Vyves attempts to peer around Ned’s bulk to see if Nicholas is lurking somewhere in the crowd. Satisfied he is not, the ensign confides, ‘I came to the conclusion that particular part of Bankside is unwelcoming.’
‘Unwelcoming? It most surely was so for poor Lemuel Godwinson,’ Ned says.
Vyves’s gaze flickers over Ned’s impassive face. ‘What you implying?’
‘I ’eard from Dr Selby you ’ave an alibi for that night.’
‘I do. I was with Master Strollot. And he was with me.’
‘A right pair of turtle doves.’ Ned looks up at the fleeting clouds as though they might vouchsafe an answer. ‘An’ who can prove otherwise?’
Vyves’s manner hardens. ‘Just ’cause you’re a big bugger doesn’t mean you can accuse an honest fellow of committing a felony and expect no consequences.’ He glances at Ned’s balled fist. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed that brand on your thumb, Master Monkton. If I or Master Strollot were to tell a magistrate it was you who murdered young Godwinson, and swore an affidavit to that effect, you’d hang. There’s no pleading the Holy Book a second time.’
To Ned’s eternal credit, he keeps himself in check. And when he tells her of the incident, Rose will kiss him and say how proud she is. The Ned Monkton of old would have laid Barnabas Vyves out cold, regardless of how crucial he is to the conduct of Her Majesty’s war in Ireland.
In the courtyard of the Jackdaw, Ned and little Bruno are fighting to the death. In fact Ned has died twice already, his great body lying motionless on the flagstones until Bruno resurrects him by clambering onto his chest, tugging at Ned’s beard with one hand and waving his wooden sword over him to cast a life-restoring spell with the other. Nicholas offers helpful advice on their swordplay.
‘I’ve been meanin’ to say – I saw Vyves again,’ Ned says as he gets to his feet for a third bout. ‘He was musterin’, or whatever he does. ‘’Course he’s not goin’ to Ireland with ’em. ’As to stay ’ere in England, to run the war for the queen.’
Nicholas laughs. ‘Then we’re defeated before Essex reaches Chester.’
‘I still know that little arseworm is up to somethin’,’ Ned says, dusting himself down and picking up his wooden sword. In his huge hands it looks like a poor man’s crucifix. ‘’E threatened me.’
‘That takes a brave man,’ Nicholas says. ‘I hope you didn’t–’
‘Nah,’ says Ned with a shake of his great fiery head. ‘I’s a different fellow now, you know that.’
‘All the same, Ned, tread carefully. I don’t want you getting into trouble while I’m away.’
‘It’s that poor lad, Lemuel Godwinson, what I can’t get out of me ’ead. Looked so pitiful when Constable Osborne brought ’im into the Jackdaw that night. Someone should pay for that. An’ I ’ave a conviction that Vyves knows more ’bout it than ’e’s lettin’ on.’
‘All the same, if there’s no evidence to prove Vyves and Strollot were involved, there’s little to be done, Ned. And I remember what happened last time you tried to take the law into your own hands. You almost ended up on the gallows. Think of Rose.’
‘Aye, you’re right of course,’ says Ned as he adopts his guard in preparation for a joyous lunge from Bruno. ‘It’s naught to do with me. I must learn to keep me nose out of other people’s business.’
Upstairs, in the Monktons’ privy chamber, Rose and Bianca are weeping on each other’s shoulder.
‘I’m the worst mother in all Christendom,’ Bianca sobs. ‘Worse even than Medea – the one who murdered all her children.’
‘Medea was a pagan,’ Rose wails in reply.
‘Then I’m the worst mother in all creation!’
‘Bruno was fine last time – ’e’ll be fine again this time,’ Rose assures her, honking through her tears like an over-excitable goose. ‘There will be no cause for you to fret. Ned and I will take good care of ’im; you know we will.’
‘Promise me one thing,’ Bianca says, releasing Rose from her grip but leaving her hands on her friend’s shoulders as though to bind them both in an unbreakable blood-pact.
‘Anything,’ Rose assures her, observing her former mistress through the watery screen of her tears. ‘Anything.’
‘Don’t let him dress Buffle up as a knight’s charger. They both contrived to ruin my best Flemish kerchief.’
In fact Nicholas and Bianca are not due to leave until the day after tomorrow, with the baggage train and the great trail of camp-followers: hammermen to repair damaged plate armour; farriers to shoe the horses; bakers and millers to produce the bread; powder-makers to mix gunpowder for the falconets, muskets and pistols, and to sieve the correct size of grain for each; and women to cook, tend, comfort and – though no one is inclined to consider the possibility at present – bury the dead. Tomorrow, the twenty-seventh day of March, London will turn out to bid farewell to Robert Devereux as he leaves to join his army at Chester; hence the city’s general mood: the pain of parting. Neither Bianca nor Nicholas is immune to it. But at least taking your farewells early means there is time for one more tearful embrace between friends, one more chance for a little boy to slay a red-bearded giant and win his father’s applause.
26
It is the first building of any real substance that Cachorra has seen. It stands in a small, easily guarded valley beside a winding river cloaked with alder trees, its stern grey walls softened by moss and weathered by centuries. A great herd of cattle ranges over the grassy slopes. Rain washes the valley, the cattle and the house, drifting on the wind in a procession of misty veils. Drawn up before the small portcullis is a band of some twenty men. She knows they are warriors by the swords that hang from their belts – swords so large it must take both hands to swing them. Some carry spears and axes. All are bearded, their hair long and unkempt. They look like beggars. Yet they bear themselves like kings, proud and ferocious. And their dress! Cachorra has never seen the like. Cloaks and tunics, like the ancients might wear; tartan hose with the pattern cut on the bias; cloaks that wouldn’t look out of place – or so she imagines, for she has only ever heard of such things from Father Persons whenever one of his English lessons ended up in a discussion of the Latin classics that always put Constanza to sleep – on an enemy chieftain about to do battle with the Romans. Some wear nothing on their legs at all, but go about with their lower limbs quite uncovered, their privy regions barely covered by the hems of their tunics. Accustomed, if only at a distance, to the general magnificence of a Spanish gentlemen in his war plumage, Cachorra doesn’t know whether to be scandalized or admire them for their fortitude. How, she wonders, do they not catch their death of cold?
‘If there isn’t a proper bed with proper pillows, and hot water to wash with, I shall damn this island as the most barbarous place on God’s earth,’ mutters Constanza in her sharp Castilian as their guide leads them towards the entrance. ‘And if I hear any more of their dreadful pipe music – all that wailing and groaning, like a bull being slaughtered – may my ears be for ever shut up.’
I wish you’d shut up, sighs Constanza to herself.
The fighters part to let the two women pass. The portcullis rises with a heavy rumble into the roof of the gatehouse.
‘Why do they stare so?’ Constanza asks. ‘Haven’t they seen women before? Why do they look at you, rather than me? Why do they not show me the proper courtesies? Why can they not speak to me in Spanish – are they uneducated? Not that I would ever dream of replying if they did. Not for a moment. The meanest of our servants at Valladolid wouldn’t have dared to attend my father dressed like that. Look at the ones without britches! Is this a bordello they have brought us to?’