The Last Protector. Andrew Taylor

       The Walls Run with Blood

       Friday, 13 November 1665

      THE REVEREND JEREMIAH White took the Lincoln road from Peterborough, riding north through watery sunshine. He was a tall, narrow man, stiff and twig-like, dressed in black. The horse he had hired from the inn was a small, brown creature. White’s feet were too close to the ground for dignity.

      He had set off in good time, not long after eight of the clock. The journey was no more than six or seven miles, but it took him longer than he had expected. The roads were treacherous after the recent rains, and the mare proved to be a sluggish, sour-tempered jade. He did not reach Northborough until the middle of the afternoon – well after the dinner hour, as his stomach reminded him with steadily increasing insistence.

      The gates of the manor were standing open. He clattered under the arch of the gatehouse into the courtyard beyond. The stableman came out of the coach house, touching his cap with one hand and taking the horse’s bridle with the other.

      ‘Does she still live?’ White asked.

      ‘Aye, sir.’ The man looked up at him. ‘Though it will be a mercy when God takes her.’

      White dismounted. There was a bustle at the main door of the house. Claypole came out with two servants behind him.

      ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said. ‘Mistress Cromwell has been asking after you all day. She’s working herself up to one of her fits. What kept you?’

      ‘The roads were treacherous. I—’

      ‘It doesn’t matter now. Come in, come in.’

      In his urgency, Claypole almost dragged White into the house, taking him into the great hall to the left of the screens passage, where logs smouldered in the grate. He guided White to a chair. One servant took his cloak. Another knelt before him and drew off his travelling boots.

      ‘Will you see her directly?’ Claypole said.

      ‘A morsel to eat first, perhaps,’ White suggested.

      Claypole glanced at the nearest servant. ‘Bread, cheese, whatever there is to be had quickly.’ He turned back to White, rubbing his eyes. ‘She … she was in great pain during the night again, and she was not in her right mind, either.’ His mouth trembled. ‘She says – she keeps saying …’

      White took his host’s hand. ‘She says what?’

      Claypole stared at him. ‘She says the walls are running with blood.’

      ‘Perhaps she has a fever. Or perhaps God has vouchsafed her a vision of the world to come, though I hope not for her or for you or me. But for now, my friend, there is nothing we can do except try to make the poor lady as comfortable as possible. And, above all, we must pray for her. Do you know why she wants me? Is it the will again?’

      ‘I don’t know – I asked her, but she wouldn’t say. She can be close and suspicious, even with us, her family.’

      The servant brought cold mutton and a jug of ale. White ate and drank a few mouthfuls, but his host’s urgency had suppressed his hunger.

      ‘The food must wait,’ he said. ‘I’d better see her ladyship now.’

      The two men went upstairs. On the landing, a maidservant, her face grey with exhaustion, answered Claypole’s knock at one of the doors.

      ‘Mistress knows you’re here,’ she whispered to White. ‘She heard you below.’

      ‘Is she in a fit state to receive him?’ Claypole said in a low voice.

      The maid nodded. ‘If it’s not for too long. God send it will ease her mind.’

      To White’s surprise, the bed was empty, though a fire burned on the hearth. The air smelled of herbs and sickness.

      ‘She’s in the closet,’ the maid murmured to him, pointing to a door in a corner of the room. ‘She made me move her there when she heard your horse in the yard. Come, sir.’

      Claypole made as if to follow them but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘Forgive me, master. She wants to see Mr White alone.’

      She held open the door no wider than necessary to allow White to pass through. As soon as he was inside, he heard the clack of the latch.

      The closet was tiny – no more than two or three yards square – and crowded with shadowy objects. The walls were panelled. The room had been built out over the porch and it faced north. The windows were small, their lattices set with thick green glass that let in little light. The air was stuffy with the smells of age and sickness. It was very cold.

      For an instant, he thought the maid had played a trick on him and the closet was empty. Then, as his eyes adjusted, there came a rustle in one corner. The old lady was there, propped up against pillows and swathed in blankets.

      ‘Mr White,’ she said. ‘God bless you for coming all this way again. I’m obliged.’

      He bowed. ‘My wife sends her service to you. She prays for you.’

      ‘Katherine is a good girl.’

      ‘How are you, my lady?’

      Mistress Cromwell drew in her breath and whimpered like a dog. He waited; he knew better than to say or do anything. In a moment, when the pain had subsided, she said, ‘I’ll be in my grave by the end of the month.’

      ‘God’s will be done.’

      ‘The workings of God’s will seem mysterious indeed, these last five or six years.’

      ‘It is not for us to question Him.’ White paused, but she said nothing. ‘Is it about the will? Should I send for the lawyer again?’

      ‘No. Not that. Call for a candle, will you? It grows darker and darker.’

      He opened the door a crack. Claypole had gone, but the maid was still in the chamber beyond. She had already lighted the candles and she brought him one.

      ‘Will mistress take her draught now?’ she asked as she handed it to him.

      The old woman’s ears were sharp. ‘No, I will not, you foolish woman,’ she said. ‘Afterwards.’

      He closed the closet door again and set