The Goldsmith's Daughter

Three

I don’t know what I expected from this exchange of glances; that Timothy Plummer would suddenly materialise at my elbow, perhaps, with orders that his master wished to see me without delay? Of course, no such thing happened: my lord of Gloucester’s Spymaster General was nowhere to be seen.

Nevertheless, I could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness. The Duke’s smile had been accompanied by a long, hard stare, and, in consequence, I was unable to enter into Adela and Jeanne’s excitement at this sign of royal recognition. It was a source of congratulation, and of some self-importance, to the two women for quite a while after the newly-wed couple and their guests had vanished into Westminster Hall for the wedding feast. But I could see that Philip was unimpressed and shared my worry.

‘You want to make yourself scarce, my lad,’ he growled in my ear, as we made our way towards the cook shops, all of us hungry from the cold and ready for our dinner. ‘The Duke of Gloucester’s nothing but a source of trouble where you’re concerned.’

I nodded. ‘The same idea has already occurred to me. But, on reflection, I believe we’re both being over-cautious. He has too much on his mind at this present to think up any commissions for me to do. Tomorrow’s trial of the Duke of Clarence must be weighing heavily on his mind. There can be no room in his thoughts for anything else.’

‘You won’t go to the trial, though, as you originally planned? You wouldn’t be so foolish as to tempt fate in that way, now would you?’ Philip urged.

‘Oh. . I’ll make sure I’m not noticed,’ I answered evasively, loath to forgo my purpose. Philip sighed heavily. ‘In that case, I wash my hands of you,’ he said.

We exchanged no further words on the subject, but my old friend’s disapproval was plain.

We caught up with our wives at one of the many stalls selling hot meat pies and steaming ribs of beef, and Adela, now that we had a little extra money on account of the two gold coins I had managed to catch, wanted to try a dish of baked porpoise tongues, a delicacy that had not before come in her way. I dissuaded her, however.

‘They may not agree with the child,’ I suggested, patting her stomach.

Reluctantly, she agreed, and settled for a meat pie instead. But then, against my advice — or, maybe, because of it — she insisted on drinking a cup of hot, spiced ale to warm her. I thought it a mistake, but was wise enough to make no further protest. Adela was too independent a woman to be driven in any direction she did not wish to go, and must be allowed to learn her lessons in her own way. I did venture to mention that the Westminster alemongers put a liberal sprinkling of pepper in their beer, but my comment was ignored.

It was no great surprise to me, therefore, as the day wore on, and as we pushed and fought our way from stall to stall through the jostling holiday crowds, to note that Adela’s face was contorted every now and then in spasms of discomfort. Eventually, it became obvious that she had lost all interest in the hats and ribbons, laces, shoes and petticoats, and in the hundred and one other goods being offered for sale, wanting nothing so much as to lie down and be quiet.

‘I’m sorry,’ she confessed at last, ‘but I’ve the most terrible burning pain in my breast. It’s the child, of course. You were right, Roger. I should have listened to you and not touched that ale.’

Jeanne Lamprey was immediately all concern, and she and Philip insisted on accompanying us nearly all the way to the Voyager in spite of our urging them to stay where they were.

‘There’s no good reason why we should spoil your holiday,’ Adela protested.

But they would have none of it, persuading us, with, I believe, some truth, that they were tired and would be glad to return home.

‘There are too many thieves and pickpockets about on these occasions,’ Philip grumbled. ‘A man’s hard-earned money isn’t safe.’

They went with us as far as the Great Conduit, where we parted company with mutual promises of seeing one another again within the next few days.

‘And take my advice,’ Philip whispered to me at parting. ‘Don’t go to Westminster Hall tomorrow.’

I went to bed worried about Adela, and with the idea of following his advice. But when, the next day, my wife declared herself so much better, and only wishful of a morning in bed in order to recover fully from yesterday’s exertions, I found myself with time on my hands. The consequence was well-nigh inevitable.

Westminster Hall was crammed to suffocation, and there was not a seat to be had anywhere. Outside, the bitter January wind was whipping through the streets, making the assembled crowds blow on their red, chapped hands and stamp their feet in an effort to combat the cold. But, by arriving early, I had just managed to squeeze through the doors, and now stood at the back of the hall in company with two dozen or so equally determined curiosity seekers. I could already feel the prickle of sweat under my arms and down my spine.

Others were also suffering from the heat generated by this press of bodies. The Duke of Buckingham, appointed Lord High Steward for the occasion, was wiping his neck with a silken handkerchief, while the Duke of Suffolk’s fleshy face was suffused with blood, looking like nothing so much as a piece of raw meat. But it was not simply the warmth that was making us sweat. There was another emotion abroad, ugly and dark; the expectation, the anticipation of death.

On some countenances, like that of the Duke of Gloucester, it took the semblance of fear; fear for the death of a loved one. On others, it reflected the shame that two brothers, one of them the King, should be about to rend each other in public. And on still others, as on the face of John Morton, Master of the Rolls, it had twisted itself into a look of greed for the skill and thrill of the chase and the final destruction of the quarry.

The sound of muted cheering heralded the arrival of King Edward; and as soon as he had taken his place on the central dais, the Duke of Clarence, who had earlier been brought by water to Westminster from the Tower, was led to the bar. I was shocked to see how thin and pale he had grown, but at the sight of his old arrogant, contemptuous smile, I guessed that however much his appearance might have altered, no real inward change had taken place.

The King gestured for the proceedings to begin, and the Chancellor, Thomas Rotheram, Archbishop of York, rose ponderously to his feet to deliver a sermon on — if my memory serves me aright — the subject of fidelity towards one’s sovereign. When he had finished, he sat down again, drawing his episcopal robes about him, rather like a bird folding its wings after flight, and King Edward indicated that the Bill of Attainder should be read.

The Duke of Buckingham, whose task this was, was noticeably nervous, his breath catching in his throat on more than one occasion, and twice faltering almost to a stop. Finally, he had done, and a profound silence settled over the hall, broken only by the occasional cough or a shuffling of feet. The King waited, his steely gaze resting on first one face and then another, but nobody moved: everyone sat as though carved out of stone. At last, when it became apparent that no one was willing to continue the proceedings, he stood up himself, with a suddenness that made his neighbours jump.

Brother faced brother across the hall.

It began quietly, the King reproaching the Duke for his constant treachery and reminding him of his own constant forgiveness. The Duke answered, in a tone equally subdued, that a divided family had naturally resulted in divided loyalties; and as he spoke, he glanced towards the serried ranks of Woodvilles. There, said his look, was the real cause of the division between himself and his elder brother.

The King hesitated, then shifted his ground. Had he not always loved George and treated him well? Had he not given him more money and lands than any King of England had ever before bestowed upon a brother? Had he not made him one of the two richest men in the kingdom after himself? And how had the ungrateful George repaid him?

‘By depriving me of my crown and driving me out of the country! Me! Your own flesh and blood!’

Clarence laughed at that, and I saw the Duke of Gloucester flinch from the sound. I could guess what he was thinking; that the Duke’s last hope of throwing himself on the King’s mercy had gone. And so it proved. The polite, civilised masks were torn off and cast away. It was no longer brother and brother, no longer subject and overlord. It wasn’t even man and man, but two animals, fanged and clawed.

‘You are malicious, unnatural and loathsome!’ shouted the King.

‘And you are a bastard!’ yelled the Duke. ‘Hasn’t our own mother more than once offered to prove you so?’

‘Leave our mother’s name out of this! Did you not unlawfully order the execution of the Widow Ankaret Twynyho?’

‘And did you not retaliate by hanging Thomas Burdet, an innocent man?’

‘He was not innocent! On your orders, he maligned the Queen and members of her family!’

Clarence’s features were suddenly contorted into a barely recognisable mask of hatred. ‘No one could malign that Devil’s brood,’ he all but screamed. ‘Everyone knows that they indulge in the most extreme forms of all the black arts!’

The people in the hall were now avoiding one another’s eyes, but glancing furtively every now and then at the Duke of Gloucester, where he sat staring at the ground and biting his underlip. Only the foreign envoys and ambassadors looked on with interest at the unedifying spectacle before them, storing up all the details for their royal masters in their next dispatches.

There was a momentary lull in this exchange of insults, while the two protagonists paused to draw breath. Then, in a torrent of foam-flecked words, the King began reciting all Clarence’s many sins: his desertion to Warwick; his marriage to Warwick’s elder daughter, Isabel Neville, without his brother’s consent; his invocation of the statute of 1470 in order to lay claim to the throne; his attempt to marry Mary of Burgundy (a lady now safely the wife of Maximilian of Austria) until finally. .

‘I could have forgiven you all this,’ the King roared, ‘but for your last, malicious, more dastardly treason!’

An air of expectancy hung over Westminster Hall. This, surely, must be the moment we had all been waiting for; the moment when we should at last learn the truth; the real reason for the Duke of Clarence’s indictment and trial. The charges which had been adduced so far were old tales: they did not account for the King’s sudden decision to rid himself of his brother. A few of those present might believe that Edward had genuinely reached the end of his tether, but not very many. Most of us felt that some new and so far undisclosed treachery, something that struck at the very heart of his right to the throne, would now be revealed.

But then, suddenly, it was all over: I never quite fathomed how. A flurry of half-sentences on the part of the King; a bewildered Duke of Buckingham pronouncing a verdict of ‘Guilty’; warders closing in on their prisoner, leading him away from the bar, and it was finished.

Abruptly, the Duke of Gloucester was on his feet, shouting his brother’s name. For a brief moment Clarence turned, looked steadily at him across the intervening space, raised one hand in farewell and then was lost to view amongst his guards. Prince Richard, his naturally pale face now the colour of parchment and seamed with sweat, sank back into his chair, sightlessly scanning the crowds at the back of the hall. But then his eyes suddenly focused themselves, and he half rose again from his seat. It was with a sinking heart that I realised he was looking directly at me.

‘So,’ exclaimed Philip Lamprey, ‘Brother George was found guilty, but is not yet sentenced. There’s time enough still for a reprieve.’

I shook my head. ‘Somehow I don’t think so. Not on this occasion. Unless you were there, you can’t begin to comprehend the animosity — no, more than that, the sheer, unadulterated hatred — that flowed between those two. I can only liken it to a festering sore that one day bursts, letting out all the poison and pus that has been accumulating inside.’

‘As bad as that, eh?’ said Philip ruminatively, scratching his head. He had come that afternoon to seek me out at the Voyager to enquire on Jeanne’s behalf after Adela’s state of health, and to satisfy his own curiosity as to the outcome of the trial. ‘For I knew that against all my good advice you’d be bound to go and see for yourself,’ he had chided me. He added now, ‘I trust you kept yourself well hidden and did nothing to attract my Lord of Gloucester’s attention?’

‘Nothing at all,’ I answered truthfully, but being less than candid. ‘And both the wedding and the trial now being safely over, Adela and I can spend our remaining days in London in a more leisurely fashion, and go where the fancy takes us. She has a desire to visit Leadenhall market again this afternoon, not having seen much of it the day before yesterday.’

‘Then you must promise to have supper with us afterwards,’ Philip insisted. When I demurred, knowing that hospitality did not come cheap, he said impatiently, ‘Jeanne will be only too delighted to see you, and any information you can give her about the trial will be ample reward for such victuals as we can offer you.’

It was impossible to withstand such an invitation; and so, after browsing amongst the stalls and shops of the Leadenhall, and after the purchase of a whip and top for Nicholas and a doll for Elizabeth, Adela and I walked up Bishop’s Gate Street, eventually turning in amongst the narrow alleyways of Cornhill to the cottage behind the Lampreys’ shop. There, we were afforded such a warm welcome that it was late into the evening, some hours after curfew and the closing of the city gates, before we returned to Bucklersbury.

We were met on the threshold of the Voyager by a perturbed Reynold Makepeace, who at once took my arm, drawing me to one side.

‘There’s a man here who says he must speak to you urgently,’ he said in a low voice, trying to prevent his words from reaching Adela’s straining ears. ‘The man,’ he added impressively, ‘wears the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.’ Reynold’s bright hazel eyes were round with curiosity and also with fear.

‘Timothy Plummer!’ I exclaimed disgustedly. ‘What in Heaven does he want?’

‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ asked a well-remembered voice, and, a second later, Timothy emerged from the landlord’s private parlour, just to the right of the inn’s front door.

‘So it is you,’ I sighed. ‘For one blessed moment, I was praying I might be wrong.’

‘That’s not a very friendly greeting,’ he reproached me.

‘And you’ve been particularly hard to find. I was asking for a lone chapman. I didn’t expect you to be in company with your wife.’ His smile faded. ‘And the cursed annoying thing is that you’ve been almost on the Duke’s doorstep all along.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded irritably. ‘We’re a long way from Baynard’s Castle.’

‘We’re not at Baynard’s Castle,’ Timothy snapped back, reverting, as he so often did when pomposity got the better of him, to lumping himself together with the Duke. ‘We’re staying at Crosby Place, in Bishop’s Gate Street.’

As he spoke, I recalled the splendid house and garden Adela and I had passed earlier in the evening, on our way to the Lampreys’ cottage. I had mentioned it, in the course of our conversation, to Philip, who had told me that it belonged to Sir John Crosby, an extremely rich wool merchant, who rented out the place to visiting dignitaries. Foreign ambassadors often resided there for a season. Both the French and Danish envoys had certainly done so. And now it appeared that the Duke of Gloucester had hired Crosby Place for the duration of his present unhappy stay in London. I had no idea whether or not Duchess Cicely was in the city; but if she were, I guessed that Duke Richard might feel he had enough sorrow to bear, without having to cope daily with his mother’s grief as well.

‘Am I to assume that His Grace the Duke of Gloucester wishes to see me?’ I asked sarcastically, and incurred Timothy’s immediate ill-will.

‘I’m not out scouring London on a bitterly cold, windy, sleety January night for my own pleasure,’ he rasped. ‘Of course His Grace wants to see you.’

‘What for? Did he say?’

‘No, of course he didn’t say! Nor did I ask him. It’s not my place. You just come along with me and you’ll find out soon enough.’

I put my arm around Adela. ‘And what about my wife?’

Timothy raised his eyes to heaven. ‘She’ll have to stay here until you return. She’s surely capable of doing so! She looks like a sensible woman. Which reminds me.’ His eyes lit with a malicious pleasure. ‘I rather fancied, when I saw you in Keyford last year, that you were after a different quarry.’

‘A mistake on my part,’ I answered serenely, thanking my lucky stars that I had told Adela all about Rowena Honeyman, and that I therefore had nothing to hide. ‘But how did you know? I’m ready to swear I didn’t say a word about the lady.’

‘It’s my job to know everything about everyone,’ Timothy replied curtly, disappointed that his barb had missed its mark.

This uncharacteristic spitefulness indicated to me something of his perturbed state of mind, and probably denoted the general anxiety and misery of the Duke’s entire household. If the master were deeply unhappy, his servants would be, too.

I kissed Adela. ‘I must go, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I have no choice. Go to bed and get some rest. Are you all right, now? No more heartburn?’

She shook her head and kissed me back. ‘Don’t worry about me, Roger. I’m perfectly well, only a little tired.’ She smiled up at me, but I could see the worry in her eyes. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘Don’t undertake anything dangerous. Promise me.’

I didn’t feel that I could make any promises that I might be called upon to break, so I just kissed her again without making answer. Then, handing her over to the care of Reynold Makepeace and his wife, and roundly cursing my foolhardiness in going to Westminster Hall that morning, in defiance of Philip’s advice and my own common sense, I wrapped my cloak more securely about me and instructed Timothy Plummer to lead the way.

There could not have been a more marked contrast between the cold, dark street without, roofs and window panes drummed by the onset of a thin, lashing rain, and the great hall of Crosby Place.

The leaping flames of a huge fire burning on the hearth sent shadows flickering across the richly carved ceiling and the delicate tracery of the musicians’ gallery. High walls and spacious, lofty windows spoke louder than words of the modern approach to building, and of the fortunes to be made in the wool trade. Sir John Crosby was a man of substance and intended that the world should know it.

The hall was empty except for two young people who were playing spillikins in front of the fire. The elder was a very pretty, dark-eyed girl some twelve or thirteen years of age, the younger a sturdy boy of about ten. It was nearly seven years since I had seen them last, but they were both instantly recognisable; the girl because she was so like her father, the boy on account of the strong resemblance he bore to his physically more powerful uncles, the King and the Duke of Clarence. These were Richard of Gloucester’s two bastard children, the Lady Katherine and the Lord John Plantagenet.

They glanced up as Timothy Plummer and I entered, brushing the rain from our cloaks, smiled and then continued with their game. But within seconds, a large, comfortable-looking woman, who was plainly their nurse, bustled in and began to shepherd them away.

‘Time for bed,’ she said as they protested. ‘You can play again tomorrow.’ And she swept up the spillikins, dropping them into a capacious pocket. ‘Make your courtesies to Master Plummer and the gentleman.’

But this they had already done without any prompting, and allowed themselves to be hustled through a door and out of our sight. I stored up the incident to relate later to Adela; a moment to treasure and remember in old age, when two scions of a royal Duke made obeisance to a common chapman.

When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?

Timothy indicated that I should take a seat near the fire while he went to find the Duke, but I preferred to stand. When he had disappeared through the same door as the children, I noticed how quiet it was. In a great household there was usually constant noise and movement, but today it was as if someone had died and everyone was already in mourning.

The door opened once again and Richard of Gloucester came in.