I reached for my purse, but Barak put a hand on my arm.
‘Not so fast. Where will Bathsheba meet us then?’
She smiled, that mirthless slash I had seen at the brothel. ‘She and her brother will meet you at the house of Michael Gristwood at Wolf’s Lane at Queenhithe. It’s empty with his wife gone.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Bathsheba told me. George Green broke in there a few days ago. Bathsheba kept pestering him to try and get inside the house. There’s something in there she believes Michael was killed for.’
‘What was it?’ I hesitated. ‘A piece of paper?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know and don’t care. George got into the house through a window, twice, and it was deserted. I don’t think he found what he was after.’
I turned to Barak. ‘So much for the watchman. He’s still there?’
‘Ay, Lord Cromwell wanted an eye kept on the place. He will make the man’s arse smart for this. Listen, if Green was looking for a piece of paper, that would mean Michael had told Bathsheba about the formula.’
‘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.’
Chapter Thirty-one
BARAK 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.
IT 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—’
Barak turned swiftly to the doorway, but there was nothing there. The house was utterly silent. We looked at each other. Bathsheba’s voice had sunk to that keening moan again. Then we heard a door open downstairs, the parlour, I was sure. A sudden harsh smell stung my nostrils, making me cough. Barak caught it too. His eyes widened. ‘Shit,’ he shouted. ‘No—’
An extraordinary noise came from downstairs, a loud ‘whump’. It was followed by a crash as someone threw shutters open. Barak and I dashed to the window. I made out the shapes of two men, running down the street. Toky and Wright. Toky paused and looked back at us and I caught an evil grin on his pale face. He looked at me and drew a finger across his throat. Then he turned again and ran after his confederate.
‘Oh, Jesu. Shit.’ I turned at Barak’s voice. He was standing in the doorway, looking out. I could see the staircase was brightly lit with a red dancing light. There was a blast of heat, a crackling noise.
I ran to the door and stood beside him, hardly able to believe what I saw. The door to the parlour was wide open and the room was alive with fire, brighter than a thousand candles, the entire floor and walls covered in red flames that were already roaring through the open door and licking at the hall. The old tapestry outside caught fire immediately. A heavy, evil-smelling black smoke began rolling across the hall.
‘Jesu,’ Barak breathed. ‘It’s Greek Fire. They mean to kill us with Greek Fire. Come on!’ He turned to Bathsheba. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. Help me with her!’
I helped him lift Bathsheba from her brother’s body. Desperately weak as she was, she tried to resist, she looked at me and I caught a throaty bubbling, ‘No.’
‘Your brother is dead,’ I said gently. ‘You can’t help him.’
Barak and I heaved her up. As we lifted her I saw fresh blood run down her dress from a great wound in her stomach. The poor creature had been stabbed.
‘Hold her,’ Barak said. He ran back to the door. The fire was spreading with preternatural speed, the walls of the hallway had caught now and the flames-were almost at the bottom of the staircase. The roaring, cracking noise was much louder. I caught a whiff of the thick black smoke and gagged. Barak paused a second, then unbuckled his sword and threw it to the floor. He grasped the workshop door and, with a tremendous heave, pulled it free of its remaining hinge.
‘Follow me! Quick, before the staircase goes!’
‘We can’t get down there!’ I shouted, trying to keep Bathsheba’s slippery body from falling. She was very light or I could not have held her. She seemed insensible now.
‘We can’t get her out of the window, and we’d likely break our necks on the cobbles if we jump
ed! Come on!’
Holding the door in front of him like a shield, Barak stepped quickly across to the staircase and began descending. All the ground-floor walls were blazing now, the flames licking at the banisters, smoke curling upwards, ever thicker. This was it, the thing I had always feared had come to pass. Death by fire, red flames burning the skin from my body, sweating the blood out of me, my eyes melting. The words of a pamphlet reporting a burning returned to me. The kiss of fire so light and agonizing. I stood, paralysed.
Barak turned round and screamed at me. ‘Come on, you arsehole! We’ve only seconds! See, there’s the front door!’
His words brought me to my senses. Across the burning hallway I could see the half-open door to the street, a black shape in a red house of fire. The sight spurred me to follow him, dragging the girl with me. I made myself count the steps as I descended. One - two - three. From somewhere outside I heard a cry of ‘Fire! Dear God, fire!’
The smoke made my eyes sting and I had to keep blinking, trying desperately to breathe, the air so hot it felt as though it too was burning. Barak and I were both coughing now. I had a terror the staircase would collapse and bury us in burning wood.
Then suddenly I was at the foot of the steps, red flames all around me. I heard Barak scream, ‘Run.’ I thought I was about to fall, but then a flame licked at my arm, I heard my doublet sizzle and from somewhere I found the energy to leap forward. Then in a moment I was outside, in the street, the searing heat and the smoke gone. Someone grasped me and I fell into their arms. Someone else took Bathsheba’s weight and she slid away from me. I was lowered to the street and lay, gasping desperately for air, fearful I would suffocate, every intake of air burning my throat. There was a crackling of flames from the house and all around terrified yells of ‘Fire!’
At length my breath returned. I sat up groggily. Ahead of me the Gristwoods’ house was ablaze from end to end, flames roaring through every window. The roof had caught too and the fire had already spread to the neighbouring house. People had spilled from the alehouse and from all the houses in the street. They were running to and fro with terrified faces, calling for water, desperate to save their homes from this sudden, terrible outburst. I thought: thank God there’s no wind. I saw Barak was sitting beside me, retching and coughing. Next to him lay Bathsheba, still as death. Barak turned to me, his face black and all the hair on one side of his head gone.