In my pocket were a few gold coins from the purse given me by Henry; beyond that I had nothing. I was a man alone, without home, without estate, without family, and at this point, without friends.
What was I to do? Find Emma Delahay? Then how? She may have died, for the plague visited London often. My small fortune was gone and my gold would not last long. Should I return to writing? But I was no writer, merely a man with some facility with words. Still, I had a story of the wars, perhaps several, and so, until fortune smiled again, perhaps…
To sit idle was never my way. Somehow I must be doing.
The England of Good Queen Bess was a country on the march. Merchants and tradesmen, once despised, now often held positions of honor. Some of them were acquiring coats of arms and being ushered into the gentry. Yeomen had become nobles, and all was changing. Of the old families who had come with William from Normandy, few remained in any kind of power. A new order of men was rising, yet there was no lasting place for me in England, for sooner or later questions would be asked and my identity discovered.
Richard Field … I would seek him out. With that in mind I went to my room. At my small table I began to compose a firsthand account of the battle of Arques. To flesh it out I included a brief account of Henry of Navarre. It was no obsequious, flattering picture, but a straightforward account of the man, his character, and his capabilities.
Most of the night I worked, driving swiftly ahead, caught up by the excitement of my own narrative. It was not the picture from the long view as so many were, but from the standpoint of the soldier in the field, of hand-to-hand combat, the clash of blades, the blood, the dying, the waiting, and the occasional flashes of humor.
Next day Richard Field greeted me as an old friend, for he at least had not changed except that he was now risen in the world. His print shop was twice its former size, and he employed a dozen workmen and apprentices now where there had been but two before.
Alone in his private chamber where he conducted his business, he stood back and looked at me. “Ah, but you have changed! The boy has become the man! And that scar on your cheekbone?”
“It was single combat, at Ivry, between the armies. With a lieutenant of the Duke of Mayenne. I fought two such fights.”
“And what have you here? Another manuscript?”
“A firsthand account of Arques.”
“Good! I think we can use it. Do another on Ivry.” He glanced over the sheets of manuscript. “Hah! A picture of Henry of Navarre! That will hold much interest here!”
Seated over a glass of wine I explained that I sought Emma Delahay.
Richard Field shrugged. “Who can say where she is? London is a vast place and people come and go. She was a woman alone, and there are many murders, most of which go unpunished and the murderers unfound.
“It might be that. Or she might just have chosen to disappear. You spoke of the Good Catherine. Her master may know something that would help you.”
For hours I wandered the streets of London but saw no other familiar face. Tosti Padget, had he been here, would probably have known all, but he had disappeared. Then, at night in my chamber, I worked at telling the story of the battle of Ivry, and noting down several others, one a tale of Spanish treasure I heard while there.
When I saw him again, Field commented, “You who are forever trying foreign ventures should go to the Levant Company, lately chartered to carry on trade with Turkey, Venice, and all the eastern Mediterranean. It has the smell of a good thing, indeed.
“Besides,” he added, “it were well to be free of London now, for the plague is such that soon all feasting must cease, and the theaters may soon be closed.”
We talked on various subjects, drinking our wine the while, and he told me much that had obtained whilst I was away to the wars. Despite what I had heard heretofore he said he thought Robert Greene was dead, and that Edward Alleyn, the tragedian, had married Joan Woodward, stepdaughter to Philip Henslowe, a theater man himself.
“There was great scandal, too, about the taking of the great Spanish ship,” he continued. “A rich prize she was, and all who came aboard her made off with some thing, and none of them trifles. The Queen, they say, is furious. My lord of Cumberland is he who finally laid her aboard and deserves the most, but some others, Raleigh among them, are much discontented.”
Late it was when at last we parted, and I started back through the streets alone. Yet I had two pistols, well charged, and my blade with the silver hilt.
Emerging from the door, I saw a carriage drawn up down the street, all silent and standing, and I liked not the look of her, with two powerfully built men on her box. As I started past, the coach came forward, following me.
“You’re daft, Chantry!” I told myself.
Yet it was coming up, moving more swiftly now, and I drew warily to one side and stepped into a doorway to have my back against something. The coach drew abreast and stopped, and a woman’s gloved hand emerged from the curtained window.
“Young man!”
Holding myself ready, I replied, “Is there something you wish?”
“Are you not the gallant Captain Chantry?”
“I am Captain Chantry.” I glanced to left and right. “These are black streets, milady, and were I you I should make the best of my way home. Thieves do hunt the streets about here, and no man is safe, let alone a woman.”
“Will you not share my carriage? Come, do not be afraid. See?” she opened the door. “I am alone.”
Curious and intrigued, I moved a step from the building. Indeed, she was alone, and as for the two men on the box, I counted myself quite their equal.
“What is it you wish?”
“Come, get in, and we will drive you to your inn. Oh, yes! I know where it is. A strange place, too, by all accounts. One wonders if the handsome young captain is as guileless as he seems.”
Curious indeed, I stepped into the carriage and seated myself opposite her.
She laughed. “What! Is the noble captain afraid then? Will you not sit beside me, Captain?”
“If I did so I could not see your beauty half so well, milady.”
She laughed again and leaned toward me. She was masked. Her perfume was delicate and suited her. She was clad as for a ball, her white shoulders but barely covered, her hat riding upon a blond coiffure.
“Come, Captain! Do you so soon forget old friends? I have cause to remember you, who were so gallant, and such a magnificent swordsman! My! I who have seen the best was amazed! And quick to act, too! Never a second’s hesitation!”
She leaned back so that her face was half in the shadow. Suddenly her bantering tone changed. “Captain, I have long ears, for I have discovered that information is ever the price of victory, and I understand a venture upon which you depended much has failed you.”
“It is the fortune of trade, milady.”
“Indeed it is, and my informers tell me that while you ventured but little, your ventures were marked with success.”
“Small success! And the woman I trusted disappeared, taking with her what little I had.”
“But you trusted her? Some men would think you a fool to trust any woman, particularly in a business way. Was she your mistress, too?”
“She was not,” I replied stiffly.
The coach had come to a halt. Looking out, I could see that she had indeed returned me to my inn. I moved as if to depart but she put a hand on mine. “Stay, I would talk a minute.
“Look you,” she said. “Who I am or where I come from does not at this tune matter. You trusted a woman and she failed you, or seems to have. I needs must trust a man and I know no other who seems so likely a risk.”
“I thank you. If there is anything—”
“There is, indeed.” From a bag beside her on the seat she took a smaller sack. “Take this. Count it well, and when you have done so, think how it might be invested.
“In the sack you will also find a name and a place. You are not to try to discover who bears the name, nor go near the place until the venture is complete. Nor even then unless in dire emergency.
“Do you, if you should leave England, return to this same inn. I shall find you.”