CHAPTER 20

The Black Sheep Tavern, Bankside

Nick spent the next three days at The Black Sheep. Hector was ecstatic to have his master around, but Nick had an ulterior motive. He wanted to let the news of Annie’s treachery spread through the gossip vines of London and eventually reach her ears. With the prospect of war with Spain looming, any talk of treason would spread like wildfire in the city. His motive for going to The Angel the day he met with Cecil and had the fight with Gavell and Stace was to spread the word about Annie and his role in uncovering her treason. Patrons in their cups talked, and there was no better way of baiting his hook than to talk freely in a tavern, making sure he was overheard.

Nick was convinced Annie was still in London. If nothing else, the gossip would tell her that he was not, in fact, dead as she had thought. He knew she had gone to ground, but he hoped he could lure her out in order to finish the job that she had failed to do twice: once on the London Road and once in the tavern. Should she ever be brought to trial, it was Nick’s testimony that could send her to the block. If Nick was out of the way, there would be no proof. Therefore, she had a powerful motive to try to kill him a third time.

The Spider had sent him a message saying that, even though he had ordered the ports shut down after receiving Nick’s report about del Toro and Annie, del Toro had managed to slip through and take a merchant ship to Calais. An agent in France had reported that he had been alone when he disembarked, so evidently he and Annie had split up. The Spider seemed to imply that del Toro’s escape was Nick’s fault for delaying reporting in until the next day, even though he knew Nick had been half unconscious from the blow to his head.

Nick had shrugged at this message. It was Annie who had murdered Winchelsea and it was Annie he wanted. He was heartened when the Spider’s message said that all shipping to Ireland had been suspended until she was caught.

Now that spring had finally arrived, he took Hector for long walks in Paris Garden and wandered aimlessly around Southwark, trying to make himself as conspicuous as possible but keeping an eagle eye out for anyone who approached him on the streets or seemed to be watching him. The trouble was, he had no idea whom he was looking for, as Annie was bound to be disguised. So anyone who came within fifty yards of him was scrutinized, be it a soot-begrimed blacksmith’s apprentice or a beefy washer woman on the steps of St. Mary’s Queen Dock. Nick was also relying on Hector to alert him to Annie’s presence, whatever protean shape she took. That was Annie’s one small mistake—making friends with his dog.

On the fourth morning, he was slouched on a stool in the tap room of The Black Sheep, breaking his fast with bread and small beer, when John appeared from his family’s quarters at the back of the tavern.

“Where are you off to?” Nick asked.

“Another meeting at the Brewers’ Guild,” John said. He was carrying a small cask of ale under one arm. “They want to sample Maggie’s brew before they make up their minds.” He pulled a face. “Cadge a free drink, more like. Bloody sods.”

“Can you do me a favor,” Nick said, “and drop in at Seething Lane to see if Walsingham has replied to my message?” He frowned. “It’s strange that he hasn’t replied. I only hope it’s not because he’s dead.”

“You would have heard, surely?” John said.

“Not necessarily. The Queen might want to keep it quiet because of the situation with Spain. Losing her Secretary of State and head of her spy network would make us look vulnerable.”

“I’ll stop by,” John promised.

After doing some chores for Maggie—hefting barrels of her newly made beer up the cellar steps and into the taproom behind the bar in readiness for the evening’s trade—he decided to have a wander around Southwark with Hector and then go round to Kat’s and see how Thomas was faring.

*   *   *

Thomas was recovering but still looked wan. At least he was freshly shaved and wearing clean linen. No doubt due to female ministrations, Nick thought. He eyed the door that led to Kat’s own bedchamber. It was suspiciously ajar.

“Just in case I take a funny turn in the middle of the night,” Thomas said, noticing the direction of his gaze.

“Ha!” Nick said. He signaled for Hector to jump up on the bed and drape himself across Thomas’s chest. “Say hello to Thomas, Hector. He missed you.”

“Get the big brute off.” Thomas’s voice was muffled by Hector’s shaggy chest and forepaws.

Despite savoring the sight of Thomas thrashing around under his enormous dog, Nick nodded for Hector to move.

“I’m surprised you’re not up and about,” Nick said, surveying his friend, who was irritably picking dog hair off his nightshirt.

“Oh, I’m up all right,” Thomas said, leering. “All these lovely ladies see to that.”

But Nick could see this was pure bluster on Thomas’s part. He still looked weak, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

Kat breezed in. “Talking about me again?” She sat down on the bed and threw her arms around Hector. “Who’s a beautiful dog, then?” Joyously, Hector began slathering her face, his tail beating on the bed, making the whole structure shake.

Both Nick and Thomas watched enviously.

“Heard you had your own run-in with a lovely lady, Nick?” Kat said, sitting up and wiping the slobber off her face with a corner of the coverlet. “One in drag, no less.”

“Oh, do tell,” Thomas said, perking up.

Nick told them about Annie and del Toro. He was just explaining how he intended to lure Annie out in the open by making himself a target when there was a hammering on the front door of the brothel, shouting down below, then the sound of someone racing up the stairs.

Henry, Maggie’s fifteen-year-old son and John’s stepson, burst into the room. If his presence in the brothel was startling enough—he had been strictly enjoined never to set foot in the establishment on pain of death by his parents—the expression on his face was even more so. He looked stricken. He didn’t even blush when he saw Kat reclining on the bed.

“Nick,” he said. “Father’s been hurt. Badly.” Here his voice broke, but whether from his age or from tears stubbornly held back, Nick didn’t know. Nick leapt to his feet and took Henry by the shoulders.

“How?” he said. “Where?”

Henry shook his head and scuffed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Don’t know. Two men brought him to The Black Sheep. I told Eli and Rivkah on the way over. They’ll be there now. You must come.”

Nick briefly held the boy to him. “It’ll be all right, Henry. John is as strong as an ox, you’ll see.” His voice was even, but inside, Nick felt as if a fist were squeezing his heart.

Without bidding farewell to either Thomas or Kat, Nick and Henry ran down the stairs with Hector loping behind them.

On the way back to the tavern, all Nick could think was that John had been mistaken for him, that it should have been he, Nick, who was attacked, not his friend.

Please God, let him be alive. Please God, Nick kept repeating to himself as he ran down the streets. Then, It’s all my fault.

As they neared the tavern, Nick heard Hector howling.

*   *   *

Nick expected to find the taproom in an uproar, but after he had shushed Hector, it was strangely quiet. Two men were sitting quietly on a bench near the fire. Nick was astonished to see that it was Henry Gavell and Richard Stace. Nick heard Matty in the back rooms consoling a crying baby Jane.

“What are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“We’re the ones who brought him,” Gavell said.

Nick didn’t have time to question him further. “Where is he?”

“They carried him upstairs,” Gavell said, pointing up to where Nick’s room was located. “The doctors are with him now.”

Nick and Henry ran up the stairs and into Nick’s bedchamber.

John was stretched out on the bed, his face white, his nostrils strangely pinched at the edges and his eyes sunken. A bandage was wrapped around his head, obscuring most of his hair. Nick gave a shiver of premonition. John looked as if he had been prepared for burial with a bandage to keep his jaw from falling open. Maggie was on her knees beside the bed, holding one of John’s hands and weeping.

Henry rushed to kneel beside his mother, putting his arms around her.

“Is he …?” Nick began to say, but couldn’t get the word out. He was paralyzed by the facsimile of a deathbed scene before his eyes.

Rivkah came to him quickly. “He lives,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “His pulse is weak, but he lives.” Those were almost the exact words she had used for Thomas.

Nick suddenly felt as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up. He sank down on a stool and put his head in his hands.

“He is in a coma,” Eli said, his face grave. Then in a low voice so Maggie and Henry would not hear, “We fear he may not wake.”

Nick lifted his head. “What can I do?”

“Nothing,” Rivkah said. “All we can do is wait.”

Nick stood and went over to the bed. He looked down at his friend lying so still, so deathlike that the covers over his chest barely moved.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching down and touching John’s hand.

“Sorry?” Maggie said, looking up at him. “You’re sorry?” Then suddenly she was on her feet, beating at Nick’s chest and face with her fists, screaming into his face. “What was he doing in Seething Lane? He was only meant to go to the Brewers’ Guild. You should have gone yourself rather than always getting John to run your errands. You call him a friend, but he is nothing but a servant to you. As are we all to your exalted kind, Your Lordship.” She spat out this last, and Nick flinched.

He did nothing to defend himself but stood there, the blows thudding against him. In a strange way, he welcomed her anger, her fists striking his face. It was a kind of atonement for the guilt he felt. She was right. He had treated John like a lackey. Nick was no better than Essex. Not only had Nick used John to do his dirty work, but he had dragged all those he cared about most in the world into a cesspit of lies, treason, and death. Now his best friend lay mortally injured and might never recover. If Nick could have changed places with John, he would gladly have done so. Now, because of his abominable pride, it was too late.

Then Henry was pulling his mother off. “Don’t,” he said. “It isn’t Nick’s fault.”

“It is my fault,” Nick said. Then he turned and left the room.

*   *   *

In the taproom below, Nick sat heavily on a bench, his hands loose between his knees. Hector came over and leaned against his legs. Nick draped an arm over the dog’s flanks and pressed his face into his neck.

“Sorry about your mate,” Gavell said.

Nick sat up. “Forgive my manners,” he said. “I must thank you for bringing John here.” He got up, went behind the bar, and drew off three tankards of ale. He gave one each to the men and sat down with the third. Of course, it was possible that the two men had attacked John themselves and then, posing as Good Samaritans, brought him to The Black Sheep in order to get closer to Nick on his home turf. Nick knew he should not take anything they said at face value.

“Tell me what happened,” Nick said, turning to Gavell.

Gavell was looking at him suspiciously. He took a drink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, perhaps a delaying tactic in order to get his story straight. Nick waited, idly fondling Hector’s ears but keeping a sharp eye on Gavell’s expression for any sign that he was lying.

“Me and Richie figured that if we staked out Seething Lane, sooner or later we’d catch you going in to report to Walsingham.” He gave a small smile. “We thought we’d rough you up a bit to teach you a lesson.”

“Fair enough,” Nick said. So far, Gavell’s account had the ring of truth. Nick had gotten the best of them in two fights, and it must have rankled them deeply. He could imagine them brooding on their humiliation and plotting revenge.

“Then we saw your friend go in. We wondered if he were just meeting you and that you’d come out with him, so we waited. Then we saw this man come round the side of the building. He looked suspicious-like, as if he’d been hiding there. When your friend came out, this other man hit him with something from behind.”

Gavell looked at Nick. “It wasn’t sportsmanlike,” he said, “to come at him from behind. A dirty trick, if you ask me.”

So was waiting to ambush Nick in Seething Lane, Nick thought. This was where their story began to sound implausible.

The lines around Gavell’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Think I’m just a thug, don’t you?” he said. “But I have my standards.”

Nick nodded. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Anyway, me and Richie shouted and ran over. The man was going to hit him again in the head, but he scarpered when he saw us coming.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

Gavell shook his head. “He was wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up.”

Conveniently anonymous, Nick thought. Only John could tell him what really happened, so there was no evidence to gainsay Gavell’s story. Even if John woke up, there was a very real possibility he would remember nothing of his attack. Rivkah had warned Nick that memory loss was a common side effect of severe blows to the head.

“Could John’s assailant have been a woman?” Nick asked.

Gavell opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. He looked into his drink. “I hate to think it.”

That, at least, was an honest answer, Nick thought.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Nick was picturing John facedown on the ground, his assailant poised to give him his death blow. Wary as he was of Gavell and Stace, he would always be grateful to them for intervening.

“Anyway, I checked to see if he were living,” Gavell went on. “Then I got Richie to pick him up, and we brought him here.”

“Why didn’t you take him into the house on Seething Lane?” Nick asked.

“We thought his wife would prefer it if we brought him here,” Gavell said.

When Nick looked startled, Gavell chuckled. “We’ve done our homework on you and your friend,” he said. “We’re not as dumb as we look. Well, I’m not,” he added. “Now Richie there”—he nodded at his friend leaning against the bar happily consuming his fourth tankard of ale—“is as dumb as he looks. But there’s no harm in him. Born like that.”

Like Ralph, Nick thought.

“Why did you set on Edmund at Wood Wharf?” Nick asked.

Gavell shrugged. “Can’t stand the little git. Always licking Essex’s arse. Showing up when he’s not wanted.”

To a man like Gavell, who had probably been born into poverty and made his own way in the world since birth, a man like Edmund, who had been raised in comparative wealth as the son of a prosperous farmer, was incomprehensible. What Gavell took for weakness and sycophancy was probably Edmund’s anxiety at the very real prospect of penury. The highways and byways of England were filled with landless men looking for work. Edmund must be terrified of becoming one of them—unshaved, ragged, starving, wandering the countryside like packs of feral dogs. It made Nick feel all the more guilty that he couldn’t, in all conscience, recommend Edmund to Walsingham when Essex returned to the Netherlands. He wondered whether Robert could take him on as a secretary or recommend him to someone in Oxford. Nick made a mental note to ask his brother when he next saw him. After all, he owed Edmund his life.

Before Nick could defend Edmund to Gavell, Eli and Rivkah came down the stairs. Both were somber.

Nick stood, expecting the worst. “How is he?”

“The same,” Eli said. “I’m going home to study some of my books about head injuries. I may learn something there that will help, but I think the only thing we can do is keep him quiet and wait. Sometimes the brain has a way of healing itself. We don’t know why. So far there is no sign of swelling. If that should happen, I will have to relieve the pressure on his brain.”

“How will you do that?” Nick asked, fearing the answer.

“By removing a small piece of his skull and draining out the blood,” Eli said. “The ancient Greeks did it, and I have seen it done in Spain.”

Nick shuddered. “Was it successful?”

Eli shook his head. “The procedure is simple enough, but the shock of it can kill the patient even if the subsequent infection does not. I’m sorry I do not have better news.”

“Pray for him,” Rivkah said, putting her hand on Nick’s arm and giving it a squeeze. “We will be back later. If there is any change, send for Eli at home and me at the infirmary.”

Nick and Gavell sat down again. Maggie had stopped wailing, but somehow her silence was worse. Nick was afraid to go up in case he provoked her again. He felt utterly helpless. He couldn’t even help with the baby, as he could hear Matty singing a soft lullaby to her in the back room.

“I’d better get Richie back or he’ll drink himself blind,” Gavell said after a while.

Nick nodded. “Will you inform me if you spot Annie?” That would be a test of Gavell’s story, Nick thought. If they truly wanted to catch John’s assailant and the murderer of a fellow agent, they would do as he asked, even if that meant betraying a friend.

Gavell nodded glumly. “I reckon. But I still can’t believe that lass could be capable of such a cowardly act.”

*   *   *

After Gavell and Stace left, Nick took a piece of parchment and wrote on it: Closed until further notice: sickness in the family. Then he nailed it to the front door of The Black Sheep.