The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins - [56]

Worst of all was his hatred of his wife, a poison running through his veins. He had spent much of the night regaling me with sordid tales of his marriage, before Henrietta had found sanctuary at court. I sensed that he told these stories often, to anyone who might listen. He took the part of the villain with a strange sort of glee, as if his life’s great purpose had been to torture and degrade his wife in every conceivable fashion. He’d squandered her inheritance, roaming the town while she starved in filthy lodgings. And when he did come home, he brought back whores to torment her, fucking them in front of her.

‘One son, that’s all she gave me,’ he sneered, as Henry was carried lifeless through the tavern. ‘What use is a wife if she can’t keep a baby in her belly?’

Somehow, I kept my composure. How would it serve Henrietta if I punched Howard, or stormed away in disgust? I must find something useful to bring back to the queen. ‘You are separated now, I believe?’

‘Not in law,’ he snapped. ‘She is still mine – and always will be. She can hide in her rooms, but I’m still here, in her head.’ He tapped his temple with his fingers. ‘For ever.’ And then he started upon another loathsome story, of some small rebellion punished with a savage beating. How it had left her deaf in one ear and why that was not his fault. How she should thank him now, as it spared her from listening to the king’s tedious conversation.

It was not the first time I’d heard a man speak of beating his wife of course, nor would it be the last. Take a walk through the Garden and there are plenty of women with black eyes and split lips. But Howard spoke of it with a boastful pride I had never heard before, as if it were his duty and his pleasure.

It made me all the more determined to find something to stop him, for Henrietta’s sake as well as my own. But what could I tell the queen that she did not already know? The gambling, the drinking, the whoring, the debts, the violence, the cruelty. What news could ever be enough, given Howard’s position? Ned Weaver resented me because I was the son of a gentleman, and so favoured by the law. Charles Howard was a nobleman. If his brother died without an heir, he would become Earl of Suffolk…

…Unless someone ran him through with a blade first. I confess, the thought did cross my mind. One quick stab in the back, in some dark alleyway. If I were a different man, how easily I could resolve the matter. If I were Samuel Fleet, in fact – the man the queen expected me to replace.

‘You hold your drink well,’ Howard said, slapping my back.

I took the compliment, but in fact I had only sipped at my wine. It had been easy enough to pass my bottle on to one of Howard’s companions, or spill a few glugs upon the floor. Kitty had spent most of the night at the ring, betting on the fights without drinking. We had both kept our wits sharp.

Howard leaned closer. ‘I’ve hired a boat,’ he shouted, his breath hot and wet in my ear. ‘You must join me. Both of you. Plenty of drinking hours before dawn.’

I nodded and told him I would find Kitty, though I had no intention of bringing her with me. I took a slow circuit about the tavern, and found her at last at the door, talking to Jed. I drew her to a shadowed spot beyond the reach of the torchlight and explained about the boat trip.

‘You must go home now,’ I whispered, reaching for her hand in the gloom. ‘Would Jed escort you home, d’you think – for a fee? Or that Irish girl, perhaps?’

‘Neala. She left some time ago.’

‘It won’t be safe on the boat, Kitty. There’s nowhere to escape on the river, and I can’t protect you from six men, even if they’re half-dead with drink.’

She squeezed my hand. ‘He doesn’t remember you, Tom. And you need something to give to the queen.’

The cockfighting was over and the tavern was emptying, men streaming out into the chill air. Some of the winning cocks were being carried through in wooden cages, squawking and crowing and flapping furiously. I called over to Jed and asked if he would guide Kitty home for a fee. ‘I have business with Charles Howard.’

‘Howard? Keep away from that bastard. Take her home yourself.’

Kitty prodded me in the ribs. ‘I am not a sack of potatoes to be carted about the city. I shall go where I please.’

‘Kitty…’

‘Now, now – what’s this?’ Howard cried, clapping his hands as he stepped into the night. ‘A lovers’ quarrel?’

‘Miss Sparks is a little tired. I’m arranging a safe passage home.’

‘Home? What the devil are you mewling about, Hawkins? No, no – I will not part with my new friends. You must come with me.’ He put his arms around our shoulders and dragged us away. ‘I insist.’

The boat was waiting for us at St Saviour’s Dock, bobbing and swaying against its mooring. It was a barge fit for a nobleman, with a broad cabin in the stern and a smaller one at the bow. How this particular nobleman had paid for the trip I could only guess – he had lost a fortune in the tavern, and yet he tipped the head oarsman a crown as we boarded. His son must have deep pockets. Henry was still with us – in a manner of speaking. He had puked several times along the way and had to be carried on to the barge by Howard’s chairmen. The rest of our party we had lost to another tavern behind the cathedral. Praise the Lord.