The Burgundian’s Tale

Eleven

As I turned to follow Bertram, I collided heavily with a man coming in the opposite direction: William Morgan. His body was unexpectedly solid and well muscled, although why I should find this fact surprising I had no idea. I knew that the Welshman was only my own age in spite of the fact that, for some reason best known to himself, he took pleasure in acting older than he really was.

‘Look where you’re going, chapman,’ he growled, surly as ever.

I apologized, wondering where he’d been. But it was no use enquiring – he would take a perverse delight in not telling me, and it was, in truth, none of my business – so I nodded a brief farewell and caught up with Bertram as he entered Fleet Street from the Strand.

‘What do you think Master Makepeace will give us for supper?’ he asked longingly, striding out in the direction of the bridge.

‘Not so fast,’ I said as we negotiated the slight dog-leg bend by the Church of St Dunstan-in-the-West. ‘While we’re here, I might as well question a few of the beggars. Someone could have seen something the night of Fulk’s murder. Oh, admittedly it’s probably a forlorn hope,’ I added, forestalling Bertram’s protest, ‘but I’ll have to do it sooner or later if I’m to satisfy myself and our royal patrons that I’ve left no stone unturned to find Fulk’s murderer.’

‘And under stones is where this lot belong,’ my companion pronounced censoriously. He gave me a withering look. ‘You don’t really expect to get any information out of beggars, do you? Even if they did see something, they wouldn’t tell you. But the chances are they didn’t. They were all roaring drunk or off picking honest revellers’ pockets or spending their ill-gotten gains in the local whorehouses. For goodness sake, Roger, you’re wasting your time!’

I noted that I had become ‘Roger’ and not the more respectful ‘Master Chapman’ that he had accorded me earlier, a symptom of Bertram’s increasing familiarity which, in its turn, was breeding contempt. Master Serifaber’s cocksureness was growing too fast for my liking. I drew myself up to my considerable height.

‘I think this is where we part company,’ I told him firmly. ‘You can return to Baynard’s Castle and inform Master Plummer that I no longer have need of your services.’ And without giving him a chance to reply, I strode off up Faitour Lane.

It was still only mid-afternoon, and many of the beggars had not yet returned from their daily stamping grounds, those jealously guarded patches of territory within the city walls where they sat all day rattling their cups and displaying the various disabilities that accompanied their hard-luck stories. But there were a few about, squatting in the doorways of houses and brothels, counting the contents of their begging bowls, removing their eye-patches and the filthy, blood-stained bandages that had bound their balled fists into pathetic ‘stumps’. I even saw a man release one of his legs from a complicated sling that had held the lower half strapped to his buttocks, while on the ground beside him lay the crutch that had supported him throughout the morning. Don’t misunderstand me: there were, and still are, many thousands of genuine beggars in every city in the kingdom; but hoaxing people with fake injuries is an easy way of earning a living that will always attract rogues and vagabonds. And why not? It’s each man for himself in this dog-eat-dog, rich-and-poor world.

I made my enquiries, but for the most part I was met with blank-eyed stares or uncomprehending shakes of the head that might have been genuine or simply assumed – I had no way of telling. Even those who showed some intelligent interest just laughed and pointed out that murders were an everyday – or, rather, an every-night – occurrence in any big town and its environs; certainly in London. Besides, it was difficult enough, they said, to remember what had happened last night, let alone more than two weeks ago. I began to realize that Bertram had been right to accuse me of wasting my time.

But one should never give up too easily, so I hung around for a while longer until I felt that I had outstayed my welcome. Indeed, it became apparent from the mutterings and squint-eyed looks I was getting that the faitours’ tolerance was wearing thin. I decided the time had come to concede defeat and retreat to the Voyager, where a cup of Reynold Makepeace’s ale would help to restore my good humour. I thanked the last beggar I had spoken to – a poor scrap of humanity with thinning hair and pock-marked skin – and had already turned back towards Fleet Street when someone laid a hand on my arm.

‘You askin’ about that fellow what ’ad his head bashed in a fortnight or so ago?’ a woman’s voice enquired.

I stopped and glanced down into a delicate, flower-like face framed in the striped hood of the London whore. She must, I thought, be making a fortune for the pimp or brothel-master who owned her, and reflected sadly that in five years or less those pretty features would be coarsened and ravaged by disease.

‘Handsome fellow,’ I said. ‘Foreigner, name of Fulk Quantrell.’

‘That’s him.’ She nodded, smiling up at me with big, sapphire-blue eyes.

‘You knew him?’

‘’E paid fer my services a couple o’ times, yes. ’E was after the boys, too. The young ones.’

‘He told you his name?’

‘Why shouldn’t he? I liked him. ’E liked me. Told me ’e was going to be rich one day. Richer ’n ’e was already. Said if I were patient, ’e’d rescue me from this hell-hole – me and some young lad ’e’d got ’is eye on. Liked men and women equally, he did, just so long as they were young and pretty.’

I reflected that Lydia Jolliffe hadn’t known Fulk as well as she thought she did.

‘Free with his money, was he?’ I suggested.

The girl nodded. ‘Mind you, didn’t do me much good, did it? What I earn goes to Master Posset. ’E’s my pimp. And it weren’t no good giving me gifts.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Offered me ’is thumb ring, Fulk did. Lovely stone. All different colours and set in silver. But I told him he’d better keep it. It’d be stolen in a trice. The whorehouses ain’t got no locks nor bolts on the doors. Can’t hide nothing. But he would’ve give it me. And other things. Said ’e owned a ’broidery workshop where they kept a stock of jewels and such to sew on clothes.’

I grimaced. It would seem that Fulk Quantrell had not been above appropriating to himself an importance that he had neither deserved nor possessed.

‘What about the night Fulk was murdered?’ I asked. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

‘He’d been with me that night. Said ’e’d come straight from St Dunstan’s. Some saint’s day, he told me. Some saint of the place where he come from.’

‘Saint Sigismund of Burgundy?’ I suggested.

She pursed her soft, rosebud mouth. ‘Mmm … could’ve been. Something like that.’

‘What time did he leave you, do you know?’

‘Late, I reckon. It was dark. Most of the wall cressets had been doused. I went with him to the door.’ She broke off to indicate a mean-looking house a few yards distant, implying it was where she worked.

‘Did you notice anyone follow him as he left?’

The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Strange … I’d forgotten, but now you mention it, I did fancy I saw someone walking behind ’im as he got further along towards Fleet Street. Didn’t think nothing of it at the time. There’s always folk moving about round ’ere at night.’

‘What did this figure look like? Can you remember?’

‘Long cloak, ’ood pulled right up,’ she answered promptly. ‘But then, there’s nothing in that. It were a cold night. I didn’t hang around. Fulk was my last customer. All I wanted was my bed.’

‘How did you learn of his death?’

‘One o’ the other girls told me next morning. She said, “You know that lad what comes here reg’lar an’ always asks fer you? Well, he’s been found battered to death down the lane.” I went out at once, just in time to see Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye moving the poor lad’s body round the corner, into Fleet Street. “Why you doing that?” I asked ’em. “’E was right on our doorstep,” little Sam said. “We don’t want no Sheriff’s men poking around our house.” And I suppose,’ the girl added fair-mindedly, ‘they don’t. The good Lord alone knows what they got salted away in that shack o’ theirs.’

‘Where do they live, this Joe Earless and little Sam Red Eye?’ I asked.

She pointed at the other side of the road, to a noisome, lean-to hut which seemed to be made chiefly of bits of wood, branches of trees and ancient rags all held together by a thick coating of dried mud, erected against the outside wall of another older but equally dilapidated building. ‘Over there. That’s Joe Earless sitting on the ground outside, counting the day’s takings.’

I thanked my beautiful little whore – who offered herself free of charge, ‘for a nice big man like you’, if ever I wished to avail myself of her services – and picked my way across the filthy lane to where a one-eared man was sitting in the dirt, dropping a succession of coins, one by one, into a canvas bag.

‘Master Earless?’

The smell of him, like ancient, rotting fish, was overpowering even in Faitour Lane, not renowned for its perfumed zephyrs.

‘’Oo wants ter know?’ He raised a belligerent, weather-beaten, pock-marked face, but seemed reassured by my shabby clothes and mud-spattered boots.

I explained my errand as briefly as I could, laying great emphasis on the fact that my enquiries were being made on behalf of the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, who had been deeply attached to the young man in question. Even so, Joe Earless subjected me to a long and piercing scrutiny before grunting, ‘You don’t look like a Sheriff’s man, I must say.’

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told you and your friend had nothing to do with the murder itself.’ Not entirely true, of course, but I permitted myself the odd lie or two (or three or four or more, if necessary) in the cause of searching out justice. ‘You and he merely moved the body round the corner into Fleet Street.’

‘Tha’s right.’ He stood up, stretching and shaking out his flea-ridden rags – several of the little beasts hurled themselves straight at me – and the stench made me take a hasty step backwards. ‘Right ’ere, ’e was. Right on our doorstep.’ (Which was one way, I suppose, of describing the pile of rotting debris in front of the flap of material covering the hovel’s entrance.) ‘I said to Sam, “We’ve gotta move ’im,” I said. “Look at them clothes,” I said. “’E’s someone, ’e is. Sheriff’s men’ll be makin’ enquiries about ’im, swarmin’ all over the place. You mark my words if they’re not. We’d best move ’im,” I said. Sam agreed, so we did. Round the corner into Fleet Street.’

‘’Ere! ’Oo you talking to, you daft bugger?’ demanded a small man of stunted growth, detaching himself from a party of returning faitours and addressing my companion. He regarded me with a pair of hostile eyes, the white of the left one being definitely tinged with red. The smell of him was even more pungent than that of his friend; and at some time or another his nose had been broken and mended at a very odd angle. He was completely bald, except for a few wisps of coarse hair adhering to the crown of his head. But what fascinated me about him most of all was a large agate-and-silver ring on the thumb of his right hand. I was filled with a sudden suspicion that amounted to total certainty.

I turned back to Joe Earless. ‘When you found the body, nothing had been taken from it, had it? You two stripped it of any jewellery and money it possessed.’

‘What you sayin’?’ Joe demanded, his manner undergoing a rapid transformation from friendly to hostile. ‘You accusin’ us of being thieves?’ The righteous indignation he managed to drum up was wonderful to behold and made me want to laugh.

Little Sam, seeing which way the wind was blowing, didn’t bother with words, but gave a piercing whistle. It was obviously a prearranged signal recognized by all the beggars in the street. They appeared suddenly from every direction and began to encircle me in an ugly, muttering crowd. Too late, I realized that once again I had failed to bring my cudgel with me, not wishing to appear intimidating when calling on respectable folks, but stupidly laying myself open to attack from any unfriendly quarter. I had my knife in my belt, it was true, but I had no desire to wound anyone unnecessarily. Besides, the sight of it might inflame the mob of faitours even further.

They were all around me and beginning to close in. I could feel their stinking breath on my face and on the back of my neck. My one advantage was that I was taller and stronger than any of them. I braced myself for the first assault …

‘Hold! In the name of the King!’ yelled a voice. And there was Bertram striding towards us, his Gloucester blue-and-murrey livery easily mistaken for King Edward’s murrey and blue, the emblem of the white boar for that of the white lion. ‘This man’s my prisoner,’ he continued, forcing his way through the beggars and laying a hand on my arm. ‘Got you, my man! You’re under arrest. Come quietly and you won’t be harmed.’ He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense, and who could blame him? I had been rude and he was taking his revenge.

I went docilely enough until we were clear of Faitour Lane and across the Fleet Bridge; then I clipped his ear. But he was laughing so much by this time that I don’t think he felt it (although it may have stung him later).

‘Well, aren’t you going to thank me?’ he gasped as soon as he could speak. ‘And what a good job for you that I hadn’t gone back to Baynard’s Castle as you instructed.’

Ruefully I acknowledged the truth of this statement. ‘But how did you know what was happening?’

Bertram grinned. ‘I followed you. Kept my distance, of course. Watched you talking to that girl and then cross over to that one-eared fellow. Did you discover anything?’

‘You mean apart from the fact that it’s unsafe to go out without a cudgel anywhere in this city?’ We passed under the Lud Gate and jostled with the lawyers around St Paul’s, before proceeding along Watling Street to Budge Row.

‘I’ll tell you about it,’ I promised, ‘over supper.’

‘You mean you’re not dismissing me after all?’

I clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How could I possibly dismiss you, when you’ve just saved my hide?’

Over a dish of beefsteaks cooked in red wine and dressed with an oyster-and-cinnamon sauce, I told Bertram everything I had learned in Faitour Lane. Mellowed by the food and ale, he conceded that I hadn’t, after all, wasted my time and, with even greater magnanimity, that perhaps I knew more about investigating a case of murder than he did.

‘So,’ he said, as we started on a curd flan and our second jug of ale, ‘you reckon it wasn’t the murderer who stripped Fulk of all his valuables, but these two beggars who moved his body? Joe Earless and Sam Red Eye.’

‘I’d stake my life on it. Sam Red Eye was wearing the thumb ring described to me by the little whore. Mind you, I only saw the one piece, but I’d bet my last groat there were other things belonging to Fulk hidden somewhere inside that hovel.’

‘And what do you think that means?’

I sighed. ‘Not a lot, except as confirmation of what we have rather taken for granted: that Fulk’s murder was not a random killing by thieves, but by someone who wanted him dead for a specific reason – someone who didn’t even stop to strip the body in order to make it look like a robbery.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Bertram said, a little dashed. He had obviously been hoping for some far greater revelation, some brilliant deduction and insight on my part that would instantly solve the whole case. ‘So what about the others? Mistress St Clair and her family, the Jolliffes, Martin Threadgold. Did you learn anything from them?’

‘They all said more or less what I would have expected them to say in the circumstances. There was a good deal of animosity towards Fulk, but then we knew that already.’ I poured more ale into my beaker. ‘One thing intrigues me, however, and that’s the promptness with which the St Clairs’ new will was rewritten in its original form. It’s not much over two weeks since the murder, but both Judith and Godfrey said that the bequests had been restored as they were before Fulk arrived on the scene. I can only think that perhaps Judith had started to regret her impetuosity in leaving everything to her nephew, even before Fulk died.’

‘Conscience, you mean?’

‘Yes, probably … I wonder what it is Master Threadgold wants to tell me.’ I shifted restlessly. ‘Why couldn’t the old fool say while I was there? I hate delays. They’re dangerous.’ I thought of Lydia Jolliffe standing at her window and watching Martin Threadgold’s housekeeper running after me. An intelligent woman, it shouldn’t have been too difficult for her to put the right interpretation on what she had witnessed. The thought forced me into making a decision. ‘As soon as we’ve finished eating, I shall go back. I shan’t wait until this evening.’

But my good intentions were destined to be no more than that. The sight of Reynold Makepeace anxiously pushing his way through the crowded ale room, and heading in my direction, filled me with foreboding. And I was right to be worried. A summons to Westminster Palace, where, it appeared, another great banquet was being held in honour of the Dowager Duchess – the poor woman would be as fat as a sow by the time she returned to Burgundy – had been brought by Timothy Plummer himself, no less, released temporarily from his relentless vigil against all those imaginary French spies and assassins in order to make sure that I obeyed. The invitation did not include Bertram.

‘Is this really necessary?’ I demanded peevishly as I mounted my horse, which, on Timothy’s instructions, had already been led out of Reynold’s stables and saddled and bridled. (I could tell that the beast was as annoyed about the disturbance as I was.) ‘I saw Duke Richard only yesterday. He doesn’t usually interfere like this. In fact, he promised to leave me alone.’

‘Oh, stop grouching,’ Timothy advised brusquely. He was no more pleased to be used as an errand boy than I was to see him. ‘An important guest has particularly asked to meet you again.’

‘Who? And what do you mean, again?’

‘Wait! You’ll find out,’ he snapped, and I could coax nothing further out of him. Something had got under his skin.

As we jogged along the Strand, I cast a frustrated glance at Martin Threadgold’s dwelling. I could see no sign of life except for William Morgan walking up the narrow lane between the two houses. Even as I looked, he scaled the St Clairs’ garden wall with perfect ease, dropping down the other side and out of sight. What, I wondered, had he been up to? He was a man whose every action filled me with disquiet. I was still convinced he had been my attacker of the previous night.

Westminster Palace, when we finally reached it (not without difficulty, I might say, as so many people were making their way there) was a whirlpool of noise and lights – every cresset, every torch, every candle aflame – with servants scurrying all over the place, shouting, issuing instructions, countermanding instructions, falling over their own feet and everybody else’s amidst an overpowering smell of roasting meat. God knows how many swans, peacocks, capons, cows, sheep, pigs had been slaughtered to make this feast. If the Burgundian ambassadors and courtiers failed to be impressed by such a display of grandeur, then they could never be impressed by anything.

Not that I was allowed to share in the occasion any more than I already had. Having seen my horse comfortably stabled, Timothy led me along a number of narrow corridors, up and down various flights of steps until he eventually, and thankfully, left me in a small, but richly furnished ante-room which, judging by the raised voice coming from behind the closed inner door, was part of a suite of rooms occupied by someone of great importance. (Well, judging by the way in which he was browbeating some unfortunate inferior, he thought he was of great importance, which is not, of course, always the same thing.) The voice was vaguely familiar, and yet I could not immediately recognize it. Nor was I able to understand exactly what was being said, although I caught a word here and there. But before memory had time to jog my elbow, the inner door was flung open by a page and a young man swept through, both hands outstretched.

‘Master Chapman! Roger! Naturally you remember me!’

His confidence and vanity were, alas, not misplaced. Although I had last seen him when he was a bedraggled and penniless fugitive, escaping the clutches of his elder brother, King James III of Scotland, I knew him at once: Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany.

‘Your Highness.’ I bowed, and he gave me his hand to kiss. ‘I thought you were in France.’

‘I was! I was!’ he exclaimed exuberantly, moderating the thick Scots tongue for my West Country ears. ‘And very civilly my dear Cousin Louis treated me – that goes without saying. But now, as you see, I’m enjoying the hospitality of my dear Cousin Edward.’ He grinned broadly. ‘There are reasons for this change of venue which I feel sure a clever fellow like yourself will be able to fathom.’

I made no reply except to bow and say, ‘I’m honoured to see Your Grace once again, and in such good spirits, too.’

He punched me on the shoulder (I did wish people would stop doing that!) and said, ‘Of course you are. Just as I’m delighted to be able to call you friend.’ He paused, awaiting my reaction to this signal honour. When none came, he looked disappointed before producing the winning card from his sleeve. ‘But think how far more honoured you will be when it’s the King of Scotland who invites you to his court.’

I had, indeed, guessed which way the wind was blowing as soon as I’d clapped eyes on him. He might have been well received at the French court, but Louis XI, that reportedly shrewd and wily monarch, would do nothing that might upset his Scottish ally, King James, who, with his constant harrying of the northern shires, was distracting English attention from its ties with Burgundy. It made sense, therefore, that there should be some devious scheme afoot, hatched by Albany and King Edward, to replace James III with his renegade brother.

I bowed. ‘I wish Your Grace every success in your enterprise, whenever it may be.’

The Duke beamed, but the eyes above the smile were hard and calculating.

‘A year perhaps,’ he said. ‘Maybe a little more, maybe less. But rest assured that I shall remember you, Master Chapman, when the time comes for me to ascend the Scottish throne, as I shall remember certain of your friends across the Irish Sea.’

I hurriedly disclaimed any such friends and silently suppressed a shudder: the Duke’s promise sounded more like a threat to me, but naturally I couldn’t expect him to see it that way. So like the craven that I was, I thanked him profusely for his interest and, sensing that the interview was at an end, backed out of the ante-chamber just as the trumpets began sounding for the start of the feast. In fact, I backed straight into the Earl of Lincoln, who had arrived to escort Albany to his place at the high table among the rest of the honoured guests.

‘Roger!’ Luckily, I divined the Earl’s intention just in time and moved before he could slap me on the back. ‘Have you discovered our murderer yet?’

‘Not yet, Your Highness. But I’m getting closer,’ I assured him, lying through my teeth.

‘Good! Good! My uncle is relying on you. My Lord,’ he went on, turning to the Duke, ‘let me conduct you to your seat in the great hall.’

The two men swept past me, the candlelight gleaming on their satins and velvets, glinting on their jewelled buttons and rings. My moment of glory – if you care to call it that – was past. I was forgotten as easily as I had been recalled to mind. I had been the object of Albany’s graciousness and gratitude just long enough to make him feel that he had repaid a debt (or so I devoutly hoped), and now I was free to go.

I rescued my horse from the royal stables and rode back along the Strand, my one object now to hear what Martin Threadgold had to say, and hoping against hope that he had not, in the meantime, changed his mind.

The late promise of the day had been fulfilled. The clouds were banked high in the evening sky and the dying sun made paths of ghostly radiance across the quiet gardens. It caught the tops of the shadowed trees, lighting them, like lamps from within.

As I reached the Fleet Street end of the Strand, I could see a cluster of anxious people outside the first of the last three houses, all trying to calm the figure in their midst. And that figure was a small woman in floods of noisy tears.

My heart and stomach both plummeted as I recognized Martin Threadgold’s housekeeper.