Less than halfway along our walk, where the Narrow Wall begins on our shore, all the palaces of bishops and nobility become visible on the far bank—Salisbury House, all the Inns of Court, Arundel House, and the rest. I point them out to him (of course I know them all from various dalliances I have contrived on Your Grace’s behalf), but he does not goggle at them as he had at London Bridge. “A little different from my own time,” is all he says.
At this point, the Thames bends to snake south, and soon as I hear a ferryman calling “Westward ho!” I hail him. “We’re taking this wherry,” I explain to Tristan, “for a penny, which will come out of your money that I procured so cleverly for you from the dim fella.” The ferryman fetches us across, brings us to the far side without the tide causing him too much grief. Tristan pays his penny, and then it’s just a street away we are from King Street, in the shadow of Whitehall Palace, and right away is the Bell Tavern. One of three taverns where the minor courtiers like to eat and drink and sometimes do other things. I’m more at home in Southwark, and less conspicuous, but as Your Grace knows, it’s plenty of time I spend here.
It was quiet there for the time of day, as the last of the diners were finishing. A strange stillness after the din and bustle of the streets and the Thames. I nodded to Mary, who works there. She nodded back at me—and her eyes found Tristan, and they opened wider, then she gave me an approving look. I sauntered over to her and said low in her ear, “Sir Edward Greylock? You have said he was a dinnertime regular.”
“Indeed he is, and you’re in luck, he’s just finishing his lamb.” With a jut of the chin she gestured toward a fellow of perhaps thirty years, tall and elegant but with a willowy, pale presentation, sitting alone at a table by the door, the dregs of another diner’s meal across from him. As if a strong wind would bend him over. Curly reddish-brown hair and pink cheeks made him look almost feminine. A pretty man all around, but not impressive. I recognized him from a few times when I was spending the evening with one of his acquaintances. I in turn pointed him out to Tristan.
It is now that Tristan begins to impress himself upon me in a good way. For what does he do but approach Sir Edward and with the most nuanced mixture of respect and swagger, he does bend the knee just a wee bit and lowers his head, doffs his hat and holds it down by his right leg, kisses his left hand and says, “God give you good day, m’lord,” and then as if turned to stone, he awaits to be noticed by Sir Edward.
Sir Edward looks up from his lamb pie and stares at Tristan, perhaps as distracted by his manly physic as Mary was. “Well met, sir,” he said, uncertain of Tristan’s rank from his piecemeal attire.
“I cry you mercy, m’lord,” says Tristan, not at all like a fellow who comes from a time and place without any English nobility oppressing him. “I’m a gentleman soldier from the Isle of Man and I would beg a boon of you.” And when Sir Edward did not appear ready to disregard him, he pressed on, in a steady enough voice: “The world speaks of you as friends with the Earl of Cumberland, and he is a lord I fain would meet, but have no means of introduction.”
“And who might you be, sir?” asked Sir Edward, without malice he said it, studying him.
“I am called Tristan Lyons, and I am a Manx adventurer, recently returned from Java.”
Confusion flashed across Sir Edward’s face. “An adventurer?” he said, and then seemed to choose polite caution by gesturing warmly to the seat across from him. “Pray be seated,” he said. “What would you with the Earl?”
“Faith sir, in Java I befriended some agents of the Earl of Cumberland, and heard from them of some ambitious plans intended by the Earl and his aldermen and knights.”
“Ay, the East India Company,” says Sir Edward.
“Just so, m’lord. My connexions are all abroad and I fear I cannot write to them in time for them to send references of my character before the Earl sends Sir James Lancaster off on his next voyage. I would be deeply in your debt if you would consider brokering an introduction. I can hardly conceive of a better investment to be made with my inheritance.” At this I nearly burst out laughing for he sounded not at all excited, but as if he had been carved from a bit of peat and only half-animated. But then, Your Grace, he continued to speak, and to describe in such details the quality of the Javanese pepper harvest that in faith my own mouth was watering, and I have never even tried the stuff. And since I knew his motives, didn’t I marvel at how well he kept his true intention from this fella, spoke as if he hadn’t one jot of interest in seeing the fella himself invest in the Earl of Cumberland’s schemes.
Sir Edward says he regrets to inform Tristan that Sir James set sail back in April, and Tristan begs his pardon and asks him does he think it might be possible to make an investment anyhow, toward future returns?
Then Tristan goes on a bit and begins to speak in tones of wonder and reverence, as if he were merely musing aloud to himself, of Hither India. There is one thing in particular he goes on about, and that’s spices called turmeric and saffron, the both of which create a cheery yellow-orange dye for silks and cottons—fabrics easy to obtain in Hither India. And now it’s Sir Edward I’m watching, as his face becomes a marvel of interest. Suddenly he says he’s a mind to speak to the Earl himself and see about such an investment, and if Tristan will come to see him in two days’ time, he will happily inform him of the possibilities. Tristan falls all over himself with appreciation and gratitude, honors Sir Edward as if Sir Edward were a king and himself a peasant, and then with some assistance from me (whom Sir Edward never once regarded directly), removes himself from the building.
But not before making certain that Sir Edward knew he could find some pleasant behind-the-door diversions at the Tearsheet Brewery in Southwark, for which I am much obliged.
“That was nicely done,” I said, as we walked back toward the riverbank. “Why did you go on about that dye color? Why did that hook him?”
“He is betrothed to a lady of Elizabeth’s bedchamber,” Tristan answered. “We studied portraits of her. She is very taken with that particular color, and it is a difficult color to come by with English or even European dyes. Theirs seems to be a match of affection as well as opportunity, so I guessed that he would know her preferences, and also want to know how to please her. Seems I guessed correctly.”
“Is right you did,” I agreed. “Although not so much affection he doesn’t want the odd discreet diversion. I thank you for that as well.”