10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (30 page)

‘That’s right!’ Christopher Babcary exclaimed. ‘I remember now. His look puzzled me. Later on, however, it slipped my mind.’

I nodded and went on, ‘Mistress Perle also commented on the expression on Gideon’s face after the poison had begun to work. She said he looked outraged, as if he couldn’t really believe what was happening to him. She also thought, probably correctly as matters have turned out, that she heard him mutter the word “aconite”, but of course his lips were so stiff by that time that she couldn’t be sure. Furthermore, Mistress Perle was not the only person to mention Master Bonifant’s expression of horror – understandable, you may think, in the circumstances – but it suggested to me that he knew at once what had happened. He knew that somehow or other he had drunk from his own cup and that he would be dead within a very few moments. No one mentioned an expression of surprise or bewilderment. A small thing, perhaps, and of no significance on its own, but it added to the sum of knowledge that was slowly coming my way.

‘There was also Mistress Bonifant’s alleged infidelity with her cousin. The source of this rumour was Gideon, and only Gideon. I could find no evidence for his claim, and nothing, either, to support the idea that he might simply have hit upon the wrong man. No one could suggest anyone with whom she might have been cuckolding her husband.’

I saw Isolda wince, although I doubt if the others noticed. They were too busy pondering on all that I had just told them.

‘What made you think that the goblets might have been switched over?’ Miles Babcary asked me.

‘It was something that happened while my wife and I were at the Westminster tournament,’ I explained. ‘She changed my cup for hers while we were eating our dinner, for reasons that are too uninteresting to burden you with. Suffice it to say that the incident suddenly opened my eyes to what might really have happened on the evening of Master Bonifant’s murder. From what Mistress Eleanor had confided in me about the pendants, and Master Bonifant’s behaviour, I guessed that he had fallen in love with her and determined to make her his wife. That, in its turn, made me wonder if something similar could have happened before, with his first wife, and was the reason I decided to visit Southampton. I was well rewarded.

‘And now,’ I added, rising to my feet, ‘I must take my leave of you and go to beg an audience of Duke Richard at Crosby Place.’

They were loath to let me go and profuse in their thanks for solving the mystery, for the Babcarys, like myself, were convinced that they now held the answer.

The Duke, having listened intently to my story, was of the same opinion.

‘Well done, Roger,’ he said quietly, offering me his hand to kiss. ‘I shall make sure that Mistress Shore is in possesion of the facts before nightfall, after which––’

He broke off, declining to say more, unwilling, possibly, to raise his hopes too high. I don’t think he entertained any doubt that Jane Shore would intercede with the King on behalf of his brother George, especially in view of the favour he, Richard, would just have done her, but I do think he was beginning to have misgivings concerning Edward’s eventual clemency. There was a bitterness in his tone when he spoke of the King that I had never heard before, and deep worry lines had carved themselves into his face from nose to chin. The Richard Plantagenet I had known until then always had a lurking twinkle in his eyes, as though he could see the ridiculous side of life even while coping with its grim, and often dangerous, reality.

But the man who prowled around the great hall of Crosby Place, listening to my story, was a different creature; an animal at bay, surrounded by enemies all snapping and snarling at his heels, not knowing what the next moment would bring. I reasoned that if the King pardoned the Duke of Clarence yet again, Duke Richard would return to his normal self; the gay and gallant young man who had survived an uncertain childhood, plagued by ill health, to become the chief stay and prop of his elder brother’s throne. But if the Queen and her family persuaded the King to sign Clarence’s death warrant, then I feared for Duke Richard’s future, not so much at the Woodvilles’ hands, but as a victim of his own embittered nature.

Then, suddenly, he was smiling his usual sweet smile, and I dismissed my bleak thoughts as fancies.

‘You must forgive me, Roger, for spoiling your wife’s visit to London. How will you return to Bristol?’ he added. ‘Do you wish to retain the horse?’

I shook my head vigorously. ‘My lord, I’m happier on my own two feet. Horses and I have never seen eye to eye, and I find them uncertain beasts at the best of times. With good weather, good luck and some friendly carters, I should be home by the middle of next month.’

He laughed and again held out his hand. But this time, when I would have knelt to kiss it, he stopped me, saying, ‘Shake the hand of your friend, Roger, for you are one of the few people I count on for unquestioning loyalty. Tell me I’m not wrong.’

‘You’re not wrong, my lord,’ I promised. ‘Whatever happens, now or in the future, you may rely on my friendship.’

The weather, luck and the whole fraternity of carters were with me on that journey back to Bristol. I was home by the second week in February.

I was greeted with joy by my children, with warm and loving affection by my wife and was soundly scolded by my quondam mother-in-law. But Margaret’s original indignation and anger at my allowing Adela to return home without me had long since cooled, and her remonstrations were only half-hearted. Secretly, she was proud of my involvement with those in high places, and I had to describe over and over again my visit to Mistress Shore’s house. Adela was far more interested in the outcome of the mystery, and, once she was in possession of the facts, agreed that my conclusion was probably the correct one.

‘I’ve no doubt at all that you’re right, my love. You’re a very clever man. Now! We need fresh kindling chopped, water fetched from the well and then it’s time you were out on the road once more. We are short of money.’

So life had settled back into its normal pattern by the end of the month, when the knowledge of what had happened in London first burst upon us. As so often, information reached the castle before the town, and it was Adela’s former admirer, the Sheriff’s officer, Richard Manifold, who brought us the news.

‘Well,’ he said, seating himself at our table and accepting a mazer of ale, ‘it’s done then. The Duke of Clarence is dead; executed, presumably, but no one as yet knows how. Rumour talks of drowning in a butt of malmsey wine, but I don’t know that one can put much store by such a tale.’

I sat down slowly on the stool opposite him. ‘King Edward signed his brother’s death warrant?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Must have done.’ Richard Manifold wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘As far as I can gather from the messenger who brought the news, the sequence of events was as follows. On the seventh day of this month, the Duke of Buckingham, as Lord High Steward, passed sentence of death upon Clarence. But even at that late stage, the King hesitated for so long about signing the warrant that, on the eighteenth, the Speaker of the Commons requested that whatever was to be done, be done quickly. And on the very same day, the Duke was executed in the Tower, having first offered up his Mass penny and been shriven. After that, all’s secrecy and mystery. They say that even his mother, the old Duchess of York, doesn’t know for certain how he died. But he is dead, that’s for certain. But as for details, we’ll have to contain our souls in patience for a while longer.’

So it was done, I thought to myself. The Woodvilles had triumphed. Those three brothers who had been through so much together were now only two, and I wondered what Duke Richard was feeling. Did he fear that the Queen’s rapacious family would one day turn on him?

I grieved silently for him. He faced a lonely and very dangerous future.