The First Horseman

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Someone was shaking me.

‘Master Thomas, Master Thomas, rouse yourself!’

Master Thomas had not the slightest intention of rousing himself.

‘Sod off, Will!’ I thrust my throbbing head deeper into the pillow.

I only half heard another voice. ‘Stand aside, Will. Give me that bowl.’

The wave of icy water that crashed over my head brought me, gasping and coughing, into the garish daylight. The shutters had been thrown open and Robert Packington’s thin, grave, disapproving countenance seemed etched on parchment. He bent over me.

‘Jesu, but you stink! Have you brought the Stews home with you? At least you were too drunk to undress. That will save us time.’

‘Leave me alone.’ I rolled over to face the undrawn curtain on the far side of the bed.

Robert grabbed me by the collar and yanked me into a sitting position. ‘You’ve an appointment at the Tower and I’m going to make sure you keep it — though the Lord knows why I bother.’

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