LITMIR.BIZ

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hanging towards the ground; they were open-mouthed, red-faced, panting like bellows; their expressions were confused and embarrassed, as if they had been unexpectedly caught out in an act of folly.

      One man, a physician perhaps, knelt beside Shrewsbury and felt for his pulse. Blood was pumping on to the grass. The Earl made a feeble attempt to stand, his left arm flailing for purchase on the ground; one of his servants pressed him back down and tore off his own cloak to cover his master.

      Jenkins lay silent and unmoving. Mr Veal was bending over him and shaking his head at a question from Buckingham. ‘Dead, Your Grace,’ I heard him say. ‘The poor brave fellow.’

      ‘Oh God’s blood,’ Buckingham said, mopping the sweat from his scalp with his sleeve.

      ‘And now?’ Veal said, in a lower voice I could hardly catch.

      ‘Dog and bitch …’ said the Duke.

      That was what it sounded like, but as the words were fainter and more muffled than before, I wasn’t at all sure I had heard him accurately. He might have been saying ‘something which …’ or ‘the wound needs a stitch’ or a dozen other phrases. He was still speaking, but I could no longer hear any of the words, only see his lips moving, and his arm gesturing to the two men lying on the ground with the blood soaking into their shirts.

      In a moment or two, both parties would be returning to the boats. It was time for me to leave. I retreated through the spinney and made the best speed I could, running and walking, down to the lane. The tide was high, and it was still light, so with luck Wanswell would be waiting at the alehouse. I glanced towards the river, where the boats were moored alongside the Barn Elms stairs.

      To my horror, one of Buckingham’s boatmen was pointing in my direction. Ignoring the stitch in my side, I pushed myself to walk faster, praying that the boatmen would take me for a passing farmworker.

      The alehouse by the landing place was crowded with men who made their living on and from the river. Several of them turned to scowl at me as I blundered into the smoke-filled, low-ceilinged room. Wanswell was one of the men drinking at the long table by the window.

      ‘Come – we must go,’ I said.

      He raised his head. ‘Must we, master?’ He appealed to the company at large. ‘Must we, boys?’

      ‘No,’ someone said loudly. ‘You’re as free a man as any in London. Have a drink instead. Let’s all have a drink.’

      His fellows agreed with a clatter of mugs and bottles on the table.

      I brought my head down to the level of Wanswell’s. ‘Another five shillings if we go now,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Or I start walking to Putney, and you lose your return fare as well as your shilling-an-hour charge for waiting.’

      He accepted the offer, though for pride’s sake he took his time finishing his ale. I led the way outside, with the waterman staggering behind me. The delay had cost me five minutes, and that was too much. Roger Durrell, Mr Veal’s servant, was pounding down the lane towards the alehouse. Despite his bulk, he was capable of a surprising turn of speed. When he saw me, he stopped thirty yards away, his hand dropping to the hilt of his old cavalry sword.

      ‘God’s arse, if it ain’t Marwood,’ he said. He had a sonorous, phlegm-filled voice. ‘That will interest Mr Veal. So those web-footed watermen were right after all. You come along with me, sir, eh?’

      Wanswell staggered to my side. ‘Who you calling web-footed?’

      ‘Save your breath, numbskull.’

      ‘Me? A numbskull? I’ll rip your guts out for that, you fat bag of wind.’

      Durrell looked at the small squat man and burst out laughing. ‘Quite the little gamecock, ain’t you?’

      Wanswell held his gaze for a moment. Then he spat, shrugged and retreated to the alehouse, abandoning me to my fate.

      Durrell advanced slowly towards me. I backed away along the path to the river, with a half-baked idea in my head that I might leap into a boat and escape him that way.

      The alehouse door opened again, and Wanswell returned. He was carrying a staff shod with iron. Behind him came six or seven of his fellows. One of them had an axe over his shoulder. Another had a billhook with which he was slashing the air before him.

      ‘That’s him,’ Wanswell said, shaking his staff at Durrell. ‘That’s the poxy windfucker. He’s the one calling us web-footed fools. Fat whoreson.’

      The watermen advanced towards him in a solid, menacing phalanx. Durrell ripped out his sword. He stood there irresolutely. Then he turned tail and walked rapidly back the way he had come.

      The clock over the guardhouse stairs struck five.

      When Mr Undersecretary Williamson had dismissed his clerk Marwood, he allowed himself a moment to consider what he had learned, and the most advantageous way to present it to my Lord Arlington. Then he rose from his chair, put on his cloak and walked through Scotland Yard into Whitehall itself. Rain drifted from a dark sky heavy with clouds. Twilight was creeping through the palace. He made his way to Lord Arlington’s office overlooking the Privy Garden and requested the honour of an interview with his lordship.

      The clerk returned almost immediately and ushered him into the Secretary’s presence. The curtains were drawn and the candles lit. Arlington acknowledged Williamson’s greeting with a stately inclination of his head; he had spent four years representing the King in Spain, and he had brought back with him the manners of the Spanish court, as well as its language.

      ‘There’s news?’ he demanded.

      ‘Yes, my lord. I had a witness to the whole affair.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘They met in a close at Barn Elms. It did not turn out as we might have wished. Buckingham wounded my Lord Shrewsbury.’

      ‘Mortally?’

      ‘We don’t know yet. The blade went into the right side of his chest and came out at the shoulder. He fell to the ground. There was a good deal of blood. Apparently he was still conscious, but unable to stand.’

      ‘It’s most unfortunate,’ Arlington said. ‘I must tell the King at once.’ But he stayed in his chair, staring at the fire and showing no apparent signs of urgency. ‘I thought that Talbot and Howard would take care of matters, I really did. They hate Buckingham enough. Was anyone else hurt? Or killed?’

      ‘Jenkins. Once my lord was down, the Duke got in the way of Jenkins’ sword arm, and that’s when Howard ran him through.’ Williamson pursed his lips. ‘He’s dead.’

      Arlington considered the information. Williamson waited, accustomed to his superior’s silences and knowing better than to interrupt. The Secretary always wore a narrow strip of black plaster across his nose, which Williamson privately thought a ridiculous affectation. The plaster was supposed to cover the scar of a wound sustained when Arlington had fought for the King in one of the early battles of the Civil War. People said its only purpose was to remind the world of his loyalty to the crown in the late wars. But they didn’t say it to his face.

      ‘It’s a great misfortune.’ Arlington frowned and then brightened. ‘Though of course there is a silver lining: we have a dead man, after all, and Shrewsbury wounded, if not worse: it cannot bode well for the four that survived unharmed. They must go into hiding, even flee the country.’

      ‘It depends on how the King responds,’ Williamson said.

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘My lord, you know as well as I do that the King needs Buckingham’s services at present. He can’t manage Parliament without him.’

      ‘But he can’t ignore what’s happened, either. Such a flagrant breaking of the law. It must be manslaughter at the very least, with Buckingham at the heart of it, even if

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