estate in Ireland and offer them a better life than breaking their backs on the land.’
‘How generous of you, Sir Reynard. I’m sure they’re very grateful.’
‘These fellows are almost ready to begin the next chapter in their studies,’ he says.
‘And what will that be – fist-fighting and vomiting in tavern doorways? Insulting young maids? Knocking the hats off foreigners?’
He looks hurt. ‘You do them a disservice, Mistress. When Captain Connell returns, these fellows will go aboard his argosies to learn navigation and seamanship.’ He gazes proudly at the lads in the courtyard, as though he’s admiring a bank of fine flowers he’s watched grow from seeds. ‘These young fellows are the next generation of English merchant venturers. Would you have them go out into a dangerous world without the means to defend themselves?’
‘I suppose not,’ she says, recalling the hard, sunburnt men she’d seen preparing to set sail from the Venice Arsenale on their voyages of discovery and plunder.
‘The Dutch are already in the Indies. The Spanish and the Portuguese have Hispaniola and the Americas. Trading with the world against such competition will require men of resolve and courage.’
‘And you don’t want them dying of the plague before they start,’ she says.
A leaden seriousness comes over his face. ‘I have put a great deal of time and effort into these lads. They are not the first. There will be many more to come. They are the future of this realm. I would be remiss if I did not do all in my power to protect their well-being.’
More likely your investment, Bianca thinks. ‘May I be blunt with you?’ she asks.
‘I would expect naught else.’
Given the painting, she suspects he’s not the type to receive mockery with a self-deprecating smile and a shrug. So she chooses her words carefully.
‘You have to understand, Sir Reynard, that Bankside is a place where you’ll hear ten rumours to one truth. There’s less fiction heard on the stage of the Rose theatre than on the streets. The stories of my escape from the pestilence are just that – fiction. I didn’t have the plague. Yes, I can make you any number of preventatives, but none are certain. Your best course is to keep your house clean, free of rats, and to pray. Or you could send the boys to the country.’
‘That is not possible,’ he says, studying her as though he’s trying to gauge what counter-offer to make.
‘I didn’t have it,’ she insists. ‘It was the ague. Nothing more. I think I must have been working too hard.’
‘You may deny it all you want, Mistress,’ he says with the conviction of a man who cannot bring himself to deny his own certainties. ‘But there are queues at your shop door. The parish authorities heed your advice. And the pestilence is more contained in Southwark than here. Will you help? I will make it very worthwhile.’
I could do with the money, she thinks, given the decline in trade at the Jackdaw. It can’t hurt to provide a few more distillations and a bag or two of brimstone, can it? And if I am to find out why this man has lied to me about Solomon Mandel, what better way to begin than to make him dependent upon me.
‘Very well, Master Gault. I will do what I can.’
‘I will send one of my lads to Dice Lane. Will tomorrow suit?’
Bianca laughs. ‘You may purchase my preventatives, Master Gault, but you may not purchase me. You will have to wait your turn – at least a week. It could be more; I give priority to those without the means to buy their way to the head of the queue.’
He seems to take this as an opening gambit. ‘Come now, is my coin not good currency on Bankside?’
‘As long as it’s not clipped, it’s as good as any.’
‘Three days, then.’
‘I’ve told you: you will have to wait your turn. I will send you word when I am done. And you must understand, I cannot promise to cure anyone of the plague.’
He shrugs, giving her the sort of smile she imagines he reserves for the celebration of a profitable agreement. ‘Very well. That wasn’t so irksome, was it?’
And then, to her shock, he seizes her by the arm and pulls her to him. For a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her, perhaps even force himself on her. She grabs a fistful of satin doublet, partly to stop herself stumbling, partly to hold him at bay.
‘There is more I desire of you than just medicine, Mistress Merton,’ he says huskily.
She remembers her mother’s frequent exhortation: when someone is about to threaten you, go on the offensive. Stand up straight. Look them directly in the face. Then – when they’re transfixed by your God-given amber eyes – one sharp knee in the coglioni should make them see reason. For the moment she takes the advice only as far as looking Gault in the eye.
‘This, sir, is ungallant,’ she spits.
His eyes are all over her, but it is uncertainty rather than lust that drives them. He releases his grip a little. ‘Do not bait me, Mistress. Tell me the real reason why Robert Cecil wanted your friend Dr Shelby aboard the Righteous.’
Bianca stares at him. ‘Nicholas?’
Gault releases her arm. ‘If that is the name he received at the font, then yes.’
Bianca steps back, kneading the place where his fingers have pressed skin against bone. ‘Is there a real reason? I was rather hoping you might tell me,’ she says.
Gault stares at her. ‘Don’t play a saucy match with me, Mistress. Tell me the truth.’
‘I know that to persuade Nicholas to go to Morocco, Robert Cecil offered him some pretty comfits, which I have to say, with all sadness, the silly addle-pate fell for. Then, as a precaution, he enlisted your help to have me shut down, if Nicholas saw sense and changed his mind. Why would Cecil go to such lengths – all for a scholarly wish to learn how the Moors practise physic? You tell me, Master Gault?’
She thinks she sees a glint of admiration in his eyes. ‘How did you discover this – guesswork? Second sight?’
To protect the pact Nicholas made with Ned, she says, ‘“Deduced” might be a better word. I know Sir Robert of old.’ She senses an errant strand of hair threatening to slip over one eye. She pushes it firmly back beneath her coif. The movement forces her chin to tilt upwards and her throat to curve towards him. It gives her a sudden sense of vulnerability.
‘Well, Mistress, you may deduce all you like. I deny it, of course.’
‘I think Robert Cecil offered you some incentive, some boon, if you agreed to have my licence revoked. Is that how it went? What was it – gold?’
Gault stares at the ornate ceiling, a wry smile on his lips. ‘Pepper, actually.’
‘Pepper? You agreed to take away my livelihood for pepper?’
‘A very great deal of pepper.’