I looked at Stice contemptuously. ‘What have you done to Nicholas?’
‘We had to knock him out to get him here. And he wasn’t very cooperative when he woke up. Gower had to give him a lesson in manners.’
‘I have come as you asked. Release him.’
Stice nodded. ‘You can have him, though Leonard here would have relished preparing his head to send you.’ He glanced at Gower. ‘Full of funny ideas is Leonard. He thinks you’re a sodomite.’ I would not have dared to mock the man like that, but he took it from Stice, who reached behind Nicholas and untied the gag, then used his sword to slice through his bonds. Gower went and stood beside Nicholas, hand held meaningfully on his knife, as the boy pulled the gag from his mouth. Eventually he spoke in a dry, hoarse voice. ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’
‘It is my fault,’ I said quietly. ‘I led you into danger.’
‘I’d been to a tavern last night,’ he croaked.’ I was walking home when I was knocked out from behind. When I woke up I was here. Where are we?’
‘A house near the river.’ I turned to Stice. ‘Well, are you going to let him go?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. There’s someone wants to talk to you, then if he’s happy we’ll let you both go. Leonard will take Nicky boy out back in the meantime.’ Stice, sword still in hand, leaned against the wall, waiting.
Nicholas still sat. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ he cried. ‘May I have some water?’ He swallowed uncomfortably and grimaced with pain.
‘Poor baby,’ Stice replied with a mocking laugh. ‘Not much forbearance for a gentleman. Oh, get him some water from the barrel, Leonard.’
As Gower went through a door to the back of the house, Nicholas stood, shakily. I heard a creak from the floorboards above, and remembered there was another man in the house. Well, we had been here for five minutes; fifteen more and Barak and the constable would come with his men. In the meantime I would have to dissimulate well. Nicholas stood, stretching, and feeling his bruises. Stice still leaned against the wall, hand on his sword hilt, watching him with amusement.
Suddenly Nicholas launched himself at Stice, clearing the few feet between them with one leap, a hand closing on Stice’s wrist before he could grasp his sword. Caught off guard, Stice let out a yell of anger as Nicholas grasped his other wrist and pinned him to the wall, then kneed him hard in the crotch. He cried out and bent over.
‘Stop, Nicholas!’ I shouted. A fight now was the last thing I wanted, and it was one we could not win. At that moment Gower came back with a pitcher of water. With a shout he dropped it on the floor and reached for his dagger, raising it high to bury it in Nicholas’s back. I threw myself at him and knocked him off balance, but he did not fall, and turned on me with the dagger just as Stice managed to push Nicholas away from the wall and raised his sword. His face was white with anger.
Then rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs and a voice called out, ‘Cease this mad brawling!’ Not a loud voice, but sharp as a file; one I recognized. It was enough to stop Gower in his tracks, and make Stice pause, too. Confident footsteps walked into the room. I turned and beheld, dressed in sober black robe and cap, his thin face frowning mightily, his majesty’s Privy Councillor, Sir Richard Rich.
Chapter Twenty-nine
RICH STRODE IN, SCROWLING. He was the smallest man in the room, but instantly commanded it. He pulled off his black cap and smacked Stice round the face with it. The young man’s eyes flashed for a moment, but he lowered his sword. Rich snapped: ‘I told you they were not to be harmed. You’ve already dealt with that boy more roughly than I wanted – ’
‘He went for me when he woke up—’ Gower ventured.
‘Quiet, churl!’ Rich then turned to me, his voice quiet and serious. ‘Shardlake, I want no violence. I took the boy because I knew it would bring you here, and I need to talk to you. I knew that if I made contact with you any other way you would go yowling straight to the Queen’s people, and what I have to say needs to be kept secret. It may even be that this time we can be of use to each other.’
I stared at him. This was the anxious Richard Rich I had seen at Anne Askew’s burning. His long grey hair was awry, the thin face with its neat little features stern, new lines around the mouth, and his normally cold, still grey eyes roamed around the room.