There was no more to be learned from the Painted Chamber, so he decided to go home. He was halfway down the hall when he heard a creak over the racket being made by the storm. It sounded like the main door being opened. Instinctively, he slipped into the shadows and watched it intently — so intently that he made a basic mistake. The room had other entrances, one of which was directly behind him. He spun around the moment he detected the rustle of clothing, but it was too late — a cudgel was descending towards his head. He managed to deflect it by throwing up his arm, but it was a violent blow, and sent him staggering backwards.
There were six of them — three had entered through the main door, and three from the entrance behind Chetwynd’s desk — and they meant business. Chaloner whipped out his sword to parry a thrust that was obviously intended to disembowel him, then was obliged to retreat fast when the rest came at him in a tight phalanx of flashing blades. His left arm was numb, and the ring slid from his nerveless fingers. He barely noticed it go: all his attention was focussed on staying alive.
He fought furiously, using every trick and feint he knew in an effort to gain an advantage. But it was an unequal battle, and although he injured two who were reckless enough to come within his range, they were simply too many for him. Moreover, they wielded their weapons with an easy confidence that said they were professional soldiers, and he could tell, from the way they anticipated each other’s moves, that they had been fighting together for years — they operated like a well-oiled machine, one stepping forward the moment another fell back. A detached part of his mind knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered, because he could not fend them off indefinitely — he was already tiring.
‘I’ve found it,’ said one, bending to retrieve something from the floor. ‘We can go.’
Immediately, a warrior tried to manoeuvre his way behind Chaloner, who was forced to back up against the wall. Then three attacked at once, and he was hard-pressed to repel them. He was aware of movement on either side of him, but did not realise what was happening until someone gave a yell and started to haul on something. He glanced up in time to see the tapestry tear free from its moorings. The soldiers leapt away, but Chaloner was knocked from his feet as the heavy material enveloped him. He was encased in darkness, and completely helpless. He was aware of blades stabbing into the floor around him, then something struck his head, hard enough to knock him out of his senses. The last thing he heard was retreating footsteps.
When Chaloner opened his eyes, his nose and mouth were full of dust, his head hurt, and he could not see. It was several minutes before he remembered what had happened, and several more before he was able to struggle free of the suffocating tapestry. The soldiers had gone, and a quick search revealed that the ring had gone, too. He removed his hat and ran his fingers across the crown, to discover a vicious jab from a blade had caused a substantial dent in the metal lining. Once again, it had saved his life, and he gave silent thanks to Isabella, his brief but passionate Spanish amore, who had given it to him. He was sure the soldiers had not expected him to survive.
He had no idea how much time had passed since the attack, but he peered carefully around the main door anyway, just in case the men were still there. They were not, for which he was grateful, because he was in no state to tackle them again, and they were unlikely to let him live a second time. So, who were they? The killers of Vine and Chetwynd? He doubted it — why waste time with toxins when they had swords to hand? He recalled one soldier bending to pick something up from the floor, telling his colleagues that he had ‘found it’. Clearly, he referred to the ring, but why? Had the killer charged them to retrieve it, because it was evidence that would trap him? Chaloner rubbed his aching head as he thought about it. The Painted Chamber had been busy all day, right up until the ghouls had gone to Brodrick’s ball. So, like Chaloner, it would have been the soldiers’ first opportunity to enter unseen.
So what did that tell him? That the killer controlled an elite gang of warriors, as well as having access to deadly potions? They had reminded him of the ‘train-bands’ of the civil wars — a group of friends or neighbours who had learned their martial skills together, and who could be mobilised at a moment’s notice. Did it mean their leader — or their master — was rich and powerful? Or did it mean the killer was a woman, because while she might be capable of handing goblets of poison to her victims, tackling armed investigators was a different proposition entirely?
He became aware that he was standing directly underneath the lamp that lit the Painted Chamber’s entrance, providing a perfect target for anyone who meant him harm. Disgusted, he tried to pull himself together, taking a deep breath in the hope that it would clear his wits. It did not, and he reeled dizzily, forcing him to wait for the weakness to pass. Then he started walking, but had not taken many steps before he was obliged to stop and steady himself against a wall.
‘Too much Babylonian punch?’ came a familiar voice. ‘I warned people to treat it with caution, but did anyone listen? No! I only hope it does not put the King in a deadly stupor, because he has an important meeting with the Swedish ambassador tomorrow. Perhaps I should remain on hand tonight, lest my services are needed.’
Chaloner whipped around in alarm. The combin ation of noisy gale and befuddled senses had let Wiseman approach to almost within touching distance, and he had not heard a thing. He knew he needed to be a lot more careful, or the train-band would easily finish what they had started.
The surgeon, clad in his trademark red, was with a courtier, a plump man whom Chaloner had seen before — it was the fellow Greene had met in the Dolphin tavern the previous evening. The two men had shared a meal, talked amiably for a while, then parted ways. And they had done something else, too, but the memory was just out of Chaloner’s reach, no matter how hard he struggled to recall it.
‘Babylonian punch?’ he asked dully, aware that Wiseman was waiting for a response.
‘Brodrick’s unique concoction of ale, limejuice, brandy-wine and spices,’ elaborated Wiseman. ‘I recommended he omit the brandywine, but he said Babylonians downed barrels of the stuff with no ill-effects. They did nothing of the kind, of course — it was only invented recently.’
‘Actually, brandywine is what made them so famously garrulous,’ countered his companion authoritatively. He was a bland-looking fellow, and his only outstanding feature was a very long nose. ‘Babylonians babbled a lot — and they babbled because they were drunk on brandy-wine. It is a well-known fact. Brandywine made them wildly licentious, too — another well-known fact.’
Wiseman shot him an arch look. ‘Not that well known, because I was unaware of it. But I am forgetting my manners. Langston, meet the Lord Chancellor’s man. Chaloner, this is Francis Langston, one of the officials who works in the Royal Household.’
Chaloner started to bow, but changed his mind when the movement made the ground tip and he thought he might be sick. He wanted to ask what they were doing in a dark alley so late at night, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and Langston began to speak before he could form the words.
‘I am a great admirer of your master — I wrote a play about him once, but it turned out badly. He is a fine, upright fellow, but literary heroes need more than morality to make them great — he came over as a pompous, overbearing bigot, so I thought it best not to present him with a copy.’