The Dance of Death

Twelve

It was a hopeless dream, of course.

The weather had certainly worsened by the time we reached Dover, great squalls of wind and rain blowing in from the Channel, but no one was going home. John Bradshaw had been adamant about that, and there was no reason for the Armigers to abandon their journey to see Jane’s French relations. Their time was their own and they could wait indefinitely for the weather to improve, but I did consider that William Lackpenny’s might be limited, forcing him to return to his duties elsewhere.

Eloise was able to disabuse my mind of such a notion. ‘He is, indeed, employed in the household of Sir Edward Woodville,’ she told me, as we unpacked our saddlebags once again in the front bedchamber of the little quayside inn where we had all found accommodation for the night, and for however many more nights proved to be necessary. ‘He is a gentleman-in-waiting, but has been granted an extended leave of absence by the steward to visit his sick mother.’

‘In France?’

She laughed. ‘No, stupid! In Salisbury. At least, that’s what Master Steward believes. So you see, it would appear to be an afair of the heart, after all. In fact, he told me so and swore me to secrecy.’

‘You seem to have wormed yourself well into his confidence,’ I said, shaking out my yellow tunic, now looking somewhat crumpled from its frequent packing and unpacking. ‘When did you discover all this?’

She gave a provocative smile, and for a moment I thought she was going to play silly, coquettish games with me, but then she said, ‘Yesterday evening, after Mistress Armiger and I returned from our walk. We didn’t stay out long, it was too cold, and Jane went upstairs to put away her cloak. During our absence, Master Armiger had also gone up to their bedchamber and it was a little while before they both came down again. A circumstance that I fancy didn’t please our young friend overmuch, so he decided to flirt with me as a sort of revenge. I was able to extract quite a lot of information from him. I virtually accused him of being in the throes of an affair with her and he’s so set up in his own conceit that he couldn’t resist admitting it. They met, apparently, when he was sent to Baynard’s Castle to arrange some of the details of the banquet with the Duchess of York’s high steward — like how many attendants Sir Edward would be bringing with him, their order of precedence at the table and so forth. He says it was love at first sight. He could tell right away that she was unhappy, and once he had clapped eyes on Robert Armiger, he could see why. Their friendship blossomed from there, and on the next occasion he visited the castle, she met him, by prior arrangement, at the top of the water-stairs. That must have been last Monday, when you saw them. The following day, Tuesday, Master Armiger was from home all morning, so Will went to call on Jane at her house near Aldersgate. . Now, why are you looking like that? As though you’d laid an egg?’

‘Am I?’ I queried, attempting to sound offhand and thanking heaven most devoutly for the interruption of a chambermaid arriving at that precise moment with a jug of hot water and the information that supper would be served in the inn parlour in half an hour’s time. ‘No reason. No reason in the world. I was just wondering if I wouldn’t simply change my hose and wear this green tunic I have on with the blue. What do you think?’

She regarded me straitly, her head tilted to one side. ‘I think you’re trying to change the subject as well as your hose. But if you are going to continue wearing green, I shall put on my red dress. We don’t want to look like twins.’

With which tart remark, she unfolded the red gown from her saddlebag, along with a clean undershift, pulled the bed-curtains, as was becoming her habit, and vanished behind them.

‘And don’t use all the hot water shaving,’ she admonished me.

I sat down on the window seat, listening with only half an ear to the drumming of the rain against the closed and bolted shutters, and to the wind whistling eerily between them and the oiled-parchment window panes. My mind was busy going over what Eloise had just told me.

If my smart young gent had spoken truly, then my sighting of him in Stinking Lane was explained. He had been on his way to Aldersgate to take advantage of Robert Armiger’s absence and had had nothing to do with Humphrey Culpepper’s death. But of course the question was, had he been telling the truth? He might well have been. On the other hand, if he was a Woodville spy and had been despatched to follow me and discover the reason for this journey to Paris on the Duke of Gloucester’s behalf, he must have worked out by now that whatever Eloise learned she would pass on. Telling her was as good as telling me, and it was an explanation that fitted the facts as I must have grasped them over the past two days.

I sighed and got up to change my brown hose for the blue, then poured some of the hot water into an earthenware bowl in order to shave and wash my face. I felt travel-stained and weary and none too clean. Tomorrow morning, whatever the weather, I should have to brave the pump in the inn yard, although stripping naked in this wind and rain held little appeal. (But I’d known worse. If you’ve never washed in the snow-broth of a Scottish burn or pump, you don’t really understand what cold is.) I dragged a comb through my hair and rubbed my teeth with the willow bark, then sat and waited for Eloise to emerge from behind the bed-curtains, marvelling as she did so at how she always appeared sweet and fresh however many miles we had covered, and however tired she must be.

A particularly vicious gust of wind seized the shutters and rattled them like the teeth in an old man’s head.

‘How long do you think we shall be stranded here?’ I asked miserably. Every day’s delay added another seemingly interminable stretch to the time between me and my final arrival back in Bristol, where my family were eagerly awaiting my return. (Awaiting my return, anyway.)

Eloise glanced up from drying her face and hands, and smiled at me with a surprising amount of sympathy. ‘Roger, I don’t know,’ she answered gently. ‘Until this wind drops is all I can say. I did overhear the landlord telling Master Armiger that there is a ship at anchor in the harbour, ready to sail to France once the weather breaks. The Sea Nymph, I think he said she was called. And once we’re aboard, the crossing to Calais doesn’t take long. A few hours. Now, if you’re ready, shall we go downstairs? I don’t know about you, but I could do with my supper.’

The Armigers and William Lackpenny were already in the inn parlour when Eloise and I entered. Jane Armiger was looking pale and slightly tearful, while her husband’s face was blotched with angry red patches, as though they had been having a quarrel. Will Lackpenny, on the other hand, was his usual bumptious self, setting out to jolly everyone along and restore harmony to the evening ahead. He did cast an anxious glance at Jane Armiger once or twice, as though solicitous for her welfare, but he could hardly call Robert Armiger to account, as he would no doubt have dearly liked to do.

The inn had grown noisier since our arrival as those locals who had left the shelter of their own firesides and braved the weather were joined in the ale room by sailors from The Sea Nymph and another ship lying at anchor in the harbour. Only a narrow passageway, leading to the front door, separated the parlour from the ale room, and it seemed at times as though the general rowdiness — the guffaws, the shouting, the singing of bawdy songs — would drown out our own conversation. Robert Armiger, I could tell, was growing more incensed by the minute, and only the arrival of supper prevented his storming into the other room and presenting its occupants with a piece of his mind. A most ill-advised action had he done so, but fortunately a truly appetizing pigeon pie, followed by equally delicious apricot tartlets, the whole washed down with a light, amber, slightly musky-tasting wine, put him in a better humour. At any rate, he restricted himself to demanding, somewhat peremptorily it’s true, but perfectly politely for all that, that the landlord bolted the outer door to discourage further incursions into the inn.

The landlord, a sensible fellow who plainly had no intention of carrying out this order, said nothing, merely muttering something under his breath that could have been mistaken for acquiescence. He was removing the last of the empty supper dishes, and had just instructed one of his assistants to make up the fire from the pile of logs at one side of the hearth, when a sudden lull in the noise from across the passage enabled us to distinguish the drum of hoof-beats on the slippery quayside cobbles. Immediately afterwards, a man’s voice was raised, cursing and shouting for the stable boy, before being lost again in the howl of the wind and a crescendo of singing from the room opposite.

In spite of this, however, Jane Armiger’s head jerked round, her whole body rigidly at attention, one forefinger slightly raised. ‘That was Oliver’s voice,’ she said.

Her husband looked up from his book — a handsome folio bound in pale blue silk with silver tassels — and answered scathingly, ‘Nonsense!’

For once, she felt strong enough to argue with him. ‘It was, I tell you!’ She had risen to her feet and was listening intently, but the uproar from the ale room made it impossible to hear anything else.

‘Sit down, you silly child!’ Robert Armiger snapped irritably. ‘What on earth would your brother be doing here? He’s snug somewhere inside Baynard’s Castle, playing at dice, if I know him.’

He spoke, I thought, rather scathingly of his brother-in-law, decidedly at variance with his tone when he had first mentioned that worthy, the inference then having been that the young man held a position of some consequence in the Duchess of York’s household.

‘It is Oliver, I tell you,’ Jane Armiger persisted, braving her husband’s displeasure.

‘Oh well! We shall soon find out,’ William Lackpenny said peaceably, stepping nobly into the breach to protect his lady from another scolding.

Even as he spoke, the sound of the inn door being flung open, to be sent crashing back against the passage wall by the force of the wind, made further speculation useless for the moment. The landlord hurried from the room to greet the newcomer as someone possibly of importance and certainly from a distance. No local or sailor would be arriving on horseback.

Eloise turned her head. ‘You are expecting your brother to join you, Mistress Armiger?’ she enquired.

It was Robert who replied. ‘No! She is not!’

It struck me that he was very put out by the notion and I wondered why.

Eloise ignored this outburst. ‘Jane?’ she queried.

Jane fluttered a nervous glance in her husband’s direction. ‘As-as a matter of f-fact,’ she stammered, ‘Oliver d-did say he. . he might try to. . obtain leave of absence from Master Steward to. . to come with us to Paris.’ She drew a deep breath and plunged on, ‘He hasn’t seen our aunt and cousins for several years now. He thought it would be a good opportunity for us to travel together. But when we left London, he still wasn’t certain that he would be granted permission. He said if he were, he would ride hard and try to catch us up.’

It was obvious from Robert Armiger’s face that this was the first he had heard of any such arrangement between the brother and sister. Throughout his wife’s hesitant recital, his expression had been growing steadily more thunderous. There was alarm there, too, and unease. It occurred to me that he was ashamed of this Oliver, who was possibly of a more lowly status in the duchess’s household than pleased the high and mighty Master Armiger.

This explanation had barely crossed my mind when the landlord came bustling back into the parlour, rubbing his hands in the manner of someone who has pleasant news to impart. He addressed Jane.

‘Mistress Armiger!’ He was smiling broadly. ‘A happy surprise for you.’ I saw Robert Armiger’s expression stiffen with dismay. The landlord continued, flinging out his hands in what he was sure must be a shared delight, ‘Your brother is here. He has caught you up.’ He stood aside, beckoning to someone behind him to come in.

The doorway seemed suddenly blocked, all light from the passageway shut out, filled with an enormous specimen of humanity. Then the man stepped forward into the parlour, his arms held out to Mistress Armiger, dwarfing her. Dwarfing all of us, if it came to that, with his girth and height.

I recognized him at once.

It was the Duchess of York’s master cook.

It was Goliath.

My first thought was that he would recognize me, and I stepped back into the corner shadows of the room.

Eloise had recognized him as well, from her brief glimpse of him as he had manhandled me into the common hall last Wednesday evening, but I was confident Goliath would not remember her: he had not, to the best of my recollection, even seen her. At the moment of my humiliation, she had been sitting some way away from the kitchen door. He had disappeared by the time she came to my rescue.

Second thoughts persuaded me that he was unlikely to recognize me, either. Looking back on our unfortunate encounter, I realized that he had scarcely accorded me much real attention. He had been too anxious to be rid of me. He had simply picked me up and propelled me through the door, rather like swatting an irritating fly. It was unlikely that he would associate the poorly dressed menial with my present seeming affluence. I was worrying unnecessarily. I stepped forward again, full into the light. He turned towards me as Jane Armiger began to introduce us all. Now was the moment of truth.

‘And this is Master Chapman,’ she was saying, ‘whose party Robert and I have joined. He is a haberdasher, travelling to Paris on business. And this is Mistress Chapman, his wife. Please allow me to present to you both my brother, Master Oliver Cook.’

My hand was crushed in the giant’s until I could hear the bones crack, but there was no hint of recognition.

‘I’m obliged to you, sir, for providing my sister with congenial company.’ He shot a snide sidelong glance at his brother-in-law as he spoke, then turned to William Lackpenny. ‘And you, sir! You are. .?’

Jane Armiger introduced our travelling companion in a slightly breathless way that betrayed a sudden nervousness. Her brother glanced at her sharply, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He looked again, more openly this time, at Robert Armiger, but the latter was too wrapped up in his own complacency to imagine, even for a second, that his wife might prefer anyone else to him. In any case, I guessed he was bracing himself for the moment when Master Cook’s true position in the Duchess of York’s household would be revealed.

Meantime, Goliath was subjecting Will to close scrutiny. ‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere, Master Lackpenny?’ he asked brusquely.

‘You may have,’ was the laconic reply. ‘At any rate, I’ve seen you. I’m a member of Sir Edward Woodville’s household and I was at the banquet at Baynard’s Castle the other night. I saw you when the Duke of Gloucester ordered you to be brought before him and his mother at the end of the meal in order to thank you personally for the magnificent feast you had provided. A gracious gesture, I thought, but certainly not undeserved. Every course was superb.’

His condescending manner was lost on Oliver Cook, who merely grinned and said with utter confidence, ‘I’m the best you’ll find anywhere. Although,’ he added disconsolately, ‘my remarkable talents are largely wasted in the duchess’s employ. She’s too penny-pinching since she embraced the religious life. One of these days, I shall be forced to accept one of the many offers I’m always receiving from other members of the nobility to cook for them.’ He released Will’s hand and nodded. ‘That must have been where I saw you, then. Although I wouldn’t have said I noticed anyone in particular. I mean on the lower tables, of course.’

My smart young gent coloured a little at having been so easily placed among the menials, but he said nothing. There was, after all, nothing he could say.

‘Well, Robert,’ Master Cook continued, throwing one huge arm about his brother-in-law’s shoulders, just as the landlord re-entered the parlour with a tray laden with food and a stoup of wine. ‘I can tell you’re pleased to see me.’ He shook with suppressed laughter. ‘Your expression is a picture, believe me.’ He turned to Eloise. ‘Robert doesn’t like admitting he married a cook’s sister. A cook’s daughter, if it comes to that. Our father was even better at his trade than I am, wasn’t he, Jane? And that is to say he was the very best of his generation. But Robert regards it as a lowly occupation and is secretly ashamed of not being able to resist a pretty face.’

I expected Master Armiger to bluster and deny the charge, but he didn’t. He just picked up his book again, hunched his shoulder towards the rest of us and went on reading. Goliath chuckled, pulled up a stool to the table and attacked the cold pigeon pie.

I took the opportunity to slip out of the parlour and cross the passage to the ale room, hoping to find John Bradshaw among its many occupants. It took me a few minutes to locate him, but I discovered him at last tucked into a discreet corner by the hearth, drinking steadily, but soberly, alongside Philip Lamprey, who seemed as morose as ever. As he glanced up and saw me struggling through the crowd towards his corner, Philip gave me what could only be construed as a look of desperation. He nudged his companion and muttered something before standing up and emptying his still half-full beaker of ale into the floor rushes.

‘Here, you c’n have my place, Roger,’ he muttered. When I protested, he said something about having to attend to the horses and had vanished into the rowdy throng before I could stop him.

I sighed, sitting down beside John on the narrow bench. ‘He’s no different, then?’ I groaned.

‘Give him time,’ John grunted. ‘What are you doing here? Masters don’t join their servants in the ale room. And by the way, while I think of it — ’ he lowered his voice, although no one could have overheard us in that din — ‘don’t forget to settle with the landlord about the lodging and maintenance of the horses while we’re in France. Pay him half whatever he asks and promise the rest on our return.’ I nodded, trying to look as though I had already worked it all out, when in fact I had given no thought whatsoever to the animals or what was to become of them during our absence. John went on, ‘So? Why have you come to find me? What’s happened now?’

I explained about the arrival of Oliver Cook and his relationship to Mistress Armiger and reminded him of the story of my own fraught encounter with the giant of the Baynard’s Castle kitchens.

‘Has he recognized you?’ John demanded, but not too anxiously.

‘Not yet.’

‘Nor will he.’ John spoke confidently and, slewing round, eyed me up and down. ‘You look nothing like your normal self. Those clothes give you a different appearance altogether. You give the impression of a confident, prosperous merchant. A master tradesman.’

‘And I don’t normally?’ I was indignant, and also perturbed. His words had shattered my self-deluded image.

He grinned and shook his head. ‘Now go back to the parlour,’ he advised. ‘And don’t come frequenting the ale room too often. It will occasion remark.’

‘How long are we going to be stranded here?’ I asked savagely.

‘I don’t know. I’m no King Cnut, trying to command the wind and waves.’

‘He didn’t,’ I retorted. ‘He was just trying to teach his sycophantic courtiers a lesson — that he wasn’t God.’ On which erudite note — a sop to my battered self-esteem — I stomped off to rejoin my fellow travellers in the parlour.

The next day, the weather had improved enough to make sailing a possibility, but the master of The Sea Nymph had scruples about putting to sea on a Sunday and hoped, apologetically, that we would share them.

We had no choice, which he well knew, so we all went to church and confessed our sins, then hung around the inn, praying that the weather would improve even more by the following morning.

It was a long and trying day, with a bunch of ill-assorted people, at least two of whom thoroughly disliked one another, cooped up in a small inn parlour, having too much time on their hands and too little to keep themselves occupied. Walking was limited because of the weather, which, as I have said, was less stormy, but still did not permit of much outdoor exercise. Mistress Armiger and William Lackpenny did, on one occasion, manage to disappear at the same time, but if the lady’s husband seemed unaware of the fact, her brother did not, and went in search of her almost immediately. Within a very short space of time, Jane returned to the parlour in company with Goliath, an angry spot of colour in either cheek, to be followed sometime later by Will, sporting what was undoubtedly a black eye. His tale of having walked into an open door was, to say the least, unconvincing, but as Robert Armiger apparently failed to notice the injury, or accepted the explanation for it without question, there was only Eloise and myself to be amused by the black looks Will directed in Oliver Cook’s direction for the rest of the day.

The excellent meals did, it was true, provide some respite from our collective boredom, but towards evening, just after supper, a bitter quarrel broke out between Robert Armiger and his brother-in-law. I was not present for the beginning of it, having gone to relieve myself in the outside privy, but recriminations were in full flow by the time I returned to the parlour. It didn’t take me many moments to realize that Jane Armiger was the cause of the contention, with Oliver accusing Robert of not taking sufficient care of her, and Master Armiger bitterly regretting that he had allowed himself to be trapped in an unsuitable marriage. Words and phrases such as ‘low connections’, ‘greasy scullions’ and ‘thick-headed yokels’ escaped his lips in an insulting stream until Oliver, goaded beyond endurance, hit him, a good right-handed punch that sent Robert crashing to the floor.

Jane screamed and fell on her knees beside her husband, ineffectually patting his hand. ‘You’ve killed him!’ she accused her brother tearfully. ‘You’ve killed him.’

‘Poppycock!’ Oliver exclaimed scornfully. ‘It was the merest tap. He’ll regain consciousness in a minute or so. I’m off to bed.’ And, as good as his word, he left the room.

He was quite right. It might have seemed an age to those of us anxiously awaiting Master Armiger’s recovery, but in fact I doubt that it was more than a couple of minutes before he stirred and asked dazedly, ‘What happened?’

‘Master Cook hit you,’ Will Lackpenny informed him, and made no attempt to conceal a smile. He had an assault of his own to avenge, and I guessed he was deliberately trying to foster trouble between the two men.

Master Armiger struggled to his feet, spurning my proffered assistance, and turned venomously on his wife. ‘Your brother will regret his actions, madam,’ he barked, ‘and when you see him, you may tell him I said so. Now, you may help me up to bed.’

Jane nodded, gulping a little, but once she and Robert had quit the parlour, Will expressed what I was thinking.

‘I don’t suppose any threat that Master Armiger can make will worry that great madman.’ His lips thinned. ‘He has the advantage of weight and height and knows it. I can’t imagine that even someone as tall and well built as you are, Master Chapman, would be a match for him.’

Recalling my treatment at Goliath’s hands, I could only agree. ‘No, indeed,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid Master Armiger’s words were as empty as that jug there.’ I indicated the ewer that had held the supper wine. ‘Nor can he prevent Master Cook from travelling to France with them.’ I added maliciously, ‘Mistress Armiger won’t care very much for that, I fancy. Oliver appears to be a very strict and watchful brother.’

Will’s face fell, then took on a strange expression that it was impossible to interpret. ‘We’ll see about that,’ was his only answer.