The Burgundian’s Tale

Eighteen

I was consumed by a sense of irritation. Was this what I had been summoned to Baynard’s Castle for? Was this what I had forgone my rest and supper for? A delay while My Lady the Duchess finished an elaborate toilet, half a minute of questioning and then dismissal? Was that really it? My Lady had asked nothing, and I had told her nothing, that could not have been settled by sending one of her servants to the Voyager. My annoyance, however, might have been much greater had it not been for my interview with the Earl of Lincoln, and the sudden revelation that had been vouchsafed me while I was there. My visit had not, after all, proved to be a complete waste of time.

It was, in fact, to prove even more rewarding.

As the Duchess sailed regally from the bedchamber, surrounded by a bevy of pretty and not-so-pretty young women, all chattering animatedly in French, a language in which, alas, I am not at all proficient, Bertram gripped my elbow and indicated that we should leave.

‘We’ll go down by the eastern turret stairs,’ he whispered, ‘and out past the stables. That way, we’ll miss all the fuss of the King and Queen’s arrival.’

‘And the arrival of all their hundreds of retainers, and the bowing and scraping and speechifying,’ I added nastily. I was still smarting under a sense of outrage and the confirmation of my belief that those set in authority over us are often arrogant and thoughtless, with no consideration for mortals less fortunate and important than themselves.

‘Well, yes, there’s that as well,’ Bertram agreed, eyeing me curiously. ‘Has something happened to upset you, Roger?’

‘Master Chapman to you, my lad,’ I snapped, refraining from boxing his ears, but only because I was following him down a very narrow and ill-lit staircase.

‘My, my! You are annoyed,’ Bertram replied, turning his head to grin cheekily at me over one shoulder. ‘Mind you, I understand. The Dowager Duchess can have that effect on some people.’

Our descent ended in a corner of the castle’s brilliantly lit and frantically busy outer courtyard, where the royal party’s horses were being rubbed down, watered, fed and stabled while their owners sat through several hours of banqueting and festivities in the great hall. There was still some activity with late arrivals. Rich satins and furs gleamed dully in the flickering light of dozens of torches, and a thousand rainbows glimmered among the flash and sparkle of gems.

‘I’ll take you to the gate,’ Bertram offered, before adding pompously, ‘After that, I must leave you. I expect I’ll be needed.’

I was just about to ask in my most scathing tone, ‘What for?’ when all other thoughts were driven from my head by a brief glimpse of the Duchess’s groom who had been breakfasting in the Voyager that morning.

‘Don’t bother! I’ll find my own way out,’ I flung at Bertram, before plunging into the crowd of ostlers stable boys and grooms, shouldering and elbowing them aside and keeping a sharp lookout for my elusive quarry. Finally, I saw him, leading a handsome bay mare into an empty stall. He kicked the lower half of the door shut behind him.

By the time I was near enough to lean my arms along the top of the half-door and peer inside, my friend was rubbing the bay down with a handful of straw.

‘You are the Dowager Duchess’s groom who’s putting up at the Voyager in Bucklersbury, aren’t you?’ I enquired, more to attract his attention than because I had any doubts on the matter.

The man jumped and turned, straightening his back and advancing into the patch of torchlight near the door in order to see me better. He considered my face thoughtfully for a minute or two, then nodded. ‘I remember you. We were talking at breakfast. But I can’t stop now. You can see I’m busy. It’s like a madhouse here tonight.’

I grinned, but made no attempt to move away. ‘A banquet, or so I’ve been given to understand. All fish dishes, I suppose as it’s Friday?’

The groom snorted derisively and paused in his work. ‘What do you think?’

‘A special dispensation to eat meat – that’s what I think. Plenty of roasted venison, beef, pork, mutton, swan, pheasant, fowl …’

‘Peacock, suckling pig,’ he added, entering into the spirit of the the thing.

We both laughed, and he stood upright again, patting the mare’s rump. ‘Maybe I could do with a rest,’ he conceded. ‘A couple of minutes.’ He forked fresh hay into the manger.

‘We were talking this morning,’ I said quickly, before he had time to embark on any topic of his own, ‘about Fulk Quantrell, who was murdered here in London just over two weeks ago. You said you knew but didn’t like him. When I asked why not, you muttered something about “like mother, like son”. What did you mean by that?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing personal. A lot of people didn’t like Dame Quantrell. Not that they voiced their opinion too loudly, you understand. She could do no wrong in the Duchess’s eyes. She was her devoted childhood friend and servant, come with her from England to make her exile bearable. Mind you, she was always civil enough whenever she visited the stables. Please and thank you, as pretty as you like.’ The groom was now getting into his stride, his arms folded, like mine, on the top of the half-door as he leaned forward confidentially. ‘The boy, though, was a different matter. Arrogant, overbearing and thinking he was God’s gift to an expectant world. Had to be mounted on the best horses, and ran with his complaints to the Duchess if he didn’t get his way. And Her Highness encouraged him with her orders that he was to ride any horse that he chose – just so long as it wasn’t one of hers, of course. But Fulk knew better than to push his luck too far. His demands were always within reason. But he was a sneak and a troublemaker when he was young, and he didn’t improve as he got older.’

‘You still haven’t told me why Mistress Quantrell was disliked,’ I pointed out. ‘If she wasn’t arrogant or rude, and didn’t carry tales to the Duchess, what exactly was it about her that people objected to?’

The groom bit a callused thumb. Behind him, the mare shifted her hindquarters restlessly. He gave her another absent-minded pat.

‘We-ell, I heard – not that I know this for certain; I never experienced it myself – but I did hear that Dame Quantrell had a habit of prying and poking into other people’s business and then threatening to use the information she’d gathered against them.’

‘Blackmail, do you mean?’

The groom sucked his teeth and pulled down the corners of his mouth. He seemed reluctant to commit himself.

‘Ye-es,’ he admitted at last. ‘I suppose that’s what I do mean. As I say, I never had any experience of it, myself. But then, I’ve no secrets to hide.’ He grinned and winked. ‘I lead a blameless life.’

I returned a perfunctory smile, too busy turning over in my mind the information he had just given me.

‘What about Fulk?’ I asked. ‘Was he up to the same tricks as his mother?’

The groom shook his head. ‘I never heard so, but it wouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, considering how close the two of them were reported to be. And now it seems that he’s been murdered. It makes you wonder. It makes me wonder, at any rate.’ The mare turned her head and nudged him in the back. Her water trough was empty. The groom made a clucking sound under his breath and said, ‘I mustn’t stay gossiping like this or I shall be boiled alive in oil. This beauty belongs to one of Queen Elizabeth’s sisters. I’ll bid you goodnight.’ And, grabbing a black leather bucket, he ran towards the well in the middle of the stable yard.

I called an answering ‘Goodnight!’ but it was doubtful if he heard me. He was too busy winching up the bucket. There was no sign of Bertram. He was probably nursing a sense of grievance at my abrupt departure and had abandoned me to my fate. Not that I needed him. I found the outer gate quite easily and, after a short but acrimonious colloquy with the gatekeeper as to who I was and what had been my business in the castle (I was leaving, I pointed out, not trying to get in!), I finally made my exit. Five minutes later I was in Thames Street, then heading north towards Knightrider Street, making my way back to the Voyager.

I had heard the watch cry midnight before I eventually closed my eyes. I had been staring for more than an hour into the blackness and an impression of the room remained, like reflections in a river, distorted and dark.

I had realized, long before reaching Bucklersbury, that I could no longer resent my summons to Baynard’s Castle that evening, however abortive my interview with the Dowager Duchess Margaret might have been. The inspiration and information I had received while there had been invaluable. Things were finally beginning to fall into place. A pattern was emerging that inexorably led me forward to one conclusion, and one only. In the morning, I would pay another call on the Jolliffes. Meanwhile, sleep was claiming me at last …

I was back in the Earl of Lincoln’s bedchamber, watching from the shadows where no one could see me. But the man in the sponge-lined tub wasn’t the King’s young nephew: he was a man I had never seen before, and standing, waiting to attend him, were his three pages, Lionel Broderer, Brandon Jolliffe and Roger Jessop.

Suddenly, the man in the bath tub began to laugh, throwing out his arms and saying, ‘Think, man, think! I’ve never been renowned for living like a monk!’ and then laughing so hard that his whole body shook – and continued to shake until he slowly sank beneath the water and disappeared. The other three men stood like statues and made not the slightest effort to save him. I tried to go to his aid, but my limbs were like lead and I was unable move.

‘He’s drowning!’ I yelled, but my voice made no sound. Then, just as I managed to reach out a hand to the edge of the tub, the stranger bobbed to the surface of the water again, like a cork, and laughing harder than ever.

‘Nonsense!’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t drowned!’ And he heaved himself out of the tub, only to collapse in a pitiful heap on the floor. This time, I was in no doubt at all that he was dead …

I woke up, sweating profusely and with a terrible thirst, astonished to see that it was already morning. Sunlight was pouring through the cracks in the shutters, and I could hear the maids and tapsters and stable boys calling to one another as they set about their tasks for the new day. Reynold Makepeace, too, was calling a brisk greeting to his workers as he crossed the inner courtyard from his private quarters on the opposite side.

I dressed swiftly and went outside to hold my head and hands under the pump, before dragging one of my best bone combs, taken from my pack, through my tangled mop of hair. A quick rub of my teeth with the willow bark I always carried, and I was off to the taproom to bespeak breakfast, and in the hope that I might meet my friend the groom once again. But my luck was out: there was no sign of him and, upon enquiry, I was told that he had left the inn over half an hour ago. The morning was more advanced than I had thought.

I ordered a meal of pickled herring, porridge and a bacon collop, and while I was eating it, I thought back over my dream. It was no ordinary dream – not one of those jumbles of ridiculous events and even weirder facts that plague one’s nights with their nonsense. This had been one of those visions that have haunted me from childhood, and that are a pale version of my mother’s ability to ‘see’. She had always denied having second sight, but there was no doubt that she had had sufficient accuracy in foretelling the future to make people a little afraid of her. In a larger community than Wells, where the town huddled around the cathedral like chicks around their mother hen, she might well have been denounced as a witch. But our neighbours knew and trusted Mistress Stonecarver (my father’s profession) and even came to her for advice.

As I say, I had inherited a fraction of her power in the form of these dreams, and last night’s – or, rather, this morning’s – needed very little interpretation in the light of what I now thought I knew.

I was just congratulating myself that I was at last free of Bertram’s company (although, admittedly, I had grown fond of the lad) when he walked into the ale room, grinning all over his face.

‘I’ve persuaded Master Plummer to give me one more day’s grace,’ he announced, beaming with self-congratulation. He sat down on the bench beside me. ‘You have the benefit of my company and advice for one last time. By the way,’ he added in a more aggrieved accent, ‘where did you get to last night when you suddenly disappeared like that?’

‘I saw someone I knew,’ I answered shortly, rising from the table. His face fell. ‘If you want to buy yourself a stoup of ale and some breakfast, by all means do so,’ I encouraged him. ‘I highly recommend the pickled herring and bacon collops. You can catch me up later.’

But he wasn’t so stupid. ‘I see!’ he mocked. ‘I can catch you up although you’re not going to tell me where you’re going! No, I thank you. I’m coming with you.’

I sighed. ‘I’m paying a visit to the Jolliffes. You can find me there.’

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘And that’s the truth you’re telling me?’

‘I swear it.’ I didn’t say where I might be going afterwards. I didn’t see any need.

His natural caution put up a short, sharp struggle against the near-starvation rations of Baynard’s Castle servants, but his hunger won.

‘I’ll see you at the Jolliffes’, then,’ he grinned, as a pot boy came to take his order.

I had no doubt he would add the meal to my bill, but felt it was worth it not to have him constantly at my elbow.

It was another fine day and the Saturday traders were out in force. The usual vociferous crowds thronged the streets and flooded in and out of the Lud Gate, where there was even more delay because of decorations being erected over the arch. Evidently, the Dowager Duchess and her train were due to pass that way some time today.

By paying an early-morning visit, I had counted on finding all three of the Jolliffes at home, and I was not disappointed. They were still at breakfast when my arrival was announced.

Lydia Jolliffe, whom I had particularly requested to see, received me – somewhat ungraciously, I thought – in the upstairs parlour where we had previously met.

‘Well? What now, Master Chapman?’ she demanded.

Today, she was dressed in yellow silk: a fortuitous choice, yellow being the colour of hostility. This gown was cut lower over the breasts than the green one she had worn previously, decorated with amber beads and clasped around the hips by a chestnut-brown leather girdle. She looked magnificent, and knew it. I glanced at the wall hangings behind her. They, too, were magnificent in their way.

Lydia seated herself in the armchair, but today made no suggestion that I should pull up the stool, leaving me to stand.

‘Well?’ she repeated. ‘You’ve interrupted my breakfast. I beg that you’ll say what you have to say and go.’

I was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at her, which, I could see, she found unnerving. Then I said abruptly, ‘Your son, Brandon – he’s not much like your husband, is he?’

She flushed angrily. ‘He takes after me.’

‘A little,’ I conceded. ‘But the person he most resembles is Lionel Broderer. In fact, my assistant mistook him for Lionel only yesterday. He also resembles a young lad, Roger Jessop, who used to work for Mistress St Clair in her garden.’

The flush became a deep, angry red. ‘What are you suggesting, chapman?’

‘I’m suggesting,’ I answered steadily, ‘that these three young men had one and the same father: Edmund Broderer. And there may be others, for all I know. I think Edmund Broderer was fond of women. And women were fond of him.’

I held my breath. If Lydia chose to deny my allegation, I was unable prove it, and she could, and probably would, have me thrown into the street. I’d still believe it to be the truth, but I would have preferred confirmation of my suspicions.

Slowly the angry tide of red receded from her cheeks, to be replaced by an appreciative smile. ‘Very astute of you, Roger,’ she said at last. ‘I hope you’re not intending to blackmail me by threatening to tell my husband, because it wouldn’t do you a bit of good. He already knows. In fact, he encouraged my affair with Edmund. Roland’s impotent, you see, and he wanted a son. He’s perfectly happy to acknowledge Brandon as his.’ She turned to glance at the embroidered wall hangings. ‘He bought me these as a gift after Brandon’s birth. From Edmund’s workshop. Appropriate, if somewhat ironic, don’t you think?’

I smiled. ‘Very appropriate,’ I agreed. ‘But I don’t suppose all the husbands were as complaisant as yours, Mistress Jolliffe. Martha Broderer’s, for instance.’

Lydia Jolliffe shrugged. ‘But he wasn’t likely to find out, now, was he? He was Edmund’s cousin, so a family likeness was unremarkable. As for the boy who used to work next door, his mother was a widow.’

‘But I don’t imagine these three are the only bastards of Edmund Broderer, are they?’

The word ‘bastard’ brought the blood back to her face for a moment, but then she shrugged and laughed.

‘You believe in calling a spade a spade, my friend. No, I don’t suppose they were Edmund’s only by-blows. He was a very virile man. He enjoyed … copulation.’ Lydia looked me up and down provocatively. ‘Where is all this leading, chapman? I can’t believe you’re intending to tell my son. You’re not that sort.’

‘Certainly not,’ I assured her.

‘So?’

‘Was Judith St Clair – Judith Broderer, as she must have been then – aware of her husband’s – er – activities?’

This time Lydia threw back her head and laughed out loud, all her previous animosity forgotten.

‘“Activities”, is it? What a splendidly prudish word … I don’t think she could help but know. There were too many children around these parts who all had the same set of features.’

Like the royal palaces, I thought to myself.

I asked, ‘Didn’t this distress Mistress St Clair? Especially as she seems unable to bear children herself?’

Lydia pulled down one corner of her mouth. ‘I should think it probably did – it would distress any woman – but you’d never have got Judith to own as much. She was, and still is, very proud. Even today, she would most likely scorn such a notion as Edmund’s infidelity, if you put it to her.’

‘In spite of the evidence of her own eyes?’

‘I’ve told you: she’s extraordinarily high in the instep. She could never admit that Edmund was unfaithful to her. She’s a person who cannot tolerate disloyalty. One of the reasons she puts up with that oaf William Morgan, and allows him such licence, is because he is fanatical in his obedience to her wishes. She can do no wrong in his estimation, and I truly believe he would condone any action of hers, however bad. I believe he would kill for her, if necessary.’

I felt sure she was right, but did not say so.

‘The lad who used to work in the garden, Roger Jessop,’ I said, ‘told me that he ran away because he thought someone in the St Clair household was trying to murder him. What do you think of that?’

I should have foreseen that I would have to spend the next few minutes fending off Lydia’s queries as to how and when I had managed to speak to Roger, by what means I had traced his whereabouts; but finally, reluctantly accepting that I had no intention of betraying the boy’s confidence, she consented to answer my question.

‘I think it’s nonsense,’ she answered roundly. ‘Who would want to get rid of him? He’d grown up under Judith’s protection and he was a good worker. In fact, he was a better worker, probably, than he was allowed to be. I’ve heard him arguing with William Morgan on more than one occasion that he could be trusted to do more on his own. But William, typically, treated him like an idiot and followed the lad around the garden, supervising everything he did. It was always my opinion, for what it was worth, that Roger knew more about gardening than William. However, that might have been the trouble. William resented a child of that age being better at his job than he was.’

‘You don’t think, then, that the Welshman could have tried to get rid of the boy for that very reason?’

My companion shook her head decisively. ‘No. William Morgan relied on young Roger’s knowledge – goodness knows where the lad got it from: I suppose it was just a gift from God – to keep the garden looking as Judith wanted it, and to earn her praises. For there’s no doubt that William took all the credit. Judith was forever lauding his ability as a gardener.’

‘So, would there have been anyone else in the household who might have wanted Roger Jessop out of the way?’

‘No, of course not! Why should they? Godfrey and Jocelyn and Alcina could have had nothing against him. They may not even have been aware of his existence.’

‘Master St Clair was,’ I corrected her. ‘He mentioned the lad to me; mentioned, also, that he didn’t come to work in the garden any more.’

Lydia shrugged, and there was silence between us for several seconds. Eventually, she asked, ‘What has all this to do with the murder of Fulk Quantrell?’

I gave her my most winning smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that just yet … Tell me, did Edmund Broderer possess a gold-and-agate thumb ring?’

Lydia looked startled and, suddenly, a little wary.

‘Did he?’ I pressed.

‘As a matter of fact, he did. It was something he acquired in the final month of his life. I remember remarking on it and asking him where he’d bought it. But he wouldn’t say. Just told me it was a gift and extremely precious to him. He made the remark very pointedly, in front of Judith. I’ve never forgotten because of the look on her face – a look that made me quite sure a woman was involved. But I really don’t see how you could know about the ring,’ she went on. ‘Edmund was wearing it the night he was robbed and thrown in the river, and his body was mother-naked when it was finally found. Not a jewel nor a scrap of clothing on him.’ She eyed me uneasily. ‘You don’t practise the dark arts, do you?’

I ignored this last question, but asked one of my own instead. ‘Are you certain that Master Broderer was wearing the ring the night he disappeared?’

‘Quite certain. Edmund called here immediately after leaving home and before he went off to the inn for an evening’s drinking – if that was, indeed, where he was going. He brought Brandon some new arrows for his bow from the fletcher’s in Turnbaston Lane. He was very fond of the boy.’ Lydia took a deep breath before adding, ‘Brandon was, after all, his son … So, I repeat, how did you know …?’

I interrupted her ruthlessly. ‘You said “if that was indeed where he was going”. What exactly did you mean by that?’

‘I–I don’t know. For heaven’s sake! It’s twelve years ago! How can I be expected to remember? Oh, very well! I just had this feeling – intuition, if you like – that he was going to see a woman. There was an air of … of suppressed excitement about him, and he was all spruced up in his best hose and his new red velvet tunic. Now, will you please tell me …?’

This time I was saved from answering by the opening of the door, and by Roland Jolliffe entering the room in his slow, shambling way, but with a martial light in his kindly blue eyes.

‘Why are you keeping my wife so long, Master Chapman?’ he demanded belligerently. ‘I won’t have her worried by all your questions. She’s not strong.’ (I’d have bet money on Lydia outlasting everyone around her.) ‘Come, my love.’ He offered her his arm, which she rose and took with the greatest reluctance. ‘I’ll bid you a very good morning, pedlar. I don’t look to see you bothering my wife again.’