10 - The Goldsmith's Daughter (5 page)

Abruptly, the Duke of Gloucester was on his feet, shouting his brother’s name. For a brief moment Clarence turned, looked steadily at him across the intervening space, raised one hand in farewell and then was lost to view amongst his guards. Prince Richard, his naturally pale face now the colour of parchment and seamed with sweat, sank back into his chair, sightlessly scanning the crowds at the back of the hall. But then his eyes suddenly focused themselves, and he half rose again from his seat. It was with a sinking heart that I realised he was looking directly at me.

‘So,’ exclaimed Philip Lamprey, ‘Brother George was found guilty, but is not yet sentenced. There’s time enough still for a reprieve.’

I shook my head. ‘Somehow I don’t think so. Not on this occasion. Unless you were there, you can’t begin to comprehend the animosity – no, more than that, the sheer, unadulterated hatred – that flowed between those two. I can only liken it to a festering sore that one day bursts, letting out all the poison and pus that has been accumulating inside.’

‘As bad as that, eh?’ said Philip ruminatively, scratching his head. He had come that afternoon to seek me out at the Voyager to enquire on Jeanne’s behalf after Adela’s state of health, and to satisfy his own curiosity as to the outcome of the trial. ‘For I knew that against all my good advice you’d be bound to go and see for yourself,’ he had chided me. He added now, ‘I trust you kept yourself well hidden and did nothing to attract my Lord of Gloucester’s attention?’

‘Nothing at all,’ I answered truthfully, but being less than candid. ‘And both the wedding and the trial now being safely over, Adela and I can spend our remaining days in London in a more leisurely fashion, and go where the fancy takes us. She has a desire to visit Leadenhall market again this afternoon, not having seen much of it the day before yesterday.’

‘Then you must promise to have supper with us afterwards,’ Philip insisted. When I demurred, knowing that hospitality did not come cheap, he said impatiently, ‘Jeanne will be only too delighted to see you, and any information you can give her about the trial will be ample reward for such victuals as we can offer you.’

It was impossible to withstand such an invitation; and so, after browsing amongst the stalls and shops of the Leadenhall, and after the purchase of a whip and top for Nicholas and a doll for Elizabeth, Adela and I walked up Bishop’s Gate Street, eventually turning in amongst the narrow alleyways of Cornhill to the cottage behind the Lampreys’ shop. There, we were afforded such a warm welcome that it was late into the evening, some hours after curfew and the closing of the city gates, before we returned to Bucklersbury.

We were met on the threshold of the Voyager by a perturbed Reynold Makepeace, who at once took my arm, drawing me to one side.

‘There’s a man here who says he must speak to you urgently,’ he said in a low voice, trying to prevent his words from reaching Adela’s straining ears. ‘The man,’ he added impressively, ‘wears the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.’ Reynold’s bright hazel eyes were round with curiosity and also with fear.

‘Timothy Plummer!’ I exclaimed disgustedly. ‘What in Heaven does he want?’

‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ asked a well-remembered voice, and, a second later, Timothy emerged from the landlord’s private parlour, just to the right of the inn’s front door.

‘So it is you,’ I sighed. ‘For one blessed moment, I was praying I might be wrong.’

‘That’s not a very friendly greeting,’ he reproached me.

‘And you’ve been particularly hard to find. I was asking for a lone chapman. I didn’t expect you to be in company with your wife.’ His smile faded. ‘And the cursed annoying thing is that you’ve been almost on the Duke’s doorstep all along.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded irritably. ‘We’re a long way from Baynard’s Castle.’

‘We’re not at Baynard’s Castle,’ Timothy snapped back, reverting, as he so often did when pomposity got the better of him, to lumping himself together with the Duke. ‘We’re staying at Crosby Place, in Bishop’s Gate Street.’

As he spoke, I recalled the splendid house and garden Adela and I had passed earlier in the evening, on our way to the Lampreys’ cottage. I had mentioned it, in the course of our conversation, to Philip, who had told me that it belonged to Sir John Crosby, an extremely rich wool merchant, who rented out the place to visiting dignitaries. Foreign ambassadors often resided there for a season. Both the French and Danish envoys had certainly done so. And now it appeared that the Duke of Gloucester had hired Crosby Place for the duration of his present unhappy stay in London. I had no idea whether or not Duchess Cicely was in the city; but if she were, I guessed that Duke Richard might feel he had enough sorrow to bear, without having to cope daily with his mother’s grief as well.

‘Am I to assume that His Grace the Duke of Gloucester wishes to see me?’ I asked sarcastically, and incurred Timothy’s immediate ill-will.

‘I’m not out scouring London on a bitterly cold, windy, sleety January night for my own pleasure,’ he rasped. ‘Of course His Grace wants to see you.’

‘What for? Did he say?’

‘No, of course he didn’t say! Nor did I ask him. It’s not my place. You just come along with me and you’ll find out soon enough.’

I put my arm around Adela. ‘And what about my wife?’

Timothy raised his eyes to heaven. ‘She’ll have to stay here until you return. She’s surely capable of doing so! She looks like a sensible woman. Which reminds me.’ His eyes lit with a malicious pleasure. ‘I rather fancied, when I saw you in Keyford last year, that you were after a different quarry.’

‘A mistake on my part,’ I answered serenely, thanking my lucky stars that I had told Adela all about Rowena Honeyman, and that I therefore had nothing to hide. ‘But how did you know? I’m ready to swear I didn’t say a word about the lady.’

‘It’s my job to know everything about everyone,’ Timothy replied curtly, disappointed that his barb had missed its mark.

This uncharacteristic spitefulness indicated to me something of his perturbed state of mind, and probably denoted the general anxiety and misery of the Duke’s entire household. If the master were deeply unhappy, his servants would be, too.

I kissed Adela. ‘I must go, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I have no choice. Go to bed and get some rest. Are you all right, now? No more heartburn?’

She shook her head and kissed me back. ‘Don’t worry about me, Roger. I’m perfectly well, only a little tired.’ She smiled up at me, but I could see the worry in her eyes. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘Don’t undertake anything dangerous. Promise me.’

I didn’t feel that I could make any promises that I might be called upon to break, so I just kissed her again without making answer. Then, handing her over to the care of Reynold Makepeace and his wife, and roundly cursing my foolhardiness in going to Westminster Hall that morning, in defiance of Philip’s advice and my own common sense, I wrapped my cloak more securely about me and instructed Timothy Plummer to lead the way.

There could not have been a more marked contrast between the cold, dark street without, roofs and window panes drummed by the onset of a thin, lashing rain, and the great hall of Crosby Place.

The leaping flames of a huge fire burning on the hearth sent shadows flickering across the richly carved ceiling and the delicate tracery of the musicians’ gallery. High walls and spacious, lofty windows spoke louder than words of the modern approach to building, and of the fortunes to be made in the wool trade. Sir John Crosby was a man of substance and intended that the world should know it.

The hall was empty except for two young people who were playing spillikins in front of the fire. The elder was a very pretty, dark-eyed girl some twelve or thirteen years of age, the younger a sturdy boy of about ten. It was nearly seven years since I had seen them last, but they were both instantly recognisable; the girl because she was so like her father, the boy on account of the strong resemblance he bore to his physically more powerful uncles, the King and the Duke of Clarence. These were Richard of Gloucester’s two bastard children, the Lady Katherine and the Lord John Plantagenet.

They glanced up as Timothy Plummer and I entered, brushing the rain from our cloaks, smiled and then continued with their game. But within seconds, a large, comfortable-looking woman, who was plainly their nurse, bustled in and began to shepherd them away.

‘Time for bed,’ she said as they protested. ‘You can play again tomorrow.’ And she swept up the spillikins, dropping them into a capacious pocket. ‘Make your courtesies to Master Plummer and the gentleman.’

But this they had already done without any prompting, and allowed themselves to be hustled through a door and out of our sight. I stored up the incident to relate later to Adela; a moment to treasure and remember in old age, when two scions of a royal Duke made obeisance to a common chapman.

Timothy indicated that I should take a seat near the fire while he went to find the Duke, but I preferred to stand. When he had disappeared through the same door as the children, I noticed how quiet it was. In a great household there was usually constant noise and movement, but today it was as if someone had died and everyone was already in mourning.

The door opened once again and Richard of Gloucester came in.

H
e was wearing a long, green brocade robe, trimmed with sable, over hose and a shirt bleached so white that it made his skin appear the colour of old parchment. I thought that I had never seen him look so fragile. He had always been small of stature and of slight physique, two facts that belied the depth of his determination never to give in to the ill-health that had dogged him since he was a child; but that evening, he seemed sick in mind as well as body. The almost black hair and dark eyes were lacklustre, and his nervous habit of twisting the rings on his fingers more pronounced. We were the same age, twenty-six, but I felt myself to be many years younger than Richard of Gloucester.

He gave me his hand to kiss and sat down; then, bidding me be seated in a chair opposite his own, he smiled, and, as always, that smile revealed a different man, infusing his rather austere features with warmth and kindliness.

‘Thank you for coming, Roger,’ he said, although he must surely have expected me to obey his summons. An attendant entered, carrying a silver flagon and two crystal goblets which he placed on a small table at the Duke’s elbow, before making a stately exit. ‘Will you take some wine? This is an excellent malmsey, although a little too sweet for my taste, I must confess. My bro . . . Some people, I know, prefer it for that reason.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, my lord. I know nothing of wines.’ I accepted the brimming goblet with its silver-gilt rim engraved with a scene of Bacchanalian revels, and waited for him to fill his own.

When he had done so, ‘To the absent,’ he said quietly, raising it in salute.

‘To the absent,’ I repeated, avoiding his eyes.

‘You must be wondering why I’ve sent for you,’ he went on, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I understand from Timothy Plummer that your wife is with you here, in London. I’m sorry to intrude upon your visit like this, but I have need of your special powers.’

Richard of Gloucester was a man liked, in many instances loved, by everyone who took the trouble to know him properly. All the same, in spite of his gentleness and thoughtfulness towards friends and servants, there was a ruthless streak in his nature. When he decided that he wanted something done, no consideration for the convenience or feelings of others would deter him from getting his way.

After a few seconds, while he contemplated the crackling flames on the hearth, he raised his eyes to mine.

‘You attended the Duke of York’s wedding yesterday. I saw you, outside Saint Stephen’s Chapel.’ He did not wait for my affirmation before continuing, ‘You therefore cannot have failed to notice Mistress Jane Shore.’

‘I saw a woman I was told was Mistress Shore. She was dressed in a pale blue gown that seemed to sparkle as she moved.’

‘I couldn’t say,’ was the terse reply. ‘I took no notice of what she was wearing.’

The Duke plainly disapproved of the King’s chief leman, as he no doubt disapproved of all Edward’s other mistresses, and of the sybaritic life that had turned his adored eldest brother from the magnificent, clean-limbed hero of his youth into the man he was today; still immensely tall, still golden-haired, but running to fat, the blue eyes dimmed by boredom and excessive drinking, the once handsome features blurred by too much good living, the sharp mind blunted by constant flattery from sycophantic courtiers. I reflected, as I had done once or twice before, that there was a deep-rooted streak of puritanism in Richard of Gloucester’s nature that no doubt made him many enemies. His ability to see things only as good or evil, right or wrong, could one day cause him great suffering, if, that is, it had not done so already.

He interrupted my train of thought to ask, ‘What else do you know of Mistress Shore?’ While I cudgelled my brain to remember what Jeanne Lamprey had told me of the lady, the Duke went on, obviously not expecting an answer, ‘She is the daughter of a mercer called Lambert, and she married a goldsmith by the name of William Shore.’ He refilled both our goblets. ‘She was not, however, the only female of the Lambert family to marry into that particular trade. It seems that a cousin of her father’s also married a goldsmith, one Miles Babcary, who still owns a shop in West Cheap. This couple – so my information runs – had an only child, a daughter who, in due course, married a man, whose name I can’t remember.’ The Duke was growing impatient, wanting to be done with the tale. ‘The long and the short of it is, Chapman, that some months ago this girl – or woman, as I think she now is – was suspected of murdering her husband. She was never arrested, never charged with the crime – partly, I am told, for lack of evidence; and partly, I suspect, because of influence brought to bear by Mistress Shore upon the King. But the taint of suspicion still surrounds her, poisoning her life.’