The Dance of Death

Eighteen

Of course it was inevitable that, entering the Rue de la Juiverie from a side alley, we should find ourselves almost directly opposite Le Coq d’Or at the precise moment Jules was leaving the inn. Moreover, he was not alone. John Bradshaw was with him, glancing up and down the street as though expecting momentarily to see someone he knew.

Philip hauled me back into the shadows of the overhanging houses and the noisome filth of the little lane, where a dead dog was rotting alongside a sheep’s head — both crawling with maggots — and piles of other decaying rubbish that did not bear too close an inspection.

‘Jules,’ he hissed.

‘I know. I saw him,’ I answered irritably. ‘And John’s with him. He’ll have warned Jules to look out for us, so we might as well-’

Philip shook his head. ‘I told you, I don’t trust him. Just wait here a moment, quiet, like, until they’re gone.’

I sighed. ‘And if they decide to come this way? We shall look a right pair of fools skulking around in this cesspit.’

‘Well, they ain’t coming this way,’ Philip said. ‘Look!’ The two men had indeed turned towards the south bank and the Petit Pont. Philip grabbed my arm. ‘Quick!’ he grunted and dragged me across the street, bumping into several irate citizens and narrowly missing being run down by a couple of carts, into Le Coq d’Or. ‘Last place they’ll think o’ looking for us, for a while at least.’

And so we started on a long round of the Paris inns, ale houses and drinking dens, trudging from the Île de la Cité to La Ville and back again, then across to the Université, where we accidentally entered a whorehouse and were set upon by one of the ugliest madames I had ever seen, determined that her girls should avail themselves of our services on what was obviously a slack afternoon. The discovery that we were English added to our charms for once, the ladies being intrigued by the prospect of men with tails, and we only made our escape by the skin of our teeth and a swift backhander to the madame to call off her bevy of beauties.

‘That’s it,’ I said to Philip, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. ‘That’s enough for one day. And where has it got us? We’ve nearly been raped by a bunch of harpies and we’re no nearer tracking down this Robin Gaunt than when we started. And I don’t suppose we ever shall be.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Philip murmured, stroking his chin. In spite of himself, he had become interested in the quest and, despite his total lack of French, had managed to make himself understood far better than I had. He had a way of ingratiating himself with people that gained their confidence, while years of coping and haggling with foreigners in Leadenhall Market had taught him a sign language that seemed to be universally recognized, interspersed as it was with certain mongrel words that bridged the gap between different tongues. He went on, ‘That ale house out towards the Porte Saint-Honour, beyond the old Loover Palace, or whatever they call it — it ain’t a Christian language, that’s for sure: you can’t get your bloody tongue around it — the landlord there mentioned a Robert of Ghent. Seemed to think he might be the man you’re looking for.’

‘Ghent’s in the Low Countries,’ I snapped.

My feet were hurting and I was feeling miserable and depressed. It occurred to me that, within the course of an afternoon, Philip and I had changed places. Now I was the one who was gloomy and pessimistic, while Philip appeared to have overcome his lingering grief, for the time being at least, in the interest of the chase. I recalled the inn he had mentioned, an uninviting place near the Porte Saint-Honoré, dark, dingy, lit only by rushlights and smelling of human sweat and ordure, where strangers were stared at with even more suspicion than was normal in such places. Hostility emanated from every corner and I had felt my scalp tingle with fear, warning me of danger. To my utter astonishment, Philip had seemed thoroughly at ease, but then I remembered that he had grown up in the Southwark stews. This ale house, as he had rightly called it — it was impossible to dignify it with the name of tavern — was home from home to him. The regular customers accepted him instinctively as one of themselves, regardless of the fact that he was English, while I was tolerated simply because I was his companion.

An added bonus had been that the landlord, a hulking fellow with a broken nose and a fiery birthmark that covered practically the whole of one side of his face, spoke a little English, enough at any rate to make communication somewhat less of a hit-and-miss affair than it had been in previous taverns we had visited. Philip’s enquiries, while we drank a rough red wine that depressed my spirits rather than elevated them, elicited the fact that this Robert of Ghent lived somewhere in the warren of streets near the pig market, with its infamous cauldron. But by that time, with the Université still to investigate, I had declined being drawn into a fool’s errand and refused point-blank Philip’s suggestion that we search him out and at least establish that he was not the man we were looking for.

‘These fools wouldn’t know the difference between an Englishman and a Fleming,’ I grumbled, rubbing the aching backs of my legs with both hands. ‘And the sooner we get out of this place, the happier I shall be.’

‘Please yourself.’ Philip had shrugged. ‘You’re probably right.’

But now, leaning against the wall of the brothel while we caught our breath, he seemed to think we might have made a mistake by not pursuing the matter. ‘It is the only lead we’ve got,’ he pointed out.

‘So far,’ I agreed. ‘But not much of one. We’ll have to start again on Monday.’

‘We?’

‘So John says, and he’s in charge. Until this Olivier le Daim makes his appearance, Jules will be otherwise engaged. Now, remember, Philip, I haven’t told you what it is I’m doing for Duke Richard here in Paris. John doesn’t know and he doesn’t want to know, but he’d be upset and more than a little angry if he thought I’d confided in you. And, for the sweet Virgin’s sake, not a word to anyone else. You can imagine that if the queen’s family got wind of this, they’d go straight to the king and heaven alone knows what would happen to us all, including the duke. I’m willing to wager my last groat that Clarence knew about the bastardy story, and look what happened to him.’

Philip regarded me malevolently, and when he spoke, his tone was bitter. ‘You don’t need to remind me to keep me bone-box shut, thank you very much. I know what sort of bloody risk we’re running.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Now let’s go back to the Rue de la Barillerie. ‘I’ve had enough for one day. And the episode in this place — ’ I jerked a thumb over my shoulder — ‘was the final straw.’

The following day, Sunday, was quiet. Everyone seemed out of sorts and disinclined for conversation. We all seemed to be nursing a private grievance, not openly stated, but nonetheless potent for all that. From the few words he did let fall, it was obvious that John was angry I had flouted his suggestion that I take Jules with me while I could, particularly as he had taken the trouble to visit the Coq d’Or to apprise the latter of my imminent arrival.

‘You and Philip were so long farting around before you left the house I was able to slip out ahead of you in order to warn Jules you were coming. And then you didn’t show up.’

I apologized and made some feeble excuse, which he accepted grudgingly, but remained taciturn for the rest of the day.

Philip kept out of my way, whether deliberately or by chance I couldn’t determine, but he remained in the kitchen with Marthe, doing odd jobs for her and easing the burden of looking after four people single-handed. Or, at least, so Eloise informed me, having had some conversation with the housekeeper when she visited the kitchen after breakfast.

As for Eloise herself, she was as generally uncommunicative as the others, and for this a blazing quarrel the previous night was responsible. She had been short with me all evening and, when we finally retired to our bedchamber, had reproached me in no uncertain terms for not accompanying her to the Rue de la Tissanderie.

‘Jane and Master Armiger thought it most strange that I should go alone, and so, I’m sure, did Will Lackpenny.’

Tired, worried, depressed, I had rounded on her with a viciousness I regretted almost at once. Seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently, I hissed, ‘For Jesu’s sake, get it into your stupid little head that I am not really your husband, and stop treating me as though you were my wife! This is a game we’re playing, and what’s more, I’ll tell you this: if we were man and wife and you spoke to me like that, I’d take my belt to you and leather you senseless.’ And with that, I had flung her away from me so that she went sprawling across the bed.

She lay perfectly still for a moment, and, to my horror, I saw that she was crying silently, the tears streaming down her face. I was immediately contrite, appalled by my behaviour, and had sat down beside her, trying to soothe her, trying to explain that I hadn’t meant a word I’d said. I had expected recriminations, even a hail of blows, but had been unprepared for the quiet dignity with which she had repelled my efforts at reconciliation and finished preparing for bed. It had made me feel an even bigger bully boy than I did already, and although I recognized that this was her intention, I nevertheless knew that the way I had behaved would take a lot of forgiving.

So the morning’s coldness was hardly a surprise and I made no attempt at atonement. I reasoned the less said, the better, and that her own sense of justice would eventually lead her to realize that, however badly I might have acted, she herself had not been blameless. Her tirade against me had been both undeserved and foolish.

We went to Mass, to Tierce, having risen far too late for Prime, and I left the choice of the Île de la Cité’s twenty-one churches to her. She decided eventually upon Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs, with its lovely slender spire, and stood beside me, eyes downcast, like a sweet and dutiful wife. As we left, she tucked a hand into the crook of my elbow and gave my arm a squeeze. If not entirely forgiven, I was not the pariah I had been an hour or so before.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said, but still quiet and inclined to be sombre. In much the same spirit I agreed.

So we strolled around the Île, saying little but with a growing sense of harmony, from the groves of the Jardins Royals in the west, by way of the cloisters and galleries behind the cathedral of Notre-Dame and the Bishop’s Palace to the tangle of wasteland in the east, with its view of the neighbouring islands of Notre-Dame and the Île aux Vaches. I remarked again on the splendid flagging of the streets with their furrows for the horses’ hooves and was intrigued by the little twisting turret staircases and the conical roofs of the houses. From one of the tarred booths of the Palus Market, already open for Sunday trade, I bought Eloise a green ribbon to match her green dress. And finally, in the shadow of the nearby Sainte-Chapelle, we stopped and faced one another, holding hands.

‘Tell me I’m forgiven,’ I said. ‘My behaviour was abominable.’

‘No, I was the one to blame,’ she answered gently. ‘Mine was the original fault. I must have sounded like a shrew, and without reason. I’m sorry.’

I smiled at her. ‘Then we’ll forgive one another, and I’ll go with you to see Jane and Robert Armiger after we’ve eaten.’

I didn’t add that I had an ulterior motive in wanting to speak to Jane Armiger again. It seemed wiser not to.

And so, after dinner — a meal that Eloise and I ate together in the parlour, neither John Bradshaw nor Philip putting in an appearance — we crossed back to La Ville and made our way to the Rue de la Tissanderie, to a house only a few doors distant from the great main thoroughfare of the Rue Saint-Martin.

We were fortunate in finding the Armigers in sole possession, Jane’s French kinfolk having, so we were told, gone to visit yet another relative who was ailing and had sent that morning, demanding their immediate assistance.

‘Tante Louise is rather demanding,’ Jane said, obviously feeling the need to excuse her relations’ absence.

‘A miserable, exigent old harridan,’ Robert snorted in his usual forthright fashion. ‘But I don’t suppose Master and Mistress Chapman are worried whether your cousins are here or not, my dear.’

He was right, of course, but his brutal way of expressing himself only upset his wife further. Her eyes were constantly full of unshed tears, which she surreptitiously wiped away before they could provoke another outburst from her husband. I saw Eloise compress her lips and guessed that she was, most unwisely, on the verge of giving Master Armiger a piece of her mind, but the arrival of Will Lackpenny averted what might have turned into an unpleasant situation.

It struck me that Robert was not as happy to see his fellow traveller as he had once been, and I wondered if his suspicions were at last aroused or if he had simply tired of Will’s company. But the visit could not have served my purpose better because Eloise, in a spirit of sheer mischief, immediately set out to monopolize Will’s attention, preventing him from getting close to Jane and bombarding him with a series of questions that he was too polite too ignore.

I seized my opportunity and drew my stool nearer to where Mistress Armiger was sitting, a little removed from the rest of us, by the window. After ascertaining that there was no more news of her brother, and sympathetically patting her hand when she showed signs of breaking down, I asked swiftly, ‘What exactly did you mean, that morning in Calais, when you said, “Yes”?’ She stared at me uncomprehendingly, and I went on, ‘I’d asked you if your grandmother — the French one, the seamstress — had ever mentioned any scandal regarding the Duchess of York and one of her bodyguard of archers. You didn’t answer at once, but just as I was leaving, you said, “Yes.” Do you remember?’ She gave me a watery smile and nodded. ‘You haven’t mentioned my enquiry to anyone else, have you? Your husband or. . or Master Lackpenny?’

‘No.’ She added apologetically, ‘I haven’t really thought about it since,’ and gave a little sob. ‘There. . there have been. .’

‘Other things on your mind. Of course. I understand that. And I don’t want you to say anything to either of them. To anyone at all. I ought not to have asked you what I did. But. . well. . as I did, what made you say, “Yes”?’

‘Because I did once overhear my grandmother tell my mother that there had been some scandal concerning the duchess and an archer while she was in Rouen.’

I was glad to note that she had lowered her voice almost to a whisper and I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder. Eloise still held Will Lackpenny in thrall, while Robert Armiger was looking at them both, distinctly bored.

‘Did your grandmother happen to mention the name of the archer concerned?’

Jane Armiger shook her head. ‘No. I think, from what I can recollect, that she didn’t know much. There had been some talk among the women, but that was all. In fact, young as I was, I can clearly recall her saying that the duchess was far too proud a woman to take a common archer to her bed. She didn’t believe it, she said.’ Jane nodded again. ‘Yes, I can remember her saying that.’

I sighed. I was no further forward. But there had been a rumour; that was something, I supposed. I still needed to find Robin Gaunt, however. I leaned a little closer to Jane. ‘Will you promise to say nothing to anyone about this conversation? I. . I’m sorry. I can’t explain, but it is important.’

‘I shan’t say anything.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I don’t talk to my husband much anyway.’

‘And. . Master Lackpenny?’

The smile deepened and grew tender. ‘Oh,’ she murmured shyly, ‘we. . we have other things to talk about.’

We were interrupted by Eloise, who had grown tired of flirting with Will and now wanted to reclaim my attention.

‘What are you two talking about so cosily over here?’

‘I was asking Mistress Armiger if she had received any more news of her brother,’ I answered, getting to my feet. ‘And commiserating with her concerning his loss.’

‘I keep telling her Oliver’s dead,’ Robert Armiger said bluntly. ‘And she might as well make up her mind to it.’

There was an awkward silence; then, not surprisingly, Jane Armiger burst into noisy tears. ‘Oh, Robin, how can you be s-so cruel?’ she gasped and fled from the room.

Her husband had the grace to look uncomfortable, but he brazened it out. ‘Women!’ he exclaimed disdainfully. ‘What unaccountable creatures they are! There’s no reasoning with them.’

Eloise had her mouth open to refute this statement. I could see that she was fuming and caught her by the arm, giving it a little nip with my fingers.

‘We must be going,’ I said, and extended my hand to Robert Armiger. ‘Please convey our farewells to your wife and say we perfectly understand how she feels. I don’t know if we shall see one another again — it depends how long we stay in Paris — but if we do, I trust you may have happier news to give us.’

He snorted sceptically, making no effort to detain us, and we were barely clear of the house before Eloise, unable any longer to contain herself, forcibly and loudly expressed her opinion of Master Armiger’s manners.

‘Hush,’ I reprimanded her. ‘He might hear you.’

‘I don’t care if he does,’ was the spirited retort. ‘He’s a great brute! An unfeeling bully! He. . he. . He’s a man!’

‘Oh, Mistress Chapman, you mustn’t judge us all by Robert Armiger,’ came a voice from behind, and we spun round to find William Lackpenny close on our heels. ‘I just couldn’t stay another instant in the same room with that man,’ he added by way of explanation. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions.’ He fell into step beside us. ‘Did I understand you to say that you would be leaving Paris soon? You’ve finished your business already, Roger? In so short a time?’

This interest in my affairs immediately reanimated my suspicions regarding my smart young gent. Why did he want to know?

‘Oh, nothing’s decided,’ I replied airily. ‘I shall see how things go. We may bump into one another again, I daresay, but for now, we’ll say goodbye.’

He smiled slightly, but took what was virtually a dismissal very well. He was, in any case, close to the Place de Grève, where he was lodging.

‘And God be with you, too,’ he answered, bowing low over Eloise’s hand. ‘Mistress Chapman, your humble servant.’

‘You weren’t very polite to him,’ Eloise chided me as we crossed back to the Île de la Cité by the Pont aux Meuniers and entered the Rue de la Barillerie, but it was a gentle reproach, not at all like her usual abrasive self. Indeed, she didn’t pursue the subject, not even waiting for me to justify myself or think up an excuse to satisfy her. Instead, she gave my arm a squeeze. ‘I’m beginning to like it,’ she went on seriously, ‘when people call me Mistress Chapman.’ She glanced up at me. ‘Do you feel the same way, Roger?’

I was struck dumb. What could I possibly say? I was a married man. I had children. I loved my family, but at the moment, they seemed a very dim memory and very far away. I hadn’t seen any of them for months, and in the meantime I had been to Scotland. Now I was in France. And I couldn’t deny that, over the past two weeks, I had, against my will, grown fond of Eloise. No, more than that if I were honest. And it was this need to suppress my feelings that had led to many of the quarrels and most of the tension between us.

She was expecting an answer; I could see it in her face. She was not going to turn it into a joke, as she had done once or twice before. She had caught me on her hook and this time she was not going to free me.

I took a deep breath. ‘I. .’ I began feebly.

Suddenly, her grip on my arm tightened. ‘To your left, Roger,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘There!’ She pointed with her other hand. ‘He’s just disappeared into one of those alleyways. Quick! We can catch him if we run!’

‘Who?’ I demanded distractedly. ‘Who’s just-’

‘Raoul d’Harcourt! I only caught a glimpse, but I’m certain it was him.’

‘Raoul d’Harcourt? But-’

‘Oh, come on!’ she cried impatiently, and, hitching up her skirts, began to run.

I followed her across the busy street and into the narrow opening between two houses, but here we came to a stop. Unlike most of the alleyways off the Rue de la Barillerie, it led nowhere, a six-foot-high wall at the end making it impossible to proceed any further, while the walls of the two enclosing houses rose solidly on either side. Of Raoul d’Harcourt — or whatever his real name was — there was no sign.

‘There must be a door somewhere,’ Eloise insisted. ‘He can’t just have vanished into thin air.’

But there was no trace of a door or window, and it was only as we were about to leave, defeated, and as my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom, that I became aware of a number of stones in the end wall standing proud of the surface, enabling a fit man to gain a toehold and thus climb over it. Cursing, I clambered up, but our quarry had long gone, vanishing into the noise and bustle of the next street.

‘Shit!’ I said, brushing down the front of my green tunic and noticing a dark stain on one knee of my brown hose. They were already snagged in various places and it was only by the grace of God that I hadn’t just ripped them on one of the projecting stones. It was not that I was growing particular in my dress, but I had no doubt at all that Timothy would subtract money for any damage done from whatever payment was due to me on our return to London.

I took back my cloak from Eloise, who had been holding it while I scaled the wall, and wrapped it round me. The November day had suddenly grown extremely cold, with a sharp wind blowing off the Seine, and as we re-entered the Rue de la Barillerie, a shaft of light from an upstairs window showed frost already glittering on the paving stones. It was going to be a bitter night. Moreover, I was suddenly conscious of the non-stop pealing of the church bells echoing and re-echoing in my ears, making my head ache.

I asked almost angrily, ‘Are you sure it was Raoul d’Harcourt that you saw? The light is poor. You could easily have been mistaken.’

‘No, I’m certain it was him.’

Her confidence riled me. ‘I don’t see how you could possibly tell. You admitted yourself a glimpse was all you had.’

‘Then where did he go, if not over that wall? And why would he do that unless to avoid a meeting with us?’

‘Perhaps you were wrong in thinking anyone entered the alleyway at all.’

We were still arguing when Marthe, who had seen us coming, opened the door of our lodgings and urged us, with many gestures, to come in out of the cold.

John Bradshaw was in the parlour, warming his hands at the fire and shivering slightly as if he, too, had just got in. Our raised voices must have preceded us because as we joined him, he said, in a voice that trembled with exasperation, ‘For the love of God, can’t you two make friends? Must you be forever squabbling like a pair of children?’ But when he heard what the argument was about, he took the possible sighting of the Frenchman far more seriously than I had expected him to, opening the window and staring uneasily out into the street. ‘I’ll send Philip to go and look around,’ he decided. ‘He’s done nothing all day but loaf around the kitchen.’

It struck me that he had never really liked Philip from the very beginning, but that his dislike had increased during our travels. I supposed — no, I knew — that Philip could be awkward and that the loss of Jeanne had made him more so. Indeed, there had been times during the past week when I had found it difficult to keep my hands off him. All the same, I could not help wondering why John had risked the displeasure of both Duke Richard and Timothy Plummer in order to bring Philip with us. There must have been other old soldiers he could have hired to help with the horses, old friends from those long-ago days when our armies had fought and rampaged their way across France.

Philip, when he finally answered John’s summons, had reverted to his former surly mood, doing as he was bidden with a look of sullen defiance. As he let himself out into the street, I noticed that he had a great bruise covering almost the whole of one cheek. When he had gone, I looked an enquiry at John, who grimaced sheepishly, hunching his shoulders.

‘Mea culpa,’ he admitted. ‘I shouldn’t have done it, I know. It was wrong of me. But he makes me so angry.’

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the street door, and when I opened it, Jules pushed past me, addressing himself immediately to John in a stream of rapid French. When he had finished, John swore.

‘It seems,’ he said to Eloise, ‘that your cousin Maître le Daim has postponed his visit until the middle of the week. We shall be here for a few days more yet.’