We left as early as our heads would allow us the next day, leaving behind ten men who were happy enough to remain away from their wives in the company of the remaining barrels of beer and casks of wine for a few days.
I mounted the sergeant’s horse. My own brute had a slash in his flank still, and I wasn’t going to try to ride him. He had the spirit of the Devil when he was hale and hearty. The thought of trying to control the monster when he was out of sorts did nothing for my headache or the wound in my arse.
You know the feeling. It was one of those beautiful autumnal days. The sun was bright and high, the trees just beginning to grow dark as the leaves prepared to fall, the warmth was better than the chill of a winter’s morning, and my hangover meant I felt terrible. My tongue was a furred gag in my mouth, my armpits and groin were sweaty and sore, my stomach recoiled from any form of solid food, and my head … well, I leave that to your imagination. Let it just be said that the interior of my head contained a small army of demons who were that moment enjoying a massed assault on my skull. It thundered and reverberated from a thousand hammer-blows from their tiny but impressive weapons, and it felt as though my head must tumble from my shoulders under their onslaught.
Humfrie, to my delight, was little better than me. I believe he usually drank only London beer, and the potency of the knight’s wine had caught him by surprise. This morning, he looked like a mastiff which had swallowed an apple, only to discover that it contained a wasp.
It is enough to say that the journey was, for the most part, conducted in an agreeable silence. Neither Humfrie nor I were of a mood for small talk or gossip. However, when we reached London Bridge early in the afternoon, he was sufficiently recovered to suggest that we ought to go to see the queen without delay, although both of us were fairly approving of the idea of a quiet journey to an alehouse with a view to stabilizing our bodies and ensuring that neither was unhealthy before her majesty, which would not be a good idea.
In the end, we broke our journey at the Blue Bear, where he had a quart of good ale, and I sank a pint of wine. Both of us felt better for that, and it was a moderately happy pair who completed our journey to the palace.
My friend the officer was not on the gate this time, and his minions allowed us both to pass, with a bad grace, admittedly, but we were at least recognized and permitted to enter.
It was inside that I began to get the first inkling that something was wrong.
The men and women in the palace were quiet, all hurrying about their business with haste and little chatter. That was odd. I know many large houses, and have visited several palaces in the service of Lady Elizabeth, and generally the noise of chattering and gossiping servants is deafening. This was almost like the place was in mourning. We both began to fear the worst.
We were taken to the Cardinal, who looked, if anything, more gaunt and pinched than before. He took no time to let us rest, but wanted an instant update. ‘What happened?’
I allowed Humfrie to give him the main details, while I stood by with a relaxed demeanour. The Cardinal gave me an occasional suspicious look, but I don’t know why. I was feeling much happier than I had for a couple of days, and could not help but smile.
‘All is well enough, I suppose,’ he said when Humfrie was done. ‘It would have been better had you brought the fool back here to be questioned … but I am glad that you both achieved his end. There will be a reward, I am sure, but just now, Her Majesty is out of sorts. She will not receive visitors. However, I shall inform her of your services to her, and I am sure that she will be appreciative. You have saved her and her realm from an insurrection. Such lawlessness cannot be permitted, of course.’
‘I will tell Bagnall,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Perkin Bagnall. He was the man who told me that Sir Edmund had been gathering weapons to overthrow the queen.’
‘Bagnall? That name is familiar to me.’ He frowned. ‘He is a servant of John Boxall, I believe.’
There was something in his eyes that spoke of a fresh suspicion, and when I considered, it was unsurprising. After all, why should Boxall tell his man to have me announce de Vere’s treachery to the Cardinal, when Boxall could himself have done that? It would place him in a stronger position with the queen, after all.
It was clear that the same thought had occurred to the Cardinal. There was something very curious about Bagnall’s tale. Bagnall, I thought, had best take care of himself. He might soon be introduced to Tom and his tools.