‘God’s nails, Henshawe! Show some compassion, for once in your life.’
Sir Oliver regards him with mild amusement. ‘Remember what I said to you in Dublin, when you rejected my offer to escort you both to Kilcolman?’
‘No, my attention must have been elsewhere. I tend not to listen to bombast.’
Henshawe gnaws at the chicken bone as though the insult has not struck home. Then he waves it accusingly in Nicholas’s direction. ‘I said, “I would allow no wife of mine to go wandering off into the wilderness. I’d make sure she knew her station.” Perhaps you should have listened to me.’
Nicholas considers taking the joint off Henshawe and stuffing it down his throat. But Henshawe is his only hope. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ he says, trying not to shout, ‘if you still have any feelings for my wife, lay aside your hurt pride and help me find her.’
But Henshawe is implacable. ‘She could have enjoyed comfort and status as the wife of a gentleman. Instead she chose you. That was her mistake.’
‘Is this to somehow punish us both?’ Nicholas asks in astonishment. ‘Is this a gentleman’s sense of honour on show?’
Henshawe sneers. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Shelby. If it were up to me, I’d willingly let you go blundering about out there until you got your throat cut and your head sent to Dublin as a present from Tyrone. As it is, His Grace has pressing need of a competent physician. Questions about your loyalty can wait.’
‘My loyalty? That’s rich! A loyal man wouldn’t be holding back his English muster. Why are you doing that, Henshawe? Do you have another purpose for them? Don’t think I have heard the tavern talk about going back to England and routing Devereux’s enemies.’
Henshawe doesn’t answer the question. He studies Nicholas for a moment. Then he tosses away the chicken bone, as though he expects him to scamper off and fetch it. When Nicholas declines, he adds, ‘Look, His Grace knows you didn’t let Norris die. So stop playing the maid with the hurt feelings and be gone with you. Back to your duties, Master Physician. And stay in camp, if you don’t want to end up swinging from a tree.’
In the soft light of evening the English camp looks like a faded fresco painted on ancient plaster. Through the tent flap Nicholas stares out at the misty silhouettes clustered around their cooking fires. The sounds of men boasting, complaining, gossiping, arguing and gambling carry easily on the still air. Nicholas dismisses the idea of joining them, of seeking out any human company. It would only make things worse. He hasn’t eaten all day, yet hunger is the last thing on his mind. He wonders how long he can keep despair at bay.
When the Earl of Ormonde stoops to enter the tent, Nicholas remains sitting dejectedly on his straw pallet. He hasn’t got the strength left in him to get up.
‘I thought I’d come and see if I can raise your spirits, Physician,’ Ormonde says, sitting beside him without invitation. His face is still streaked with the dirt and sweat of the morning’s battle. The white stubble lies flattened against his skull like harvested corn after a summer shower of hail, evidence that his helmet has scarcely been off his head all day.
‘That is kind of you, my lord. But I fear it’s one victory you will be denied.’
‘Come, sirrah, things may not be as bad as you fear.’
Nicholas lets out a brief cynical laugh. ‘My wife is missing – taken by rebels. Or worse. What could be more fearful to me than that?’
Ormonde looks around the tent. ‘They took her medicines?’
‘Most of them: her balms, her ointments, even her pestle and mortar. Fortunately most of what the army needs is still in the wagons.’
‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it – that they emptied the tent?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It shows they understood her worth.’
‘More so than does His Grace the Earl of Essex, apparently,’ Nicholas says despondently. ‘He won’t let me search for her. He blames me for letting Henry Norris die.’
‘That’s probably his wisest decision today. A good physician is more encouragement to our men than a battery of artillery. No point in letting you wander off and handing them another useful captive.’
‘By the time I reached him, Sir Henry had lost too much blood. I would have had to work a miracle to save him,’ Nicholas says, staring at his hands and noticing he hasn’t even attempted to wash off the blood from his efforts.
Ormonde gives him a fatherly pat on the knee. ‘His Grace has a habit of blaming his mistakes on others,’ he says bluntly. ‘Like marching his forces close to a forest when you can’t see your hand in front of your face. It wasn’t only your wife we lost today: a score of dead, including Norris; five slain with the baggage train; and a gentlemen adventurer of the noble earl’s faction carried off as a prisoner. If you want my opinion, him we can afford to lose. But I imagine that His Grace will be keen to arrange his freedom.’ He pulls at the points of his tunic, loosening the collar. Nicholas catches the pungent reek of hard effort and old leather. ‘Is that possible?’
‘Of course. We have some of Tyrone’s people languishing in Dublin that I dare say will stand as surety. Severed heads are not the only coin of exchange in this benighted island.’
‘If he can be released, then so perhaps might Bianca,’ Nicholas suggests, feeling the hope course through him like the shock from a whiplash.
‘Everything is possible, Nicholas – save, it seems, bringing Tyrone to a reckoning. But don’t tell His Grace I said so.’
Ormonde rises to leave.
‘I did all I could, in the circumstances – for Sir Henry Norris,’ Nicholas tells the Lieutenant-General’s departing shoulders.
‘I know it,’ Ormonde says, turning to face him. ‘More importantly, the army knows it. Particularly those of us who saw the efforts you and Mistress Bianca made in Cork. I fear we must accept that men of such heightened qualities as His Grace tend to have temperaments to match. Put it out of your mind, if you can.’
‘I believe His Grace is sick,’ Nicholas says bluntly. ‘He may not be wholly able to discharge his duties to Her Majesty. I think his reason may be impaired.’
‘Sick? We’re all sick in some regard, in this place. What in particular do you think ails him?’
‘I think he may be suffering from the pox, my lord.’
Ormonde studies Nicholas for a while, the candlelight turning his features into a harsh mask set against the soft mauve of the evening sky.
‘That is a diagnosis I would keep to myself, Physician – if I were you,’ Ormonde says. ‘You will not improve His Grace’s humour by telling him.’
‘And what if it’s affecting his reason? What then? You said yourself he made an error today, taking us so close to the forest in fog, allowing us to be ambushed. He has shown himself prone to wild impulses and misjudgements. Look at his reaction when I asked to be allowed to search for Bianca. He ordered Sir Oliver Henshawe to hang me from the nearest branch if I attempt to leave the camp.’
Ormonde gives him a grim smile. ‘Then I heartily suggest you comply. Sick or not, His Grace is appointed over us by Her Majesty. Acting against his express orders would be more than mutiny, Nicholas. It would be treason. There would be nothing to be gained by it, not if your wife were to return only to discover she was a widow.’
And with that, Ormonde turns away and disappears into the thickening mist.
The depleted army returns to Dublin. For Nicholas, Ormonde’s encouragement is short-lived. The days are even worse than the nights. The nightmare has forged chains from which he cannot escape, even with the arrival of the dawn. When he climbs off his pallet to attend to the sick and wounded, he drags the nightmare with him. The possibilities clamour in his head like bells rung to warn of danger. Bianca is dead. Her body lies as carrion somewhere in the forest. She’s alive, but in the hands of the rebels. They use her for their sport whenever they choose. She is the Merrow. She has walked back into the sea, leaving him alone on the shore to grieve for ever.