Two of them are lean, hollow-cheeked fellows that Nicholas recalls seeing hanging around Robert Devereux’s pavilion in Ireland. Two others have more familiar faces: the one-eyed Barnabas Vyves and the porcine Gideon Strollot. But it is the fifth intruder who holds Nicholas’s attention the tightest. He holds his sword poised as though it were a talon – a part of him, a limb perfected for death. His slack gaze confirms what Nicholas has known ever since he looked down upon the survivors of the St Juan de Berrocal lying slaughtered on an Irish beach: Oliver Henshawe enjoys his killing.
43
No screams. No protestations. No burst of street Italian from Bianca, as she is liable to do when faced with unexpected insult. Barely, even, an overly sharp intake of breath from Rose. Just mute surprise from everyone in the taproom.
And then Ned says, in that low rumble of his that manages to sound polite even while it warns, ‘We’re closed.’
Henshawe seems to appreciate the defiance, laughing even as he reaches out with his free hand to seize the astonished Timothy by the shoulder and force him to his knees. Vyves lays the tip of his sword against the lad’s neck.
Henshawe says, ‘And closed will be this boy’s life – if any here so much as moves.’
Timothy looks at his mistress, his eyes full of guilt for letting the Jackdaw fall so easily. Ned glowers at the intruders. His fighter’s instinct would have him act, but he knows Timothy will be dead before he has taken his first stride. His huge fists ball with frustration. He can do nothing as Henshawe’s two lieutenants close on him, their blades holding him at bay.
‘What is this about, Oliver?’ Bianca asks calmly. ‘Put away the swords and let us talk peaceably. There is no call for this.’
But Henshawe gives her no answer. He advances into the taproom, his sword pointed at Nicholas’s chest. ‘I should have killed you in Ireland when I had the chance,’ he snarls, the firelight glinting on the jewelled rings he wears on his fingers. ‘But I truly believed he had need of you. Jesu! How wrong I was.’
‘I take it you’re speaking of Robert Devereux,’ Nicholas replies. ‘You won’t find him here. Have you tried York House? I hear that’s his home these days.’
Even in the half-light of the taproom the hatred is clear on Henshawe’s face. ‘Don’t mock me, Shelby. I know where His Grace is held. And I know you’re behind the treachery that has brought him there.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in Ireland?’ Nicholas asks, ignoring Henshawe’s accusation. ‘Or is it now customary in His Grace’s faction to desert your post?’
Henshawe’s reply is covered with a rime of icy loathing. ‘I came into England because I have news to bring him. I came to tell him that you and your whore wife are traitors, agents of Spain.’
‘You’ve lost your reason, Oliver,’ Bianca says, as though bitter rage was an illness demanding sympathy.
‘Oh, my reason is sound enough,’ Henshawe says, lowering the blade of his sword a little. ‘I have proof.’
‘What you have, Oliver, is a heart full of anger,’ Bianca says. ‘It would be best if you were to put away your sword. It will be a little difficult to speak reasonably otherwise.’
Henshawe answers her with a slack smile of triumph. ‘While you were on your way to England, madam, we captured a rebel. We put him to the hard press. And mercy, how he sang!’
‘What madness is this, Oliver?’ Bianca says.
‘Not madness – truth. I know all about that treacherous rogue, Piers Gardener. I know who the Blackamoor is.’ A jab of his sword in Cachorra’s direction. ‘I know of her mistress. I know that they escaped me on that beach when their ship came ashore. I know they have been whispering sweet succour into the ear of that dog, O’Neill, ever since.’ The sword blade swings unerringly towards Bianca. ‘And you, my sweet mistress – who once disdained me so – you have been consorting with our enemies.’
Bianca wonders how such a pretty vessel can hold so much spiteful resentment for the failure of a courtship that lasted barely a month. What weakness of the soul can account for such long-harboured bitterness? But there is no doubting the menace beneath his words.
‘Oliver,’ she says, ‘you’ve invented a whole forest of nonsense out of a single sapling of half-truth. Now put up your sword, take your’ – a doubting glance at Strollot, Vyves and the two others – ‘your gentlemen and depart, before I call for the watch.’
But Henshawe is too far into his warren of conspiracy to turn back now.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that your husband was putting poison in the physic he gave to my lord of Essex,’ he says, his pretty mouth as tight as a crack in a porcelain plate. ‘I’ll warrant he’s behind His Grace’s sickness. You’re in this together, in the pay of Spain.’
Nicholas wonders if Henshawe might be drunk. But there is no tremor or uncertainty in the way he holds his sword. The tip barely moves.
Then Bianca says calmly, ‘You’re wrong, Oliver. Cachorra and her mistress came to Ireland for a very different reason from the one you think. She’s an ally, not an enemy.’
‘It’s true,’ Nicholas says. ‘Mr Secretary Cecil will confirm it, if you dare to go to Cecil House and ask him.’
Henshawe’s mouth twists as though he’s swallowed a fly. ‘Robert Cecil? He’s the greatest traitor of all,’ he proclaims. ‘But I will set things right.’ He nods in Cachorra’s direction. ‘When I bring that Spanish bitch before His Grace, the Privy Council will have no choice but to open their eyes. They will see then who are the real enemies: the ones who would sell this realm – and the immortal souls of every true Christian in it – to Spain, for nothing but a worthless promise of peace.’
‘And how exactly do you intend to do that?’ Nicholas asks. ‘By marching on York House and freeing Essex? After all, it’s not as if you have a real company of mustered men waiting to follow you, is it?’
If he had just called Henshawe’s mother a whore there would be less malice in his stare. Nicholas wonders if he were to goad Henshawe further, whether he might be able to create enough of a reaction to give Ned Monkton a chance to break away from his guards.
‘We know all about your squalid little scheme,’ Nicholas says contemptuously. ‘I suppose I might have seen a scrap of honour in a man who raised a force to overthrow a court he believed to be corrupt, but to gull the Exchequer for your own private gain, when braver men than you are dying in Ireland because there aren’t enough of their fellows to fight beside them – that is true treachery, Oliver.’
The reaction comes not from Henshawe, but from Vyves. The muster ensign turns his lean, cadaverous face away from the kneeling Timothy. His one eye fixes expectantly upon his master, but the tip of his blade remains laid unerringly against Timothy’s neck. He seems to be seeking permission to make the lad pay for Nicholas’s insult.
‘Don’t hurt him!’ Nicholas shouts in horror. As the lad looks in his direction, his eyes pleading for help, a cold, jagged knot of fear – and guilt – forms in Nicholas’s stomach. ‘You have no quarrel with him, Oliver,’ he pleads desperately.
To his relief, Henshawe lifts a hand to keep Vyves in check. He raises his sword until the blade is pointing at Nicholas’s mouth. ‘Hold your tongue, or I’ll cut out your filthy heart,’ he growls.
How far dare I push him? Nicholas wonders. It’s like baiting a wild beast. One more insult and Henshawe might strike. One more goad and Vyves could kill Timothy. Yet somehow he must take the initiative from Henshawe or they may all die.