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“We must get out of this coach.” Francis tried to shove his upper body through the window in one door. The padded sleeves of his doublet caught on the trim. He wriggled, grunting, and made a little progress. Then the coachman loomed up in front of him.
He studied Francis as if encountering an odd type of bird. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m Francis Bacon. Who are you, and what do you think you’re doing?”
“Ah! Thomas Clarady’s master. I’ve heard a great deal about you. Tom was so sure you’d work out who killed that weasel Strunk. Alas, I’m afraid you failed.” He placed his flat hand across Francis’s face and pushed him back into the coach.
Francis fell awkwardly onto the bench.
“Who are you?” Robert’s tone had turned petulant with fear.
“He’s Charles Midley.” Francis heaved himself upright. “Aren’t you?”
“Good guess! Too late though.” Midley spread his arms across the span of square windows and thrust his face toward Robert. “You don’t really care who I am, do you? I’m just another of the hundred wards whose lives you’ve destroyed with your court. Well, now I’m returning that favor.”
He banged a fist on the door, startling both of his victims. Then he turned away to kick something wood-like to one side. The coach began to roll.
Midley disappeared behind it. He gave a loud grunt, and the coach picked up speed. Not a lot, but enough to carry them down to the bottom of the lane. Here, as Francis remembered, it sloped steeply into the water.
“Brace yourself!” he cried, pressing his hands against opposite walls.
The coach rolled into the river. Cold water splashed into the open windows, but the well-crafted cabin bobbed up again, rising above the surface. The swift current pushed them sideways at first. The iron-clad rear wheels dragged behind, turning them gradually in the direction of the flow.
Francis and Robert gaped at one another. Robert’s naked terror mirrored what Francis felt. They slid to opposite sides as if by mutual accord and shouted out the windows, “Help! Help! Save us!”
The initial splash had thrown half a foot of water onto the floor of the coach. Francis couldn’t tell if more seeped through the boards. It couldn’t be much. This elegant bauble had been masterfully crafted. The floor and sides were as tightly snugged together as a boat.
“We’re floating.” Robert showed a shaky smile. “If we could steer ourselves toward the bank, we might be all right.” He looked about as if searching for an oar. The cabin held nothing but cushions and curtains, which would only drag them down as they became saturated.
“We’re sinking,” Francis said. “The axle is pulling us down. Wood floats, but iron sinks. The rate will depend on the relative proportions of the two substances.”
Robert glared at him. “I may not have taken all knowledge to be my province, but I do know that much. What does your famous philosophy advise us to do?”
Francis gave him a sour look. His studies had yet to bear fruit of a practical nature. He surveyed the interior, hoping for something useful to appear. Nothing did. “We must escape before the windows go under. We’ll never survive that flood. I doubt we can break through the roof, so these ridiculously small windows are our only hope.”
Robert shot him a bitter look. “Then they will have to serve.” He knelt on the bench facing sideways, grabbing at the window’s edge as the coach rocked. More water splashed in on the other side.
“Careful!” Francis scolded. “Move gently. The more water inside, the faster we sink.” He snatched off his hat and used it to bail out an inch or two. A futile gesture. Every movement caused the coach to rock, bringing in another splash. Now the icy water rose to his calves. He shivered. How long could they endure the cold?
Robert ignored him. He stuffed himself into the window up to his shoulders, wriggling vainly to squeeze through. “I’m stuck!” Panic raised his pitch.
Francis grabbed two fistfuls of his doublet and hauled him back in. “Take off your doublet.” He started unhooking his too.
Robert bit his lip, scowling. “My shoulder,” he whispered. A wet shirt would reveal his deformity to all the world, assuming they survived.
“Your life, Robert.”
He shuddered and complied. This time he got most of his upper body out, then pulled back again. “I can’t swim!”
“Bodies float, don’t they?” Francis snapped. “You may have to abandon your purse.”
“Yours is empty, I suppose.”
Fear had not improved Robert’s temperament. If only Francis had been pushed into the river with someone like Sir Walter Ralegh or Charles Blount. Both could doubtless swim like porpoises and tow the coach to safety with their teeth.
A voice shouted outside. “Hoi, Masters!” Something bumped against the front of the coach, making both men shriek. Their impromptu vessel turned slightly toward the bank.
Rescuers? Or Midley in a stolen boat, making sure they went under?
Francis struggled to untie his wet laces. He watched with amazement as Robert turned around on the bench and thrust his silk-stockinged legs out the window. He pushed himself along with his elbows until most of his lower half dangled outside.
Then he screamed. “Something’s grabbing at me!”
“It’s all right, my lord,” another voice said. “Let us catch you.” The Southwark accent was unmistakable.
“Wherrymen!” Francis nearly fainted with relief. Tears blurred his vision momentarily. He shivered as he finally wrestled out of his doublet and knelt on the bench. Feet first or head first?
“I’m stuck!” Robert cried again. His round hose had bunched up at the hips, blocking his progress.
Francis slid his feet back into the cold water. “What have you got in there?” He thrust a hand rudely into his cousin’s hose and pulled out a thick wad of horsehair. Men stuffed their hose with such things to maintain that full melon shape. “God’s bones, Robert, if I drown for this . . .”
“How was I to know a madman would push me into the river this morning?”
“If you’d done something about the corruption in the Court of Wards, this would never have happened.”
“God’s whiskers, Frank! Not now!”
He had a point. Francis dragged out another handful. Then he shouted, “Pull!” out the window of the door. Robert’s body was drawn straight out, feet first. His hat fell off at the window’s edge and his head dipped under the water, but only for a minute.
“Grab those legs!” “Haul, man!” “You got him!”
Francis waved a hand, but that wherry had already turned away. Would they leave him here to drown?
He sloshed through the rising water at the bottom of the coach to try the other window. He would dive out head first. His purse was empty, as it happened, and his long, unstuffed galligaskins would not impede his egress.
He couldn’t swim either, but how hard could it be? Dogs did it with no training whatsoever. Even sheep could swim if necessary. He was a man and thus had a mind. He could choose to act like a beast when need demanded it.
He knelt on the bench and looked out. The wall of some great house rose above a strip of mud. The tide was going out. That explained why they kept moving downstream in spite of the rear wheels. The force of the outgoing tide must be stronger than the weight of the iron.
He scolded himself. Now was not the time for observation. He lowered his head and extended both arms out the window. Something pounded against the other side, pushing him closer to the bank. It also let in more water, which now rose to the bottom of the bench.
He couldn’t wait for rescuers. They might not even know he was inside. “I’m coming out!” he shouted, hoping someone would hear him. Then he gathered himself, drew in a deep breath, and plunged into the river.
The cold drove precious air from his lungs. His hindquarters began to sink with the weight of his woolen clothes and leather shoes. He flailed his arms and legs, almost vertical in spite of the relentless pushing of the tide. He thought of the dogs and the sheep and tried to paddle with cupped hands.
It worked. His face broke free into the air. He gasped, then drew in a shuddering breath. Then he panted like the dog he strove to emulate, paddling his hands and feet for all he was worth to keep his head above water.
“Grab this, Master!” A long oar extended toward him. He gripped it with both hands and hung on as it was pulled toward a wherry. He squeezed his eyes shut against the water, not opening them until rough hands grabbed him under the armpits. The wherryman hauled him up to the gunwales, letting his upper body flop into the boat. Another hand gripped the seat of his slops and hauled his bottom half up and in.
Someone rolled him over. “You’re safe now, Master.”
“Thank you.” Francis gazed at the homely face above him. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight. “And Robert?”
“The other lord? He’s in another boat.”
Francis exhaled the last of his fear and closed his eyes again. He made no attempt to rise. He doubted he had the strength. He would lie here until they took him wherever they wished. The wherryman would have to lift him out and lay him on the wharf. He would lie there until someone who knew him came along with a cart.
The wherryman resumed his seat in the bow. His oars splashed as the boat turned hard around. “We’re taking you both to Dorchester Wharf. The lady’s orders.”
Trumpet. She must have been looking out the window. Francis smiled up at the cloudy sky. He was well and truly saved. He thought a prayer of thanks to his Creator. Not done with me yet, my Lord.
Then three new faces loomed into view — cheerful, pink-cheeked, young men’s faces framed by lace-trimmed ruffs and velvet caps. “Gaat het goed met je?”
“Dat was spannend!”
Dutchmen. Visitors to the English capital, no doubt. Here to see the sights. They’d have a more exciting story to tell than they could ever have expected.
“Go away,” Francis said in German, hoping they would understand it.
They laughed and patted his chest as if he were a great fish they’d landed and were eager to bring back to their inn.
Francis closed his eyes again. He could only hope that Robert had been rescued by a boat full of lawyers with cases in his court.
