‘I did once. But it grows less certain every day.’
‘Lord Cromwell has faith. And he’d like to help the poor. But all his schemes—’ Barak shrugged his broad shoulders - ‘between what the king wants and what parliament wants, they never seem to happen.’
‘Strange. Lady Honor said something similar this morning.’ I looked at him. Again he was showing a different side - reflective and, like many in King Henry’s England, puzzled and insecure.
He nodded at the door. ‘I think we can go now.’ He rose, adjusting the sword at his waist. I followed him out into the night.
IT WAS AFTER CURFEW and the streets were quiet. The air was hot and still, without a breeze. Candlelight shone from a few windows here and there, but the Gristwood house was dark, sinister-looking in the moonlight. Barak signed me to halt opposite the broken front door. ‘Let them have a few minutes to see we’re alone.’
I looked up at the shuttered windows. The thought of Bathsheba and her brother peering through the slats at us made me uneasy.
‘Where’s the watchman?’. I asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been looking out for him. He’s off somewhere, like they are when there’s nobody to keep an eye on them. Arsehole.’
‘What if this is a trap? They could have a whole gang of George Green’s wherrymen in there, ready to spring on us.’
‘What would they gain? Bathsheba and her brother have run out of places to hide. They’ve no alternative but to throw themselves on our mercy.’ As ever when there was danger, his expression was alert, excited. ‘All right, let’s go.’
Barak crossed the road swiftly. He knocked gently at the front door, then jumped back in surprise as the door swung open. I saw the new lock, a flimsy thing, had been smashed in. Barak whistled. ‘Insolent arseholes, they’ve broken it. Did that watchman see nothing?’
I looked uneasily at the strip of deep blackness beyond the half-open door. ‘Madam Neller said George Green got in through a window.’
‘You’re right,’ Barak said. He bit his lip, then kicked the door wide open. ‘Hello,’ he called in a loud whisper. ‘Hello!’ There was no reply.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Something feels wrong.’
Barak stepped cautiously over the threshold, sword raised. I followed him into the Gristwoods’ hall. Two closed doors and the staircase could just be made out ahead of us. Water dripped somewhere. Barak took out a tinderbox and handed me a pair of candles.
‘Here, let’s get these alight.’ He struggled to strike a spark as I looked into the shadows. The dripping sound continued.
The tinder caught and I lit the candles. A dim yellow light illuminated the hall, flickering over the crooked walls and stairs, the dusty old tapestry and the dry rushes in the corners. ‘Let’s try the kitchen,’ Barak said. He opened the door and I followed him inside. The table was dotted with mouse droppings. ‘Look there,’ Barak whispered. I lowered my candle and saw the dusty floor was marked by footprints, several pairs.
‘There’s at least three sets there,’ I whispered. ‘I told you, it’s a trap.’ I looked back at the door, putting my hand on my dagger and wishing I had brought a sword myself.
‘Here!’ Barak called, a sharp urgency in his tone. He had drawn the shutters back and was looking out at the unkempt yard. The gate was wide open and something was lying against the wall beside it, a heap of deeper blackness.
‘It’s a man,’ I said.
‘It’s the watchman! Come on!’
The door to the yard, like the front door, had been broken open. It was a relief to be outside, to have a way of escape open to the lane behind the house. I looked up briefly at the shuttered windows, then joined Barak as he held his candle over the slumped figure by the gate.
For a moment I hoped that the man was asleep in some drunken stupor, but then I saw the great wound in his head, the pale shimmer of brains. Barak stood up, fingering the talisman inside his shirt. For the first time since I had known him he looked afraid.
‘You were right,’ he breathed. ‘It’s a trap. Let’s get out of here.’ Then we heard the sound. I hope never to hear anything like it again. It came from inside the house, starting as a moan and rising to a keening wail, filled with sorrow and pain.
‘That’s a woman,’ I said.
Barak nodded. His eyes roved around the yard. ‘What shall we do?’
I was torn between the desire to run and the thought there was a woman in dreadful pain inside. ‘Is it Bathsheba ? It must be.’
Barak squinted up at the shutters. ‘She might be pretending to be hurt to draw us in.’
‘That sound is no pretence,’ I said. ‘We have to go to her.’
He took a deep breath, then raised his sword once more.