D. Wilson - The First Horseman

Lizzie looked up, a quick smile dissolving rapidly into a frown. I was pleased to see that she no longer covered her scar, which had faded to a thin white line. ‘We are honoured,’ she said, rising and picking up the child as she did so. ‘Raphy, look, here’s your father come to visit.’

The boy surveyed me uncertainly, then turned his face away and buried it in Lizzie’s neck. She came forward and held him out to me. ‘Here, you two need to get to know each other.’ As I clumsily took the boy in my arms, Lizzie walked away. ‘I have to prepare his food,’ she said and strode through the screens doorway.

I sat in an armed chair with Raphael on my lap but immediately he squealed, slipped to the floor and tried to follow his nurse. After a few staggered paces he fell and lay on the rushes. His face creased into an expression of desolation and he let out an anguished wail. When I tried to pick him up he struggled and refused to be comforted. I picked up the apple and held it out but the child’s interest in this colourful lure had waned. I set him on his feet and tried to help him walk but he pulled away with surprising force. In doing so he rolled over backwards. His head was within inches of the fire. I quickly grabbed him and pulled him away. This, of course, frightened him and he now began howling in real earnest.

Fortunately Lizzie returned at this moment carrying a bowl and spoon. These she set down and, with a scowl in my direction, picked up Raphael and jogged him gently until his tears had subsided. My presence was clearly superfluous.

‘I had better go and see my mother,’ I said, rising. ‘Where is she?’

‘In her chamber, as ever. She seldom leaves it.’

‘Right. When I come down I shall want to talk to you.’

Lizzie shrugged by way of response and I left her to her duties.

The atmosphere in my mother’s room was close almost to the point of being stifling. The windows were fast closed and the shutters only half open. Smoke seeped from the smouldering fire and the light was so dim that it was some moments before I could discern her. She was sitting to one side of the hearth, upright in a padded chair, wrapped in furs, staring motionless straight ahead.

‘Good day, Mother.’ I stooped to kiss her cheek.

She inclined her head slightly. ‘Who’s that?’ Her voice was faint and wheezy.

‘It’s Tom, Mother, come to see how you are.’

‘Tom? My Tom?’ Her wrinkles seemed to deepen with the effort of understanding what I said. ‘Tom isn’t here… not any more. He’s gone.’

‘It’s your son Tom. I’m still here. I’ve been in London… in the shop. I’ve ridden down to see you.’ I took her hand in mine.

‘Tom’s gone,’ she murmured. ‘Gone… gone.’

I opened the shutters fully and, though the outside air was cold, I threw wide the casement, letting in a breeze to disperse the stuffy atmosphere.

‘Where’s your maid? Where’s Margaret?’ I demanded.

The only response was a puzzled frown and the repetition of the word, ‘Gone.’

Distraught and angry, I hurried down to the kitchen. The cook was there with two scullions. They looked at me warily from across the table, as though they feared I might strike them. When I demanded to know Margaret’s whereabouts they looked sheepishly from one to the other and it was the cook who answered. ‘Left, Master Thomas. Not two days since.’

‘Left? Why?’

There was no reply.

I slammed my fist on the table. ‘Answer me, damn you! No servant of mine leaves without my permission.’

‘Perhaps she was afraid of the Yorkshiremen,’ the cook suggested. ‘Is it true the rebels are camped on Smithfield?’

‘Certainly not! That is a silly rumour. She had no cause to run away and leave her mistress. Who is saying such things?’

‘Most of the people round about — and the servants you sent down from London, Master. They say there’s panic in the City and like to be war, as in our grandsires’ day. They reckon we’ll be no safer here than in West Cheap.’

‘That is foolish scare-mongering.’ I tried to sound calm and reassuring. ‘It was only as a precaution that I sent everyone down from Goldsmith’s Row. The rebellion is all in the North. You are safe here. Now, who is looking after Mistress Treviot?’

Again the exchange of embarrassed glances. At last the cook said, ‘That will be your… friend, Master Thomas.’

‘You mean Mistress Garney?’

The woman nodded.

I strode back to the hall. Lizzie was standing before the fire, cradling Raphael in her arms. Before I could speak she raised a finger to her lips. ‘Wait while I put him down,’ she said quietly.

When she returned and we were seated by the fire, I asked, ‘What has been happening here? The servants seem terrified, Margaret has disappeared and my mother is getting worse.’

Lizzie nodded. ‘Aye, I’ve seen less juggle-headed souls in Bedlam.’

‘But why? Has there been trouble — strangers calling, people making threats? Is there danger? Do you think anyone has traced you here from Southwark?’

Her face twisted into its familiar scowl. ‘If you think I’ve brought danger to your household, you can send me back. I’m only here as your conscience, anyway.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I tried to keep the anger out of my voice.

‘You sent me here to do what you’ve no liking for — to care for your mother and your son.’

‘That is not true. I am trying to do the best for everyone. There are terrible things happening and I just want to be sure that you are all safe here. Can you not credit me with some finer feelings?’

Lizzie shrugged and stretched out her hands towards the glowing logs. ‘Bad things are happening here, too,’ she said. ‘Three men were arrested in Ightham for speaking against the closure of a local nunnery and there was a brawl in the church on Sunday when someone tried to pull the preacher out of the pulpit. You talk about being safe, is anyone safe anywhere?’

‘I don’t know. All I can do is try to protect everyone under this roof.’

After a pause, I asked, ‘What became of Margaret and why did she leave?’

‘She found your mother difficult to handle. I tried to help. She resented it.’ Lizzie stared into the red heart of the fire and added, ‘They all hate me. They think I’ve brought bad luck to Hemmings.’

‘You must not pay any attention to such nonsense,’ I said. ‘Anyway if anyone is a courier of bad luck it’s me.’ In as few words as possible I told her about Robert’s murder and the mystery assassin.

Lizzie showed no emotion. ‘Death and trouble seem to follow you everywhere,’ she commented eventually.

‘I was just wondering…’ I faltered. ‘Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way… I’m completely at a loss because this creature lives in a world I know nothing about. Can you think of anyone who might be able to tell me something about such an assassin.’

Her reply was prompt. She turned to face me. ‘No, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘Lizzie, I…’

She stood abruptly. ‘You talk about keeping us all safe and in the next breath you tell me you want to stalk a murderer. God, Mary and all the angels, I see now why your mother is beside her wits. ’Tis in the family. You’re all mad!’ She turned to walk away.

I stood in her path and grabbed her arm. ‘Lizzie, I owe it to Robert. I have to find this villain.’

‘Go on, then!’ Her face was inches from my own, her cheeks flushed with anger. ‘Get yourself killed. I’ll lose no sleep over that. But what’s to become of everyone here… poor Mistress Treviot… and little Raphy. He has no mother and now you want to make him an orphan. And all out of some petty thirst for vengeance. Do you think that’s what your precious Robert wants? Is he looking down from heaven,’ she crossed herself, ‘and urging you to throw away everything, destroy even more lives? Some friend that! Now let go or, by the saints, I’ll kill you myself!’