Dark Fire (45 page)

‘Yes, it would.’

Madam Neller straightened her red wig. ‘They’ll meet you there tonight, after dark. They’ll be in the house watching. If they see anyone other than you two, they’ll be
off.’

Barak grunted. ‘They’re an insolent pair.’

Madam Neller shrugged and looked at me again. I passed her two half angels. She bit the coins and slipped them into her dress.

‘Tell them we’ll be there,’ I said.

She nodded, heaved her stocky form out of the chair and left the room without another word. She left the door to the hall open and I watched as she went to the front door. Joan, who was putting
down fresh rushes, gave the brothel keeper a scandalized look as the woman let herself out.

Barak smiled. ‘Poor Joan. She doesn’t know what to make of all these goings on. You’ll lose her if this continues much longer.’

‘I’ll lose more than her,’ I said sourly. ‘We both will.’

B
ARAK AND
I
SAT IN
an alehouse on the corner of Wolf’s Lane, almost opposite the Gristwood
house. It was a dingy place, where men of the poorer sort sat at battered tables playing cards or talking. A slatternly girl passed wooden tankards of beer through a hatch in the wall. Opposite me,
Barak was looking through the open door at the darkening streets.

‘Should we not go now?’ I asked.

‘It’s too early. She said they’d not be there till after dark. We don’t want to startle them.’

I sat back. Despite my tiredness and aching back, I found myself seized with a new excitement. It was clear Bathsheba knew more than she had indicated at the whorehouse. Now, perhaps, we could
find out how much. I took another drink of the watery beer as Barak studied a group of four men playing dice by the opposite wall. He leaned across to me.

‘Those dice are loaded. See the gloomy-looking young fellow in the dull clothes? He’s new to town, those others have invited him here to cheat him.’

‘The City knows countless ways to cheat people. It’s nothing to be proud of. The country has more honest ways.’

‘Does it?’ He looked at me with frank curiosity. ‘I’ve never been there. All the country folk I meet seem dozy clowns.’

‘My father has a farm near Lichfield. Country folk aren’t stupid. Innocent in some ways, perhaps.’

‘Look, he’s having to get his purse out now, silly arsehole.’ Barak shook his head, then leaned closer. ‘Will you see Marchamount again tomorrow? Try to find out
what’s going on with Lady Honor?’

‘Yes, I will. I’ll go to Lincoln’s Inn first thing.’ I had told him reluctantly of the new mystery my conversation on the river had raised, but I realized that where Lady
Honor was concerned I needed to sound the opinion of someone whose mind was unclouded by feeling. He had said I must ask Marchamount for the whole story of what was going on between him, Lady Honor
and the Duke of Norfolk. I agreed, though with a sinking heart, for I hated the idea of picking her affairs apart with Marchamount again. ‘Maybe there’ll be some news of Bealknap, too,
at last,’ I added, for there was still no word of him. At least on my return from the river I had found a note from Guy, saying he was back and I could call on him on the morrow.

At the far table I saw the young man had been persuaded to start another game. I caught a country accent, he was from Essex like Joseph. I thought of Elizabeth languishing in the Hole, a
distracted Joseph wondering what I was doing. ‘We must go down that well again,’ I whispered.

‘I know, but it’s risky with the dogs.’ He frowned. ‘I’ll put my mind to how it might be done.’

‘Thank you, I am grateful.’

‘I see those Anabaptists have repented. It’s the talk of the streets.’

‘Are people disappointed that there won’t be a big burning?’

‘Some are, but it’s a thing many prefer not to see.’

‘I have always feared it,’ I said. ‘When I was first in London as a student it was fashionable to support reform in the Church. Even Thomas More supported it. But then
forbidden Lutheran books started to appear and when More was made chancellor the burnings started in earnest. He was a great believer in burning as a purge for sin and to create fear. And it did.
The time came when there were few who hadn’t been to a burning, if only because it might be noticed if they didn’t go.’

‘I don’t remember much about the days before Lutheranism, I was just a child.’ Barak laughed sadly. ‘Only the smell of shit my dad brought everywhere with him, making me
escape to my schoolwork in the attic. Poor old arsehole, he only wanted to stroke my head.’

‘Homework for St Paul’s school?’

‘Ay. The old monks were all right, but by God they lived well.’

‘I know. I went to a monks’ school too.’

He shook his head. ‘I saw one of my old teachers begging in the gutter a couple of years ago. He looked half-crazed, one of those who couldn’t cope with being put out in the world.
It was a terrible thing to see.’ He looked at me interrogatively. ‘And where’s it all going now, can you tell me that?’

‘No. I fear the endless changes of the last ten years can only have undermined the faith of many.’ I was thinking of Lady Honor.

‘I never had too much faith.’

‘I did once. But it grows less certain every day.’

‘Lord Cromwell has faith. And he’d like to help the poor. But all his schemes – ’ Barak shrugged his broad shoulders – ‘between what the king wants and what
parliament wants, they never seem to happen.’

‘Strange. Lady Honor said something similar this morning.’ I looked at him. Again he was showing a different side – reflective and, like many in King Henry’s England,
puzzled and insecure.

He nodded at the door. ‘I think we can go now.’ He rose, adjusting the sword at his waist. I followed him out into the night.

I
T WAS AFTER CURFEW
and the streets were quiet. The air was hot and still, without a breeze. Candlelight shone from a few windows here and there, but the
Gristwood house was dark, sinister-looking in the moonlight. Barak signed me to halt opposite the broken front door. ‘Let them have a few minutes to see we’re alone.’

I looked up at the shuttered windows. The thought of Bathsheba and her brother peering through the slats at us made me uneasy.

‘Where’s the watchman?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ve been looking out for him. He’s off somewhere, like they are when there’s nobody to keep an eye on them. Arsehole.’

‘What if this is a trap? They could have a whole gang of George Green’s wherrymen in there, ready to spring on us.’

‘What would they gain? Bathsheba and her brother have run out of places to hide. They’ve no alternative but to throw themselves on our mercy.’ As ever when there was danger,
his expression was alert, excited. ‘All right, let’s go.’

Barak crossed the road swiftly. He knocked gently at the front door, then jumped back in surprise as the door swung open. I saw the new lock, a flimsy thing, had been smashed in. Barak whistled.
‘Insolent arseholes, they’ve broken it. Did that watchman see nothing?’

I looked uneasily at the strip of deep blackness beyond the half-open door. ‘Madam Neller said George Green got in through a window.’

‘You’re right,’ Barak said. He bit his lip, then kicked the door wide open. ‘Hello,’ he called in a loud whisper. ‘Hello!’ There was no reply.

‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Something feels wrong.’

Barak stepped cautiously over the threshold, sword raised. I followed him into the Gristwoods’ hall. Two closed doors and the staircase could just be made out ahead of us. Water dripped
somewhere. Barak took out a tinderbox and handed me a pair of candles.

‘Here, let’s get these alight.’ He struggled to strike a spark as I looked into the shadows. The dripping sound continued.

The tinder caught and I lit the candles. A dim yellow light illuminated the hall, flickering over the crooked walls and stairs, the dusty old tapestry and the dry rushes in the corners.
‘Let’s try the kitchen,’ Barak said. He opened the door and I followed him inside. The table was dotted with mouse droppings. ‘Look there,’ Barak whispered. I lowered
my candle and saw the dusty floor was marked by footprints, several pairs.

‘There’s at least three sets there,’ I whispered. ‘I told you, it’s a trap.’ I looked back at the door, putting my hand on my dagger and wishing I had brought
a sword myself.

‘Here!’ Barak called, a sharp urgency in his tone. He had drawn the shutters back and was looking out at the unkempt yard. The gate was wide open and something was lying against the
wall beside it, a heap of deeper blackness.

‘It’s a man,’ I said.

‘It’s the watchman! Come on!’

The door to the yard, like the front door, had been broken open. It was a relief to be outside, to have a way of escape open to the lane behind the house. I looked up briefly at the shuttered
windows, then joined Barak as he held his candle over the slumped figure by the gate.

For a moment I hoped that the man was asleep in some drunken stupor, but then I saw the great wound in his head, the pale shimmer of brains. Barak stood up, fingering the talisman inside his
shirt. For the first time since I had known him he looked afraid.

‘You were right,’ he breathed. ‘It’s a trap. Let’s get out of here.’

Then we heard the sound. I hope never to hear anything like it again. It came from inside the house, starting as a moan and rising to a keening wail, filled with sorrow and pain.

‘That’s a woman,’ I said.

Barak nodded. His eyes roved around the yard. ‘What shall we do?’

I was torn between the desire to run and the thought there was a woman in dreadful pain inside. ‘Is it Bathsheba? It must be.’

Barak squinted up at the shutters. ‘She might be pretending to be hurt to draw us in.’

‘That sound is no pretence,’ I said. ‘We have to go to her.’

He took a deep breath, then raised his sword once more.

I
FOLLOWED HIM BACK
through the kitchen, into the hall. The broken-down old house was silent again except for that slow drip-drip from somewhere.

‘The sound came from upstairs,’ I whispered. ‘God’s death, what’s that?’ I jumped back in alarm as four black shapes scurried along the side of the wall, then
shot out of the door.

‘Rats.’ Barak gave a bark of nervous laughter.

‘Why should they be running away?’

The awful moaning began again, a keening wail that broke into choking sobs. I looked up the dark staircase. ‘That came from Sepultus’s workshop.’

Barak set his jaw and, sword held ready, began mounting the stairs. I followed slowly. Barak held the candle high. It cast our shadows into monstrous forms on the wall.

The workshop door was open. Barak banged it wide, lest anyone was hiding behind it. But the room was silent, although the slow drip-drip was louder. He stepped inside. I followed him, nearly
gagging at the awful stench. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Barak whispered. ‘Oh, our Saviour.’

The room was still bare except for Sepultus’s large table. Young George Green was lying sprawled across it. His eyes, wide and still in death, glimmered in the candlelight. His throat had
been cut horribly; the table was covered with dark blood that still dripped slowly, one thick drop at a time, to the floor. Sprawled over him, weeping, her arms flung round his body, was Bathsheba,
her dress torn and cut and soaked with blood.

Barak was the first to move. He crossed to Bathsheba, who gave a little cry and flinched. He leant over her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We won’t harm you. Who did
this?’

I stood beside him as Bathsheba tried to speak. To my horror, when she opened her mouth a foamy trickle of blood spilled out; she too was badly hurt. She tried to speak, but managed only to moan
again. I laid a hand on her shoulder, trying not to shudder at the sticky wetness. I tried to see where she was injured, but it was too dark and she would not let go of her brother’s
body.

‘It’s all right,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t speak. We’ll help you.’

She lifted wild eyes to me, pale and frantic in her bloody face. ‘Get—’ she tried to speak, blood-soaked spittle running down her chin. ‘Get – out – while
you can—’