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“I’ll pawn the jewels,” Dare promised, nodding to Ned to follow him. “And we’ll buy the arms. I’ll meet you at the quayside at Texel tomorrow afternoon, sire.”
REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SPRING 1685
Matthew was eating his breakfast at the scrubbed table in the kitchen warehouse. Alys poured him a mug of small ale and took her seat opposite him. For a moment she admired his profile, as straight and beautiful as any of the Greek statues they sold, a handsome youth on the edge of manhood. “D’you get enough to eat? Do they give you a good dinner at the Inns of Court?” she asked.
“You can see, I’m not fading away,” Matthew replied.
She smiled; he was fifteen years old but already the top of his head was level with her own neat white cap.
“You’re all legs,” she said fondly. “There’s nowt on you. Will you come home on Friday evening?”
“Course,” he said, his mouth filled with bread and beef.
She hesitated. “Have you heard from your mother?”
He took a long draft of small ale. “Not since she wrote to me that she was coming to the queen’s court, weeks ago. Have you?”
“I don’t expect to hear from her,” Alys said flatly. “If she invites you to visit, will you go?”
“I’m curious. I’ve not seen her since she visited us when I was ten and she was come and gone in an hour. I can only remember her carriage, and the cake she gave me. I wouldn’t know her if I passed her in the street.”
“Oh, you’d know her soon enough,” Alys said wryly.
He looked up at the woman who had been his foster mother since infancy. “She’s so beautiful?”
“Not even that. She has…”
“Style? Italian style?”
“She takes your attention,” Alys said. “If you passed her in the street, she’d take your attention.”
“She smiles at you?”
“She’s more likely to look down her nose at you for having the nerve to glance at her.”
“She’s proud?”
“Very.”
“Well, she’s not likely to condescend to visit me—a little ‘puny’ at Lincoln’s Inn.” He smiled at the nickname for the junior scholars. “And even less to come here. So I’ll have to wait for an invitation to court, if I hope to see her.” He took one last gulp of small ale and rose from the table.
“I’ll come with you to the water stairs.” Alys folded her lips on a warning that his mother might disappoint him.
He left the dishes as they were and went into the hall. His jacket was on the chair, his hat beside it, and a satchel of papers—his legalstudies—on the floor. He shrugged into his jacket and placed his hat at a rakish angle on his long curly hair. Alys put her hands on his shoulders and he bent his head like a boy, for her to kiss his forehead.
“God bless you, Son,” she said. “Work hard and keep out of trouble.” She hesitated; the students of the Inns of Court were notoriously rowdy and hard drinking. “You are learning?”
“Ma!” he protested. “We can’t all be like Johnnie and live for nothing but work!”
“At least don’t be a spendthrift!” she replied.
“D’you think I have folly in my veins?”
She feared worse; but she shook her head. “I know you’re going to be a good man. You’re our boy before you are anyone else’s.”
He tapped his hat more firmly on his head and took up his satchel. “I’ll be home late Friday. Don’t wait up for me.”
“You be home late, and you’ll find the door bolted against you,” she threatened, smiling. “I’ll have no wild young men hammering on the door at midnight.”
