‘I speak of my manuscripts,’ Spenser says without a trace of cognizance. ‘I had to leave behind the original Faerie Queen. I fear the rebels are using it to wipe their traitorous arses at this very moment, the savages.’
Feigning weariness, Bianca leans against Nicholas. ‘They say everything under heaven has a purpose,’ she whispers.
Nicholas covers his mouth with his palm and stares at the ceiling.
David Nagle gets slowly to his feet, gathers his family and his servants together in the main hall and announces that they will join Master Spenser and his band on the ride to Cork. Safety in numbers, he declares. The cattle will come, too. ‘Damned if I’ll let Tyrone and his barbarians have them,’ he says, calling for his riding boots.
And so the party grows, joined by the Nagles themselves, a clutch of Nagle daughters including a babe in swaddling clothes, their retainers, servants and farmhands and, following on behind, enough cattle to keep them all in milk and beef for several years. The cattle alone, Nicholas thinks, are bait enough for any marauding rebels. But he has little say in the matter.
Fording the Blackwater near Killavullen, they pick up even more stragglers. From a warren of caves on the south bank of the river emerge tired and frightened villagers, farm workers, shepherds and herdsmen. The rebels are in Mallow – burning, pillaging and murdering, they say as they emerge cautiously from their hiding places. Fermoy is taken, and all hanged who would not swear allegiance to the Pope. God has punished the English for daring to set one single foot on Ireland’s soil.
Nicholas takes these claims with a pinch of salt. He remembers how, in the Low Countries, rumour was as much an enemy as the Spanish, and able to move a good deal faster. He is relieved, therefore, when – in the early afternoon – they encounter a solitary rider, waiting for them at the top of a heather-banked defile.
‘I’m guessing the Earl of Tyrone’s fellows have chased you out of Kilcolman, Dr Shelby,’ says Piers Gardener, a wry smile playing on his smooth young face. ‘And you, Master Spenser – I hope they have not used you too roughly.’
‘All my manuscripts, the original Faerie Queen – probably destroyed,’ Spenser says, his eyes tight with weariness.
‘It pains me to hear you say so,’ Gardener says. ‘I’m sure that had Tyrone himself been with them, he would have saved your achievements from the flames. They say he is a cultured man.’
‘He’s a papist traitor, that’s what he is,’ snarls Spenser.
‘I have heard it said that he wishes only for the queen to acknowledge his right to govern his own people, the O’Neills; for them to be subject to their own Irish law; and for them to practise the Catholic religion.’
‘And welcome the Spanish in, while he’s at it,’ grunts David Nagle.
‘Is the way clear into Cork?’ Nicholas asks.
‘It’s clear, Dr Shelby. The Earl of Ormonde’s force is barely a league beyond the walls. You’ll be safe there.’
‘Will you ride with us?’
Gardener looks back down the defile and out across the open countryside to where the Nagle cattle are making their slow progress. ‘I don’t suppose they were speaking of cows when they said there is safety in numbers, Dr Shelby. But yes, I will ride with you.’
He smiles and gives Bianca a gracious tilt of his head in recognition.
‘I’m glad you did not fall into the rebels’ hands on your journey, Master Gardener,’ she replies courteously. But inside she is wondering if perhaps a little of the old Seanchaí’s ability to see things other people cannot has rubbed off on Piers Gardener. Or maybe he was just guessing that Edmund Spenser’s fine tower house at Kilcolman had been burned, rather than merely ransacked, when he spoke of saving the poet’s achievements from the flames.
That night, while Nicholas and Bianca lay their cloaks down on bracken and wait for sleep to ease the aches of the ride, in the Jackdaw tavern on Bankside, Rose Monkton is preparing the taproom for the next morning. The last of the serious drinkers has departed, the empty jugs are washed and cleared away, the soiled rushes on the floor gathered up and the flagstones swept. Ned Monkton sits in a corner checking his Ned-hand, before adding it to Rose’s tally of the day’s takings. Timothy the taproom lad is squaring away the benches and boards before tamping down the fire for the night. Upstairs, in the Monktons’ chamber, little Bruno Shelby is fast asleep on the truckle beside the bed.
When the street door opens and Constable Osborne of the Bankside watch puts his head around the jamb, Rose’s first assumption is that he’s after something warming to sustain him on his tramp through the lanes. It can be a wearisome burden, keeping the queen’s peace and ensuring the bellmen call the hours – as their duty requires – instead of falling asleep beside the brazier up by the bridge gatehouse.
‘Sorry to disturb, Mistress Monkton, but there’s been disorder on Mutton Lane. We need somewhere to lay him out.’
Before Rose can enquire what manner of disorder, or who requires laying out, Osborne holds the door open while four of his watchmen manhandle a heavy bundle into the tavern. They gently deposit their burden on the floor by the hearth. It is the body of a young man, his shirt soaked in blood, his alabaster face lolling against the watchman’s gaberdine they have wrapped him in.
From her place beside the fire, Buffle, the Jackdaw’s dog, rouses herself, stretches studiously, pads over and sniffs at the bloodstained gaberdine, then at the nearest flesh, a curled hand. Rose hurries over and scoops her up.
‘Take Buffle to the top of the stairs,’ she tells Timothy, offering him the animal. ‘If Bruno wakes, keep him occupied. I don’t want ’im climbing off the truckle and seeing this.’ Turning to Constable Osborne, she says, ‘God’s mercy, what ’as ’appened to this poor boy?’
‘Cut-purses, I should warrant,’ says Osborne sadly. ‘Probably from beyond the parish. Our local thieves tend to draw the line at killing.’
‘Where did you find ’im?’ Rose asks, kneeling to lay a motherly hand against the cold cheek.
‘Outside the Mutton Lane shambles. We thought at first that he’d drowned himself in ale and fallen asleep. When we tried to rouse him, then we sees the blood. He’s taken a thrust to the side, like he was caught unawares.’ Constable Osborne scratches his head. ‘I don’t know what’s become of this city, Mistress Rose, I truly don’t. They could have just taken his purse and sent him on his way. There was no need for this.’
‘Do you know who ’e is?’ asks Rose.
‘No, never seen him before,’ says Osborne.
And then Ned steps forward, rubbing his great auburn beard as though to dislodge the correct memory.
‘It’s the lad from the muster at the Southwark Fair,’ he says. ‘’E was in ’ere a few days ago.’
‘Does he have a name, perchance, Master Ned?’ Osborne asks.
‘Not known to me, if he ’as,’ Ned replies. ‘Nor any luck, neither – to get slain on Bankside when ’e was s’pposed to be fightin’ in Ireland.’
‘Luck?’ echoes Osborne with a snort of derision for the whims of fortune. ‘Well, he’s beyond luck now, poor sod.’
14
Piers Gardener raises his hand to signal a halt. Ahead of him the fields slope away towards the shore of Loch Machan. ‘At least another dozen, since I was last here,’ he says in grudging admiration. ‘The Privy Council must have anticipated Tyrone’s move into Munster.’
Anchored out on the water are more ships than Nicholas can count.