The Midsummer Crown (34 page)

He was very pale, and the bruising down the left-hand side of his face, although it was beginning to fade, was still prominent, making him look as if he were wearing a half-mask. I remembered the cockerel's mask of my assailant and once again knew a niggle of doubt. Whether or not Piers saw it, I don't know, but he suddenly embraced me, saying with genuine warmth, ‘It's so good to see you again. But, I repeat, where have you been?'

I didn't answer, instead asking abruptly, ‘Where's your aunt?'

‘Rosina?' He grimaced. ‘I don't know. Still with Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan I presume. Why?'

Once more, I avoided the question and countered with one of my own. ‘Do you recollect once saying to Master Plummer and me that you reckoned she was a witch? Were you serious?'

He stared at me for a long moment before bursting out laughing. ‘I don't know,' he said at last. ‘There's always been something a bit odd about her . . .' His voice tailed away and the laughter faded. He regarded me doubtfully. ‘What's wrong, Roger? Something's happened. What is it? Perhaps I can help with what's troubling you.'

But I wasn't really listening; at least only with half an ear. Enlightenment had suddenly dawned, breaking over me in a great, crashing wave. I seized Piers by the shoulders, opening and shutting my mouth like a stranded fish. He stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses, and who could blame him.

He pushed my hands away and backed against the nearest wall. ‘Roger, what's the matter? Are you ill? Shall I fetch help? There must be a physician hereabouts.'

‘No, no!' I managed to get out. ‘I'm quite all right. It's just . . . It's just that suddenly I know who that woman is, where I've seen her before. I know where Gideon is being held! Sweet lord! What a fool I've been!'

I dragged Piers with me to Crosby's Place, but there was no getting in to see the duke. He had other, far more important matters to concern him now than the fate of one young boy. Moreover, the place was crammed as sycophants and time-servers flocked to swear their allegiance to the future king. For who could any longer doubt that it would be Richard III, not Edward V who would go to his coronation in Westminster Abbey before many more weeks had passed?

I was unable to find either William Catesby or Francis Lovell, either of whom might have taken a message for me to His Grace. I didn't doubt but that they were there somewhere, but all my requests for someone to convey a message to them fell on deaf ears. I was equally frustrated in my attempts to locate Timothy Plummer. No one knew where he was or what he was about, only that he couldn't be found and that no one could be persuaded to seek him out.

‘Take yourself off, you great oaf,' one of the stewards snapped. ‘Can't you see that you and your petty concerns are of no importance here?'

‘This is a child's life I'm talking about,' I yelled, losing my temper, but the man had already gone, bustling away through the press of bodies in answer to a summons demanding his immediate attention.

Piers grabbed my arm and pulled me outside into the equal chaos of Bishop's Gate Street Within. All the world and his wife seemed to be congregated in the roadway, and, finally, in desperation, I allowed him to steer me free of the crowds into the comparative Sabbath calm of the Poultry, where he forced me to sit down on the edge of a water trough.

‘Now,' he begged, ‘for God's sake, will you tell me what this is all about? Because not another step do I stir until you do! You've already dragged me halfway across London, running me off my feet till I'm so out of breath that my heart feels near to bursting, and with nothing more than a few garbled words and phrases I can't make head nor tail of.'

I stood up, pushing aside his restraining hands. ‘Where can we hire a couple of horses?'

He choked with exasperation. ‘Will you answer? Oh, never mind! We don't need to hire horses, you fool! Our own – the ones we came to London on – are in the stables at Baynard's Castle. Eating their heads off most likely.'

Of course! Dolt that I was, I had forgotten them. My brain simply wasn't functioning properly, so filled was it with my momentous discovery. For it was as though God had suddenly taken pity on me and, tired of trying to jog my memory, had hit me over the head with a truncheon.

Amphillis Hill's companion was none other than the woman I had encountered at the homestead west of London, on my way home to Bristol all those weeks ago; the woman with the young daughter and the unprepossessing husband. And the vicious dog so like the dead Beelzebub. Was she a member of the Sisterhood? I had no proof, but I was willing to wager a considerable sum of money that she was. I was also willing to wager that the homestead was where Gideon Fitzalan was being held prisoner.

I had hoped to convince Timothy of my reasoning and persuade him to raise a posse to go with me to the farmhouse, but more momentous events had intervened. I should have to go alone unless Piers would accompany me. But first I should have to tell him all that I had discovered, and time was running short. Tomorrow was Midsummer Eve and if what I feared were true, Gideon would have to be moved to the capital before nightfall. I could hardly ask Piers for his help on so dangerous a mission without putting him in full possession of the facts.

I sat down again on the edge of the water trough and indicated that Piers should do the same.

When he had done so, his face alight with curiosity, I patted his hand and said, ‘What I'm going to tell you, lad, you will probably find hard to believe. Indeed, you may refuse to believe it as both your aunts are involved.' I hesitated for a second or two, then went on, ‘The reason you haven't seen me for the past three days is because someone tried to murder me.' He gasped and half rose from his seat, but I pulled him down again. ‘We don't have a lot of time, so just sit still and listen. And however much you want to, don't interrupt me until I've finished.'

It was growing dusk before we finally sighted the homestead in its sheltering dell. For this, several factors were responsible. Firstly, Piers, understandably, but infuriatingly, had required a great deal of convincing that I wasn't making the whole thing up; that I hadn't accidentally fallen into the river after drinking too much ale at the Boar's Head on Thursday, and that my mind hadn't suffered as a consequence. Secondly, by the time he was at last persuaded of the truth, it was well past dinner time and he insisted on eating, declaring that no one could be expected to face danger on an empty belly. Thirdly, getting free of London was a nightmare, the normal traffic being engorged with troops of mounted men who suddenly seemed to have sprung from nowhere and who were themselves constantly hampered by groups of agitated and excited citizens discussing the morning's events in the middle of the roadway. And fourthly, it had taken me a considerable while to locate the house again, being unable to recall exactly where I had originally turned off the main track and taken to the bypaths. Moreover, the bright June day had grown overcast and the light had faded early.

And then, suddenly, just as I was desperately wondering if I should ever find the place again, there we were standing on the tree-lined ridge, looking down at its daub-and-wattle walls and roof of twigs and brushwood. This evening, there were no hens scratching for food in the courtyard, but I could hear the pig snorting and snuffling in its sty. I dismounted, indicating that Piers should do the same, and we tethered the horses to a tree a few yards further back and out of sight of the house.

As Piers strode forward to descend the slope, I flung out an arm to stop him. ‘You fool!' I hissed. ‘We can't just go marching up to the door. We have to think of some story to get us inside. And I've told you, there's a dog very like Beelzebub and just as vicious.'

Piers then proceeded to take my breath away by flinging off my restraining arm and saying loudly, ‘I'm not afraid of a poxy dog even if you are, Roger!' and half-running, half-slithering down the bank into the courtyard.

I had, perforce, to follow, but I drew my knife as I went and was hardly surprised when the door of the homestead opened and the great beast I had encountered weeks earlier bounded out, fangs bared and its malicious little eyes gleaming evilly.

‘Piers, beware!' I yelled at the top of my voice, and was preparing to launch myself forward in a valiant attempt to protect the mad fool when I was brought up short by the most amazing sight. Piers simply raised his right hand, the first finger extended upwards, then slowly lowered it, at the same time emitting a piercing whistle whose volume sank with the finger. As it did so, the dog crouched on the ground, slobbering out of the corners of its great jaws, and grovelled on its belly.

‘How on earth . . .?' I was beginning when the woman, still in the decent Sunday clothes I had seen her wearing that morning, when she had been talking to Amphillis, appeared in the doorway. Then she started forward, her first look of angry suspicion turning rapidly to smiles.

‘Pernelle, my dear, what on earth are you doing here? Nothing's amiss, is it? All's well for tomorrow night?'

Pernelle?
Pernelle?
And suddenly I remembered Rosina once addressing Piers as ‘Perry'. I had thought the name a little strange, but had dismissed it as an affectionate diminutive. Which, of course, it had been, but of a female name! And in the flicker of an eye, certain facts began to resolve themselves. First of all, Piers's insistence on never sharing a bed or a room with other people started to make sense (twice during our journey we had stopped to relieve ourselves, and each time he had disappeared into the bushes with what I considered to be modesty taken to extremes). Secondly, those recurring dreams about Eloise Gray had been trying to tell me what, deep inside me, I had already known but failed to recognize: that Piers was a woman masquerading as a boy. And the third fact which stood out like a sore, pulsating thumb, was that she was one of them, one of the infamous Sisterhood, and that I had walked blindly into a trap from which I would be fortunate to escape with my life.

I turned to run. Immediately, at a word from Piers – Pernelle! – the dog was up and barring my way, saliva dripping from its bared teeth, its whole body quivering with hatred. I guessed that a command from either woman would be enough to set it at my throat.

‘My dear,' I heard Piers – Pernelle – say, ‘let's go inside. There's a great deal I have to tell you. But first, has the boy been safely got away?'

The other woman nodded. ‘John took him to London in the cart late this afternoon.'

‘Still drugged?'

‘Still drugged and concealed under some sacking and a load of cabbages. I sent the girls as well. I thought an officious gatekeeper less likely to search the cart – and considering this morning's events, everyone in London is probably as jumpy as a cat – if they were with their father.' She glanced towards me. ‘But who's this? I seem to recall his face from somewhere. Yes! Now I have it. He was here, snooping around, several weeks ago. John was suspicious of him to begin with, but then we decided he was harmless.' The hazel eyes narrowed. ‘Can it be that we were wrong?'

‘Very wrong,' was the grim reply. ‘But let's go inside and I'll tell you all about it.'

Half an hour had gone by and I was sitting in the only chair the cottage afforded. This fact, however, had nothing to do with the women's concern for my comfort. It simply meant that my arms could be pulled around its back and my wrists lashed together with rope. A foot or two away, its wicked little eyes fixed almost unblinkingly on my face, lay the dog, ready to spring if I so much as moved a muscle.

Pernelle – for as such I was now forced to think of Piers – had finished her story and was easing her throat with some of our hostess's ale, regarding me mockingly as she did so, understanding how parched I must be. But I refused to beg a drink and tried to ignore my raging thirst.

Pernelle knew this, of course, and grinned at her companion, whom she addressed as Margaret.

‘Roger's very stubborn. And he's nigh impossible to kill. I've tried twice already so I should know.' She shifted on her stool so that she could see me better. ‘Oh yes, I'm the executioner, not Amphillis. Amphillis hasn't the stomach for it. Whatever my aunt told this Owlgrave woman you mentioned, she was simply protecting me. After all, why would she trust someone who has left the Sisterhood and might decide, in the future, to betray us? I killed Gregory Machin.' She turned momentarily back to her friend. ‘It frightened me half to death, I can tell you, when he walked away into his room and bolted the door, even though he did seem more than a little dazed and disorientated. Imagine my relief when I discovered that he was in fact dead!'

‘Yes, indeed,' the other agreed with a shudder.

Pernelle turned again to me. ‘I was the one who attacked you outside your chamber.' She touched the disfiguring bruise down the left-hand side of her face. Her voice hardened and she sneered. ‘Fortunately, you were easy to fool. You believed me when I said I'd walked into a door. Just as when you thought I'd hurt my foot when you saw Margaret here going into the sewing room to speak to Amphillis.' The sneer became more pronounced. ‘The bigger the body, the smaller the brain. You large men are so easy to dupe.'

‘And the blow over the head in the room beneath St Etheldreda's crypt?' I asked.

Pernelle grinned malevolently. Still in her boy's clothes, it was difficult to remember that she wasn't really Piers.

‘No, unhappily I didn't have that pleasure. If you remember, you'd left me behind in the Boar's Head eating my dinner. That was Aunt Etheldreda, which is why you survived. Her arm doesn't have the force of mine. Had I hit you then, you wouldn't have survived the water. You'd have been dead before your body left the drain. But I did go to the Rattlebones.' Her expression sharpened. ‘Incidentally, where exactly were you last night?'