early, she thinks something's wrong—'
I turned away and started running down Chancery Lane, past lawyers who stopped and stared, to Barak's house.
HE OPENED the door. He was dishevelled, wild-eyed, a mug of beer in his hand. From the closed door of the bedroom across the hall I heard screams of pain.
Barak pulled me in. He sank down on the little wooden settle in the hall. I said, 'Is Guy—'
'In there with her. I'd not been back half an hour when her waters broke. It shouldn't have come for near two weeks. The last time the baby came when it was due.'
'Where is Goodwife Marris?'
'In with Guy. They shut the door on me.'
'Here—' I took the cup of beer from his hand, he was gesticulating so wildly I feared he might spill it. 'What did Guy say?'
'He says it's just early. Goodwife Marris was frightened, she ran for him—'
'Well, second babies can come early, you know that.'
He gave an anguished look at the closed door, from behind which screams still came.
'It only means the baby's coming—'
He said wildly, 'If anything happens to her, I couldn't bear it, I'd take to drink again—she's everything—'
'I know. I know.'
'I don't care if it's a girl—' He broke off. The screaming had stopped. There was a long, terrifying moment of silence. Then, faintly, we heard another sound, the grizzling cry of a baby. Barak's mouth fell open. The door opened and Guy came out, wiping his hands on a towel. He smiled.
'Jack, you have a fine, healthy son.'
He jumped up, ran over and pumped Guy's hand. 'Thank you! Thank you!' He was panting with relief.
'Thank Tamasin. She did the work. It was easy enough in the end—' But Barak had rushed past him into the room. I followed more slowly.
Goodwife Marris stood by the bed, holding a tiny form wrapped in swaddling clothes. Barak threw himself on Tamasin.
'Take care, fool,' she said softly. She smiled, stroked his head. 'Go and see your son.'
He went over to the child. Guy and I looked over Goodwife Marris's shoulder. 'He's—he's wonderful,' Barak said. Gently he took one of the baby's tiny hands in his own.
'He is,' I said, though in truth all babies look the same to me, like little old men. But he seemed healthy, screaming at the top of his lungs. I saw he had a fuzz of blond hair like Tamasin's.
Barak turned to Guy, his face momentarily anxious. 'He
'As healthy a child as I ever saw.'
Barak looked again at his son. 'Just think,' he said quietly. 'He could live to see a new century. Think of that, think of that.'
'Your John,' Tamasin said quietly from the bed.
Barak thought a moment, looked at me, then said, 'Tammy, do you mind if we give him another name?'
'What?' she asked, surprised.
'Let us call him George,' he answered softly. 'Like our first baby. I'd like to name him George Llewellyn Carswell.' He looked at me. 'To remember them.'
Epilogue
NOVEMBER 1545—FOUR MONTHS LATER
There was a cold wind in the churchyard. The last leaves had fallen and it sent them whirling and whispering around my feet. I pulled my coat tighter round me as I walked towards the church. Winter was come.
I stopped at Joan's grave and placed a last rose from my garden before the headstone. I stood a moment, wondering what she would have thought of the events in my household that summer. I still had no steward; I had interviewed several men, but none had the sensitivity I felt was needed to deal with Josephine. She was much better, but any mistakes she made, any little criticism, set her to dithering clumsiness. Occasionally when I came home from Lincoln's Inn I would see her looking out on the street, with a strange, intent expression. I guessed she was looking out for Coldiron, with what mixture of fear and desire for the security of his presence I did not know.
I had returned to work, grateful now for the routine. But sometimes when I was tired I still had that dreadful sensation of the ground slipping and sliding beneath my feet. I went on to my friend Roger's grave; the autumn rains had brought dirty streaks to the marble. I thought, I must send one of the boys to clean it. Simon would be leaving my house soon, as apprentice to a mercer; I had arranged it with Alderman Carver. I remembered how after Roger's death I had wanted to marry his widow. I had heard nothing from Dorothy in recent months. Nor had I heard from the Queen, nor Warner; but I had not expected to.
There was a bench outside the old church, and I cleared some leaves from it and sat down. I looked towards the churchyard wall, remembering the muster in Lincoln's Inn Fields back in June. The French had given up their plan to invade England now, their fleet had returned to France, where the siege of Boulogne dragged on; English troops inside the city, the French army outside. All a useless waste of time. Rumour said that the King had, at long last, realized his enterprise against France had failed utterly, and there would be a peace treaty in the New Year.
I looked towards the churchyard gate. This time I had not come here to ponder, but for a meeting, one best held away from the nosiness of Lincoln's Inn. As I watched, the gate opened and a tall, slim figure in a heavy coat and dark cap walked towards me. Emma Curteys still carried herself like a boy, dressed as a boy, looked like a boy. I invited her to sit beside me. She sat quietly for a moment, then turned and looked at me enquiringly. Her scarred face was pale.
'It is done,' I said.
'Were there any difficulties?'
'None, as everyone was agreed. Dyrick was there to confirm Hobbey's approval of the sale of the wardship. And Edward Priddis to approve the valuation. He is Hampshire feodary since his father died in September. Sir William Paulet raised no queries, so it is done.' I smiled uneasily. 'You are my ward now or, rather, Hugh Curteys is.'
She said quietly, 'Thank you.'
Emma had appeared in my chambers back in August. It was as well I was there, for Skelly would have refused entry to the thin, dirty boy who came asking for me. Emma told me she had not wanted to come, but a month penniless on the road, stealing from farmhouses, had worn her down and overcome her pride. I had given her money and found her a room in the city until the application to transfer the wardship could be heard.
I spoke hesitantly. 'Hobbey was there too, in case he was needed. Hoyland Priory has been sold to Sir Luke Corembeck.'
Emma looked at me. 'How is David?'
'He can walk a little now. But he has had more attacks of the falling sickness. Hobbey will not let him out of his sight; my physician friend thinks he protects him too much.' I looked at her. 'He is still sick with guilt and shame.'
'Master Hobbey always had to have people to be in charge of.' Emma paused, then looked at me and said with sudden passion, 'Yet I think constantly of David, what I did. I would put it right if I could.'
'I know.'
'And I think of the soldiers—I dream of them falling into the water, the screams of those trapped men.'
'So do I.' I had never told Emma that but for Rich's machinations it would have been a different company of soldiers on the
