Tombland

Elizabeth’s eyes were blazing now, her normally pale face red, her hands tightened into fists. She shouted, ‘God’s blood, do you dare support those men of mischief to my face? I thought you were one of the few I could trust in the pack of wolves that surrounds me, and God knows I have paid you well these last two years!’ She stood up, face blazing, and yelled, ‘No more! You ingrate, you consorter with traitors! God’s death, get out! You are dismissed from my service! Go!’ And with that she picked up the inkpot from her desk and threw it at me. It landed on my chest, splattering my robe and face with ink. ‘Get out!’ she shrieked again. I scrambled to the door, almost tripping as I made a hasty bow, grasped the handle and ran out.

On the other side I stood in the anteroom, breathing heavily. I rubbed my face, which succeeded only in transferring some of the ink to my hands. Thomas Parry stood there with Blanche; no doubt she had called him when the shouting began. From the other side of the closed door I heard an unexpected sound – Elizabeth weeping, a loud, desperate sound. Blanche gave me a chilling look and went in to tend to her mistress.

To my surprise, Parry smiled. ‘The inkpot, was it?’

‘Yes. I – I misspoke. Badly. She has dismissed me.’

Parry smiled again. ‘You’re lucky it was not the paperweight. If it is only the inkpot, she will regret her words later. Wait a few months, she will recall you again. I know her.’

I said, ‘Perhaps I may not wish to serve the Lady Elizabeth again. She did not even thank me for saving her relative.’

Parry smiled ruefully. ‘She did not like having to apply for the pardon. It made waves, you see.’

‘I doubt I shall return.’

Parry shook his head. ‘Do not be pettish, Serjeant Shardlake. After your questionable part in the rebellion, you need a powerful patron. And though she may say she no longer trusts you, I believe she does, and there are very few who command her trust. Reflect on that. Now come, let us see if we can get some of that ink off you. I have had the inkpot a few times myself, you know.’

Chapter Eighty-five

And so, at last, we returned to London, arriving early in the afternoon of the eighth of September. I was morose throughout the journey, still angry with the Lady Elizabeth, and brusquely dismissed questions from Nicholas and Barak about what had happened. Despite Master Parry’s help, my robe and fingers were still inky. Liz Partlett had withdrawn into herself, avoiding conversation; nervous, perhaps, as we approached London.

There were grim sights there, too, heads and body parts spiked on poles on the gates. Rebel leaders from the lesser camps, no doubt, from Essex or Sussex or Kent, God knew where.

We were all tired, me most of all, and my back hurt badly. As we rode down Cornhill towards Cheapside, Nicholas said to Liz, ‘We will soon be home now. Master Shardlake has a fine house in Chancery Lane, and you will meet his servants; I am sure you will like them.’

I looked fondly at Mousy, asleep in her pannier, a thumb in her mouth. I said to Liz, ‘She will be going to the house where her mother lived. But first there is one visit I must make. It is on our way. I want to go to my friend Guy’s house; I do not even know whether that good old man is still alive.’

And so we turned off Cheapside and rode through the narrow lanes into the apothecaries’ district. We caught glimpses of the Thames, Liz staring in awe at its size. Guy’s house was quiet. With Nicholas’s help, I dismounted and knocked at the door. There was a slow shuffle of feet and Francis Sybrant opened the door, his eyes widening at the sight of us. ‘Master Shardlake! Master Overton! Jack Barak! Oh, thank God, we did not know what had become of you, we thought you might be dead at the hands of those rebels until Jack’s letter to Tamasin arrived two days ago.’ Then he looked at Liz and Mousy with a puzzled expression, and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Barak. Liz reddened.

I said hastily, ‘The child is Josephine’s, my old servant. I fear she and her husband are dead. This is Goodwife Partlett, her wet-nurse. Now tell me, Francis, quick, how is Dr Malton?’

‘A little better, but still weak.’ He sighed. ‘He sees no patients, and I doubt he will again.’

‘Thank God, though, he is alive.’

‘Thank God indeed.’ He looked back into the house, then came outside and said in a low voice, ‘Tamasin is here. She has spent much time with us over the summer. Oh, she has been so worried –’

‘Where is she?’ Barak asked, dismounting quickly.

‘In the kitchen –’

Barak limped past us into the house. I saw the open kitchen door, and Tamasin’s face as she turned round, her expression turning to astonishment and delight. Barak took her in his arms, then closed the kitchen door.

Nicholas helped Liz to dismount. Francis said, ‘You have been in Norfolk all this time?’

‘Yes, Francis.’ I smiled tiredly. ‘It is a long story.’