The Dance of Death

Nineteen

Philip discovered no trace of Raoul d’Harcourt, nor had I expected him to. In fact, I doubted if he had even tried to find the man, and on his return half an hour later, his breath smelled suspiciously of wine. The information that Maître le Daim’s visit to Paris had been delayed affected him less than the rest of us, but then he was already in an ugly mood. For my own part, the news came as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant a longer stay in the city, but on the other, that was to my advantage. It gave me more time to search for Robin Gaunt, for I had made up my mind that when Eloise’s part had been played, and the necessary facts obtained from her cousin Olivier (or not), that would be the end of our mission and we would all return to England. Quite when I had reached this momentous decision I wasn’t sure, but probably sometime during the previous day when the enormity and nigh impossibility of the task imposed upon me by the duke had struck home with even greater force than before.

Eloise and John Bradshaw both appeared disheartened by the check to our immediate plans, but again this worked in my favour. Eloise’s amorous mood seemed to have been dissipated, and the remainder of Sunday was spent in desultory speculation between her and John as to the likelihood of the Fleming actually making the journey to Paris at all, King Louis’ fickleness of purpose being notorious. We all went early to bed, and, loitering by the parlour fire, I gave Eloise time enough to fall asleep before going upstairs myself.

For the next three days, Philip and I scoured the city, all three parts of it, making ourselves understood with increasing success but to no avail. An elderly Englishman called Robin Gaunt remained as elusive as I had always supposed he would be. Eloise grew ever more indignant at my protracted absences and refused to accept my excuse that I was fulfilling my role as a wealthy haberdasher, buying and selling wares to my French counterparts.

‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why are you taking Philip with you?’

‘As my servant. A prosperous merchant must have a servant. Besides, another man is added protection. Two are less likely to be set upon than one.’

‘You’d do better with my company,’ she snapped. ‘What can you and Philip possibly achieve when neither of you speaks the language?’

‘You know John says you must stay here, just in case your cousin arrives unexpectedly.’

The same reason kept Jules from accompanying us as he waited hour by hour for news from whoever his informant was that Olivier le Daim was at last approaching, or had entered, the city. But Philip and I returned, footsore and weary, to the house in the Rue de la Barillerie at sunset on Wednesday evening to learn that Jules’s latest information suggested Olivier might not be setting out from Plessis-les-Tours until the following Monday.

‘If he comes at all,’ John muttered lugubriously. ‘I’m inclined not to wait very much longer. I’m coming round to your way of thinking, Roger. This is a fool’s errand. By the time Maître le Daim arrives — if he arrives — King Edward will have his answer anyway. The streets and taverns here are buzzing with talk that the dauphin’s betrothal to the Princess Elizabeth is to be broken off and that he will be married to Maximilian’s young daughter. That means Louis is bound to be negotiating a treaty with Burgundy very soon, probably in the next few weeks. Before Christmas. So I think our continued presence here is pointless. His Highness will probably have the news before we get home in any case.’

As he spoke, he raised an eyebrow at me, plainly wondering if my secret mission was anywhere near completion. I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head, but later, after Philip had disappeared into the kitchen and Eloise had taken herself off to bed, I told him of my decision.

‘Well, it’s up to you. I suppose you know what you’re doing. The duke will no doubt be disappointed, but he can’t expect miracles if, as you tell me, what he’s asked you to do is almost impossible.’ He thought for a moment, leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring into the heart of the fire burning on the hearth. Then he straightened his back, turning towards me. ‘I tell you what, Roger. Let’s make an agreement that if Maître le Daim hasn’t arrived in Paris by this time next week, we pack up and leave.’

I nodded. ‘Agreed.’

He seemed relieved and accompanied me upstairs, climbing to his tiny attic bedchamber above ours in better spirits than he had been in for days. I even heard him whistling to himself as he proceeded on up the next flight of stairs.

But my own sleep was disturbed by odd dreams. Over and over again I was standing in the parlour of the house in the Rue de la Tissanderie and Jane Armiger was saying, ‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’ Several times I awoke and dozed off, only to return to the same dream each time.

I awoke in the chill first light of dawn to the drumming of rain against the shutters. The only other sound in the room was Eloise’s steady, rhythmic breathing as she lay beside me, her fair curls fanned out across the pillow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, I raised myself to a sitting position and drew back the bed-curtains a trifle to allow in a little more air before giving my full attention to my dream. It was telling me something, I knew that. But what?

‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’

Robin. In this case short for Robert, but also interchangeable with it, another version of the same name. The man, mentioned to us by the landlord of the seedy tavern near the Porte Saint-Honoré, was known as Robert of Ghent and seemed, from what we could gather, to be roughly the right age (the landlord had indicated grey hair). But he was a Fleming.

Or was he?

That, now I came to consider it dispassionately, was my own assumption. My heart began to beat a little faster and my palms to sweat with excitement. But why would he be called Robert of Ghent if he were not Flemish? I could understand the change from the Anglo-Saxon Robin to the more Gallicized Robert, but why choose de Ghent as a surname? Then, suddenly, enlightenment burst upon me like the sun breaking through clouds on an overcast day. John, that doughty son of King Edward III and brother of the Black Prince, had, I was sure, been born in Ghent, but the name had been Anglicized to Gaunt.

I found I was holding my breath and let it out in a great gasping sigh. Was I on to something? Had Philip’s instinct — that this man could be the one we were after — been right all along? I had always known him for a shrewd little monkey, so why had I not listened to him, respected his hunch more readily than I had? Because I was a conceited fool who thought he knew better, but in truth couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose, that was why. And I had been blinded by the conviction that I had been given an impossible task that could never be fulfilled. I told myself severely not to get over-optimistic, that I could still be wrong, but I swung my legs out of bed and tiptoed down through the silent house to the kitchen, where Philip slept beside the dead embers of the fire.

He was alone, Marthe occupying the second attic bedchamber at the very top of the house. I knelt down and roused him, pouring my theory into his ears before he was even properly awake, so that he blinked stupidly at me and I had to repeat myself over again. And again. Finally, however, I made him understand, but to my surprise, he seemed more concerned with disproving my reasoning than applauding it.

‘It was yourself,’ I pointed out indignantly, ‘who suggested from the start that this Robert of Ghent might be the man we were looking for. Why the change of heart?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Obviously,’ I snapped, getting to my feet. ‘Nevertheless, it’s a lead I intend to follow up.’

‘Then you’ll go alone,’ he said, lying down and turning on his side, pulling the grey blanket up over his head to cover it. ‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’re right when you say it’s a bloody impossible task. Forget it, Roger. Go home and tell the duke it can’t be done, tracing a man you’ve never seen — and nobody else knows anything about — after forty bloody years.’

I stared down in bewilderment at his rigid form, defiant beneath its covering. I couldn’t work out what had happened to bring about this uncompromising attitude, a reversion to the man he had been until a few days ago, when the old friendship seemed to have been restored between us. What had I said? What had I done?

‘John says you’re to come with me.’ I was horrified to hear the words come out as a sort of childish whine.

‘Fuck John!’

I turned on my heel and left him.

I found the tavern again, not without some difficulty, but not nearly as much as I had expected. My sense of direction stood me in good stead, and I remembered a ruined, ivy-covered gateway in the old wall of Philip Augustus not far from the Louvre Palace — no longer lived in by the kings of France and used mainly as a prison — which was only a street or two from the inn I was seeking. The anticipated hostile silence greeted my entrance, all the more disconcerting because of the previous noise and bustle, but fortunately the landlord recognized me and, if not actually brimming over with goodwill, at least greeted me with a certain courtesy and a warning glance at his regular customers that said he wanted no trouble. Nevertheless, I could still feel the threat of cold steel between my shoulder blades.

I managed at length to make myself understood by dint of repeating ‘Robert de Ghent’ a number of times and drawing a crude picture of a house in the dust and spilled wine on one of the table tops. With comprehension came a greater friendliness, and because I was unable to follow the instructions given to me, one of the men sitting nearby slid off his bench, grabbed me by the elbow and jerked his head as indication that I should go with him.

He led me to an alleyway about three streets distant and, with another jerk of his head, pointed to a house about halfway along on the left-hand side. Then he walked away without once looking back. I approached the door indicated and raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.

I had told no one where I was going. I had breakfasted more or less in silence with John and Eloise, then, in the little bustle that always succeeds a meal, had grabbed my cloak and hat and slipped away into the rainy early morning streets. Now, I wondered if it had been wise to be so secretive, even if it had meant avoiding Eloise’s catechism as to where I was going and what I was doing. I reassured myself with the thought that should anything happen to delay my return, Philip, at least, would know my destination and be able to lead John to the inn.

I glanced up and down the narrow street, which was beginning to stir into after-breakfast life, with smoke issuing from chimneys, shutters being cautiously opened against the raw November air, a cart rumbling past and goodwives emerging here and there from their doorways to sweep yesterday’s dust into the alleyway and dispose of their refuse in the central drain. All very much, I reflected, as it would have been in England. There was nothing to be afraid of.

I watched the cart out of sight around the bend at the top of the street, then knocked loudly and firmly on the door. As I waited for an answer to my summons, I was aware, out of the corner of one eye, of movement to the right of me. I turned my head to look, but the alleyway on that side was empty, no sign of life anywhere. As I stared, puzzled, I noticed a slightly darker shadow within a shadow thrown by the upper storey of one of the houses. Was I being followed? Had someone tailed me from the Rue de la Barillerie? It seemed unlikely. Who would have been watching our house so early in the morning? Nevertheless, I felt I should investigate. But at that moment, the door in front of me opened and a woman’s voice spoke to me in French.

I turned quickly to see an elderly woman, a few untidy strands of grey hair escaping from her spotless coif, regarding me enquiringly. Her features were of the plump sort that keeps wrinkles at bay, even in the late fifties or early sixties, which I judged her to be — indeed, which I knew she must be if she were the wife of Robin Gaunt — and her figure was as rotund as her face. For a moment there was silence between us; then I decided that the direct approach was the only one to use.

‘Mistress Gaunt?’ I said in English.

She looked thoroughly startled, as if both the name and the language had awakened long-forgotten memories.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, perfectly correctly but with a heavy French accent. All the same, her words were as good as an admission that I had come to the right house.

‘I should like to speak to your husband,’ I said confidently. ‘Your husband, Robin Gaunt.’

‘My husband is Robert de Ghent,’ she answered, the suspicion in her eyes deepening to fear, and made to shut the door.

I hastily put a foot in the gap to prevent it closing. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ I assured her with my most winning smile. ‘I’ve been sent by His Grace the Duke of Gloucester, who merely wants some information about. . about. . well, about what may or may not have happened in Rouen forty years or so ago.’

The faded blue eyes widened in astonishment. ‘In Rouen? Forty years ago?’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘may I come in and speak to Master Gaunt? There’s nothing to fear.’ I held my cloak wide. ‘I’m not armed, as you can see.’

‘My husband’s not here. He’s gone to visit a friend and won’t be back until late tonight. You had better come again later.’ Again she did not deny that Robin Gaunt and Robert de Ghent were one and the same person. And she continued to speak English.

I swore silently at this piece of ill luck. By coming so early in the day, I had made certain of finding the old man at home. It meant I had had a wasted trip and entailed a second visit tonight or tomorrow.

But I wondered suddenly if it need, after all, be a wasted visit. ‘Can I talk to you, mistress?’ I asked, bringing all the old persuasive charm to bear.

‘Me?’ The woman was plainly astounded. ‘What would I know about men’s affairs?’

‘This is women’s affairs, as well. You, I believe, were a member of the Duchess of York’s household in Rouen. That’s how you met your husband.’

She stared at me for a few moments longer before stepping back and holding the door open. ‘Come in,’ she invited.

Hardly believing my luck, I followed her into a room where a fire burned on the open hearth and a rich aroma of savoury pottage made my mouth water. The furniture was sparse, but well made and some of it, I suspected, hand-carved. Several brightly coloured cushions and a blue-and-yellow woven cloth on the table saved the place from complete austerity, but there was not a lot in the way of creature comforts. Time had evidently not dealt too kindly with an Englishman abroad.

Mistress Gaunt, as I named her to myself, waved me to a stool by the fire while she took another opposite, where she could stir the stew every now and again. She looked at me, raising her eyebrows. ‘Now, then! What is this about? Who are you, and how did you find us?’

So I told her the whole story and my own reluctant part in it while she listened attentively, only stopping me when my English became too rapid for her to follow with ease. For the most part, she seemed to have little difficulty in understanding me, and when at last I had finished my tale, I congratulated her on her mastery of the language.

She laughed. ‘You don’t marry an Englishman,’ she answered drily, ‘and expect him to speak your tongue. It takes years before he’ll even try.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, let me see if I have these facts correctly. This is about the rumour that one of the duchess’s bodyguard of archers was her lover during the time that the Duke of York was away fighting around Pontoise.’

I nodded eagerly. She rose and fetched two wooden beakers from a cupboard and filled them from a jug of that rough red wine the natives seemed to thrive on. Personally, I found it too strong for my taste, but I made my usual pretence of enjoying it. When I had taken a couple of mouthfuls, I asked, ‘How long was the Pontoise campaign?’

Mistress Gaunt pursed her lips and considered her answer carefully. ‘Six or seven weeks, perhaps. I think it was late August by the time the duke and his troops returned to Rouen.’

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. ‘And during that time, was there any talk of the Duchess Cicely taking a lover from amongst her guard of archers?’

My companion shrugged and answered much as Jane Armiger had done in response to the same query. ‘There were always rumours. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.’

‘Did she have a roving eye? Did she like men? Was she a faithful wife?’

‘If she wasn’t, she was very discreet.’ There was a note of asperity in Mistress Gaunt’s voice and she showed a heightened colour.

‘This archer,’ I pursued relentlessly, ‘this Blackburn or Blaybourne or whatever he was called, was he handsome do you remember?’

There was a longish pause before Mistress Gaunt said, somewhat reluctantly, ‘Yes. Very handsome.’ There was something in her tone that made me think that she had fancied this ‘very handsome’ man herself.

‘What was he like to look at?’ I asked quickly before the little spurt of jealousy (if it was that) had time to fade. ‘Tall and fair? Short and stout?’

‘Short and stout?’ She laughed dismissively. ‘I’ve told you, he was handsome. Over six feet in his stockinged feet and so blond his hair was flaxen in the sunlight.’

I drew a sharp breath. She might have been describing King Edward in his golden youth, ‘the handsomest prince in Europe’.

‘Not like the Duke of York, then,’ I suggested. ‘I’ve always heard that he was short and dark, rather like the Duke of Gloucester.’

She eyed me narrowly. ‘What are you saying? Do you think. .?’

‘What do you think?’ I countered. ‘King Edward’s birthday is at the end of April. If he was not born prematurely and you count back nine months, that would mean conception was the end of July, when, according to you, the Duke of York was away fighting at Pontoise.’

Mistress Gaunt sat staring at me without speaking for at least half a minute while she bit at a rough piece of skin around her left thumbnail. Finally, with a shake of her head, she said, ‘You might be right, but then again, you might not. If your king Edward had been late arriving, then who is to say that he was not conceived before his father left on campaign? I agree that his likeness to Archer Blaybourne is a point in favour of whatever it is you and your duke are trying to prove — ’ she was an intelligent woman: she knew exactly what we were trying to prove — ‘but many children do not necessarily resemble their parents. In some cases that I know of, there is a great disparity of feature. King Edward may well look like his mother.’

I sighed. She was right, of course. There was nothing here to declare positively that Edward of Rouen was the son of a common archer and not the proud Plantagenet he claimed to be. And if Duchess Cicely still refused to confirm that long-gone accusation. .

Mistress Gaunt broke in on my thoughts with the self-same query. ‘What does my lady of York herself say? She is the only one who knows the truth.’

I finished the last mouthful of wine and rose to my feet. ‘She says nothing, nor will she, I think, however much she secretly believes Duke Richard to be the rightful king.’

My companion gave a little cry. ‘You think she really thinks that?’

It was my turn to shrug. ‘Frankly, mistress, I don’t know what anyone’s thoughts on the subject really are. The only thing I’m sure of is that this was an abortive errand from the beginning, and unlikely to produce any positive evidence one way or another. The duchess. .’

Mistress Gaunt was not listening. She had gone over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, letting in the cold November air as she leaned out over the sill, glancing up and down the alleyway outside.

‘What is it?’ I asked sharply.

She withdrew her head, looking sheepish. ‘It’s nothing. I was convinced I heard somebody outside, that is all, but there’s no one there.’

‘The street’s full of people and wagons and animals,’ I said, impatience colouring my tone. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll come back again this evening, mistress, and speak to your husband. At what hour do you expect him home?’

‘Probably to supper,’ she replied, but absentmindedly, as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘there was that extremely odd business of the christenings. I don’t think I’ve ever seriously considered it before, but now. . Yes, looking back, it does seem odd.’

‘What business of the christenings?’ I demanded eagerly.

She motioned me to sit down again and reseated herself on the stool opposite, where she appeared to drop into a reverie.

‘Well?’ The sound of my voice made her jump. ‘What about the christening?’

‘Christenings,’ she corrected me. ‘The lord Edward’s and his brother’s, the lord Edmund’s, two years later.’

The lord Edmund? I cudgelled my brains, then recollected vaguely that there had been another brother between King Edward and the Duke of Clarence: Edmund, later Earl of Rutland.

‘Go on,’ I urged.

Mistress Gaunt poured us both more wine and took several sips before continuing. ‘Lord Edward’s christening — remember he was the eldest son, the first-born male — was a very muted affair. No great fuss was made, no great throng of guests assembled, and it took place in a small, private chapel in Rouen Castle. But Lord Edmund’s christening was magnificent. The ceremony was held in Rouen Cathedral — jewels, velvets, both English and French dignitaries present. Above all, the Duke and Duchess of York had managed to persuade the Rouen Cathedral Chapter to grant the supreme honour of allowing them to use the font in which Duke Rollo of Normandy had been baptized into Christianity, and which, ever since, had been kept covered as a mark of respect. It was an unheard-of concession. We were all amazed. You would have thought,’ she added reflectively, ‘that Edmund, not Edward, was his father’s heir.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘Why has that never struck me until now? And I was present, on both occasions.’

I was trembling with excitement. ‘And it was Edmund of Rutland who was killed alongside the duke twenty-odd years ago, at Wakefield — which might mean nothing, or it might mean a preference by the Duke of York for his seemingly second son.’

My companion brought me down to earth. ‘It’s still not proof,’ she pointed out.

‘Not solid proof,’ I admitted. ‘But it means something, surely.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, I think it is. . suggestive.’

‘Oh, more than that,’ I insisted.

She laughed and said in her astonishingly good English, ‘I’m certain even the most inexperienced lawyer could find you a dozen good reasons why my lord of York preferred the company of his second son to that of his first-born. Fathers and eldest sons do not always see eye to eye.’

‘Maybe not, when they’re older. But I doubt discrimination starts in the cradle, as it seems to have done in this case.’

Nevertheless, as I made my way back to the Rue de la Barillerie through Paris’s crowded streets, I reflected that Mistress Gaunt was right: her account of the two very different christenings, a pointer though it might be to the true state of affairs, was not the sort of solid proof that my lord of Gloucester could adduce to bolster his claim to the throne (if, of course, that was indeed his aim). I would return this evening, after supper, and talk to Robin Gaunt himself in the hope that he might be able to help me further, but I very much doubted his ability to do so. It was all too long ago. Duchess Cicely was the only one now who knew the truth, and she seemed reluctant to speak.

As I forged a path down the busy Rue Saint-Denis, I got the oddest impression, every now and then, of the same figure weaving in and out of the throng of people and traffic just ahead of me — a faintly familiar figure but one that never paused long enough to be immediately identifiable. I quickened my pace, but the press was too great and I never managed to catch up with my elusive quarry. In the end, I decided I was imagining things.

I reached our lodgings in time for dinner and one of Marthe’s delicious rabbit stews, but too late to accompany Eloise to the Hôtel Saint-Pol, where amidst royal splendour, Olivier le Daim was staying. According to John Bradshaw, word had been received from Jules, just after I had left that morning, of Monsieur le Daim’s sudden arrival in Paris very late the previous evening, but with the additional information that his stay would be brief and that he would probably be quitting the city by tonight. It was therefore imperative that Eloise present herself at once, and upon discovering my absence, she had been forced to go alone. Whether or not she would get to see her cousin was another matter altogether, but she had to try.

‘She’s furious,’ John warned me with a rueful grin. ‘I suppose you’ve been out and about on business of your own, but of course I couldn’t say so to the lady.’ He grinned. ‘I’d watch your back if I were you, or you may find yourself with a knife between the shoulder blades.’

I discovered that he wasn’t exaggerating Eloise’s anger. I was in our bedchamber when, sometime during the afternoon, she returned. I heard her run upstairs and she burst through the door like a small whirlwind. Without even bothering to take off her cloak, she launched herself at me, fists hammering my chest, eyes flashing, feet kicking at my shins.

‘Where have you been?’ she shouted. ‘Where were you? Sneaking off like that just when I needed you.’

I caught both her wrists and gripped them cruelly, making her gasp with pain. ‘Be quiet, you termagant!’ I yelled back. ‘Can’t you get it through your stupid little head that I am not your husband? That it’s only a game we’re playing! I’m sure you didn’t need my help with your own cousin. You only had to flutter those eyelashes of yours and pout your lips to get past any number of his servants. So? Did you get to see him? Did you find out what the king wants to know?’

For answer, she wrenched her wrists free of my slackened grasp and clawed at my face. Or would have done, had I given her the chance. Instead, I caught her in a crushing embrace, savagely stopping her mouth with my own. I could smell the scent of her hair, feel the softness of her skin. My senses swam. For a moment or two, she fought me like a wild cat, but then, suddenly, surrendered. Her arms encircled my neck and she was returning my kisses with fervour.

I suppose what happened next was inevitable, and had been so for the past two weeks, ever since we were forced into playing this ridiculous charade of being man and wife. Well, at the time it seemed inevitable. That’s my only defence.

I’m not proud of myself. I’m a married man. I knew I was laying up months, if not years, of regret and guilt, but at the time it seemed worth it.

But then, it always does. Doesn’t it?