The Mad Courtesan by Edward Marston Page A

headquarters for the Mint, the building also housed the Crown jewels, the royal armoury and the national archives. In addition, it was the most feared prison in England. Above all else, however, the Tower remained what it had always been – the focal point of a burgeoning city that was planned around a main river and encircled by fields, forests, marshes and hills.
    Andrew Carrick had admired its imposing exterior for many years until he was invited to sample its accommodation. His view of the Tower of London was more jaundiced now. It had robbed him of his freedom and kept him away from his family and his friends. In its cold and comfortless way, it had shut him out of life itself and forced him into an idleness that was a kind of death to him. Carrick was an able lawyer with eager clients awaiting his services. But the slim, poised, well-dressed man with an incisive mind wasnow a rather plump and indolent creature with a shabbiness to him that he detested. Imprisonment was irksome. There were, however, compensations.
    ‘Good morrow, sir.’
    ‘Good day, Master Carrick.’
    ‘How does the world find you?’
    ‘In excellent heart. And you, sir?’
    ‘I survive, I survive.’
    ‘Have faith, my friend.’
    ‘It goes hard with me, Master Fellowes.’
    ‘We pray for your release.’
    ‘You are most kind.’ Andrew Carrick made an effort to shake off his melancholy. ‘But what of life beyond these walls? Tell me all the news, sir. It is a week and more since we spoke last and I am starved of intelligence. Who rises? Who has fallen? What are the rumours? Give me some interest. Unlock my mind at least.’
    ‘I’ll try what keys I may …’
    Harry Fellowes offered all the news he could and each morsel was snapped up greedily by the prisoner. Fellowes was a short, round, self-satisfied man whose inclination towards pomposity was held in check by his genuine sympathy for Andrew Carrick. Enemies of state deserved to be incarcerated in the Tower before their execution but the lawyer was no traitor. He was an honest, patriotic, God-fearing Englishman whose offence was slight if illjudged. Because he was so harmless a guest, Carrick was given licence to leave his cell and roam his tower for exercise. On one such walk he had been fortunate enough to meetand befriend Harry Fellowes. It was a relationship that kept the prisoner’s hope alive and sustained him through the long reaches of boredom. The Tower of London was a place of work to Fellowes. As Clerk of Ordnance, he was a regular visitor to the armoury and he always came equipped with a fund of stories about court and city. Carrick was sincerely grateful and his lone friend warmed to him.
    ‘That is all I have to tell you, sir.’
    ‘I cannot thank you enough, Master Fellowes.’
    ‘Does it bring relief to your plight?’
    ‘It does, sir,’ said Carrick with tattered dignity. ‘It does. Would that I could repay you in some way.’
    Harry Fellowes appraised him shrewdly for a long time.
    ‘Haply, you may,’ he said. ‘Haply, you may.’
     
    Nimbus spent the night in the largest stable and on the deepest bed of straw. As shafts of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the timber to fill the place with endless golden dots, the horse woke, raised itself up and looked around. It yawned a welcome to a new day then got to its feet in a gentle rustle. A flick of the head opened the top half of the stable door, a dextrous mouth pulled back the wooden bolt. Kicking the lower half of the door open, Nimbus went off in search of service and he soon found it. He was back less than a minute later with his teeth clamped on the collar of a terrified ostler who was virtually carried along by the horse. The dishevelled young man was thrown into what he thought was an empty stable. As he stumbled over a pile of blankets, however, he had his second shock of the morning.A human voice roared abusively. The blankets then opened like giant petals to allow a bleary-eyed Cornelius Gant to