The Burgundian’s Tale

Five

Of course, by the time the Duke’s messenger had taken himself off, with a flourish that would have done justice to a preening peacock, Judith and Godfrey St Clair had disappeared; and although I immediately set out in search of them, they had vanished. In all that vast multitude I could see no one dressed in black. Bertram was no wiser as to where they had gone, and was more concerned with the fact that he was to conduct me to Baynard’s Castle that evening.

‘We’d better set out as soon as we’ve finished supper,’ he decided. ‘We don’t want to keep the Duke waiting.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll return from Westminster that early,’ I argued grumpily. ‘These state banquets can go on for hours. And afterwards, people need a chance to recover.’

‘Not the Duke,’ Bertram disagreed. ‘Eats and drinks very sparingly. An abstemious man.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ I snapped, annoyed that he should think himself better acquainted with Duke Richard than I was. I had known the man on and off – more off than on, admittedly, but well enough – for years. ‘All the same,’ I added, ‘he won’t be able to leave the banquet until the King does.’

We made our return journey, together with the rest of the crowds, along the Strand towards London. By dint of much shoving and pushing, I managed to keep us both on the right-hand side of the road; and as we approached the Fleet Bridge, I grabbed the wrist of my nearest neighbour.

‘Do you know who owns that house?’ I asked, nodding towards the third of the three smaller houses.

The man shook his head. ‘Sorry, friend! I’m from Clerkenwell.’

But I didn’t give up. I just stood there, getting roundly cursed for my pains, asking anyone willing to humour me the same question. My chief hope was that Judith and Godfrey St Clair would turn up, but there was no sign of them.

Eventually, I got an answer. I had stopped a woman for no better reason than that her black homespun gown and hood suggested that she too might be in mourning. And, as it turned out, I was right.

‘Why do you want to know?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’ She caught sight of my companion’s livery and modified her tone somewhat. ‘Are you with him?’

‘I am. He’s a member of the Duke of Gloucester’s household.’

‘I can see that,’ the woman replied tartly. ‘But you still haven’t answered my questions.’

She was small, in height only up to my shoulder, thin as a whippet, with a sallow complexion made even sallower by her sombre clothes. She wasn’t old, but nor was she in the first flush of youth. If pressed, I would have said she was somewhere in her middle thirties. Her eyes were her most arresting feature, being so dark in colour that they seemed to be all pupil.

‘And you haven’t answered mine,’ I retorted, nettled. ‘Do you know who this house belongs to or not? I’ve been told that the middle one is the property of Judith and Godfrey St Clair, and the one to its left is the home of a certain Lydia and Roland Jolliffe.’

The woman regarded me silently for a moment or two, then her thin lips cracked into a quirky half-smile, half-grin.

‘Mmm. You’ve been told a great deal, haven’t you, master? I wonder who by.’ When I failed to volunteer the information, she went on, ‘As it so happens, I’m Paulina Graygoss, housekeeper these many years to Judith St Clair. The house you’re enquiring about belongs to Martin Threadgold, bachelor. His younger brother, who died six years ago, was my mistress’s second husband. Are you satisfied now?’ And she moved towards the door of the middle of the three houses, producing a key from the pouch attached to her girdle and inserting it into the lock. Then she turned and looked over her shoulder.

‘You still haven’t answered my second question,’ she reminded me. ‘Who are you?’

Before I could think of a suitably vague explanation, Bertram huffed importantly, ‘This is Roger Chapman. He’s an agent of my master, the Duke of Gloucester.’

‘Ah!’ The housekeeper subjected me to a long, curious stare, then laughed. ‘Dear me!’ she said enigmatically before going inside and closing the door behind her.

‘What do you suppose she meant by that?’ Bertram demanded anxiously.

I didn’t reply. I was busy thinking what a tight little enclave these three houses represented. Judith and Godfrey St Clair, his son and her stepdaughter in the middle, Alcina’s uncle (and Judith’s erstwhile brother-in-law) on one side and the Jolliffes, described by Mistress Broderer as friends of Godfrey St Clair, on the other. And into this close-knit, almost incestuous community, linked by various threads of kinship, liking and would-be kinship, had come the stranger, the outsider, Fulk Quantrell, good-looking and no doubt exotically foreign after twelve years at the Burgundian court. Small wonder he had created havoc …

‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying,’ Bertram complained as we crossed the Fleet Bridge and were borne along on the tide of people all making for the Lud Gate.

There was some truth in his accusation, but I had suddenly recollected that I had had no dinner. Judging by the sun, it was well past noon and my belly, perfectly quiescent until that moment, immediately started to rumble, reminding me that food was at least two hours overdue.

‘Let’s get back to the Voyager,’ I said, ‘and see if Reynold Makepeace can find us something to eat. We’ll talk all you want to then and I promise I’ll listen.’

After an excellent meal, we spent the rest of the day indoors, avoiding the holiday crowds who still thronged the streets. The noise of their revelry reached us like the muted hushing of the sea on some distant shore, as we stood leaning over the gallery palings, staring into the Voyager’s almost deserted inner courtyard. From time to time Reynold Makepeace brought us each a stoup of ale, having given his potboys a few hours freedom to go and see the sights, like the kind and generous master that he was.

By supper time the inn was busy again as people returned, tired and happy and full of the day’s events, eager to be fed before braving the streets once more in order to sample whatever jollifications were being provided by the various guilds. Bertram would have set out for Baynard’s Castle as soon as we had put paid to a dish of brawn in mustard sauce, a cold pigeon pie, a platter of pear-and-apple fritters and several more beakers of ale. But I insisted on letting my food settle before mixing with members of the nobility, having no wish to fart and belch all evening in competition with my betters. (Heaven only knew what they had been stuffing themselves with all day!) So the church bells were ringing for compline before we left the inn.

At my insistence, we avoided the main thoroughfares, making our way by lesser-known alleyways until we reached Thames Street, where we got held up by a score or so of young people dancing round a maypole – an innocent enough pastime, but one which would obviously lead to far more lecherous activities as the evening progressed. Two of the girls entwined themselves in a highly erotic manner around Bertram and myself, advances which we reluctantly declined for different reasons. On my part, I pretended it was because I was a faithful and loving husband; but deep down, it was really because I was afraid of what noisome disease I might catch if I allowed my natural inclinations to run away with me. Bertram’s reason, I suspected, had far more to do with the fact that he was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery than from fear of acquiring a dose of the pox. (I decided I must have a quiet word with the lad. He was still somewhat wet behind the ears.)

This diversion meant that the May day was closing in before we presented ourselves at the main entrance to Baynard’s Castle. Even so, we were kept kicking our heels for at least half an hour in an ante-room of Duke Richard’s private apartments before he was finally ready to receive us. Receive me, to be precise. The Duke dismissed Bertram with a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘Report to Master Plummer and then get some sleep,’ he advised. ‘It’s been a long day.’

My companion had no choice but to obey, but I could see he wasn’t pleased. Not that the Duke noticed. Indeed, with great dark circles under his eyes, he looked too tired to notice very much at all; and I guessed that a whole day spent being polite to the numerous members of the Queen’s family had placed an intolerable strain on his already overburdened spirit and natural goodwill. Certainly the smile he gave me was an effort that showed in every muscle of his face, and I was seized by the sudden fancy that there was a shadow on his spirit like an indelible stain …

Such nonsensical imaginings only demonstrated that I, too, was fatigued almost to the limit of endurance. I took myself in hand.

The chamber into which I had been shown was one I had not seen before. Logs burned brightly on the hearth, for the warm day had given way to a chilly evening, and there were woven rugs on the stone floor instead of the usual scattering of rushes. Tapestries – Moses in the bulrushes, Joshua before the walls of Jericho – glowed against the walls, cushions covered with jewel-bright silks and satins adorned the beautifully carved armchairs, and a broad-seated settle was drawn up in front of the fire. There was a profusion of scented wax candles, some in a silver chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling, others in silver candelabra and in wall sconces.

The Duke, who had changed the day’s formal attire for a long, loose gown of dark-green fur-trimmed velvet and soft slippers, also made of fur, poured wine into two Venetian glass goblets and handed one to me. (I immediately broke into a sweat in case I should drop it. My hands felt as big as shovels.) Then he filled a third, holding it up to the light. Misted by the glass, the liquid gleamed pale and tawny; amber silk shot through with a weft of gold.

‘The Dowager Duchess will join us in just a moment,’ he said.

In fact she joined us almost at once, a small page preceding her into the room in order to hold the door open, and then taking himself off with a skip and a hop that suggested his duties were finished for the day. (No doubt another lackey would materialize when the Duchess wished to leave. Such is the smooth passage through life of our superiors.) She had also shed the heavy cloth-of-gold dress and jewel-encrusted mantle that she had worn for her entry into London and was clad instead in a simple blue silk gown that enhanced the colour of her eyes, and which made her appear far less matronly than her finery had done. Her abundant hair was loosely confined in a silver net. A huge ruby ring on her wedding finger was her only adornment.

It was when she glanced in my direction that I realized she had recently been crying. Her eyes were still moist and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. She beckoned me to approach, and when I did so, she extended a plump white hand which I duly kissed.

She smiled faintly at her brother. ‘How very sensible of you, Dickon, to choose such a handsome young man as your investigator. You remembered my weakness.’

The Duke laughed with genuine amusement. ‘My dearest Margaret, I’ve known Roger Chapman for a number of years now, and have received many services from him, but I can honestly say that his looks have never been a consideration.’ He turned and indicated the settle. ‘Sit down, Roger.’ He himself sat in the other armchair on the opposite side of the fire to his sister. ‘I’ve told Her Highness all about you. She wanted to meet you. Hence this summons.’

The Duchess nodded eagerly. ‘I knew nothing of my dear Fulk’s death until my nephew, Lincoln, informed me of it when he met me yesterday at Gravesend. I’ve hardly had time to take it in. Indeed, it didn’t even seem possible until I spoke to Judith St Clair an hour ago.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘We shed a few tears together. Judith was unaware of your investigation. She hasn’t met you yet.’ The Duchess ended on a note of reproach.

‘Roger himself only arrived in London yesterday,’ Duke Richard told her sternly. He raised an eyebrow. ‘But do you have anything to report, my friend?’

‘Very little as yet, Your Grace.’ I tried hard not to sound apologetic. What did they expect? Miracles? ‘However, I have spoken at some length to both Lionel Broderer and his mother.’

The Duke looked impressed, the Duchess merely puzzled.

‘Lionel Broderer? That would be some relation of Judith’s first husband, I take it?’

I bowed assent (which is quite a difficult thing to do when you’re sitting down). ‘Edmund Broderer’s cousin’s son,’ I explained. ‘He has run the embroidery workshop for Mistress St Clair ever since his cousin’s death, and run it very successfully. He has made her a wealthy woman in her own right, irrespective of anything her second husband might have left her.’

‘Oh, you mean Justin Threadgold!’ The Duchess was dismissive. ‘According to Veronica, he was not a wealthy man, and what little he had he probably left to his daughter. Nor, I fancy, is Godfrey St Clair particularly plump in the pocket. What he brought to the marriage, as far as Judith is concerned, is an old family name and noble connections. He is, I believe, distantly related to Lord Hastings on his mother’s side.’

I had to think for a moment who Veronica was, then recollected that she had been Judith’s twin sister and Fulk Quantrell’s mother. She had died recently, shortly after Christmas.

‘So the fortune,’ Duke Richard put in quietly, ‘is Mistress St Clair’s, inherited from the first of her three husbands and enlarged by the industry of this Lionel Broderer. Does that make him the chief suspect for Fulk’s murder, do you think?’

‘He must have had expectations,’ I admitted. ‘But there are others, as well, who had excellent reasons for killing Master Quantrell once his aunt made her intentions concerning him known. And very foolish intentions they were, if Your Highness will pardon my frankness.’

‘Oh, I know! I know! And so I told her.’ The Duchess sipped her wine. ‘Indeed, I think – I’m sure – she knows it herself now, in spite of all her excuses. But I should hesitate to condemn her folly too strongly.’ The blue eyes filled with tears. ‘Fulk was a most charming young man. I remember that as a child he was enchanting. He could wrap all my ladies around his little finger.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Including me. And as he grew older, he was no less popular. To his aunt, who had not seen him for twelve years, he must have seemed hardly lower than the angels. And bringing, as he did, the news of his mother’s death, comforting his aunt as he must have done …’ The Duchess’s voice became suspended. ‘Need I say more?’ she added after a pause. ‘Judith admitted to me that she was in thrall to Fulk from the very first moment of seeing him.’

I thought this over for a minute or two. The Duke made no comment, but stared into the heart of the fire. A shower of sparks flew upwards like stars in the black night sky.

I addressed the Duchess. ‘Can Your Highness tell me what this Fulk Quantrell was really like?’

‘I’ve just told you! Weren’t you listening?’ Her indignant look appealed to her brother, who ignored it.

‘With respect, Your Highness,’ I said firmly, ‘you’ve told me what this young man was like only on the surface – about his fascination for women. But underneath, did he have a streak of cruelty? Of greed? Did he ingratiate himself with those who could advance his interests and abandon them when they could no longer be of use to him?’

‘No!’ The blue eyes flashed with anger. ‘He was like his mother, gentle and kind. He had a beautiful singing voice and was always near at hand whenever I needed him. How dare you suggest otherwise? You didn’t know him! Who has been poisoning your mind against Fulk? If this is your attitude, I would much rather you had nothing to do with solving his murder. Richard!’

The Duke stirred in his chair and slewed round to look at her.

‘My dearest sister, calm yourself. Roger is right to ask such questions. As you say, he knows nothing of Fulk Quantrell. Therefore, he has to find out. And how can he find out if he doesn’t ask the people who knew the lad best? Just answer him. Tell him the truth.’

I nodded agreement, smiling blandly; but, personally, I considered the Duchess had already revealed more than she would have wanted me to know. Her furious defence of the dead man suggested that he was far less perfect a character than she would have me believe. She, too, had been under his spell, and had deliberately ignored the flaws in his nature. And if what Lionel Broderer and his mother had said of Fulk were true, then he could have been a very unpleasant and ruthless young man. On the other hand, the Broderers were undoubtedly biased against the favourite.

The Duchess pouted, looking mutinous, and I could see what she had been like as a girl: pretty, used to getting her own way, petted by her older brothers and finding a close, kindred spirit in the brother next to her in age, George of Clarence; the pair of them both handsome, both conscious of their own importance and their place in the scheme of things. Both spoiled. But, also like the late duke, Margaret of York could just as suddenly dispel the impression of conceit and arrogance with a self-deprecatory laugh. Or, as now, with a smile.

‘Forgive me, Master Chapman! Of course you need to ask questions about Fulk’s true character. So, yes, he had faults, but then, who doesn’t? He would have been unbearable had he been too perfect. But in general he was a good boy, a loving son to his mother, kind and in tune with the world around him.’

I considered this. ‘You don’t think then that he could have brought any pressure to bear on his aunt to persuade her to alter her will in his favour?’

The Duchess grew indignant again, even more so than before. ‘What sort of pressure are you suggesting?’

‘Could he have played on her love for her sister? Mistress St Clair must have been deeply shocked and distressed by news of that sister’s death. She might even have felt guilty that she hadn’t accompanied you and Mistress Quantrell to Burgundy after her first husband’s death.’

The Duchess’s anger evaporated. ‘No, no!’ she said gently. ‘However upset Judith may have been by Fulk’s tidings, she would never have let anyone force her into something she didn’t want to do. Judith has always been very strong-willed. When I left for Burgundy, twelve years ago, I did my best – and so did Veronica – to persuade her to accompany us. We told her that with Edmund Broderer dead, she had nothing to keep her in England. (There were no children of the marriage.) She resolutely refused. She said she couldn’t go back to being a seamstress after being mistress of her own establishment.’

‘An understandable point of view,’ Duke Richard murmured, still staring into the heart of the fire where the flames, blue and red and orange, licked the bark of the pine logs, filling the room with a thick and heady scent. He leaned forward, throwing two more logs from the pile at the side of the hearth on to the blaze.

‘You should have summoned a lackey to do that,’ the Duchess reproved him sharply. ‘Understandable? Perhaps, but Veronica said that during the six years she and Fulk lived with Judith and her husband, her sister never ceased to complain about the smallness of the house – don’t forget that the twins had been used to living in palaces – the smell from the river and the dampness and chill in winter. I expected her to be as eager as Veronica to accompany me to Burgundy.’

Duke Richard regarded the Duchess thoughtfully, but said nothing. It was left to me to point out that there was all the difference in the world between being dissatisfied with one’s lot and exchanging independence for a life of service.

‘Veronica didn’t think so,’ was the indignant rejoinder.

‘But she hadn’t been independent,’ the Duke demurred, once again entering the fray. ‘After a very brief marriage, she had lived for six years on her sister’s and brother-in-law’s bounty. She had simply exchanged one form of servitude for another.’

‘I’m sure you do Judith an injustice, Dickon! She would never treat her sister like a servant.’ The Duchess was outraged.

Her brother smiled and again refrained from stating the obvious; that being the poor – or poorer – relation in an affluent household like the Broderers’ was almost bound to entail some form of subservience.

‘Did Mistress St Clair offer you any particular reason for declining your request?’ I asked, choosing my words with care. It was plain that even after twelve years, Judith’s refusal still rankled with her former mistress, who had been used for most of her life to commanding loyalty amongst those she regarded as ‘her’ people.

The Duchess grimaced petulantly. ‘Oh, the usual high-flown nonsense about owing it to her late husband to carry on his work. Although it seems now that this young cousin of his was perfectly capable of doing so without Judith’s assistance.’

At this, Duke Richard suddenly forced himself up and out of his chair, as if he had taken about as much as he could stand.

‘My dear,’ he said, and his voice was tight with suppressed irritation, ‘you’re being unreasonable.’ He forced a smile. ‘You talk as if Mistress St Clair had no duty to anyone but yourself.’ He went over to his sister’s chair and took one of her hands in both of his, raising it to his lips. ‘Now, it’s late and we are all tired. It’s been a very long day. You must be exhausted after all your exertions. You were the brightest star of every event and everyone loved you. But you must get some sleep so that you can dazzle us all again tomorrow.’

I had never thought of the Duke as an accomplished courtier, but he certainly knew how to handle the Duchess, who was positively purring like a cat that had been given a dish of cream. I guessed she had always been susceptible to flattery, and the mature woman was no different from the girl. It made me wonder how accurate her assessment of Fulk Quantrell’s character really was. Had he truly been the charming and affectionate boy she had portrayed in speaking of him to me? Or did he simply understand how to ingratiate himself with a lonely, childless woman, the victim of a loveless marriage?

The Duke opened the door and shouted for a page, who was instructed to see me safely out of the castle. The Duchess again graciously proffered her hand for me to kiss, but said acidly that she trusted I would have discovered the identity of the murderer of her dearest Fulk before her return to Burgundy in seven days’ time. (Her tone implied a doubt and a mistrust of my abilities that annoyed me.) Duke Richard, on the other hand, much to my astonishment and also to that of his sister, embraced me like a friend.

‘Take care, Roger,’ he said. ‘Loyalty such as yours is a difficult commodity to come by nowadays.’

My mind was still reeling from this unlooked-for demonstration of royal affection when the last of a series of doors and gates clanged shut behind me and I found myself out in the London streets, making my way back to the Voyager.

I walked to Thames Street, then climbed St Peter’s Hill into Old Fish Street. It was dark by now. The evening’s revelries seemed to have finished and there were very few people about. A three-quarter moon lent a ghostly radiance to the still, grey scene, and the only creature moving, apart from myself, was a scrawny black cat, sitting in the lee of St Mary Magdalen Church, and unconcernedly tidying its whiskers. A couple of drunken revellers passed me as I turned into Cordwainer Street and made my way north towards Budge Row. From there it was merely a few strides left into Soper Lane, then right by the Broderer workshop into Needlers Lane, and I was almost home.

As I passed the Church of St Benet Sherehog, I could see the opening into Bucklersbury only yards ahead of me. I began to whistle in my usual tuneless fashion under my breath …

Someone jumped me from behind, coming out of the church porch with all the speed and ferocity of an arrow just released from the bow. I went down like a felled tree, stretching my length on the ground, where I was pinned by my assailant sitting astride my back, his bony little knees gripping my upper arms. A head was lowered next to mine and a blast of garlic-laden breath hit the side of my face.

‘Mind your own business, chapman, if you know what’s good for you,’ hissed a voice in my ear. A very Welsh voice. ‘This is just the first warning. So go back to Bristol, there’s a good boy!’

Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, my attacker had gone, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty street as he ran towards Soper Lane.