Elizabeth.
Barak reappeared, riding his black mare and leading Chancery. I mounted and we rode to the gate. His expression was closed, serious. Barak, I thought, what sort of a name was that? It wasn't English, though he seemed English enough.
We had to pause in the gateway as a long procession of sulky looking apprentices wearing the blue and red badges of the Leathersellers' Company marched past. Longbows were slung over their shoulders, and a few carried long matchlock guns. Because of the invasion threat, all young men now had to undertake compulsory military practice. They passed up towards Holborn Fields.
We rode downhill to the City. 'So you were at the scene of this demonstration of Greek Fire, Barak?' I said, adopting a deliberately haughty tone; I had decided I was not going to be intimidated by this rude young fellow.
'Keep your voice down.' He gave me a frowning look. 'We don't want that name bandied abroad. Yes, I was there. And it was as the earl said. I would not have believed it had I not seen it.'
'Many wonderful tricks may be performed with gunpowder. At the last mayor's procession there was a dragon that spat balls of exploding fire-'
'D'you think I don't know a gunpowder trick when I see one? What happened at Deptford was different. It wasn't gunpowder: it was like nothing that's been seen before, in England, anyway.' He turned away, steering his horse through the crowds going through the Ludgate.
We rode along Thames Street, our progress slow through the lunchtime crowds. It was the hottest time of the day and Chancery was sweating and uncomfortable. I felt sunburn prickling on my cheeks and coughed as a swirl of dust went into my mouth.
'Not far now,' Barak said. 'We turn down to the river soon.'
I voiced a thought which had occurred to me. 'I wonder why Gristwood did not approach Lord Cromwell through Sir Richard Rich. He's Chancellor of Augmentations.'
'He wouldn't trust Rich. Everyone knows what a rogue he is. Rich would have kept the formula and bargained with it himself, and probably dismissed Gristwood into the bargain.'
I nodded. Sir Richard was a brilliant lawyer and administrator, but he was said to be the most cruel and unscrupulous man in England.
We entered the maze of narrow streets leading down to the Thames. I glimpsed the river, its brown waters alive with wherries and white-sailed tilt boats, but the breeze that came from it was tainted; the tide was still out, the filth-strewn mud stewing in the sun.
Wolf's Lane was a long narrow street full of old houses, decayed-looking cheap shops and lodging places. Outside one of the larger houses I saw a brightly painted sign which showed Adam and Eve standing on either side of the philosopher's egg, the legendary sealed vase in which base metal could be turned to gold, an alchemist's sign. The place was in dire need of repair, plaster was peeling from the walls and the overhanging roof lacked several tiles. Like many houses built on Thames mud, it had a pronounced tilt to one side.
The front door was open, and I saw to my surprise that a woman in a plain servant's dress was hanging onto the jamb with both hands, as though afraid of falling.
'What's this?' Barak asked. 'Drunk at one in the afternoon?'
'I don't think it's that.' I had a sudden feeling of dread. Then, seeing us, the woman let out a screeching wail.
'Help! For Jesu's sake, help me! Murder!'
Barak jumped down and ran towards her. I threw the horses' reins quickly over a rail, and ran over. Barak had the woman by the arms; she was staring wildly at him, sobbing loudly.
'Come on, girl,' he said with surprising gentleness. 'What ails you?'
She made an effort to calm herself. She was young and plump-cheeked, a country girl by the look of her.
'The master,' she said. 'Oh, God, the master-'
I saw that the wood of the doorframe was splintered and broken. The door, which hung from one hinge, had been battered in. I looked past her and down a long dim corridor hung with a faded tapestry showing the three kings bearing gifts to the infant Jesus. Then I gripped Barak's arm. The rushes on the wooden floor were criss- crossed with footprints. They were dark red.
'What has happened here?' I whispered.
Barak shook the girl gently. 'We're here to help. Come on now, what's your name?'
Whoever smashed their way in could still be here. I gripped the dagger at my waist.
'I'm Susan, sir, the servant,' the girl said tremulously. 'I'd been shopping in Cheapside with my mistress, we – we came back and found the door like this. And upstairs my master and his brother-' She gulped and looked within. 'Oh, God, sir-'
'Where is your mistress?'
'In the kitchen.' She took a deep, whooping breath. 'She went stiff as a board when she saw them, she couldn't move. I sat her down and said I'd go for help, but when I got to the door I felt faint, I couldn't go another step.' She clung to Barak.
'You're a brave girl, Susan,' he said. 'Now, can you take us to your mistress?'
The girl let go of the door. She shuddered at the sight of the bloody footsteps inside, then swallowed and, clutching Barak's hand tightly, led the way down the corridor.
'Two people, by the look of those prints,' I said. 'A big man and a smaller one.'
'I think we're in the shit here.' Barak murmured.
We followed Susan into a large kitchen with a view onto a stone-flagged yard. The room was dingy, the fireplace black with dirt and stains of rats' piss on the whitewashed ceiling. It struck me that Gristwood's schemings had brought him little profit. A woman sat at a big table worn with years of use. She was small and thin, older than I would had expected, wearing a white apron over a cheap dress. Straggles of grey hair were visible under her white coif. She sat rigidly, her hands clutching the table edge, her head trembling.
'She's shocked out of her wits, poor soul,' I whispered.
The servant crossed to her. 'Madam,' she said hesitantly. 'Some men have come. To help us.'
The woman jerked and stared at us wildly. I raised a soothing hand. 'Goodwife Gristwood?'
'Who are you?' she asked. Something sharp and watchful came into her face.
'We came on some business with your husband and his brother. Susan said you came home and found the place broken into-'
'They're upstairs,' Goodwife Gristwood whispered. 'Upstairs.' She clutched her bony hands together so hard the knuckles whitened.
I took a deep breath. 'May we see?'
She closed her eyes. 'If you can bear it.'
'Susan, stay here and look after your mistress. Barak?'
He nodded. If he was feeling the same shock and fear as I, he gave no sign. As we turned to the door, Susan sat down and hesitantly took her mistress's hand.
We passed the tapestry, which I saw from the style was very ancient, and mounted a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor. The house's lopsidedness was noticeable here, some of the stairs were warped and a large crack ran down the wall. There were more bloody footsteps, wet and glinting – this blood had been shed very recently.
At the top of the stairs a number of doors gave off the hallway. They were closed except for the one straight ahead of us. Like the front door it hung off one hinge, the lock smashed in. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The chamber was large and well lit, running the whole length of the house. There was an odd, sulphurous smell in the air. I saw the ceiling's large beams were painted with Latin texts.
No one would fish here again. A man in a stained alchemist's robe lay sprawled on his back over an upturned bench amid a chaos of broken glass pipes and retorts. His face had been completely smashed in; one blue eyeball glared at me from the hideous pulpy mess. I felt my stomach heave and turned quickly to study the rest of the room.
The whole workshop was in chaos, more overturned benches, broken glass everywhere. Next to a large
