The Dance of Death (36 page)

I was vaguely aware of doors opening and people coming out into the street, but no one made a move to help me. To the onlookers, it was just such another murderous brawl as they no doubt witnessed at least once a week, and at present, they knew nothing of the dead bodies in the house behind me. I managed to haul myself to my feet, but without my knife, the only recourse left to me was my fists. I lashed out blindly and heard John Bradshaw laugh as he dodged my erratically flailing arms. Some men were shouting encouragement to him, women too, obviously enjoying the spectacle. I stepped back, slipped on the greasy cobbles and went down again, flat on my back.

This time, he was on me, his weight pinning me to the ground, arm raised, the blade of his knife aimed straight at my throat. I struggled, but I couldn't shift him. I closed my eyes, waiting for the blow to fall . . .

Nothing happened. Instead, I heard him give a strange little grunt before he toppled sideways, blood gushing from his mouth, limbs jerking like one of those jointed dolls that toymakers sell. Then, after a moment, he lay still, eyes staring sightlessly up at the dark night sky.

A hand reached down to help me to my feet.

‘That was a very near thing,' Raoul d'Harcourt's voice said apologetically. ‘I'm sorry I was late. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I got lost. I don't know this part of Paris as well as I thought I did.'

‘Who, in God's name, are you?' I asked.

It was an hour later, and we were finally back in the Rue de la Barillerie after a journey across Paris during which my saviour had refused to answer all questions, hustling and urging me on, to get to the Île de la Cité, as though our lives depended on it, taking devious twists and turns through innumerable side streets and noisome alleys until my head spun. Now, as he forced wine down my throat, he ordered a frightened and bewildered Eloise to pack our saddlebags.

‘We're leaving Paris tonight. I'll have to bribe one of the gatekeepers to let us through. As to who I really am,' he went on, turning to me, ‘you've no need to know that. You can go on calling me by the name I borrowed from one of the goldsmiths' shops on the Quai des Orfèvres. Suffice it say that I work for Timothy Plummer, who's had his suspicions about John Bradshaw for some time. He sent me after you to watch your back and remove him if needs be.'

‘Y–you mean . . . Timothy knew I m–might be in danger?' I stuttered.

Raoul d'Harcourt – I had to go on thinking of him as that, it seemed – smiled wryly. ‘I'm afraid so, but he had no proof against Bradshaw. This seemed too good an opportunity to miss.'

Once more, as at the beginning of this ill-conceived venture, I was struck dumb by my sense of outrage. I could only hope and pray that when I at last came face to face again with my lord of Gloucester's spymaster general, I would be able to find the words to describe my opinion of his conduct. But somehow, I doubted it. They simply didn't exist.

I voiced another worry. ‘Why are we leaving Paris in such a rush? Why the hurry?'

‘Because,' Raoul said impatiently, ‘as soon as the other inhabitants of that street find the Gaunts' bodies – as they doubtless have done by this time – it will no longer be a case of a street brawl, but murder, and the chances are that you will get the blame. His neighbours must know that Gaunt – or de Ghent as you say he's called – is an Englishman by birth, however long he's lived here. And you're an Englishman. That will be good enough for them. They'll decide you have some old grudge against him.'

‘Why? And how would they know I'm English?'

‘Oh, in the name of all the saints, just think, man! The innkeeper, where you made your enquiries, and all his customers know you're English. We have to get out of the city as soon as possible, before you find yourself under lock and key. Do you know what's happened to the other man? The one who was with John Bradshaw?'

Philip! I had forgotten him. ‘No. He must have run away. Well, we can't be bothered with him. He must look after himself.'

Eloise came back into the parlour, carrying my saddlebags. She looked rather pale, but perfectly composed. ‘I'm not coming with you,' she said. ‘I've decided to remain in Paris. For the time being, I'll go and stay with the Armigers, if they'll have me. I'll tell them you've deserted me for another woman. They'll doubtless be very sympathetic, especially Master Lackpenny. I see no point in returning to England. There's nothing for me there.' Her gaze was a challenge, but I didn't respond. ‘No,' she went on, ‘it's as I said: there's no reason for my return. You can pass on the information I received from my cousin, Roger. In any case, everyone's going to be privy to it soon. So I'll say goodbye.' She dropped my saddlebags on the floor and walked to the parlour door, where she turned, smiling slightly. ‘Incidentally, I'm not the only one of our merry band staying behind. Philip's in the kitchen. It would appear he means to marry Marthe, if she'll have him, and live with her, here, in Paris.'

There's not a lot more to say. I didn't believe Eloise about Philip to begin with, but it turned out to be true enough. Marthe would shelter him throughout any hue and cry that might arise, and, afterwards, the man who hated foreign parts would settle down and become a good Frenchman. (Well, he'd try, although I couldn't really see it happening myself.) True to his word, the mysterious Raoul d'Harcourt got me out of Paris and away that same night and on the road that eventually led to Calais. And there, on English soil, I felt safe for the first time in days.

Crossing the Channel was delayed on account of the winter weather, but a little over a week later, I found myself back in Baynard's Castle and face to face with Timothy Plummer. I'm happy to say that, on this occasion, words did not fail me and I was able to give him a masterly reading of his character that satisfied even my own outraged feelings and made Raoul, who had been present at the meeting, grin behind his hand. (Later, he treated me to the best pot of ale to be had at the Bull in Fish Street.)

I did not see the duke. He had, by now, left for his estates in the North, but at a second, more private meeting, I passed on to Timothy the little I had discovered concerning the birth of King Edward. Like me, while he considered the story of the two christenings significant, he admitted that as proof positive it left much to be desired.

‘His Grace will be disappointed,' he admitted, ‘but if that's all there is . . .' He trailed off, shrugging fatalistically.

‘And I'm free to go now?' I asked.

He nodded.

So I shook the dust of London off my feet the very next morning, vowing never to return.

It's unwise to tempt Fate.