‘By the golden chariot of bright Phoebus! It is you. I knew it, the moment I set eyes upon you.’
The voice that breaks into her thoughts has a languid confidence about it, the voice of a man unaccustomed to rebuttal. A voice she remembers.
‘Oliver! What on earth are you doing in Dublin?’
Looking up, she sees an elegantly dressed man perhaps a year or two younger than herself, clad in a bright-yellow brocade doublet and dark-blue kersey trunk-hose. The body is as nonchalant as the voice, one hand spread against his waist, the other balled under the smooth chin. His brown hair is cut close to the scalp. The finely wrought guard of a rapier lies against his hip like the head of a faithful hound. He is the very model of the English gentleman-dabbler in the military arts.
And then she remembers the man Vyves, and his invitation to Ned Monkton at the Southwark Fair: We could use a doughty fellow like you in the ranks of Sir Oliver Henshawe’s company…
‘It is Sir Oliver now, Mistress Bianca,’ Henshawe says smoothly. ‘Dubbed by the Earl of Essex himself, at Cádiz.’
‘Cádiz? So you never got to Madrid?’
‘Madrid?’ He gives her a puzzled look. ‘I don’t recall mentioning–’
‘You told me once that you were going to steal King Philip’s wedding ring and put it on my finger.’
‘Did I? All I recall is you laughing at my attempts at verse.’
‘Laugh at you, Oliver? I’m sure I never did.’
‘You left my poor heart as tattered as a Spanish battle flag,’ Henshawe says, laying an elegant hand to his breast to emphasize the extent of his torment.
‘I’m sure it’s been patched since. English maids at your station are renowned for their needlework.’
Henshawe gives Nicholas an empty smile. ‘And am I to believe that this dull fellow is your husband?’
Is this a clumsy attempt at manly badinage or just plain rudeness? wonders Nicholas. Henshawe’s pretty face is too smooth, too unreadable.
‘Yes, this is Nicholas,’ Bianca says, laying a restraining hand on his arm. ‘And he didn’t have to offer me stolen jewellery in order to woo me.’
‘Someone told me you were a farm labourer’s son who became a physician,’ Henshawe drawls. ‘Is that so? Would that I might find such a clever alchemist. I’d be eating gold for breakfast and supper.’
Rudeness, plain and simple, Nicholas decides. He resists the urge to land a fist on Henshawe’s jauntily tilted chin. A brawl here, in such company, would not go well for him.
‘My father is a yeoman,’ he says calmly. ‘He has title to the land he farms. And I earned my doctorate in medicine. I didn’t inherit it.’
The riposte slides off Henshawe’s self-regard as if it were plate armour. ‘No matter,’ he says, turning his attention again to Bianca. ‘We may consider it a fine example of how a man may make his way in Her Majesty’s England – if he has a mind to it.’
‘I see your gentlemanly manner is as polished as I remember it, Oliver,’ Bianca says sweetly. ‘I cannot possibly imagine why it failed to captivate me. For someone who can’t recall promising me a wedding ring, you seem to have taken an inordinate interest in the man I did marry.’
‘You forget that my family has an estate at Walworth. One cannot pass across London Bridge without first passing through Southwark. And one cannot linger in Southwark without hearing gossip. You, of all people, should know that,’ Henshawe says. Then his untroubled smile disappears, as if cut off by the executioner’s axe. ‘But if you’ve decided to leave Bankside and settle land in Ireland, you have chosen a poor time to do it. The rebels have run off most of the settlers’ cattle and burned their crops. We’re here to stop them taking all Munster.’
‘We’ve not come to settle,’ Nicholas interjects, growing tired of Henshawe’s supercilious performance. ‘I am on official business for the Stationers’ Office in London. I’ve come to speak with Master Spenser, the poet.’
‘Spenser?’ Henshawe says with a lift of his brow. ‘He’s out at Kilcolman, I believe. You’d best hurry. I came through there a week ago and I could smell insurrection on the air.’
‘Do you think an attack is imminent?’ Nicholas asks, chewing a morsel of mutton and trying to sound unperturbed.
‘Our spies say a brace of rebel chieftains, O’Moore and Tyrrell, have some two thousand rogues under arms, ready to launch a sally from Limerick. If Tyrone lets them off the leash, you wouldn’t want to be there when they come.’
‘We plan to leave tomorrow. We have no cause to stay here,’ Nicholas says, trying not to give Henshawe the satisfaction of thinking he’s leaving in a hurry.
‘I’d heartily advise taking an escort,’ Henshawe says. He gives Bianca a smooth smile as he taps the hilt of his sword. ‘Why don’t I come with you? Bookish men are all very well in a cloister’ – a glance at Nicholas – ‘or a hospital. But here in Ireland it’s better to have a fellow with a goodly length of steel in his scabbard by one’s side. I’m sure the Earl of Ormonde – the Lieutenant-General – will grant me leave when he learns the value of the prize I’d be guarding.’
Nicholas turns his eyes to the soldiers in the taproom, wondering if Henshawe is trying to bait him for their entertainment or his own. But they are too engrossed in their drinking and dicing to have noticed. Personal then, he decides – Henshawe, the spurned lover, the rejected stag trying one last stamp of the hoof. Pathetic.
‘We already have an escort, thank you,’ he says.
‘We have?’ Bianca queries in surprise.
‘Yes. It’s all arranged,’ Nicholas announces confidently. He waves the lump of mutton impaled on the end of his knife at Henshawe. ‘Now, if we might be permitted to finish our meal…’
Henshawe looks at Bianca. She smiles with pretend regret. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver. You’re too late – as ever.’
A little grunt of defeat escapes from the back of Henshawe’s throat. As he turns away, he mutters, ‘Please yourselves. But I would allow no wife of mine to go wandering off into the wilderness in search of a poet. I’d make sure she knew her station.’
Before Nicholas can reply, Bianca gives Henshawe a brief but challenging smile. ‘Perhaps, Oliver,’ she says, ‘that’s why I decided not to wait for you to get back from Madrid.’
‘What escort?’ Bianca asks impatiently when they’re alone in their chamber. ‘You told Oliver Henshawe that we have an escort. We don’t.’
‘Yes, we do,’ Nicholas says, easing himself back against the bolster of the small tester bed. ‘Master Piers Gardener.’
‘The fellow at the Tholsel? The one with the dust?’
‘What was it he called himself – a grey merchant?’
‘But we barely know him. For all we know, he could be the worst trickster in Ireland.’
‘He told us he knew the discreet roads, the people. Who better to put our trust in, given what your Sir Oliver Henshawe said in the taproom?’
‘He’s not my Oliver Henshawe, Nicholas.’
‘I get the impression he rather wanted to be.’
‘Nicholas,’ she replies irritably, ‘Oliver Henshawe has seen the inside of every stew on Bankside. He must have near-bankrupted his father with the money he spent on doxies and dice. It’s a miracle he’s not riddled with the French gout. If you want me to be blunt, he was never my lover. This is all about jealousy, isn’t it? Anything rather than accept help from someone who once paid court to me.’