14 - The Burgundian's Tale (29 page)

I eyed the Earl a little warily, wondering if, this evening, he was his mother’s or his father’s son – Plantagenet or de la Pole; the descendant of Alfred and Charlemagne, or Geoffrey Chaucer’s great-great-grandson. I was relieved to find it was the latter and that My Lord was all smiling condescension and affability.

‘Pull up a stool, Roger,’ he invited, waving an arm from which water dripped in a sparkling arc. He indicated in an equally moist fashion that Bertram could make himself scarce, much to that young gentleman’s ill-concealed chagrin. (He felt himself to be quite as much a part of this investigation as I was, and resented his exclusion.)

When Bertram had duly bowed and departed to kick his heels outside the bedchamber door, Lincoln leaned his head back against a cushion, which had been thoughtfully placed on the edge of the tub by one of the pages, and regarded me with his frank, wide-mouthed grin.

‘I understand my aunt, Her Grace the Dowager Duchess, has sent for you?’ I nodded, and he laughed outright. ‘Don’t let her fluster you, Roger. She’s an impatient woman who thinks that everyone should dance to the pace of her own tune. All the same’ – his eyes narrowed – ‘
have
you discovered anything yet? Anything at all? If so, you can tell me. I can keep a secret.’

I shook my head. ‘I prefer to have the whole story, Your Highness, before giving away any part of it.’

The Earl made a moue of disappointment. ‘Poor stuff,’ he complained. ‘Haven’t you any idea at all who might have killed the Burgundian?’

‘There are one or two clues that point in a certain direction,’ I admitted, ‘but they’re not of sufficient strength to justify my making my suspicions public just yet.’

‘I’ve told you. I wouldn’t say a word to anyone,’ he wheedled. ‘On my word of honour.’

It was my turn to laugh aloud. ‘Your Highness, you are
surrounded
by people, all of whom have ears. If I said anything to you now, it would be all over the castle by nightfall. Don’t you agree?’

I gestured at the Master of the Bath and the three pages, and towards a fourth servant with a large sheet draped across one arm, standing ready to towel his royal master dry the instant Lincoln should step from the tub. As I did so, it occurred to me how alike two of the pages were to one another: blue-eyed and fair-haired, tall and well built. I glanced from one to the other with interest.

The Earl, following my eyes and at once understanding what had attracted my attention, let out a roar of raucous laughter that brought a reproving frown to the face of his Master of the Bath.

‘You’re looking at Edmund and John and thinking how alike they are – isn’t that so?’ I agreed with an inclination of my head. Lincoln grinned. ‘You’ll see that particular cast of countenance frequently in the royal palaces of my uncle, the King.’ I must still have looked nonplussed, for he gave another shout of laughter and said, ‘Think, man, think! His Highness has never been renowned for living like a monk. If, that is, monks ever do live like monks!’ (He was convulsed with merriment at his own wit: he was still quite young – only eighteen.)

I realized belatedly what the Earl was trying to tell me: that the two boys were bastard sons of the King. Not the sons of high-born ladies, of course, but offspring of some of the chambermaids and kitchen maids His Highness had seduced. For Edward Plantagenet, fourth of his name, was known to have an almost insatiable sexual appetite that no one woman – and probably not even two or three – could satisfy.

Lincoln signalled to the man holding the towel that he was about to get out of the bath just as a knock fell on his chamber door and Bertram reappeared, to announce that the Dowager Duchess was now ready to receive me. The Earl held out his wet right hand.

‘Then I won’t keep you, Roger. As I told you, my aunt of Burgundy is not a woman who can brook delay. But I’m very glad to have seen and spoken with you again, even though I can’t be said to have gained much by it. You’re as close as an oyster. But I have good memories of our journey together from Bristol to London, and those convivial evenings we spent on the road. I trust we shall meet again soon.’

I kissed the hand he had extended and smiled. ‘Your Highness is very gracious. And you need not feel too downcast. If it’s of any comfort to you, you have just given me a valuable clue – the key to something that has been puzzling me for the past two days.’

‘And can you now divulge the name of the murderer?’ he asked eagerly, his boyish face agog with excitement.

I shook my head. ‘Let us simply say, My Lord, that you have provided another stepping-stone to help me on my way.’

‘But you do
have
a name in your head?’

‘I do, Your Highness. But it may not be the right one.’

Lincoln gave a crow of laughter. ‘You’re a cautious one, chapman, and no mistake. I’d never hesitate to entrust a secret to you. And now, you mustn’t keep my aunt waiting any longer.’ And as I was going out of the door, he called mischievously, ‘Good luck!’

The Dowager Duchess was ready for the evening’s festivities, resplendent in a gown of cloth-of-silver tissue, the Order of the Golden Fleece in brilliant enamels hung about her neck. Diamonds, emeralds and rubies sparkled in riotous profusion over every inch of her royal person, and a magnificent gold crown, set with enormous pearls, rested on her once famous golden hair. This was now demurely hidden beneath a veil of white silk, and I wondered, meanly, if there were any grey in it that the Duchess was happy to conceal.

‘Well?’ she asked abruptly, as I was ushered into her presence, and ignoring Bertram who, this time, had insisted on sticking close to me. ‘What have you to tell me, Master Chapman.’

I bowed low. (It seemed like a good idea.) ‘At present, Your Grace, I cannot give you a name, but in a day or so, I believe it might be possible.’

‘Why can’t you tell me your suspicions now?’ she demanded imperiously. ‘If, that is, you really have any.’

‘Suspicions are not proof, madame. I have no desire to blacken anyone’s name without good cause.’

She made no answer for several seconds while she considered this, then nodded, as though satisfied. ‘Very well. But I return to Burgundy soon. I should like to know the truth before I leave.’

I regarded her straitly. ‘Madame … Your Highness, the truth is not always what we want to hear.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that a warning?’

‘A caution, perhaps. No more than that at present.’

The Duchess bit her lip, then, as trumpets blared throughout the castle, nodded a curt dismissal, rising swiftly to her feet and summoning her ladies about her.

The King and Queen had arrived.

I
was consumed by a sense of irritation. Was this what I had been summoned to Baynard’s Castle for? Was this what I had forgone my rest and supper for? A delay while My Lady the Duchess finished an elaborate toilet, half a minute of questioning and then dismissal? Was that really it? My Lady had asked nothing, and I had told her nothing, that could not have been settled by sending one of her servants to the Voyager. My annoyance, however, might have been much greater had it not been for my interview with the Earl of Lincoln, and the sudden revelation that had been vouchsafed me while I was there. My visit had not, after all, proved to be a complete waste of time.

It was, in fact, to prove even more rewarding.

As the Duchess sailed regally from the bedchamber, surrounded by a bevy of pretty and not-so-pretty young women, all chattering animatedly in French, a language in which, alas, I am not at all proficient, Bertram gripped my elbow and indicated that we should leave.

‘We’ll go down by the eastern turret stairs,’ he whispered, ‘and out past the stables. That way, we’ll miss all the fuss of the King and Queen’s arrival.’

‘And the arrival of all their hundreds of retainers, and the bowing and scraping and speechifying,’ I added nastily. I was still smarting under a sense of outrage and the confirmation of my belief that those set in authority over us are often arrogant and thoughtless, with no consideration for mortals less fortunate and important than themselves.

‘Well, yes, there’s that as well,’ Bertram agreed, eyeing me curiously. ‘Has something happened to upset you, Roger?’

‘Master Chapman to you, my lad,’ I snapped, refraining from boxing his ears, but only because I was following him down a very narrow and ill-lit staircase.

‘My, my! You are annoyed,’ Bertram replied, turning his head to grin cheekily at me over one shoulder. ‘Mind you, I understand. The Dowager Duchess can have that effect on some people.’

Our descent ended in a corner of the castle’s brilliantly lit and frantically busy outer courtyard, where the royal party’s horses were being rubbed down, watered, fed and stabled while their owners sat through several hours of banqueting and festivities in the great hall. There was still some activity with late arrivals. Rich satins and furs gleamed dully in the flickering light of dozens of torches, and a thousand rainbows glimmered among the flash and sparkle of gems.

‘I’ll take you to the gate,’ Bertram offered, before adding pompously, ‘After that, I must leave you. I expect I’ll be needed.’

I was just about to ask in my most scathing tone, ‘What for?’ when all other thoughts were driven from my head by a brief glimpse of the Duchess’s groom who had been breakfasting in the Voyager that morning.

‘Don’t bother! I’ll find my own way out,’ I flung at Bertram, before plunging into the crowd of ostlers stable boys and grooms, shouldering and elbowing them aside and keeping a sharp lookout for my elusive quarry. Finally, I saw him, leading a handsome bay mare into an empty stall. He kicked the lower half of the door shut behind him.

By the time I was near enough to lean my arms along the top of the half-door and peer inside, my friend was rubbing the bay down with a handful of straw.

‘You are the Dowager Duchess’s groom who’s putting up at the Voyager in Bucklersbury, aren’t you?’ I enquired, more to attract his attention than because I had any doubts on the matter.

The man jumped and turned, straightening his back and advancing into the patch of torchlight near the door in order to see me better. He considered my face thoughtfully for a minute or two, then nodded. ‘I remember you. We were talking at breakfast. But I can’t stop now. You can see I’m busy. It’s like a madhouse here tonight.’

I grinned, but made no attempt to move away. ‘A banquet, or so I’ve been given to understand. All fish dishes, I suppose as it’s Friday?’

The groom snorted derisively and paused in his work. ‘What do you think?’

‘A special dispensation to eat meat – that’s what I think. Plenty of roasted venison, beef, pork, mutton, swan, pheasant, fowl …’

‘Peacock, suckling pig,’ he added, entering into the spirit of the the thing.

We both laughed, and he stood upright again, patting the mare’s rump. ‘Maybe I could do with a rest,’ he conceded. ‘A couple of minutes.’ He forked fresh hay into the manger.

‘We were talking this morning,’ I said quickly, before he had time to embark on any topic of his own, ‘about Fulk Quantrell, who was murdered here in London just over two weeks ago. You said you knew but didn’t like him. When I asked why not, you muttered something about “like mother, like son”. What did you mean by that?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing personal. A lot of people didn’t like Dame Quantrell. Not that they voiced their opinion too loudly, you understand. She could do no wrong in the Duchess’s eyes. She was her devoted childhood friend and servant, come with her from England to make her exile bearable. Mind you, she was always civil enough whenever she visited the stables. Please and thank you, as pretty as you like.’ The groom was now getting into his stride, his arms folded, like mine, on the top of the half-door as he leaned forward confidentially. ‘The boy, though, was a different matter. Arrogant, overbearing and thinking he was God’s gift to an expectant world. Had to be mounted on the best horses, and ran with his complaints to the Duchess if he didn’t get his way. And Her Highness encouraged him with her orders that he was to ride any horse that he chose – just so long as it wasn’t one of hers, of course. But Fulk knew better than to push his luck too far. His demands were always within reason. But he was a sneak and a troublemaker when he was young, and he didn’t improve as he got older.’

‘You still haven’t told me why Mistress Quantrell was disliked,’ I pointed out. ‘If she wasn’t arrogant or rude, and didn’t carry tales to the Duchess, what exactly was it about her that people objected to?’

The groom bit a callused thumb. Behind him, the mare shifted her hindquarters restlessly. He gave her another absent-minded pat.

‘We-ell, I heard – not that I know this for certain; I never experienced it myself – but I did hear that Dame Quantrell had a habit of prying and poking into other people’s business and then threatening to use the information she’d gathered against them.’

‘Blackmail, do you mean?’

The groom sucked his teeth and pulled down the corners of his mouth. He seemed reluctant to commit himself.

‘Ye-es,’ he admitted at last. ‘I suppose that’s what I do mean. As I say, I never had any experience of it, myself. But then, I’ve no secrets to hide.’ He grinned and winked. ‘I lead a blameless life.’

I returned a perfunctory smile, too busy turning over in my mind the information he had just given me.

‘What about Fulk?’ I asked. ‘Was he up to the same tricks as his mother?’

The groom shook his head. ‘I never heard so, but it wouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, considering how close the two of them were reported to be. And now it seems that he’s been murdered. It makes you wonder. It makes me wonder, at any rate.’ The mare turned her head and nudged him in the back. Her water trough was empty. The groom made a clucking sound under his breath and said, ‘I mustn’t stay gossiping like this or I shall be boiled alive in oil. This beauty belongs to one of Queen Elizabeth’s sisters. I’ll bid you goodnight.’ And, grabbing a black leather bucket, he ran towards the well in the middle of the stable yard.

I called an answering ‘Goodnight!’ but it was doubtful if he heard me. He was too busy winching up the bucket. There was no sign of Bertram. He was probably nursing a sense of grievance at my abrupt departure and had abandoned me to my fate. Not that I needed him. I found the outer gate quite easily and, after a short but acrimonious colloquy with the gatekeeper as to who I was and what had been my business in the castle (I was
leaving
, I pointed out, not trying to get in!), I finally made my exit. Five minutes later I was in Thames Street, then heading north towards Knightrider Street, making my way back to the Voyager.