The Dance of Death (6 page)

It was Eloise's turn to shrug. ‘Well, I suppose it would take more audacity than most women have to admit that she had cuckolded her husband, for whatever reason, or however worthy she considered the cause. But why should she not have been telling the truth and then thought better of it? I believe she was extraordinarily beautiful when she was young. Wasn't she called the Rose of Raby?'

We descended another flight of stairs and now we could distinctly hear the clatter and chatter of the kitchens and the servants' hall, a din that would soon engulf us, making rational conversation impossible.

I said quickly, ‘Beauty and immorality don't necessarily go hand in hand.'

Eloise smiled enigmatically, but, maddeningly, made no answer, moving rapidly ahead of me with a sudden burst of speed that left me behind.

Timothy Plummer was waiting for me when, an hour or so later, I re-entered the little chamber overlooking the water-stairs. So much had happened since I quit it earlier that it seemed like a different room, a different day.

I had not enjoyed my supper. As Eloise had predicted, it had been the same pottage as at dinner with a few more vegetables added, followed – for those who wanted it – by coarse barley bread and goat's cheese. I had given my portion to my neighbour, a young page who looked as if he were perpetually hungry – as no doubt he was, poor child.

But it wasn't just the food, unpalatable as it was, that robbed me of my appetite. The memory of my friends' deaths lay like a bruise on my spirit. Not only was it grief for Jeanne and Philip Lamprey and for Reynold Makepeace, but Eloise's careless words that I would be sure to hear of a third death within a short space of time had suddenly made me anxious for news of my family. What was happening to them, to Adela, to the children, during my long absence? One of them could have died and I wouldn't know. I should be on my way home to them by now, but here I was on the verge of being sent even further afield, to France, and not allowed to send a message to enquire after their well-being. The bile rose in my throat and almost choked me. I began to rehearse in my head just what I was going to say to Duke Richard when I at last came face to face with him. As for that little stoat Timothy Plummer . . .

‘Why that grim face?' the little stoat enquired as I took my seat opposite him at the table. ‘You look as if you've lost sixpence and picked up a groat. For God's sake, man, what's the matter with you now?'

‘I want to go home to my wife and children,' I snarled, ‘not be packed off to France play-acting the role of husband to an evil little baggage I wouldn't trust further than I could see her.'

Timothy sighed heavily. ‘I thought you'd reconciled yourself to that fact. I'll be truthful with you, Roger—'

‘Do you think you can?' I sneered.

He chose to overlook this interruption, continuing smoothly, trying not to let his annoyance show, ‘I don't know, as I believe I've already mentioned, whether Mistress Gray would have killed you or not if I hadn't turned up in time, but I give you my word that she is absolutely no danger to you now. Why should she be? Ask yourself that. The circumstances are completely different. She no longer has a motive, so stop talking like a fool. If that's your only objection—'

‘It's not, and you must know it's not.' I had myself under control now, keeping my tone level and the peevish note out of my voice. I leaned forward on my stool, my arms folded on the table. ‘Let's leave aside the fact that I am being used, as I have been used for the past four, five months. Let us also ignore another inconvenient fact – that I am not one of your spies and have never been officially recruited for the job – and finally let us consider whether or not Duke Richard, being the man he is, would force me to leave my home and family to run my head into danger on his behalf if you were not constantly reassuring him of my willingness to do so. Oh, I admit he might be disappointed in me, feel that I had betrayed him in some way or another, but I doubt very much if he would absolutely insist or throw me into prison for disobedience. It's not in his nature to be unjust.'

‘He trusts you—' Timothy was beginning, but I waved him to silence.

‘And,' I went on ruthlessly, ‘I hold you primarily responsible for this present jaunt, which, as far as I can tell – and it might interest you to know that Mistress Gray agrees with me – appears to be totally unnecessary. The information that Eloise can wring from this cousin of hers is no state secret and is bound to be common knowledge on this side of the Channel almost as soon as it is known in France. Moreover, even a fool unversed in politics like me can predict what King Louis's decision will be. And whatever else I think about you, Timothy, and in spite of anything I've ever said to the contrary, I have never thought you lacking in wit.'

The spymaster bowed ironically (not an easy feat when you're sitting down). ‘I suppose I should be grateful for your good opinion,' he said, ‘however grudgingly given. But if you don't think me stupid, then give me credit for not sending you on a fool's errand. You know very well, because I have told you, the reason for this present meeting and for your audience this evening with Duke Richard. This is a mission within a mission. Your ostensible reason for accompanying Mistress Gray to France is merely a cloak for a secret – and I emphasize “secret” – undertaking for His Grace. And before you say anything else, yes, I admit my first thought was of you because the duke and I are both agreed that you are the only man we can fully trust. You have not only, in the past, proved your loyalty to my lord, but you seem to me to have a genuine affection for him. Is that not so?'

I couldn't deny it. The king's sole surviving brother was a man who either attracted or repelled people; they either loved him or hated him. I had, from the first moment of seeing him, and aware that we had been born on the very same day, been one of the former.

It was my turn to sigh. ‘So what is this commission?'

For answer, Timothy reached into the breast of his tunic and brought out a folded paper, which he passed to me. ‘Read it,' he commanded.

I did so in mounting horror and, when I had mastered its contents, drew a slow, deep breath. I stared at Timothy across the table.

‘But this is rank treason,' I whispered.

Four

Throughout my life, I have frequently observed that whenever I have been reminded of some past event, long forgotten, a further reference to it occurs within days. Or, in this case, hours . . .

I repeated, ‘Treason.' My heart began to pound and I felt breathless. I was in a state of shock, not the first shock I had received that day, but this was by far the worst.

Timothy shifted uncomfortably and avoided my gaze. ‘It depends how you interpret the word “treason”,' he said at last. ‘If it's treasonable to want to right a wrong, then I suppose you could call it that.'

I barely heard him. ‘I've always thought my lord of Gloucester so loyal to his brother.'

That brought my companion's head up with a jerk as he fixed me with a gimlet eye. ‘And so he is,' he answered fiercely. ‘And so will he always be as long as Edward lives. But you saw for yourself, last May at Fotheringay, how ill the king was then, and you've seen him again these past weeks. You can't have failed to notice the deterioration in him even in that short time. There's no reason why an injustice should be perpetuated if he . . .'

Timothy broke off, but I was able to finish the rest of his speech for him in my head. If Edward died, there was no reason for the Duke of Gloucester to extend that lifelong loyalty to his nephew – who, on his mother's side, was one of the hated Woodvilles – if what he suspected should prove to be fact.

‘Why doesn't the duke just ask his mother for the facts?' I demanded bluntly. ‘The duchess once offered to declare Edward a bastard, as I was reminded only a short while ago. If it was indeed the truth, what's to prevent her doing so again?'

‘Not “again”,' Timothy corrected me. ‘The duchess never actually lived up to her word, if you remember. It was a threat that was never carried out. And you could argue,' he went on, repeating almost verbatim what I had said earlier to Eloise, ‘that she was so furious she would have said anything at the time to prevent Elizabeth Woodville becoming queen.' He grinned. ‘I'm sorry, Roger. You're not going to wriggle out of this trip to France so easily.'

‘But the stupidity of it!' I exclaimed. ‘The expense!' That surely should be an argument to appeal to Timothy's heart and pocket. ‘When all my lord of Gloucester has to do is ask his mother to confirm or deny the accusation she made all those years ago. As possibly the rightful king—' But here I stopped, frowning. ‘What about Clarence's son, the young Earl of Warwick?'

‘Barred from inheriting on account of his father's attainder. And for God's sake, keep your voice down! You're not wrong when you say that this could be interpreted as treason.'

Frightened, I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘And Clarence's daughter?'

‘Same reason, of course. Besides, what dolt would want a woman on the throne? We nearly had one once, and look what an unmitigated disaster Matilda was all those centuries ago.'

‘You still haven't answered my query,' I hissed. ‘Why doesn't the duke ask his mother for the truth?'

‘I haven't enquired,' Timothy snapped back. ‘It's not my place. I just carry out my orders. At a guess, I'd say it's not the sort of question a man wants to ask his mother. “Did you cuckold my father while he was away fighting the French?” Especially if the rumours are true and the man concerned wasn't even a member of the nobility, but a common archer.'

‘There are rumours, then?'

‘There are always rumours,' was the brief riposte.

Silence reigned for a moment or two while I studied the paper in front of me once again. The more I read it, the more I could see the desperate need for secrecy, even from my travelling companion. If Duchess Cicely's claim had been a lie, prompted by nothing other than anger at Edward's clandestine marriage, and if the king was truly her eldest son by her husband, the late Duke of York, then what I was about to get involved in was in very truth high treason, and enough to get me hanged, drawn and quartered. I broke into a cold sweat.

‘You realize I'm putting my head in a noose?' I demanded. ‘I have a wife and children dependent on me. I have every right to refuse.'

Timothy nodded. ‘His Grace knows that and would do everything in his power to protect you if things should go wrong. It's why he wants to speak to you himself.'

‘To over-persuade me, you mean. To assure me that it will all be as simple as falling off a log.'

‘There's no need to take that tone. Believe me, the duke fully appreciates the risk you're running on his behalf. But as I said, you're the only person he trusts completely. And you must see that this is something he needs to know. If King Edward is really a bastard . . .' The spymaster gestured with his hands.

‘Then, of course, his children have no claim to the crown,' I finished. I tapped the paper, realizing as I did so that the deaths of Jeanne Lamprey and Reynold Makepeace had been almost completely driven from my thoughts. Dabbling in treason focuses the mind wonderfully. ‘So, who is this man I have to find? This Robin Gaunt? What is he like, and where does he live?'

Timothy looked guilty, always a bad sign. ‘Well, we know he probably lives in Paris. He did ten years ago, at any rate.'

Oh, marvellous! Paris is one of the largest, most highly populated cities in Europe and here was a man who possibly might live there.

‘What street?' I asked coldly.

‘Ah!' Timothy smirked and tried to put a brave face on things. ‘We don't actually have that information.' He added hurriedly, ‘He is English.'

I expelled my breath in silent fury. ‘It says here that he was one of the Duke of York's men-at-arms when York was governor of France in the early forties, but that he stayed on after the English withdrawal because he'd married one of Duchess Cicely's French tiring-women who didn't want to leave. Doesn't it perhaps occur to you that by this time he also might speak French like a native?'

‘He still has an English name.'

I let rip with a string of oaths that even put Timothy to the blush – ‘Really, Roger!' he protested – and he could be pretty foul-mouthed when he put his mind to it, I can tell you.

‘Do you seriously understand how impossible this is?' I fumed, fairly spluttering with rage. ‘You know I can't speak French. You've forbidden me to take Mistress Gray into my confidence. Yet you expect me to wander all over Paris on my own – and how I'm to do that without arousing her suspicions, I've no idea – searching for a man who might not even live there any more, and if he does, is quite likely no longer distinguishable as an Englishman. You're mad!'

‘You'll manage,' Timothy assured me winningly. ‘You always do.'

‘Bollocks!' I stormed. ‘I suppose you can't even tell me what this Robin Gaunt looks like?'

‘Ah, now there we might be able to help.'

‘Dear God, a miracle! Don't tell me! Some ancient codger who knew Gaunt forty years ago, when they were soldiers together in France, but who hasn't set eyes on him since.'

‘Well, yes,' Timothy admitted, plainly unnerved by my perspicacity. ‘One of my agents only tracked him down the day before yesterday. We haven't spoken to him yet – we thought it best to leave that to you – but it's definite that he fought alongside Robin Gaunt and was garrisoned in Rouen with him. His name is Humphrey Culpepper and he lives in Stinking Lane, just off the Shambles. At least he'll be able to give you some idea whether Gaunt was tall or short, fat or thin and if he had blue eyes or brown. I'm informed that Culpepper's hair is grey now, so it's probable that Gaunt's is, too.'