The Traitor's Tale (5 page)

"Probably dead. Somewhere in the rout the war's become. Like Gough."

Joliffe held back from pointing out that Gough had not died in the war, had not even been killed by one of the rebels he'd been fighting. Sir William was right that this Robert James' angrily written accusations were proof of nothing. A great deal more would be needed to bring an indictment that would hold against men so powerful as the duke of Suffolk had been and the duke of Somerset now was. But James' accusations were a place to start, and Joliffe had thought Sir William would take them up more readily than this.

"Damn it about Gough," Sir William said. "He deserved better than that."

Joliffe kept to himself his thought that a great many men deserved better than what they got. Instead he said, "There's use can be made of these accusations, even so."

Sir William moved away from the window, began to pace the chamber, still restlessly slapping his hands into each other behind his back. "There is. Yes. We have names, anyway."

"Men who might be ready to talk," Joliffe prompted. "If asked."

"It's just that this Robert James is nobody. Who's going to believe him?" Sir William said. "He was with Surienne, too. That makes anything he says suspect. He could just be setting up to defend himself."

"He's too nobody to need to defend himself," Joliffe said, putting more patience than he felt into the words. "He's a plain man-at-arms, briefly stuck with being lieutenant of Bayeux. He's not anyone who's likely to be sought out and blamed for anything."

Sir William pointed at the paper. "He saw things. He heard things. Surienne
told
him things."

"He saw what a lot of men must have seen. He
overheard
what Surienne said because Surienne said it in the great hall where surely any number of other men heard it, too." And how dearly Joliffe wished they had those men's testimonies to go with James', because it was Sir Francois de Surienne who had kicked out the keystone that had held together the whole structure of peace in France. A mercenary captain under English command, he had, despite the truce, swept a force into the Breton border town of Fougeres early last year. His men had pillaged the town and then held it in the teeth of angry Breton and French protests to the duke of Somerset that he rein in Surienne and make restitution for the wrong.

Thereafter came the part that had made no sense. That a mercenary captain might run mad was one thing, but Somerset had done nothing—either against Surienne or to save the truce; and when finally, after months of unanswered demands, the French king, allied with the duke of Brittany, attacked Normandy's border in return, Somerset had done nothing to stop him. Town after town, castle after castle had fallen or been surrendered to the French, until—in a few short months—Somerset himself was besieged in Normandy's chief city, Rouen, with his family and most of the English army's best captains. Then, with a haste that bordered on what some might call cowardice, he had surrendered Rouen and its castle and left a good many of those captains as hostages to the French while he retreated with his goods and family toward the coast, to Caen. There, after another few months and more towns and castles lost, the French army had again closed in on him, and word was lately come that Somerset had now agreed to surrender Caen, too, giving up England's last great stronghold in Normandy.

In hardly a year almost everything the English had gained in France through the thirty-five years of war since King Henry V's great victory at Agincourt had been lost, and there was no hope of saving the rest.

From the beginning, the great, blazing question had been: What had possessed Surienne to seize Fougeres and break the truce?

Then: Why had Somerset done nothing either to punish him or to save the hard-won peace?

And finally: When all the French attempts to mend the truce were ignored and they finally attacked, why had Somerset done nothing, had simply let Normandy fall to them, like a poorly made house of sticks?

Robert James' scrawled words gave something close to answers to all that. Joliffe leaned over and picked up the paper. "This Robert James was there in Rouen. He saw Suffolk's steward, Sir John Hampden, there two months before the attack on Fougeres. He says Hampden was in close talk with the duke of Somerset and Surienne together."

"There could be reasons for that besides . . . treason."

The word "treason" seemed to come hard to Sir William. It came less hard to Joliffe. There were men—essentially sound but not wanting to
know how bad their fellows could be—who preferred not to see the great many layers of treachery and ugliness there were in the world, or at least to look no closer than could be helped. Joliffe preferred to know. Instead of shying clear, he watched, he saw, he thought about it, and he was willing to believe in the ugly picture this probably-dead Robert James had put together from what he had seen and then had thought about.

But Sir William was trying, "Suffolk still has . . . had lands in Normandy. Hampden as his steward was there to see about them, that's all."

"Surely Suffolk would have had a separate steward for his Norman lands," Joliffe said.

"Some other reason of business then. He would see Somerset simply in the usual way of things. Bringing a message or simply greetings. Suffolk and Somerset were friends, after all."

If two carrion crows looking to pick over the same carcass could ever be thought to be friends, thought Joliffe. He was also willing to warrant that if anyone cared to look, they would find Suffolk had sold those Norman lands of his a safe while ago. But he only said, "And that kept Hampden in close talk with Somerset
and
the mercenary captain a full turn of the hourglass?"

"What was this James doing, keeping such close note of them, anyway?" Sir William said almost fretfully. "It was no business of his."

Joliffe held back from saying Robert James had noted it because it was odd; instead persisted, "And Suffolk's chaplain? Why would he be in Normandy? His place is in the household, or else in his own parish, supposing he has one."

"Pilgrimage," Sir William promptly answered. "Like Hampden, there for one reason but bringing greetings and some message from Suffolk since he was going that way anyway."

"He was there twice. And in talk with Surienne at least one of those times. And Suffolk's secretary? What was he doing traipsing off to
Normandy? A secretary overseas isn't very useful for writing the daily letters."

"If it was Suffolk's secretary. James said the man 'was said' to be." Sir William pointed almost angrily at the paper still in Joliffe's hand. "Even if he has the right of it,
that
is proof of nothing! No one can be accused of anything on simply that—one bitter man's assertion scrawled when he was angry and in pain with defeat and wounds."

Only with effort could Joliffe grant all of that was fair enough counterargument. But, "He was at Fougeres, too. On
Somerset's
order he took a supply train there from Bayeux." Given the distance between the towns, that made as little sense as everything else Somerset had done, but the point he added was, "Somerset was supporting Surienne in holding Fougeres, and that's proof of it."

"It's Surienne I'd give a hand to talk to!" Sir William said with raw frustration.

"Does anyone know where he is?"

"Gone," Sir William said disgustedly. "Vanished out of Normandy. As I would be, if I were him."

So would Joliffe. A mercenary captain as successful over the years as Surienne had been would have seen clearly enough who would be handily blamed for the utter rout the French war had become after his attack on Fougeres. He would have known that away was the best thing for him to be, and away he was gone.

Sir William crossed back toward the desk. Joliffe straightened from it. There was sufficient difference between his place in the world and Sir William's for him to show that much respect. At the same time, Joliffe knew his usefulness lay in being bold beyond what otherwise he should be, and he said, "The point is that this report gives more weight to all the suspicions and accusations already abroad that Suffolk set about deliberately to lose the war. This makes plain it was he and Somerset together, and even if it isn't proof in itself, it gives us somewhere more to ask questions. Of Hampden and the priest and even Suffolk's secretary on the chance he really was there."

Sir William sat down in the chair behind the desk and said heavily, "It does." He rubbed at his temples with his fingertips. "The trouble is that I don't want it to be true. But I agree it may well be. So there are three things to be done. Learn where Hampden and the priest—what was his name, John Squyers?—and our late duke of Suffolk's secretary presently are. My spy in the Lady Alice's household can find that out. Once we know it, you will find out what you can from them. Suffolk's death may have them frighted enough they'll be willing to buy safety by telling what they know. In the meanwhile of all that, I'll send word to my lord of York in Ireland of what's toward. My messenger taking my report about this Jack Cade's rebellion to him can take that word, too."

Sir William paused, looking in two minds about saying more. Joliffe waited, and Sir William finally said, "You've not been long in my lord of York's service."

"I've not," Joliffe agreed; and he had come to it by cross-ways rather than by purpose.

"Nor do you go by a name that's your own."

"I don't, no."

"But my lord of York trusts you. Without saying why, he's said his reasons are sufficient."

"Yes," Joliffe agreed again.

Sir William paused again, then said sharply, "There's something I've heard. From court. From inside the king's own household." He leaned forward, toward Joliffe, bracing both hands on the desk. "It's coming from that high. What I want is for you to keep your ear out for it. We have to know how wide they've spread the word and if they're going to follow through on it. Because if they do, the danger is doubled and more than doubled. You understand?"

"Not yet. For what am I listening?"

With mingled anger and unwillingness, somewhat strangling on the words, as if it were a struggle to get them out, Sir William said, "That my lord of York is guilty of treason."

Joliffe's first stab of disbelief was replaced by feeling he was a fool not to have foreseen that. The duke of Suffolk was dead but the lords and other men who had held power with him around the king were still there, were too deeply set in the royal household and the government to be shifted easily, even with all this summer's rebellions against them. What was more likely than that they would try to turn England's anger away from themselves and toward York? To find him guilty of treason would serve two purposes— provide a scapegoat for the rebellions and rid the lords of him. And never mind that he had never made anything of his blood-claim to the throne, had so far lived and served only as King Henry's cousin. All that had got him so far was nearly no place on the king's council, recall from Normandy when he was too successful, and now all but exile out of the way to Ireland.

The trouble was that he was not out of men's thoughts.

With England's government given over these past ten years to men more interested in gain than the country's good, York's right to the throne, so easily forgotten under the strong rule of King Henry's father and grandfather, was being remembered and not only by those who wished him well.

With one thing and another and memory of the duke of Gloucester's fate—dead of uncertain causes, the men around King Henry said; murdered, said most others—Richard of York had to feel less than easy about his place in the plans of the men around the king.

"It's this Cade," Sir William said tersely. "He's made it the easier for them by claiming his name is John Mortimer. You know that."

"Yes," Joliffe said, as tersely as Sir William. He knew that, and that "Mortimer" was the family name of York's mother and that it was through her that York's royal blood most dangerously came.

"Why Cade claimed to
be a Mortimer, I don't know," Sir William said irritably. "It likely makes no difference in the long run of things, because some sharp-wit around the king would have come up with this treason thought anyway."

"You mean they're going to claim my lord of York was behind Cade's rebellion."