The fight goes out of Vyves like air from an uncorked wineskin. As he stares at Henshawe’s body, his captive nimbly dodges away from his blade. Seizing an empty tankard from an uncleared table, Timothy redeems himself with one swinging blow into the lank curtain of hair on the back of Vyves’s head. Strollot, never a swordsman, simply lets go of his rapier.
And then all eyes – at least those still undimmed – turn towards Cachorra.
She is kneeling on Henshawe’s chest. Whether or not he still has the capacity to hear her voice is anyone’s guess, for although his eyes are open, they do not move. But Cachorra seems to think he can, because she is speaking to him as she lifts each of his hands in turn and removes the heavy jewelled rings from his fingers.
‘These rings are not yours,’ she is saying. ‘You stole them from my dear friend, Don Rodriquez Calva de Sagrada. He was my past.’
Bracing her knees against Henshawe’s unmoving shoulders, she grasps the crossbar of the crucifix. ‘And this is my payment for many years of insult from his daughter. It is my future. My freedom. By an act of kindness, it belongs to me now.’
Then, leaning close to Oliver Henshawe’s half-open mouth, she says softly, almost as if she were whispering an endearment to a lover, ‘And you, Señor, you now belong in hell.’
And with that, she slowly draws the now-gory shaft of the crucifix from the depths of his skull.
44
Bianca has washed Nicholas’s wounds with a distillation of wild campion, agrimony and fluellin and has applied a cataplasm to halt the bleeding. His injuries are painful but superficial. Even the slash beneath his jaw has not penetrated his mouth. But it will be a while before he can speak much above a croak.
Save for Henshawe, the only other serious hurt is to the arm of the guard Ned felled with his first punch. Bianca has done her best to treat and bind the deep gash, and now he sits against the taproom wall, ashen-faced and wary. His companion and Strollot and Vyves are under Ned’s care, which – given the circumstances – is surprisingly benevolent. But then no one without a sword is likely to give Ned Monkton any trouble. Henshawe himself lies where he fell, his face covered with a hemp sack fetched from the brew house in the Jackdaw’s yard.
Whatever courage Vyves and the others entered with has flown away into the autumn night, now that they are disarmed and without their leader. But there is still defiance. Barnabas Vyves seems to think he retains the upper hand.
‘The Blackamoor will surely hang for murder,’ he says confidently, from his place on one of the Jackdaw’s benches
Timothy makes to strike him again with the tankard, but Nicholas raises a hand to stop him.
‘Do you think so?’ he croaks, wincing as the movement of his mouth tugs at the torn flesh below his jaw.
‘You haven’t the stomach to kill us,’ Vyves says, his single eye fixed on the body lying on the floor. Whether he is mourning Henshawe’s demise or the ending of a lucrative income, Nicholas cannot be sure. ‘You ain’t the sort – none of you.’
‘Oliver Henshawe came here with violence in his heart,’ Bianca tells him, inspecting the extent of the blood on her gown and wondering how she’s going to wash it clean. ‘He was killed in self-defence. There’s none here who can claim otherwise.’
Vyves gives a petulant little laugh. ‘A Spaniard slaying an English gentleman? There’s not a judge in the realm what wouldn’t help to rig the gallows.’
Rose, back from checking on the still-sleeping Bruno, hands Nicholas the clean shirt she has fetched. As he pulls it on, he says, ‘But you have to ask yourself, Master Vyves, who is more likely to swing from those gallows – a woman who acted to protect the lives of others, or a man who has been cheating the Treasury these last several months? And we haven’t even begun to consider Henshawe’s confession regarding the death of Edmund Spenser, or any part you may have played in it. Then, of course, there’s Lemuel Godwinson–’
‘There’s no evidence that would convince any magistrate,’ says Strollot. ‘You have nothing.’
‘But a confession would.’
‘And why would we make one of those?’ Vyves sneers.
‘There’s a chamber under Cecil House,’ Nicholas says. ‘I’ve been there, so I can describe it to you, if you’d like.’
‘A chamber?’ enquires Strollot. ‘What manner of chamber?’
‘Let us simply say it’s not a storeroom,’ Nicholas tells him, recalling the dying rebel whom Robert Cecil had asked him to treat there. ‘And the only man I saw keep his tongue silent in it was a lot braver than either of you.’
‘What are you proposing?’ asks Strollot, his plump red jowls quivering as he sniffs the scent of a deal.
‘Two things, as a matter of fact. The first is that you all carry that out of here.’ A glance at Henshawe’s body. ‘I suggest you leave him for the night-watch to find. You already know how to do that. You’ve done it before. In return, we will forget you were ever here.’
‘Nicholas, what are you proposing?’ Bianca interjects, her face clouding.
‘Peace, sweet,’ he says with a smile that starts the blood trickling again over the new shirt. ‘I think Masters Vyves and Strollot will want to hear what I have to say.’
‘Go on,’ Vyves invites.
‘We will all agree that Oliver Henshawe was a little rash in coming to Bankside tonight – whatever his motive – given the known presence of cut-purses.’
‘Cut-purses?’ says Vyves.
‘Constable Osborne saw what he thought was a cut-purse earlier. We’ll pretend it wasn’t one of you. We’ll pretend you were never here.’
‘And the second?’ asks Strollot.
‘That, Master Strollot,’ says Nicholas, dabbing at his chin with the back of his hand, ‘will depend upon your willingness to be frank with me over how much of the stolen Treasury’s money you have left.’
The low afternoon sun tugs spidery shadows from the trees along the Strand. It sharpens the outlines of the fine mansions lying in the countryside west of Temple Bar. In Robert Cecil’s study the panelled walls glow with reflected golden light.
‘I would be lying to you if I said that the Privy Council has been diligent in stamping out this corruption,’ Cecil tells Nicholas as they stand together looking out across the sculptured gardens. ‘But this is the most egregious case I’ve heard of so far.’
‘You knew?’ Nicholas asks in disbelief.
‘Of this specific crime, no. But defrauding the muster commissioners is not unheard of. I have tried to draw the attention of my honourable colleagues to the problem, but there are too many other pressing issues weighing on the attention of the Privy Council. Perhaps Henshawe’s wickedness will make them pay attention. We can ill afford to have our efforts in Ireland hampered so.’
‘I have been led to understand that what remains of the money he stole may be retrieved from the grounds of his house at Walworth, hidden in a dovecote,’ Nicholas says. ‘I would imagine it is a considerable sum.’
Cecil turns away from the window. As the sunlight leaves his face, the old paleness returns, as though the well of intrigue has been recharged. ‘You show remarkably detailed knowledge of where the money is, Nicholas, and yet you tell me you have none at all of how Henshawe’s body came to be found on the riverbank by Battle Creek. How can that be?’
Nicholas contrives to appear the simple yeoman’s son fresh from the wilds of Suffolk. He says, ‘I have only Bankside gossip to rely upon, Sir Robert: fragments overheard, scraps picked up here and there. Sir Oliver Henshawe will not be the last gentleman to disregard the dangers of wandering alone south of the river at night.’