The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [41]

So much had happened in the last few hours that my head could not rest upon one thought, never mind plan what I should do next. One moment I would think of the queen, and then of Mrs Howard. And then Burden. The sound of the dagger sliding back into his chest. Sam’s face as he examined the body, cool and curious. And Howard – I must find him… must… and then it would all whirl about again, a dance I had never learned, where each step was misplaced, each partner unwanted. Well… had I not grown tired of my quiet, cramped existence? Had I not craved this? But for the life of me, I could not remember why. I closed my eyes… and in an instant had dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke to the sound of broth bubbling in the pot. I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. Betty gestured to the table, where hot water was steaming in the jug. I poured it into the bowl and washed my face, neck and hands. It felt so good that I tore off my shirt and soaked my chest and back, rinsing away the grime of the lock-up. Betty glanced up then away hurriedly, stirring the broth with her back to the bed.

When I was dressed again, I settled back in the chair by the fire and ate a bowl of the broth with a coarse chunk of bread and a mug of beer. Betty ate her own dinner standing up, studying me under long black lashes. She had fixed me a fresh pipe which I smoked gratefully, stem clamped to my lips. Slowly, I was returning to myself. I rubbed my wrists, where the iron had chafed the skin.

‘You think you are free,’ Betty said.

I held up my unchained hands.

‘You are not free.’

I took another draw on my pipe, breathed out the smoke in a soft cloud. ‘This sounds like the beginning of a lecture.’

She threw a shawl about her shoulders. ‘It is too late for that. You are the queen’s man now, Mr Hawkins. Those chains are stronger than iron.’

‘I didn’t think she would save me again.’

‘Howard stormed into the palace last night. He stood in the courtyard screaming about his wife and the king and demanding justice. He has lost all sense. The queen saved you because she is desperate. There’s no time to find someone else.’

‘I do not understand why they tolerate it. Why do they not lock him up? Or…’ I trailed away. Or have him killed. I knew why. Because he was a nobleman. ‘And what if I can’t resolve the matter?’

‘You know what will happen. Don’t look for comfort from me.’ She pinned her cap, tucking her tight black curls beneath the cloth. Her face was stronger and more severe with her hair scraped back, but still handsome. Almost regal, in fact. ‘I’m late for work. Here.’ She tossed me a wig and hat. ‘Some drunken fool left these at Moll’s the other night.’

‘D’you know…’ I squinted at them. ‘I think these are mine. Oh! You didn’t find a shoe, I suppose?’

Betty muttered something to herself. ‘Put out the fire once I’m gone. Don’t let a soul see you leave. Takes a long time for someone of my complexion to find somewhere respectable to live.’ She fastened the ribbons on her gown, until her chest rose high and firm. She caught me staring and pursed her lips. ‘Budge sent a message. Mr Howard will be in Southwark tonight, at the cockfight.’

I cursed into the fire. After all I had endured today, I had no desire to spend the night with that beast. ‘Damn it. Well. I suppose I have no choice in the matter.’

‘You had a choice!’ Betty hissed, rounding on me. She kept her voice low, but there was a force to her words, even so. ‘I told you months ago! Go home! Honour your father’s wishes and join the Church. Become his heir again. Become his son again. All that good fortune and you threw it away. For what?’

I frowned at her. ‘For a life.’

‘A life that will kill you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve watched you, Mr Hawkins. You throw yourself at the world – so sure it will catch you every time. But one day you will fall.’

‘My father would adore you,’ I muttered, slapping on my hat. I crossed the room and wrapped my hand about her slim wrist. ‘This is my nature, Betty. I can’t be what I’m not.’

Her pulse thudded against my fingers. ‘Perhaps.’ She hesitated, then drew away. ‘But you could be so much more than you are.’

Back on Russell Street, my neighbours greeted my return with worried glances and sharp intakes of breath. The monster had returned. When I stepped into the chandler’s on the corner to purchase some fresh quills and paper, the mistress of the shop informed me – in a high, trembling voice – that my credit was revoked. I was no longer welcome. I found the same reception in the grocer’s.

As I trudged defeated towards home, a flat, nasal voice called out behind me. ‘Quite the leper, Mr Hawkins.’

Mr Felblade, the apothecary, matched his step with mine. He was a most peculiar old man – eccentric, to use the queen’s charitable term – and a very poor advertisement indeed for his various lotions and tinctures, with their promise of good health and prolonged youth. He was excessively lean, with a long, narrow face, made longer by a towering wig that rose in twin horns upon either side of his head. His clothes – unfashionable since Queen Anne’s day – hung from his bony frame as if embarrassed to be seen with him.