17

January 1644

North Norfolk

I rubbed Henry’s cheeks as hard as I could, then did the same to my hands, generating more heat, gathering the boy up and trying to warm him. He had been curled in a ball beneath the lower branches of the hedge, and some of the juice of the shrub’s red berries had rubbed off in his dark hair like blood. He had almost managed to conceal himself, but I lugged him out and carried him back around the pond to the stables.

‘Guppy! Here, boy!’ The mastiff was bounding about in the yard, marvelling at the inch or so of snow that had now fallen, but as I called he came on in great, loping strides. He forced his bulk in next to us, and I pressed Henry between my own body and the dog’s chest. Guppy licked his face.

Henry lived. His breaths were shallow but regular. I shook him and he began to come around. As he regained awareness, he quivered like a field mouse.

How long had he been alone out here, and what had driven him even from the stables? I shivered to imagine his fear. The boy had seen what I had not, from the very moment I had brought him into the house. I cursed myself. It would have been better to leave him where he was, whores and all, rather than bring him to this Bedlam.

‘Where is…’ He was trying to say something. I leant in close to hear as he tried again. ‘Where is… Mary?’

‘What?’ Was he delirious?

But Henry was coming back to himself. ‘Where is Mary?’

‘Who are you speaking of, Henry?’

‘Mary. My sister.’

The crowd waited. The snow, having clothed the spire of St Nicholas’s, in whose shadow most of the villagers had gathered to see justice done, had stopped, but the temperature was dropping still further as the day waned. Reverend Hale had drummed up a whole cross section of society here: clothiers, servants of great men like Huxley, the local barber-surgeon, tenant farmers and carpenters, maids and old men, all circling the green, wrapped in their warmest blankets, eager for the proceedings to begin.

Hale was like his name: beefy, red-faced, nearly as large as Dillon. The minister watched from his place beside Manyon and Huxley as the constable emerged from the gaol, bringing Chrissa Moore – or Mary – out into the light. As Mary came closer, Hale stared, and muttered below his breath about the dangers of iniquitous women. I was surprised he didn’t cross himself.

On the other side of Hale stood Welmet Huxley. Hale had brought a flask of warmed wine to share, though Huxley declined it. One might have mistaken the three for old schoolfriends drawing together again after an absence of years, to watch a revel or a play. By virtue of my position as Manyon’s assistant and because of the continued – and unexplained – absence of John Rutherford, who might have usurped me, I was nearest out of all the onlookers, and heard their exchange as Dillon deposited his silent charge on her knees. I tried to give the appearance of not listening by bending to correct the fit of my boot.

‘She still defies us, then?’ Hale said. His tone was that of a disappointed father, but excitement shimmered behind it. Manyon affirmed with a grunt. ‘Like all her abominable kind,’ Hale continued. ‘She has not spoken a word since she was arrested?’

‘Not quite a complete silence, reverend. There was her claim to be with child if you recall. Yet there, we make progress. There is one thing we know now that we did not know yesterday.’

‘Which is?’

‘The girl is not pregnant.’

I lifted my head to look at the prisoner, on her knees in several inches of snow with her hands shackled before her, and was surprised to find her returning my gaze. She shook with the cold, and was filthy, her long black hair matted against her skull. Even so, the villagers whispered of her beauty, and some mothers muttered, ‘Shame! Let her up.’ Others vented their spite: witch, bedswerver, Devil’s doxy.

Her beauty had worked against her. I had been unwilling to believe her a witch because I had not believed such powers existed, but had been ready to believe her a whore. Had she been thicker of limb, her nose not so straight, her eyes half as bright, perhaps I might have found it easier to withhold judgement. I might have arrived more quickly at the truth.

But I could not look back at a road untravelled. However blind I had been, I had to set my sights on the path ahead, and go now where it led.

I had left Henry in the stables, bundled in rugs, coats and cloaks. He had continued to shake and cry, but when pressed would not speak of the night he had passed alone, or why he had hidden beneath the hedge. Imagination filled some of the gaps. I winced at the thought of the creature’s voice in the child’s ear. Henry had been too wise for it, ironically. He had done what the Gedge women and my father had not; he had run.

I had left Esther still secured to her chair. Before going, I had prepared a white soup for her, and she had smiled amenably as I spooned it into her mouth. She had spoken, but I preferred to forget her words.

I had had little choice but to come. Manyon had expected me, but that was not the problem; I could have made some excuse – illness, accident, violence. No, that was not the reason I was here. I was here because the woman being pulled to her feet by Dillon was the only person who knew the truth about what had happened in my home. She knew, and I had to know.

The obvious course of action – go to Manyon and Hale and anyone else who would listen, with the truth – I had considered only fleetingly. Anyone who saw Esther in the condition she was in now would want her dead. They would feign efforts to expel the spirit, and then imprison, hang or burn her. I would not allow that. Esther’s only chance was for me to pretend everything was normal, and learn what I could. The problem was, I had no idea what I was going to do.

Manyon and Hale were still talking.

‘ …when a woman holds no penitence for her lewdness and her destructions, she leaves us no other choice. She might have avoided this, had she been more willing to surrender herself to the law, and to God’s good mercy.’ Hale’s deep-set eyes were fixed on Mary, as I had to keep reminding myself to call her.

I had got no sense from Henry on the subject of his sister’s name. He had only insisted, in tearful but firm repetitions, that he had no sister called Chrissa, and the sister who had taken such kind care of him at Lucy Bennett’s house was Mary. ‘Mary Moore?’ I asked him, sternly, and the child had nodded.

It was starting. Manyon technically outranked Hale, but it was Hale who signalled to Dillon, who picked his ash cudgel off the ground. The constable looked reluctant, and I was not surprised. Dillon was a good man, and what he was about today was not God’s work. The crowd watched as he spoke quietly in Mary’s ear until, to my surprise, she nodded obligingly enough, then he spun her about so her back was to him, and dug the cudgel into the base of her spine. She took three or four stiff steps forward. Beneath the long folds of her mudflat-brown dress she wore no shoes, and her feet were bruised and scabbed from the rough floor of her cell, already turning red as they trod the new snow.

Huxley’s voice cut through the murmurs of the waiting crowd. ‘…the multitudinous ways in which the servants of the Adversary can deceive us. The secret conjurations, the nourishment of Satan’s imps and fiendish minions, and from their very own bodies, as if it is not sin enough to allow the Devil into their bedchambers to start with. The cases I saw in Ipswich were sufficient to make your hair stand up on end. It must not be allowed to happen here.

‘It is a relief, of course, that the Gedge women took their own lives although, certainly, they will burn for it. All this yelping about murder might fool the saddle-geese in the village, but it does not fool me. They were all equally guilty. At least now we have only this loathsome thing to manage. And we will drive the truth from her.’

‘We will indeed,’ said Manyon, watching as Dillon continued to propel Mary with regular jabs to her back and hips. This seemed unnecessary, for the girl walked steadily enough. It surprised me to see her so compliant. I had thought Dillon would have to drag her from her cell and beat her about the head.

Hale now leant in to Manyon, and spoke so that I had to strain to hear. ‘You talked with her of her brother?’

‘I did,’ said Manyon, and I felt the magistrate’s eyes on me. ‘She knows where he resides.’

That explained Mary’s expression when she saw me.

‘But she did not agree to the proposal?’ asked Hale.

‘She didn’t utter a word,’ Manyon said, equably. ‘But in any case, as Huxley here will testify, along with my assistant, who is trying so hard to appear not to be listening, it is not in my power to send the lad back to that den of thieves. He is not in my care, but that of Mr Treadwater, here.’

Ordinarily, I would have been embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping, but today it barely registered. I shook my head. ‘Apologies, sir.’

‘Not at all,’ Manyon said. ‘How is little Henry?’

My tongue formed some unremarkable lie, but its movement was halted by another thought, one that had first taken form when Manyon revealed that he knew I had taken Henry from Lucy Bennett’s house: how did Manyon know Henry’s name? ‘He’s well,’ I said, cautiously. ‘Doing some work with the horses.’

The events of the morning had made my brain slow. I felt enveloped in fog. He has walled up my way, so that I cannot pass, and he has set darkness upon my paths. The darkness was deeper than when I had been faithless.

I mused on this for a moment. Was I not still faithless? After all, God had not presented Himself. No dove had alighted, no warlike spears had split the clouds. The existence of evil, I feared, did little to confirm the existence of good. I shook my head to dispel such abstract thoughts; this was not the time.

The minutes passed into an hour, and still Mary walked broad circles on the green. The constable occasionally shoved her, but his actions seemed oddly lacklustre. The watching crowd, having begun by calling insults, with several of the younger boys picking up sods of frozen earth and snow to throw at her, now tired of the scene, which lacked the visceral spectacle of a hanging or a flogging, or the intrigue of a ducking, in favour of grumbling about the cold. But Dillon kept the pace of the walking quick, and soon Mary began to tire, her step less certain, slowing frequently enough to receive rough instructions from the constable to move faster. Then, as she rounded the corner nearest the spire, she collapsed.

Dillon reached down with his cudgel to prod her to her feet, and I moved forward to help her, but Manyon held out his arm. ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Get her up, Dillon. Walk on.’ Still holding me back, he said, ‘I ask that you trust me,’ in a voice so low it had to be designed for my hearing only.

What was Manyon doing?

The trial continued. Dillon, who by now was suffering from the cold himself, his teeth chattering, the cudgel held in chilblained hands, was becoming irritable. He growled more than once at Mary. ‘Talk, girl,’ he said. ‘Confess whatever crimes you are guilty of, and we can put an end to this.’ But Mary said nothing.

Darkness could not be more than an hour away. Still, Mary walked on.

When she fell for the second time, Dillon pulled her up again. She looked to be nearly unconscious, her face slack. I saw Henry in my mind’s eye, and thought there was more resemblance to Mary now the pride of her natural expression seemed stripped back. I shuddered to see her halting steps. I began to feel I had no choice but to intervene, and tell the magistrate what I knew. No man’s good conscience could see this continue. But I wrestled with how to do it without endangering Esther, and could not see a way forward.

The crowd was melting away. The oncoming dark, ushered in by the arrival of blacker clouds signalling another wash of snow, had driven many of them to their firesides already, and even Huxley began to mutter about calling for his horse. As the throng thinned, I started to see the course of Manyon’s thinking.

By the time Mary fell for the third and final time, there were but a few men and women left to see what Manyon did. He conferred briefly with Hale, then stepped forward. ‘Enough, for now,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘Night draws on. Return to your homes. We can continue this tomorrow, should the girl not be inclined to speak when we return her to her cell.’

The remaining few, who for some time had looked restless and hungry, seemed satisfied as they sloped off towards their cottages. The reverend shook hands with the magistrate, then secured his cloak about his thick middle before returning to the church. Huxley and Manyon were talking as I hurried to Mary’s side and knelt by her slumped form, then nodded to Dillon, who had also bent to retrieve his prisoner. I said, ‘Go, man. Warm yourself by the tavern fire with an ale or two. I’ll see the girl inside.’

Dillon shook my hand robustly. ‘You’re a good lad,’ he said. ‘Here, take these.’ His fingers, clumsy and frost-bitten, fumbled the great bunch of keys as he handed them over. ‘I wouldn’t usually but… I think my balls are about to fall from my body.’

I pocketed the keys with a laugh, then removed my own cloak, using it to cover Mary. I pulled her up and, impulsively, lifted her off her feet. She weighed less than I had expected. I looked down at her face, expecting the same tinge of blue in her skin and slow return to consciousness I had watched that morning in her brother. But her eyes were open. Her body was warm against mine, and she met my gaze directly.

I had no idea what to say. I remembered my last words to her with shame, and this, with something else alongside it, rendered me speechless.

But Mary wasn’t speechless, and was far from the end of her strength. Her hand gripped my wrist. She said, ‘Do you have my little brother?’

‘He’s safe,’ I answered, and then felt guilty, because it wasn’t exactly true. ‘We need to speak.’

‘Soon,’ she said.

Manyon was behind me. Huxley had hurried away on his horse before the second deluge of snow, and a devious smile now played on the magistrate’s face. ‘Come – let’s get inside before we all freeze.’

‘I feel I’ve missed something here, magistrate,’ I said, still holding Mary.

‘Put me down,’ she snapped, pushing me away. ‘I have no need of a donkey and can walk perfectly well myself.’

I did so.

‘Men like Huxley and Hale will never be satisfied until they have had their pound of flesh,’ said Manyon, leaning forward to pour wine in two small glasses, and beaming with the pleasure of having tricked his apprentice. ‘I was satisfied there was not enough evidence to convict this girl,’ he added, gesturing to Mary, who sat on my right with her knees huddled against her chest. ‘But I was also certain that between John, that madman Huxley and the buffoon Hale, sooner or later, a means to wring a confession from her would be found.’ He handed one glass to Mary and one to me. ‘So, I went down to the cells myself. Didn’t I, Chrissa?’

Mary nodded. She accepted the wine but did not sip it.

The mention of Rutherford was itching at me – where was the witchfinder? – but I had other, more important questions. ‘I see, sir,’ I said, in a tone of filial respect.

‘And we came to an agreement, Chrissa and I. Put on a show, play up to the crowd some, and pretend to be in more discomfort than she truly was. For that is all they want, these simple people: to see her broken, to have their sense of the proper order of things restored. And with that done, we will hold her for a short time longer and then quietly release her, on the pretext that the testing we put her to yielded nothing.’

Mary sat like marble, keeping her eyes downcast. She still did not touch the wine.

‘And when will that be?’ I asked. When Manyon looked up sharply, I added, ‘Her brother grows anxious for her, and I am sure both will wish to return to Norwich, or to wherever they have people.’ I felt clumsy, fearing she would be angry I had spoken for her. Not knowing how to address her, I said, ‘Is that correct, Mistress Moore?’

The look she turned on me was complex. ‘My only wish,’ she said, in that strange, torn voice, ‘is to be reunited with my brother. Where we go from here is of lesser concern.’

Smoothly, Manyon said, ‘In due course, my dear. In due course. Now, given the exertions of the afternoon and the situation we find ourselves in, I would like to offer you some more comfortable accommodation. Perhaps a room in my own—’

Mary interrupted. ‘My cell is comfortable enough, given the short duration of my expected stay there.’

Manyon, with a ruffled cough, said, ‘It must be as you see fit. But stay as long as you wish in order to recover yourself. I can have food brought and warmer clothes…’

Mary hesitated. I could see she wanted to accept, could only imagine how hungry and cold she had to be. Eventually, she shook her head. ‘I need nothing,’ she said.

Manyon stiffened at a second rejection of his hospitality. ‘Very well. I will return you to your cell.’

I saw a chance, and said, ‘I would be grateful for something in my stomach, too, sir. Shall I return Mistress Moore and call for some food to be sent up at the same time?’

Manyon stood, placing down his wine, and said, ‘No, no, boy, I will do the honours myself. I’ll call for Dillon.’ He left the room, looking only slightly less pleased with himself than when he had entered.

We were alone. I turned to her, intending to tell her everything, but she spoke first. ‘Henry cannot stay a moment longer in that house. I must beg you—’

I stopped her entreaty with one word: ‘Mary.’

She stared.

‘That is your true name, is it not?’

She gave no answer.

‘Mary, I know. I know all about it. Or at least, something of it. You have been very afraid for him?’

After a long moment, she nodded, and then tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them back.

I said, ‘Don’t cry. He’s safe, or he is for now. My sister can’t harm him. What was my sister… My God.’ But there was no time. ‘Listen to me. Why did the magistrate want to help you? And how did he know your brother’s name? Did you tell him?’

She shook her head. ‘I told him nothing, other than that your father…’ For the first time, she could not meet my eyes.

This was of desperate importance, and I could not quite admit why, even to myself. ‘My father never touched you?’

She lifted her gaze. ‘Your father was kindness itself to me. A rare man, and he never laid one finger on me.’

A pressing weight fell away from me at these words. Even as I thought of Esther, and what I would have to face, the relief of knowing my father had not shamed himself, that his name was safe, nourished and sustained me. ‘How did—’

Too late. The door swung open and I sat back. Dillon had returned, puce from the sudden heat of a fire and what I presumed was a flagon of very strong ale. He beckoned to Mary. ‘Come, lass.’

Mary stood, grimacing with pain. In the morning, her skin would be black and blue. She was dirty and unkempt, dressed like the lowest of serving girls, and still the single most beautiful thing I had ever seen. And then she was gone.

‘Manyon’s in the jakes,’ Dillon said, over his shoulder.

As soon as Dillon closed the door, I rose. I had minutes at most. I began to shuffle through the magistrate’s papers, opening one heavy desk drawer at a time. The light was dim, and I did not know what I was looking for. I discarded memoranda, warrants and summonses, records of fines paid and defaulted upon; none of this explained Manyon’s sudden change of heart about Mary’s fate.

I came to the bottom drawer. Here were some more personal things: bills for satins, quiddanies and quinces, perhaps for Manyon’s daughters; a small collection of tiny portraits of young girls I took to be those daughters; and stacks of letters. With these I took more care, looking at the signatures, glancing often at the door and rehearsing excuses in case Manyon returned, not knowing how I would extricate myself if he caught me. But my search was in vain; most of the letters were complaints, or petitions begging for clemency, rather than truly of a personal nature. There was nothing here to give life to my suspicions. Perhaps, anyway, those suspicions were the product of an overtired, frightened mind, which grew wary of everyone and everything.

Yet there was something…

He had been some time. I poked my head out of the door and cocked an ear over the polished banister, down the twisting staircase. The usual milling crowd had gone, yet I could hear people. First Manyon – clearly finished with his bladder – his voice hissing, too quiet, and then another, feminine, still honeyed, but perturbed. I recognised it immediately and ducked quickly to crouch with my face to the bars.

‘…what you said a week ago, Magistrate, so why might I believe it now?’ More mumbling came from Manyon, then the other said, ‘She is a source of considerable income to me, and unless—’

‘The girl will be returned,’ came Manyon’s voice, a little more dominant. ‘You have my word. I’d thank you not to question it.’

A mocking laugh followed. ‘A fine fool I’d be, if I took payment in words after all these years!’ Then there was a clinking sound and a satisfied grunt, with low, angry words from Manyon before the swish of a heavy cloak on the tiled floor, and waddling footsteps as she departed.

I had no time for thought. His booted feet sounded on the stairs. Darting into the office, I picked up my coat, baldric and sword, then retreated behind his desk, tripping over legal books and a stray box of candles. I fumbled with the spring catch and eyed the casement; could I squeeze through? I had mere seconds.

I opened the window and, looking out and around, saw nobody. I lowered my sword first, letting it go six feet from the ground, then flung my coat after it, gritting my teeth to inch my shoulders and back through the small opening. I held the snow-speckled frame and walked my feet down the wall. The brick was treacherous, and the drop cost me a painful half-roll in the thickening snow. As I rose to my feet, I put my back to the wall, looked up, and saw an arm protrude to close the window. Good. He would know I was absent, but no more than that.

I stood in the building’s shadow. Just ahead of me, the dark was studded with distant lights. Manyon’s guest had just left. On a night like this, with snow falling and a fugitive moon, beclouded, she could not be taking a sedan chair back to Norwich – and I could not imagine her riding. No, she had to have a room. But which way? I searched my memory. There were two inns, both offering dining and lodging for travellers; one, the Rose and Crown, lay east of the market cross and was far the superior of the other. Thinking of her flamboyant bolts of cloth and sugared comfits, I almost turned that way, but then I remembered the filthy rushes on the floor and her eyes like twin beads of enamel-glass, and I realised Lucy Bennett would always be more at home among the sharp, acquisitive men who might take rooms at the Black Swan. I turned west.

I moved swiftly down the middle of the path, where the snow was thinner, using the footsteps of others as my guide. On either side, people hunkered in their shopfront houses, and bright pith-lights gleamed behind shuttered windows. I turned off the main street. Ahead, just three or four hundred yards down this rugged track rendered flush by the snow lay the tavern. Somewhere in between was my quarry. I was certain I was gaining on her.

But the road seemed to go on forever. Peering at a shadow, I reached for my sword, stumbled on a jutting stone and repressed a cry; yet the shadow was nothing, just a flicker of the moon departing an alley. I scanned the lane, glancing at windows and thatches, and my gaze just alighted on a cumbersome shape skulking towards the tavern’s back gate. I began to run, aware of the risks of falling or being heard, but knowing I had to catch her. She stopped. No knock sounded. She reached out to push the gate, letting it swing shut as she went through, and I arrived in time to prevent it closing with my gloved hand. I followed, almost on the tips of my toes.

Bathed in the soft back light of the tavern, I heard the merry lilt of a lute over the hum of conversation, which muffled the sound of the gate closing behind me. To my left, a tall pile of barrels shaded the cellar windows, and on the right a beaten ribbon of packed snow and cobbled stone showed the winding way to the bar door. She seemed to have vanished. I took a cautious step. Perhaps I had been a few seconds longer than I had thought and she had gone inside…

A low and hacking cough came from my rear. I spun on my heel and caught a glimpse of a rounded shape behind the snow-mounded barrels, not ten feet away. I nearly moved forward, but felt abruptly menaced; more often than not, when you corner a dangerous creature, you end up bitten. So I said, ‘I see you, madam. Come out.’ I waited. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. Just to talk.’

After a few seconds, a well-wrapped Lucy Bennett emerged, her arm extended. She held a stiletto dagger in her right hand, and her needle-sharp eyes widened in recognition when she saw who had followed her. ‘You,’ she said. ‘I heard you trip. You might have caught me, if you hadn’t.’

I did not say that I had caught her now. I did not need to. I had my right hand on the hilt of my sword. Her dagger was bravado; her hand shook, the tip wavered. ‘You were at the courthouse,’ I said. ‘Manyon gave you money. Why?’

‘What if I told you he’s my uncle, and it’s my birthday?’ For the first time, I heard a note of something foreign in her voice. It might have been German.

‘You want M— Chrissa Moore returned to your house, and he won’t release her,’ I said, almost thinking aloud, ‘and nor should he, to you; but why would he hand over coin?’

She said nothing. But her gaze flicked to the space over my right shoulder, and I turned, too late. The blow came to the back of my right knee, heavy-booted and efficient, and I collapsed in the snow like a tumbled hedgepig. I rolled and saw the second kick coming in towards my face, and caught it on my arms. Had it not been for my leather doublet, it might have broken a bone. I scrambled backwards, trying to catch sight of my assailant, clawing at snow and sharp pebbles. Finally I got up with my back to the flinted tavern wall, snatching at my sword belt, but he rushed me before I could draw, and I found myself locked in a rough stinking embrace, all meaty breath and thatched beard.

His fist struck my underjaw, then more blows rained down like boulders on my kidneys and upper body. He grunted as he tried to trip me, and I realised, like me, he was flailing for his weapon. In the respite from the attack, I drove my knee hard into his groin, then cracked my forehead against his so that the bone exploded with pain. He fell back with a cry, but it did not prevent him unsheathing his blade. It drew the tavern light and glowed back at me like a flame. I produced my own sword and prepared to fight.

My enemy was as thick as an oak tree, muffled in wool and leather so I could not see his face. But he was quick. He had to have been a soldier, though I thought he was too old to be fighting this war. A father, perhaps, of a man by whose side I had fought, or who I had killed. Sometimes age was no disadvantage. My sword arm smarted with the pain of my lesson, having rushed towards my target and underestimated her. I would not make the same mistake again.

But to my surprise, he did not come on. Instead, he looked to his mistress, who appeared to be mulling over her move from the shadows. She glanced behind her at the tavern, and I knew her calculation: if I ended this night splayed on a carpet of blood-drenched snow, questions would be asked, a hue and cry raised. Her name might be known to the landlord, and certainly Manyon knew she was here – even if it was not in his interest to admit it, he might wreak revenge in some other way if his own apprentice was killed. Finally, she spoke. ‘Leave him, Will.’

Will, close enough to be within reach of my blade, relaxed his, and shrugged. He took two steps back, but I kept my weapon high as they watched me. I might still die here tonight.

‘You thought I was stupid enough to walk these streets without protection?’ said Lucy, a sneer in her voice. ‘You thought you could follow a woman like me, and do what?’

I coughed and wiped my mouth. There was blood in my spittle. I thought a tooth wobbled. ‘Just talk, madam. As I said.’

‘Like before? I remember you had quite a bit to say for yourself.’

‘I asked you little enough,’ I reminded her. ‘But things have changed. A woman’s life is on the line.’

She took a step nearer. ‘And you believe you are owed answers from me?’

‘Not owed,’ I said. ‘But I would have them, nevertheless.’

She almost cooed, ‘Look, Will, he’s a knight in armour, fighting injustice wherever he finds it. He thinks he’s in love. Chrissa’s soft quim has addled his mind, more like.’ Her companion laughed, and her idling voice hardened. ‘Get yourself home, boy, before I change mine.’

Behind us, the tavern music had slowed to a sweeter air. For a moment, I saw her differently, this fat, hardened woman, and imagined what had led her here. ‘How old were you?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘When men first ill-treated you?’ She laughed again, but it was an uncertain sound. ‘Were they soldiers?’

Her companion was impatient. He had not put away his sword, and now he stiffened his arm again. ‘Let’s be done with him,’ he said, straightforwardly. In his voice, I heard the echo of a hundred soldiers I had known. He would slit my throat, dump me in some godforsaken pond, and return to his dinner with a buoyant appetite.

‘Go, Treadwater,’ she said. ‘Give her up. She’s not worth your trouble anyway.’

‘What did they do to you?’ When she didn’t answer, I gambled. ‘I’ve seen it, you see. What soldiers do to women. What they turn them into. I think you were in Bohemia. But your mother, I think she was English.’

‘What if she was?’

‘Did they kill her?’

‘Spitted her like a roasting pig,’ she said, indifferently. ‘But what is that to you?’

‘And turned you into a whore,’ I said. ‘But when I asked you about Chrissa, and you could have said she took your clients, you didn’t.’

‘So?’

‘You told the truth.’

‘Suppose I did?’

‘So you might as well tell it now.’

‘Ha!’ Her mirth was hard-edged. ‘You don’t lack cheek, boy.’

‘No. I lack information.’

‘Will you pay for it?’

‘I have no money.’ This was true. I had left the house without coin.

There was a long pause. The music from the tavern had stopped, and the snow had slowed to an odd, light tickle. Lucy said to her man, ‘Will, go on in. Order ale.’

‘But…’ He looked at me doubtfully.

‘I pay you, don’t I? Go.’

Grumbling, Will went around the side of the tavern. We were alone. She seemed to know I was no threat, and paced unevenly, her bulk blocking the low moon from view. She moved back and forth, and once or twice muttered to herself. ‘Use Huxley,’ she said, eventually.

My mind spun frantically. ‘To bring pressure to bear on Manyon?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘He’s not part of it?’

‘Wouldn’t know his cock from a sundial. He’s a believer, that one. And Manyon needs him – or needs his patronage, anyway. Now,’ she said, ‘piss off. That’s all you’ll get from me.’

I moved forward, close enough to look her in the face. Uncertainty shifted there, competing with a subtle satisfaction. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Just let me not see you in Norwich again,’ came the reply. ‘If I do, I’ll cut your face off and use your balls for earbobs.’

I believed it, and nodded, then took my leave. My journey back to the courthouse was thoughtful. Outside the silent building, I scooped snow from the wall into my mouth, spitting it, pink-tinged, on the ground, and straightened my clothing. I didn’t bother wiping my boots, and walked sopping wet across the flagstone floor and up the staircase.

Manyon was in his office. ‘Where have you been?’ he said, but he did not sound irritated. There was still wine on the table; a high, merry fire in the grate. His mood was tolerant, equable.

‘Walking,’ I said. ‘We were standing so long at the green, I needed to stretch my legs.’

He indicated my feet. ‘Soaking wet,’ he said. ‘You should take them off, bring the feeling back. I’ll do the same.’ He began to tug at the leather tops of his own expensive boots.

‘Thank you,’ I said, but did not copy him. I did not expect to be here much longer. ‘I was wondering, sir, whether you had heard from John Rutherford.’

‘No, damn him. There’s a mountain of work to do here and yet the boy is absent. Do you know,’ he continued, placing one foot atop his knee and beginning to massage the toes, ‘that they made the first shoes thousands of years ago – thousands – and yet they still have found no reliable way to make the things waterproof?’

I hesitated no more than a moment. ‘I did wonder, sir, whether your leniency towards Mistress Moore was a result of your loyalty to John Rutherford, as your nephew.’

‘You might have to draw that line for me,’ Manyon said, absently, continuing to press at the soles.

‘Well, his choice has fallen upon my sister, and any scandal relating to my father would therefore reflect on him and, by extension, upon you.’

‘Come now,’ said Manyon. ‘I hardly think people would—’

‘But then I realised it wasn’t that at all.’

‘No?’ By now, Manyon had detected something new in my tone, and was no longer rubbing his feet through his stockings. He eyed me keenly, over lowered brows. ‘Then what was it?’

I cleared my throat. ‘She knew you, didn’t she?’

He offered me a glass. I shook my head. ‘Who knew me?’ he said, curiously, before lifting his glass to his lips.

I nearly answered ‘Mary’, but said, ‘Chrissa.’

His forehead moved quizzically. ‘Eh? Naturally, she knew me; I’m well known enough.’

‘I mean she knew you by sight. From Ramping Horse Lane. Where you visited, and where, I’m sure, the young – the very young – ladies have many colourful memories of your presence.’

He sputtered, and rose to his feet. ‘What?’

‘You were a customer. Not hers – I suspect, from those pictures I saw in your drawers, she was too old for you anyway. You prefer a more delicate type.’

Manyon’s mouth tightened. ‘So, it’s slander, is it? I never thought it of the son of Richard Treadwater.’

I sloughed off his anger like water. ‘Call it what you will. How do you explain it?’

For the first time, Manyon’s voice rose. ‘I do not explain it! How dare you! I am a Justice of this realm and—’

‘And if the aldermen of Norwich find that you have been frequenting a house of such dissolute reputation, that’s all you will ever be,’ I said, brutally. ‘And Mistress Moore threatened you with that, didn’t she? You would have liked to send her back to that cesspit directly, but she made it known to you that she recognised your face, and would by no means be silent about it, whether you sent her back to Lucy Bennett’s, or to the assizes. And you were caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. You could do nothing: neither proceed to prosecution, nor vindicate her publicly and see her released.

‘So, you waited. You waited until it was clear that she was not carrying my father’s child, confronted her with that lie, and came to a treacherous bargain, one you never had any intention of fulfilling. Am I correct?’

Manyon’s natural tendency towards calculation had reasserted itself, and he was calm. He said, ‘What if you are?’

‘Then your fine words about releasing the girl are just that, aren’t they? Words. You have no intention of letting her out, now or later.’

How much of it was bluff? Some. I was almost certain I was right. Almost. I did not have a single shred of proof, though, and if Manyon gauged this – and there was every chance he might – I would have the grass cut from under me swiftly enough. As it was, I was acutely aware that I was firing the bridge that connected me to Manyon, and to the safe future he represented. If I were lucky, I would walk away from this a free man. If not, as he had hinted with his mention of slander, I might find myself as Mary’s neighbour in the cells.

Manyon did not reply straight away. He regarded me from beneath his furrowed brow, reflecting. In the end, he simply said, ‘What do you want?’

‘The immediate release of Mistress Moore, who is an innocent woman. Your word that you will bring no charges against her. And the fulfilment of your promise that you will see me released from the army. That is all.’

Manyon considered. ‘And for those small favours, you will desist with these venomous rumours?’ I nodded. He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘And yet,’ he continued, with a touch more confidence, ‘you have no proof. The testimony of whores, you will appreciate, is a rather tarnished currency, even in these turbulent days.’

‘True, but it would make an interesting tale in the taverns. I know every innkeeper from here to Cambridge, and I tell as good a story as the next man. And,’ I finished, carefully, ‘Welmet Huxley knows me, now. Thanks to you. He will hear my version of things, and whether he believes you or me, well, we will soon find out.’ I waited. With my chin jutting pugnaciously, I probably looked far more confident than I felt.

He eyed me steadily, his mouth twisting in contempt and disbelief. ‘You would lose my patronage, and gain custody of a whore?’

My fists tightened below the desk. I said, ‘She is no whore.’

After a moment longer, Manyon sighed and his frame relaxed. ‘Very well. But do not think to come to me when next you need assistance, boy. You have used up your credit with me. And woe betide that girl if she crosses me again. Make sure she knows it.’