14 - The Burgundian's Tale (34 page)

So anxious was Bertram by this time, that, nothing daunted, he had seized the Duke’s bridle – and very nearly got himself killed by one of the Duke’s squires for his pains. Fortunately, My Lord had intervened just in time; and, as soon as Bertram had explained his worries for my safety, had acted with speed and a fine disregard for the consequences, should Bertram’s hunch have proved to be wrong. A messenger had immediately been despatched to the Sheriff, while the Duke himself had taken Bertram up behind him and, accompanied by three or four men-at-arms and two of his squires, ridden directly to the Strand.

It was during this frantic dash through the London streets that Bertram had recollected my telling him of the ‘fly trap’ in Mistress St Clair’s bedchamber, and he had made straight for it as soon as he had been admitted by Paulina, his royal master hard on his heels.

‘And so I hope you see, Roger,’ the Duke said, still smiling, ‘how much you owe to this astute young man.’

I had regained a little of my bravado – enough, at any rate, to grin impudently and say, ‘My trust is all in Your Grace to reward him as he deserves, because I’m very sure I can’t.’

‘He shall become one of my personal bodyguards,’ was the prompt reply, leaving Bertram pink with excitement and gasping like a stranded fish. ‘And now,’ the Duke went on, getting to his feet, ‘I must return to Baynard’s Castle and seek an interview with my poor sister. As I said, this news will be a great blow for her, I’m afraid.’ He addressed Bertram. ‘Master Serifaber, you will accompany me. From henceforth, you will answer only to my household officers and not to Master Plummer, with whom I am seriously displeased. Roger!’ He gave me his hand to kiss. ‘Once more, I have to thank you for a job well done. I wish it could have had a different outcome, but you’ve done your part and solved the murder. I would repeat all my former offers to you, except that I know you won’t accept them.’

‘It’s enough to know that I have Your Grace’s gratitude,’ I replied, and laughed when he gave me a quick, suspicious look from under his brows. ‘Your Highness, I mean it, most sincerely.’

He nodded, his face clearing. ‘My Scots cousin, the Duke of Albany, has been singing your praises to me. It would seem that he, too, has cause to be grateful to you.’

I said hurriedly, ‘I think the less said about that, Your Highness, the better. Especially with so many officers of the law within earshot.’

‘Perhaps so,’ he agreed sardonically, but then pressed my arm. ‘Don’t step outside the law too often, Roger. Even I may not be able to protect you if you do … You’ll come and see me at Baynard’s Castle before you return to Bristol, I hope.’

I did, of course. As I have observed so often in the past, royalty’s hopes are tantamount to commands. Also present at our meeting was that ebullient young man, the Earl of Lincoln, who threw his arms around my neck and hailed me as a genius. This extravagant and wholly undeserved praise was somewhat tempered by the discovery that Lincoln had had a substantial wager with his father, the Duke of Suffolk, that I would unravel the mystery within seven days, and could now claim his prize.

Neverthless, I could not doubt that his admiration was genuine, and he assured me several times that he would not forget me. I groaned inwardly. I would much have preferred a life untrammelled by the esteem of princes, who were in the habit of regarding my time as their own. It was bad enough that the volatile Duke of Albany remembered me with gratitude, let alone having young Lincoln thinking of me every time he needed a mystery solved.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

It had been in my mind to remain in London for a day or two in order to renew acquaintance with my old friends, Philip and Jeanne Lamprey; but after my harrowing experience in the ‘fly trap’, my one desire was to return to Adela and the children as soon as possible. I had completely abandoned my original intention to walk back to Bristol, enjoying my own company and selling my wares as I went. Nothing now but speed would satisfy me; so I rode on the horse hired from the Bell Lane stables (which, when I thought about it, seemed the sensible thing to do: how else would the poor beast get home?).

The nag and I reached Bristol a week later (slow going, but I’ve already admitted I’m no horseman) on the feast of Saint Augustine of Canterbury. I returned my mount to the stables and walked the short distance to Small Street. As I approached my own house – mine by the generosity of the sweetest woman I have ever known – my heart swelled with pride and the anticipation of embracing my dear wife and family again. It would be no exaggeration to say that my heart beat faster with expectation …

I should have known better.

As I opened the street door, Elizabeth and Nicholas hurtled downstairs, screaming at the tops of their voices, in full cry after Hercules, who had someone’s shoe betwee his jaws. Also joining in the chase was Margaret Walker’s black-and-white mongrel, yapping and snapping like the fiend he was. In the kitchen, Adam was indulging in one of his tantrums, while from upstairs came the sound of Margaret Walker – she was still with us, God save the mark! – banging with her stick on the bedchamber floor. Adela – looking, not surprisingly, overwrought – appeared in the passageway, saw me and said, ‘Oh, you’re back. I wish you’d control that animal of yours.’

I leaned against the door jamb and, suddenly, began to laugh. I laughed until the tears ran down my face, and in the end I wasn’t sure whether I was laughing or crying. But one thing I knew for certain:

I was home.