The Goldsmith's Daughter

One

In a long life, it has seemed to me that there are two things which excite the popular imagination above all others. The first is a royal wedding, the second, a royal scandal; and just before Christmas of the year of Our Lord, 1477, information reached us in Bristol that the country was shortly to be edified by both.

With my wife, Adela, and our two small children, Elizabeth and Nicholas, I was paying a Sabbath visit to the Redcliffe home of my erstwhile mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, when I first heard the news. We were all returning to her cottage from the nearby church of Saint Thomas, where we had stood, crowded cheek by jowl, with the rest of the weaving community for morning Mass, when we were overtaken by Jack Nym.

By trade, Jack was a carter and had, until six months earlier, worked mainly for the late Alderman Weaver, bringing bales of raw wool from the Cotswold pastures to the Redcliffe weaving sheds, or carting the finished cloth to its various destinations. But now that the alderman was dead, his looms and house sold, his wealth passed into the hands of his younger brother who lived in London, Jack Nym took work wherever he could find it, and had, he was pleased to inform us, but recently returned from delivering a cartload of merchandise to the capital.

‘Yes,’ he said, puffing out his skinny chest with pride, ‘it was a very important order. Thirty ells of our special red Bristol cloth to be shared amongst the aldermen and guildsmen of London, so that they can replace the shabbiest of their gowns before the royal wedding.’

‘What royal wedding?’ Adela and Margaret demanded almost in one breath. ‘Come inside, Jack, and take a cup of ale before you go home,’ Margaret went on eagerly, unlocking her cottage door and holding it wide. ‘And while you’re refreshing yourself, you can tell us all about it.’

‘Yes, please do,’ urged Adela. Glancing round, she caught my mocking glance and had the grace to blush before tilting her chin and adding defiantly, ‘We shall be most interested to hear your news.’

As she shepherded the children before her, I reflected that these first six months of my second marriage had been the happiest of my life. And I reflected, too, on how lucky we were that my three-year-old daughter and Adela’s three-year-old son (Nicholas was the elder by just one month) were so fond of one another; were such good playmates in spite of their frequent disagreements. And fortune had also favoured us insofar as my wife was cousin to Margaret Walker, who had planned and worked for the match from the moment she knew that Adela had been widowed. Margaret, therefore, had experienced no difficulty in accepting Nicholas as her grandson, for neither woman had any other kinsfolk worthy of the name, and for that reason alone the blood-tie, though tenuous, was strong.

Once inside the cottage, Jack Nym sniffed the air, his nose twitching appreciatively at the rich smells of rabbit and herbs and newly baked bread. His goodwife, I seem to remember, was something of an invalid and not favourably disposed towards the cooking pot, so Jack was always hungry and accepted sustenance whenever and wherever it was offered. And once safely perched on the stool nearest the fire, he was happy to sample a plate of Margaret’s honey cakes as an accompaniment to his mazer of ale.

‘Now,’ said the former, seating herself at one end of the long bench and taking Elizabeth on her lap, ‘let’s hear this news of yours, Jack. A royal wedding, eh? But who in God’s name is to be married? I thought all members of the royal family were safely leg-shackled years ago.’

‘It’s the Duke of York. He’s to be wed to the Lady Anne Mowbray, the late Duke of Norfolk’s daughter,’ Jack informed us thickly, through a mouthful of cake.

Margaret let out a screech that made Elizabeth jump like a startled hare. ‘Little Prince Richard? But he’s only a child,’ she protested. ‘He can’t be more than four years old now, surely? Five, at the most. I remember distinctly that he was born the same year as the Duke of Gloucester’s son, Prince Edward. I recollect saying to Goody Watkins at the time that the two brothers must be very close for each to name his son after the other.’

Jack Nym cleared his mouth with an effort. ‘Ay, you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I overheard someone say that the Duke was only four years of age. And she — Lady Anne, that is — is six. Of course,’ he continued knowledgeably, as befitted a man who visited the capital at regular intervals, and who was on more than a mere nodding acquaintance with London ways, ‘they won’t be living together for a long while yet. Not for years and years and years.’

‘Then what’s the point of marrying the poor little souls?’ Margaret demanded indignantly. ‘It could blight their lives if they should happen to grow up and fall in love with two other people.’

Jack Nym shrugged. ‘It’s the nobility’s manner of doing things,’ he answered vaguely. ‘It’s not for us to question why.’

‘The late Duke of Norfolk was a very rich man,’ I cut in, ‘and I believe this girl is sole heiress to his fortune. The King would naturally be anxious to harness all that wealth to the Crown. Hence this marriage.’

‘Well, I still think it’s a wicked thing to do,’ Margaret said severely, glancing down at Elizabeth, who was for once sitting quietly, docilely sucking her thumb. ‘Imagine forcing this baby into marrying anyone!’

‘When is the wedding to take place?’ Adela asked from her seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Or don’t you know, Jack?’

I looked round at her with narrowed eyes. There was a purposefulness in her tone that roused my suspicions.

‘The fifteenth day of next month,’ the carter answered promptly, anxious to dismiss any suggestion of ignorance on his part. He added for good measure, ‘In Saint Stephen’s Chapel at Westminster. Two days after the feast of Saint Hilary and the day before the Duke of Clarence is brought to trial in Westminster Hall.’

‘Brought to trial!’ I exclaimed, almost dropping my mazer of ale in astonishment. ‘Duke George is being brought to trial?’

Jack nodded, pleased by my reaction to his news. To have captured my interest was, he plainly felt, a feather in his cap. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

I leaned forward, compelling his attention. ‘You’re sure of this?’ I urged.

‘Of c-course I’m sure!’ he spluttered. ‘There’s not much else being talked about in the London alehouses and taverns, I can tell you. Even the Duke of York’s wedding, and the tournament that’s to be held the following week, have taken second place — and a poor second place at that — to news of the trial. It seems that until recently no one thought that it would happen. Ever since last June, when the Duke was arrested and sent to the Tower, most people have been expecting to hear of his release.’

I nodded. ‘I have, myself. The King has forgiven his brother so often in the past that there seems no reason why he shouldn’t do so this time. I thought that imprisoning him in the Tower was just meant to frighten him.’

‘Perhaps,’ Adela suggested, ‘the Duke will be acquitted. Or, if not, maybe King Edward will pardon him afterwards. This is to be a lesson not lightly forgotten.’

Jack Nym shrugged and finished his ale, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘That’s not the current opinion of the Londoners. The feeling now is that the rift between the brothers is more serious than was realised; that the Woodvilles are baying for Clarence’s blood, and refuse to be appeased this time.’

Margaret slid Elizabeth off her knees and rose to her feet. Taking her big ladle, she stirred the contents of the iron pot that hung above the fire, and the cottage was once more filled with the savoury smell of rabbit stew.

‘Why would the King want to bring his brother to trial the day after his son’s wedding?’ she asked curiously. ‘It’s bound to throw a damper over the jollifications.’

‘Probably,’ I suggested, ‘because most of the nobles will be in London for the wedding. It’s the sensible thing to do, if you think about it carefully. It will save them all another journey later on.’

Margaret sat down again, looking around for Elizabeth, but my daughter had seized the opportunity to slither away to play with Nicholas. ‘A strange business,’ she remarked thoughtfully after a moment’s silence. ‘But the King wouldn’t dare put his own brother to death, surely? Imagine the scandal! And what would be his mother’s feelings, poor lady? You met her once, Roger. What is she like?’

I tried to conjure up a picture of that redoubtable dame, the Dowager Duchess of York, as I had seen her six years ago in a room at Baynard’s Castle, but the essence of her eluded me.

‘I’d say that she’s a very strong-minded woman,’ I answered slowly, ‘who has known a great deal of tragedy in her life. My guess would be that whatever happens, now or in the future, she will cope with her grief.’

Jack Nym was regarding me with sudden respect. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever met the Duchess Cicely, Chapman.’

‘Oh yes! And the Duke of Clarence,’ Margaret told him proudly, before I could prevent her. ‘While the Duke of Gloucester is very nearly a bosom friend.’

‘Mother,’ I interrupted swiftly, ‘you know that’s not true. I’ve had the honour to do a service or two for Duke Richard in my time, but I assure you, Master Nym, there’s nothing more to it than that.’

Adela, noting my discomfort, came to my rescue as she so often did. ‘How I wish I could see this wedding,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve never been to London, and everyone who’s been there says it’s a wonderful place. I should love to go.’

Jack Nym turned to me. ‘Why don’t you take her, Chapman? I’m going that way again on the sixth day of January. I’m carting a load of soap to the Leadenhall for Master Avenel, and I’ll gladly take you both along.’

Adela looked at me, her eyes alight with excitement, and I answered hastily, ‘That would be impossible, I’m afraid. We have two young children to care for.’

‘If that’s all that’s bothering you,’ Margaret said at once, ‘shut up your cottage and leave Elizabeth and Nicholas here with me. I shall be thankful for their company. It gets very lonely in the dead of winter, even though I do see you and Adela almost every day. And by your own admission, Roger, you’ve had a profitable season so far. Spend a little of your hard-earned money, my lad. Don’t be miserly. You’re only young once.’

‘Mother,’ I protested irritably, ‘you’ve just said yourself that it’s the dead of winter, with all the bad weather still to come. Do you think I’m so irresponsible that I’ll allow my wife to go junketing about the countryside in. .’ I caught Adela’s eye and pulled myself up short. ‘In January?’ I finished lamely.

For once in her life, Margaret Walker allowed her own needs to overrule her better judgement. So fond was she of the two children, and so desirous of some human company during the long dark evenings ahead, that she made light of a journey that she would normally have condemned as foolhardy, if not downright insane.

‘Adela’s a strong woman. Make sure you’re both wrapped up warmly and you’ll come to no harm. After all,’ she added with a conclusive gesture, ‘you both walked from Hereford to Bristol at this same time last year, and carrying Nicholas as well.’

And that had also been her doing, I reflected. Margaret was quite ruthless when it came to getting her own way, as had been Lillis, her daughter, my first wife and Elizabeth’s mother. And as was Adela, Margaret’s cousin.

My wife smiled triumphantly at me as she began to make plans with Margaret and Jack Nym. I said nothing then, for I had given my promise to keep our secret until Adela should give me leave to speak; but that evening, in the privacy of our own cottage in Lewin’s Mead, and as soon as the two children were in bed and fast asleep, I remonstrated with her.

‘Adela, this idea of going to London is utterly foolish, and you know it. You’re three months pregnant.’

She laughed and, rising briefly from her chair, kissed me lightly on the forehead.

‘Who should know that better than I? But my early morning sickness has passed, and I feel as well as I have ever done in my life. Margaret’s right, I’m strong in body. I always have been.’

‘But the journey will be tiring,’ I protested, ‘even if we go all the way in Jack Nym’s cart.’

She rested one elbow on the table between us, cupping her chin in her hand and regarding me with that faintly mocking stare that never failed to unnerve me.

‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘while you are out peddling your wares each day, I clean the cottage, make the bed, cook the food, chop the kindling, fetch water from the well, go to the market. Above all, I deal with the tempers and tantrums, bickering and squabbling of two small children who constantly vie with one another for my attention. Have you never considered that all that might be much more tiring than a journey to London?’

I had to admit that such a thought had never occurred to me. Baking, sweeping, looking after home and children was the normal business of women; what God intended them for in His earthly scheme of things. I must have looked puzzled, for she laughed again — that deep, full-throated laugh that was so peculiarly hers — and came round the table to sit on my lap, entwining her arms about my neck.

‘Master Nym has assured me that we shall travel at a steady pace, taking frequent rests. He knows all the religious houses along the route and says that we can take our pick of where to rest up. Roger, with three small children to look after in the future, this may well be my last chance to see London for many years to come.’

‘But what about the return journey?’ I asked, still determined to make difficulties if I could. ‘And where shall we stay?’

‘At a decent inn,’ she answered with some asperity. ‘I’m sure there are many such in London. Indeed, you’ve told me yourself that there are. What Margaret said is true. You’ve worked hard since you came back from Devon in the autumn. You’ve been out on the road every day from dawn to dusk, rain or shine, at a time of year when most pedlars use any excuse to remain under cover. We have a little savings in the hiding place under the floor, so we can afford to put up at an inn. And Jack Nym will bring us home again, he said so. I can see the wedding — and you can see the Duke of Clarence’s trial.’

The witch had found my weak spot. She had known, of course, from the moment that the trial was mentioned, that I must be longing to attend. I knew both Clarence and the Duke of Gloucester, had spoken to them face to face, had served each of them to the best of my ability, the latter on more than one occasion. I had even been offered a position in his household.

My devotion to Richard of Gloucester, a young man with whom, according to my mother — God rest her soul! — I shared my birth day, the second day of October, 1452, was as great as that of any of those who served him personally. But I had never wanted to give up my freedom and independence of will, and so I had declined his proposal. Nevertheless, knowing his fierce loyalty to both his surviving brothers — Loyauté me lie was, appropriately, his motto — and his equally fierce hatred of the Woodvilles, I could only guess at what his feelings must be now that the long struggle for power between the King’s family and the Queen’s was nearing its climax. I suspected that, at what must be the bitterest moment of his life so far, he would need the prayers of all those friends who wished him well. (Was it presumptuous of me to consider myself his friend? I did not think so; nor did I believe that he would, either.)

‘Well?’ Adela asked, kissing me again. ‘Are we to go or not? If you don’t wish to stay at an inn, there are those friends you’ve mentioned so often, Philip and Jeanne Lamprey. Perhaps we could lodge with them.’

This time I was able to speak with decision. ‘No, for unless fortune has favoured them since we last met, their cottage is too small to accommodate even one extra person, let alone two. We shall certainly call upon them, for they would never forgive me if I didn’t take you to see them, but there is no question of being their guests.’

Adela pulled away from me a little, her dark eyes glowing with excitement.

‘Does this mean that we are to go to London? That you have agreed?’

I realised that I was now as eager to make the journey as she was, but I made one last, desperate stand on the side of common sense.

‘Suppose the weather turns bad? We might be snowed in for weeks on the road.’

‘Master Nym assures me that that isn’t likely to happen,’ my wife said, getting up and going to pour me some ale. ‘I was questioning him while you were drawing water for Margaret, and he’s adamant that it’s as mild a winter as he can remember, and thinks it almost certain that it will remain that way. All the signs point to it, he says.’ She put the overflowing beaker down on the table beside me and went to fetch a cloth to mop up the overspill. This done, she knelt down by my stool. ‘Roger, my love, just this once let’s take the risk. The children will be well cared for by Margaret. You know as well I do that we need have no fears for them. And when we’re old and grey, I’d like to have something to look back on. When you’re deaf and doddering around with a stick, when I’m bent double, when the children are grown up and beginning to treat us as though we’re not safe to be out alone on the streets, we’ll be able to laugh and say to each other, “Do you remember when we were young enough and mad enough to travel to London in the depths of winter with Jack Nym and his cartload of soap? Do you remember the wedding of the little Duke of York and the Lady Anne Mowbray? Do you remember the trial of the Duke of Clarence?”’

I knew I had lost the argument. I knew that, stupid and hare-brained as the adventure appeared, I was suddenly as committed to it as was Adela. I sighed and pulled her back on my lap.

‘And when does Jack Nym think of returning?’ I asked.

‘He’s hoping to stay long enough to see the wedding tournament on January the twenty-second. In the meantime, he intends to tout around for someone who needs a load transported back to Bristol.’

This, I calculated, meant at least a week in the capital, and I could not help wondering if our meagre savings were sufficient to support us for such a length of time. Then I reflected that if I took my pack with me, I could earn money by selling my goods. I had done it before in London on more than one occasion. I could do it again.

I smiled at Adela, putting up a hand to smooth her cheek. ‘Don’t look so worried. We’ll go.’

The twelve days of Christmas were over, and still the weather held, crisp and dry and bright.

Adela and I shut and locked our cottage in Lewin’s Mead, warned our neighbours and the Brothers at Saint James’s Priory that it would be standing empty for some weeks, took what few valuables we possessed, such as pots and pans and bedlinen, to Margaret Walker’s for safety, saw the children happily ensconced in her tiny house and, on the sixth of January, not without some lingering misgivings on my part, set out for London, sitting up beside Jack Nym on the front board of his cart. Behind us, locked in by the tailboard, the crates of grey Bristol soap rattled and clattered and bumped.

I suppose I ought to have guessed what lay ahead, but for once I was lulled into a sense of false security. I presumed that God, if not sleeping, had forgotten me. He had, after all, a lot at present to keep Him busy elsewhere. It never occurred to me that He might have another job for me to do.