There was a crash as gunports opened along the sides of the ships. Cannon appeared and fired volleys; no actual cannonballs, of course, but emitting thick clouds of smoke and making enough noise to shake the pathway. People shouted and cheered. Nicholas joined in enthusiastically, waving his hat in the air. Some women whooped at the noise, though Tamasin glanced at me with a sombre face.
Then they appeared, coming fast upriver; first a French warship, guns firing on both sides, then over a dozen French galleys, long and narrow: sleek, fast vessels of war. They were brightly painted, each in a different colour, and their cannon, set in the prows, fired off blasts in reply to ours. The largest galley, covered from prow to stern in a white canopy decorated in gold fleur-de-lys, pulled alongside the King’s barge.
It was too much for me. The sight of those galleys, which I had last seen firing at the Mary Rose; the smoke; the gunfire that shook the ground. I touched Barak on the shoulder. ‘I have to go.’
He looked at me with concern. ‘God’s blood, you look sick. You shouldn’t go alone. Nick, get a boat.’
‘No!’ I answered stubbornly. ‘I’ll be all right, you stay here.’
Nicholas and Tamasin were also staring. Tamasin took my hand. ‘Are you sure? I could see you were troubled earlier.’
‘I will be all right.’ I felt ashamed of my weakness.
‘Nick,’ Barak said peremptorily, ‘go back with him.’
The boy stepped forward. I opened my mouth to protest, then shrugged.
‘Call on us later,’ Tamasin said.
I nodded. ‘I will.’
I walked away, fast as I could through the crowds, Nicholas for once having to lengthen his long stride to keep up with me. The endless crash of cannon suddenly ceased; the admiral must have boarded the King’s barge at last.
‘Watch out there!’ a man called out as I nearly fell into him. Nicholas grasped my arm.
‘He’s drunk, sodden old hunchback,’ another man observed. And in truth it was as though I were drunk, the ground like a ship’s deck, seeming to shift and slide beneath my feet.
WE GOT A BOAT TO the Steelyard stairs. When we stepped off I felt strange, light-headed. Nicholas said, ‘Shall I walk you home?’ He was embarrassed, and had hardly spoken during the journey.
‘No. We’ll walk to chambers.’
Today being a holiday and so many people down at Greenwich, the city was quiet, as though it were a Sunday. I was walking steadily again now, but thought with renewed grief of my friends who had died on the Mary Rose. Their faces came before me. And then I found myself saying an inward goodbye to them all, and something lifted in my heart.
‘Did you say something, sir?’ Nicholas asked.
I must have murmured aloud. ‘No. No, nothing.’ Looking round, I realized we were at Lothbury. ‘We are close to the Cotterstoke house,’ I said. ‘Where that painting is.’
‘What will happen to it now?’
‘Edward’s half of his mother’s estate will go to his family. In these circumstances I imagine his wife will want to get rid of the house as soon as possible, painting or no painting.’
‘Then Mistress Slanning may get her way.’
‘Yes. I suppose she may.’
He hesitated, then asked, ‘Will Master Coleswyn tell Edward Cotterstoke’s wife why her husband took his life? That old murder?’
‘No. I am sure not.’
I realized the old servant, Vowell, would know nothing of Edward’s death. Perhaps I should tell him, and make sure he kept his mouth shut.
THE OLD HOUSE was quiet as ever. Nearby a barber had opened his shop, but there was little custom and he stood leaning disconsolately against a wall under his striped pole. I remembered Rowland saying I needed to shave before taking my place for d’Annebault’s progress through London tomorrow; I would do so after visiting Vowell. I knocked at the door.
He opened it at once. He looked agitated, his eyes wide. He stared at us in surprise, then leaned forward and spoke quietly, his voice shaking. ‘Oh, sir, it is you. I sent for Master Dyrick.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t think he would send you in his place. Sir, it may not be safe for you.’ I lowered my voice in turn. ‘What do you mean, fellow? I have not come from Dyrick.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I came to tell you poor Edward Cotterstoke is dead.’
Vowell wrung his hands. ‘I know, and by his own hand. One of his servants told someone who knows me. Wretched gossiping women, everybody knows already. Mistress Slanning—’
‘Isabel knows?’
‘Knows, sir, and is here.’ He cast a backward glance at the gloomy hall. ‘In such a state as I have never seen anyone. She insisted I let her in. She has a knife, sir, a big knife she took from the kitchen. I fear she may do as her brother did—’
I raised a hand; the frightened old man’s voice was rising. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the parlour, sir. She just stands looking at the painting – she will not move, nor answer me – holding that knife.’
I looked at Nicholas. ‘Will you come with me?’ I whispered.