“I couldn’t sleep, Master Nicholas. I thought since I was awake I might as well make myself useful in here,” Meg replied.
“Huh. Well, you can make yourself useful by getting me something for my head. It feels as if it’s about to explode. I have a raging thirst too.”
He was slurring his words. I remained still behind the sacks, only now feeling the ache in my arms and shoulders from hefting the crates and the tomb’s lid.
“In my experience, Master Nicholas,” Meg said, trying to keep her voice light, “the best remedy for that kind of headache is bed rest and a quantity of fresh water.”
“Get me some then.”
“But …” Meg faltered. “I have not been to draw any from the well yet, Master Nicholas. It is the middle of the night, and—”
“Well, you can draw some now.” His tone was growing more irritable.
“It is only that—it is very dark out there. I could get you some small beer for now, and bring water when —”
“I said draw some water, woman! Am I not the master of this house? My father might have kept you on out of pity, you crone, but I want a servant who will do my bidding without answering back.”
I could not stand to listen to any more of this. I brushed the flour from my breeches and stood in the archway that separated the pantry from the kitchen.
“You can’t send her out in the middle of the night. If you need water, I will go.”
Nick looked at first shocked, then outraged to see me.
“You! What in the Devil’s name are you doing here?”
“Same as you—looking for something to drink.”
“In there?” His face hardened and he took a step towards me as I watched an idea struggling to take shape in his fuddled mind. “Have you been stealing my father’s wine?”
I held up my hands to placate him.
“I have touched nothing. I only wanted water.”
“You lie.” He pointed at me as he took an unsteady step closer. “Do you think me a fool? Your hair is covered all over in cobwebs—you’ve been in that cellar! Devil take you—I told Bates I wanted no thieving foreigners in my house, but he would have you along for the sport.”
“You are drunk,” I said, turning away from him in disgust. He lunged at me, aiming a punch at my jaw, but his judgement was muddied by drink; from the corner of my eye I saw his fist swing and put up my left arm to block it, then landed a blow to his stomach with my right. He staggered back, winded, against the large table in the centre of the kitchen, cursing and spluttering, but I sprang forward on the balls of my feet, fists clenched, challenging him to try again. His head was clear enough to see that he would not come out of a fight well; instead he clutched at his gut and glared at me, his thick features twisted with hatred.
“Get out of my house,” he hissed. “And when my friends are up we shall make you pay for your thieving, you filthy cur.”
I should have taken my leave then, but I hesitated, looking at his blunt insolent face, thinking of how he had treated Sophia, how he had spoken to old Meg, and it was as if all the pent-up anger of that night rose in me and exploded. I half turned towards the door, then, almost with an impetus of its own, my fist drew back again and before I was even conscious of having decided on the action, it flew forward and connected squarely with his face. He was caught so much off guard by the blow that he lost his footing, slipped, and fell backwards, his head glancing off the corner of the heavy oak table. He hit the floor and lay there, quite still, blood trickling from his nose.
“Oh, Jesu! What have you done?” Meg cried, hastening to kneel by the motionless figure.
“I—I didn’t mean—” I stepped back, rubbing my bruised knuckles, aware only now that I was shaking violently. “Is he breathing?”
The old woman bent her head over Nick’s face. My heart seemed to slow to a standstill in the silence that lasted an eternity while I waited for her answer.
“Just—thanks be to God. Help me to sit him up, or the blood in his nose will choke him.”
Together we pulled him upright against the leg of the table, where he slouched sideways, head lolling, his mouth hanging open as blood dripped down his chin and onto his chest. Meg held the corner of her shawl to his nose.
“Looks worse than it is, I hope,” she whispered, in a tone of reproach. “Dear God, you could have killed him. Why did you not stay hidden?”
“The way he spoke to you—” I stared at the youth’s battered nose and the stream that bubbled over his swollen lip. For one moment of fury I might have been facing my own trial for murder.
She looked up with a rueful smile.
“You mean well, sir, I see that. The Lord knows I have no affection for this boy, but no one will be helped by breaking his skull.” Her face grew serious. “You should go. If he recalls what happened when he wakes, the lot of them will turn on you. They are foolish youths, but they swagger about with swords for all that.”
“He may think you were helping me to steal.”
“Leave me to worry about him. I’ve known him since he was an infant. You get yourself back to the city before first light. There have been enough horrors this night.”
I hesitated, but saw that she was right. On an impulse, I leaned forward and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Her white wisps of hair felt discomfitingly like cobwebs.
“Keep yourself safe, Meg,” I whispered. “When your mistress is free to return here, she will take care of you, I have no doubt.”
The old woman laid a bony hand over mine for a moment, and I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away.
“Get you gone,” she said. “And remember what I told you, sir—I knew nothing of this dreadful business. God knows I speak the truth.” She glanced in the direction of the cellar.
I nodded, squeezing her hand a last time, hoping she had wit enough to avoid the belligerent anger of Nick Kingsley and the infinitely more dangerous calculations of Langworth and Sykes.
The sky was already edged with pink light in the east as I retraced my steps through the priory burial ground towards the gate, casting a last glance back at the ominous shape of the dirty white mausoleum with its stone angel about to take flight. Red streaks showed between dark banks of clouds at the horizon and a welcome breeze lifted my hair and dispelled a little the foul vapours that I imagined still clung to me from the night’s encounter. I passed unremarked under the North Gate and in the yard of the Cheker, as I walked by the water pump, on impulse I stripped to the waist and stuck my head and shoulders under the flow, letting the cold water wash the cobwebs and filth from my hair and face, until I could almost believe I was clean again. When I was done, I held my bruised fist in the water to bring down the swelling, bitterly regretting that I had not shown a greater degree of self-control with Nick Kingsley. Now I had two enemies in Canterbury and it would be all but impossible to make any further investigations at St. Gregory’s, with Nick and his friends looking for the chance to give me a bloody nose or worse in return.
Shivering as I dried myself with my shirt, I realised the inn was still locked up for the night, and I would have to wait until the servants rose for their early chores—unless I wanted to get Marina out of bed, a prospect I did not greatly relish. Instead I crossed to the stables and found my horse dozing quietly in his stall. I squeezed in beside him, murmuring gentle nonsense, and lay down on a bale of hay. As I drifted towards an uneasy sleep, my fingers closed around the silver medallion of St. Denis in my purse and the decaying face of the Huguenot boy rose, livid, behind my eyelids, seeming to ask what in God’s name I meant to do next.
Chapter 11
I dreamed fitful dreams in those early hours; of skeletal hands ragged with rotten flesh reaching out of a dark tomb to clutch at my clothes. At one point I imagined one of these hands took hold of my shoulder and began shaking it roughly as the foul air of the burial chamber breathed cold into my face, until I could stand it no longer and woke with a fearful cry—to find myself staring blearily into the face of Constable Edmonton, whose morning
