The Dance of Death

Eight

I had known it, of course, from almost the first sentence of John Bradshaw’s description. There couldn’t possibly be two men in London who had once been soldiers, kept an old-clothes stall in Leadenhall Market and recently lost wife and child.

‘That’s all very well, Jack,’ Timothy was beginning, when I interrupted him, addressing myself to the other man.

‘I’m afraid Philip will have to know a bit more than you’ve told him, Master Bradshaw. He’s not only a very old friend of mine, but he also knows my wife. He’ll realize at once that Mistress Gray’s an impostor.’

There was a moment’s complete silence before Timothy swung slowly round to face me. ‘You’re acquainted with this man?’ he asked incredulously, but not without a certain amount of relief.

‘Been friends for years.’ I nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, I went to visit him the day before yesterday. That was when I found his cottage empty — abandoned — and a neighbour told me what had happened to Jeanne and the baby. She told me, too, that Philip was dumb with grief and had disappeared some weeks later. If you want me to vouch for his character, I’ll willingly do so. Everything Master Bradshaw has said about him is true. Philip would have neither the inclination nor the nous to be a spy. He’s never had any particular loyalty to anyone but himself and Jeanne.’

Timothy heaved what sounded like a thankful sigh. ‘Then that’s what I shall tell the duke — that this man, Philip. . Philip. .’

‘Lamprey,’ John Bradshaw and I supplied in unison.

‘Like the fish,’ I added, then puckered my brow. ‘Didn’t one of our kings die of a surfeit of-?’

‘Yes, yes!’ Timothy cut in testily. ‘No need to show off just because the Glastonbury monks gave you an education. As I was saying, I shall tell Duke Richard that I have hired this man on the recommendation of both yourself and Jack here and that you can each vouch for his integrity.’

‘What you mean,’ John Bradshaw growled, ‘is that if anything should go wrong — which it won’t — Master Chapman and I will take the blame, while your reputation will still be as pure as the driven snow.’

‘Well, that it won’t be,’ Timothy snapped. ‘The duke will be angry enough that I’ve hired an extra man for this journey and not discussed it with him first. Particularly as it means we shall have to let this Lamprey into our confidence a little way. But just remember, the pair of you, that Lamprey knows only that Mistress Gray goes to see her cousin Maître le Daim to discover King Louis’s intentions towards Burgundy. And don’t you,’ he hissed, turning to John Bradshaw and pointing an accusatory finger, ‘ever, ever take it upon yourself again to do anything like this without my knowledge. Because if you do, master spy though you may be, you will leave His Grace of Gloucester’s service just as fast as I can kick you downstairs.’

‘Not very fast, then,’ the other man retaliated, his pleasant features flushing a dull red. But I could guess from his defiant attitude that he knew he had overstepped the mark and that Timothy’s anger was justified. He was about to add something else when Timothy waved him to silence with an abrupt motion of one hand.

‘Mistress Gray,’ he mouthed, although I had heard nothing.

But sure enough, a moment later the latch lifted and Eloise came in, smiling her prettiest smile; not, I was certain, for my benefit — she had long given up trying to impress me — but for Master Bradshaw’s.

Timothy at once put her in the picture regarding the new addition to our party, a fact that she accepted with the least possible show of interest. She was far more concerned with examining my new clothes, turning over the set that was folded up on the table and opening the travelling chest to look at the rest.

‘Oh, Roger,’ she gurgled, ‘what peacock’s feathers! It will almost be a pleasure to be seen with you. What are you wearing tomorrow? I see, the brown hose and green tunic, and of course the cloak and hat, which are also brown. Here! Let me recommend the yellow with all that mud colour. It will cheer it up and make a splash of brightness on what seems set to be another dull day.’

She removed the yellow tunic from the chest, but I firmly replaced it. ‘I shall decide what to wear,’ I said pettishly. ‘You are not my wife.’

‘No, but she has to pretend to be,’ Timothy put in, ‘and the sooner you begin practising your roles, the better it will be. Do as Mistress Gray — no, as Mistress Chapman — tells you, Roger.’

John Bradshaw gave a throaty chuckle. ‘And you’d both better stop calling me Master Bradshaw. Remember I’m your servant. Jack’s the name. Start using it now so you’ll be used to it before we get on the road.’

‘Very well. . Jack!’ Eloise simpered nauseatingly. (I found it nauseating, at any rate, although John Bradshaw seemed to find nothing objectionable in it.) She looked at me. ‘By the way, I’ve been informed that supper will be early this evening. The kitcheners, cooks and scullions want everyone out of the common hall by the hour of five at the very latest. They need to use it as an extension to the kitchens. It seems Her Grace of York and the Duke of Gloucester are entertaining Earl Rivers at a banquet tonight in acknowledgement of his recent good work in Scotland, before he returns to the Prince of Wales’s household at Ludlow tomorrow.’

I grimaced and avoided catching Timothy’s eye. Personally, I rather liked the queen’s elder brother, Anthony. From the little I had seen of him, he appeared a great deal less self-important than the other Woodvilles I had encountered. By contrast, his younger brother, Edward, who had accompanied him on the Scottish expedition this past summer, was a bumptious, self-opinionated egotist who considered that life could bestow no greater honour than being a Woodville on the one hand and a scion of the House of Luxembourg on the other. (Jacquetta of Luxembourg had married the then Sir Richard Woodville after the death of her first husband — Henry V’s brother, John, Duke of Bedford — and borne him a large family.) I could not imagine, however, that my lord of Gloucester was looking forward to this evening with anything but dismay, considering his dislike of all his Woodville in-laws in general and the nature of the mission I was to undertake for him in France in particular. But I made no comment, merely nodding to signify that I had got the message.

Timothy then proceeded to instruct me in all the things I should be interested in as a prosperous haberdasher: cloth, lace, necklaces, combs, pins, brushes, gloves and so forth. Pretty much like being a chapman, really (which, I suppose, was why Timothy, no fool, had chosen the occupation for me), but conducting business from a nice warm stall or shop, instead of roaming the countryside in all winds and weathers. After that, he gave Eloise and me a little homily about not forgetting to behave as man and wife in public, while, at the same time, exhorting me to recollect that I was a happily married man in private.

‘I’ve no intention of forgetting,’ I answered austerely. Eloise simply smiled and cast down her eyes.

After which, there was little left to do but to arrange the time and place at which she and I would meet with John Bradshaw in the morning — sunrise in the castle courtyard — before dispersing to amuse ourselves in our separate ways for the rest of the day. Timothy detained me for a moment or two, holding me back as the other two departed in order to make certain that I knew exactly what it was that I had to do once we reached Paris, and that I could still remember, word for word, the questions I must put to Robin Gaunt when, eventually, I found him.

‘If I find him,’ I muttered.

Somewhat to my surprise, Timothy did not argue with this caveat, merely nodding, rather lugubriously, I thought, in agreement.

‘Do your best,’ he urged, patting me on the shoulder.

‘I’ve already assured the duke that I shall do so.’ I hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘Timothy, is this leading where I think it’s leading?’

‘That’s not for you or me to worry about,’ he answered sharply. ‘The likes of us do as we’re told. We decide who we’re for and carry out orders. For my part, I’ve always been the Duke of Gloucester’s man from the very first day I entered his service. There’s an underlying sweetness to his nature that binds men to him — those of us who are privileged to see that side of him, that is. You’ve seen it, I know. You must have. In your way, you’re as devoted to him as I am.’

‘Yes, I am,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t let it cloud my judgement. There’s a ruthlessness to him, as well. He wouldn’t be a true Plantagenet if there weren’t. He loves the king, but he hates the Woodvilles, all the more because he keeps it hidden for his brother’s sake. But if Edward dies while the Prince of Wales is still a minor-’

‘Shush!’ Timothy hastened to the door, wrenched it open and glanced into the corridor. Satisfied that no one was outside, he closed it again and came back, frowning heavily. ‘For God’s sake, watch your tongue, Roger! It runs away with you sometimes.’

‘When we were on our way to Scotland,’ I persisted, ‘I overheard a very disturbing conversation between the duke and Albany-’

‘I don’t wish to be told,’ Timothy said firmly. ‘It’s time-’

I ignored him. ‘His Highness wanted to know what plans Albany had made concerning his nephews in the event of Albany’s becoming king of Scotland. As it turned out, of course, Albany never did.’

‘I’ve said — ’ Timothy raised his voice, then hastily lowered it again — ‘I’ve said, Roger, that I don’t want to hear this. And you had no business listening in on His Grace’s private conversation. I thought better of you.’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ I disclaimed angrily. ‘They thought I was asleep.’

‘Then you should have declared yourself,’ was the sententious reply, ‘as a man of honour would have done.’

Riled, I snapped back, ‘I didn’t know spies were supposed to be men of honour. I thought that the first requirement for a spy was to be a devious little bastard.’

Timothy drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very high, but he could look impressive when he tried, and announced, ‘I think this discussion had better end here before we both say things we shall be sorry for later.’ He held out his hand with great dignity. ‘In case I don’t see you again before tomorrow, let me wish you good luck and good fortune. Take care of yourself, because now that the Woodvilles have got the scent of something being in the wind, even though they have no idea exactly what, there will be danger. Rely on John Bradshaw for assistance and protection. In spite of his recent lapse, he really is a good man.’ Timothy snorted with sudden laughter. ‘And even that lapse has turned out to be for the best. That’s another thing about him. He’s lucky, always has been. And luck is one of the greatest gifts that anyone can have.’

He gripped my hand tighter and then, to my amazement, embraced me. This unlooked-for gesture seemed to embarrass him more than it did me, and he resumed his acerbic tone. ‘Just remember,’ he admonished me as he turned away, ‘don’t leave the castle until tomorrow morning when you’re in disguise. There might still be people looking out for you in connection with Master Culpepper’s murder.’

The weary hours until suppertime stretched before me, arid and empty. I dared not risk another foray into the London streets, especially now that I could be wanted in connection with a second killing. (Just as well Timothy knew nothing about that or I would doubtless have been treated to another homily concerning my unreliability.) My little cell of a room was distinctly uninviting, so there was nothing for it but to wander around Baynard’s Castle, getting in honest folk’s way and irritating them beyond endurance by trying to engage them in idle conversation. When a fifth person — a pretty young girl who was carrying in great swathes of greenery to decorate tonight’s banqueting tables — snubbed me, I gave up and went in the general direction of the kitchens, where surplus food might be picked up in order to assuage the rumblings of my empty belly (although I suspected there was not much allowance made for wastage in Her Grace of York’s frugal budget).

The kitchens, as was usual in most noble households, were situated in the darkest, hottest part of the building, at ground-floor level and occasionally even partially underground. Summer or winter, the heat was always such that many of the cooks and scullions worked stark naked, while others, more sensitive to the danger of exposing themselves fully to hissing fat and scalding water — not to mention the occasional derogatory remarks of their fellow workers — wore loincloths underneath leather aprons.

The common dining hall was very close to this furnace, but the long trestle-boards were at present laid ready for the servants’ own supper and had not yet been appropriated as extra space for laying out the banquet dishes. A few early eaters had gathered at a table in one corner and were making short work of a bowl of pottage and the inevitable hunks of yesterday’s stale bread. I thought I might as well join them, but as I walked the length of the room, I became aware of a flurry of movement. A man — I was sure it was a man — who had been sitting in the shadows ducked down beneath the table and must have crawled on all fours between his companions’ legs to the door leading into the kitchens. Having reached it, he suddenly straightened up and burst through, slamming it shut behind him.

His companions seemed as startled by his conduct as I was and turned grinning faces towards me as I neared the table.

‘What you done to our friend that he doesn’t want to meet you?’ one of them asked.

Another said, ‘He seems shit-scared of you, lad, and no mistake.’

‘Who is he?’ I demanded. ‘What’s his name?’

They all shrugged.

‘Dunno,’ a fat one said. ‘Newcomer. Ain’t seen ’im afore. Probably brought in special for the banquet.’

I wondered who the unknown could possibly be, but a moment’s thought supplied the answer. It had to be the shadowy figure I had seen arriving at the water-stairs the previous night. Somehow or another, he had received word that I had been over to Southwark, making enquiries, a fact that in itself must have suggested to him that I had seen something that had aroused my suspicions. The last thing he would wish to do would be to meet me face to face.

‘What does this man look like?’ I asked.

‘Dunno.’

‘Didn’t really take much notice of him.’

‘Just a fellow.’

‘Didn’t say much. Quiet type.’

I thanked them sarcastically for their help and opened the door into the kitchens.

‘Shouldn’t go in there just now,’ one of the men advised. ‘Not when they’re so busy. You might meet-’

But here the others all hushed him or shouted him down. That should have been a warning to me, but I was too intent on pursuing my quarry to take any notice, and plunged through, straight into Hell.

That was what it felt like, anyway.

There were at least three spits turning over enormous fires — three suckling pigs roasting on one, two haunches of venison on another and a whole ox on the largest. A swan had just been removed from one of the many ovens and was being carried across to a side table, where three men stood beside a great pile of the creature’s feathers, ready to replace its plumage, beak and eyes. At another bench, fish were being cleaned and gutted, while one of the pastry cooks was having a fit of hysterics because two of his pies had been knocked to the floor by a passing scullion. The whole place was a seething, chaotic mass of people, all of them screaming instructions and shouting orders amidst clouds of steam from boiling cauldrons and hissing vats of oil. I soon realized that there was very little hope, if any, of locating anyone who had run in there to hide.

But I wasn’t prepared to give up that easily. I edged my way between the benches, dodged around kitchen boys who were scurrying from place to place in answer to various imperious summonses, ignored the curses that greeted my enquiry as to whether or not a stranger had recently entered the kitchens, and generally made a nuisance of myself, while all the time my belly rumbled incessantly in response to the wonderful smells emanating from pots and ovens. Finally, one of the spit-turners, friendlier than the rest, indicated a second door at the far end of the vast room and said he’d seen someone go through it minutes before.

‘Not one of us,’ he shouted. ‘Fully dressed.’

I was by now sweating profusely, face, arms, legs, body, my clothes sticking to me like a burr to a sheep’s fleece. I thanked my informant and had just turned with relief to escape from the overwhelming heat when I found my path blocked by the most enormous man it has ever been my misfortune to meet. I’m a big man myself, over six feet tall and not ill proportioned — indeed, I’ve grown used to being described as a well-set-up young fellow — but this man made me feel puny. He was as broad as he was high, and he could top me by half a head, with muscles like young tree trunks all over his body (and as he was naked, I speak with authority). His great torso ran with sweat, gleaming in the light from the fires as he stood with arms akimbo and legs wide apart, glaring at me with small, hostile eyes.

‘Get out of my kitchen!’ he roared.

‘I’m just trying to find-’ I was beginning, but he roared again.

‘Out!’

I adopted a reasonable tone. ‘Now, look here-’

Before I knew what was happening to me, I was lifted bodily off my feet, slung over one mighty shoulder, carried the length of the kitchens, to the cheers of the workers, and literally thrown through the door into the common hall. The giant then returned to his own domain with the satisfied air of a man who had acquitted himself well.

In my absence, the hall had filled up with diners who had come early to supper, as bidden. The men sitting at the corner table were convulsed with laughter, and after the first stunned silence at my unconventional arrival, their mirth was shared by others. As I lay there, wondering if I were still all in one piece, gingerly flexing my limbs to make sure that nothing was broken, the hilarity gradually spread throughout the hall as the story passed from table to table.

There was a rustle of skirts and I glanced up to see Eloise kneeling beside me.

‘Are you all right?’ she enquired anxiously, although I could see that even she was struggling to keep a straight face.

‘Oh, very well, indeed,’ I snapped, having by this time ascertained that nothing was really hurt except my pride. I should have a few ugly bruises in the morning, but that was all. Pettishly refusing her assistance, I struggled to my feet.

‘You met Goliath, then,’ one of the men at the corner table sniggered.

‘As you see! You didn’t think to warn me, I suppose?’

‘Well, Rob there did,’ the same man admitted, ‘but the rest of us thought it would be a lesson to you not to go poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’

I breathed deeply and clenched my fists; at which point, Eloise decided it was the right moment to beat a strategic retreat, so she propelled me firmly towards two empty places at a table much further up the hall. The lackeys had started serving the meal a few minutes earlier, while I had still been lying prostrate on the floor, and my companion and I were only just in time to grab our portions of the inevitable pottage from the common bowl. As it was, we earned ourselves dirty looks from the table’s other occupants, who had obviously been promising themselves second helpings. (Which showed how desperate the poor devils must have been.)

‘What on earth were you doing in the kitchens?’ Eloise wanted to know, once she had blunted the edge of her appetite.

I had already foreseen the question and had been wondering what my answer would be.

‘I. . er. . I was hungry,’ I said. ‘I thought I might pick up some titbits to eat.’ True enough: it had been my original intention.

Eloise appeared unconvinced. More, she looked highly sceptical. I couldn’t blame her. She was an intelligent woman and surely must have begun, by now, to have her suspicions that she was not being told the whole truth about this French mission. Timothy’s reasons for seeing me alone and for my meetings with the duke would surely have a hollow ring to anyone of even average quickness of mind, and Eloise was brighter than that. She chose, however, to accept my explanation, which in itself was worrying.

‘You eat too much, Roger.’ She smiled.

‘Not in this place!’ I retorted feelingly. ‘Nobody could.’

That made her laugh, a peal of mirth that lit up her face and transformed her naturally petulant, slightly sour expression into one of genuine enjoyment. With a blinding flash of revelation, I could see how really pretty she was and was conscious of a sudden stirring in my loins. Dear God! This wouldn’t do! Not when we had to share the same bed for the next goodness knew how many nights. And I had already proved to myself that I couldn’t be trusted with an attractive and determined woman. If Adela ever found out. .! It didn’t bear thinking about. I shuddered. At least I knew now that I must be on my guard every minute of our nights together.

‘Are you cold?’ Eloise asked in surprise.

‘What? Oh, no. Just. . just someone walking over my grave.’

‘Don’t say that,’ she murmured. ‘Ever since I saw The Dance of Death in the cloister at St Paul’s, I’ve been haunted by its images.’ She laid a hand on my arm. ‘Enough! Will you come with me down to the water-stairs this evening, after dark, and watch the guests arrive? I understand they will be coming by river.’

I knew I should refuse. Here was my first opportunity to demonstrate my strength of will.

Of course I said yes.

The lights from the barges coruscated across the water, amber and white and red. Musicians played softly, strains of popular airs wafting gently towards the shore. The moon hung low in the night sky, adding to the fairy-like quality of the scene. The neighbouring wharves and warehouses had melted into the encroaching darkness, so that they were no more than faint stains on an inky cloth.

The Dowager Duchess of York, leaning heavily on an ebony stick, but still straight-backed and magnificent in black velvet trimmed with sable, received her guests accompanied by her younger son, the Duke of Gloucester, impressive in cloth of gold and yellow brocade, with jewels flashing on both breast and fingers, but looking tired and strained, I thought, in the flaring light from a myriad torches. Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, on the other hand appeared relaxed and smiling as he alighted from his barge and knelt to kiss the duchess’s outstretched hand. He had chosen to wear royal purple, a fact that had doubtless not gone unnoticed by his hosts, and could possibly have accounted for the tightening of the muscles around the duke’s thin mouth as he stepped forward, in his turn, to greet the arrivals.

That cocky little bastard Edward Woodville, who was also being honoured for his part in the Scottish expedition, strutted up the water-stairs arrayed, suitably enough, in peacock-blue (or a colour as near as the dyers could make it). He saluted his hostess with a flourish that would not have shamed that showy bird itself, before turning, with ill-concealed condescension, to the duke. He must know, as everyone else did, that each day brought fresh speculation concerning the king’s health. Did he already see himself, as uncle to King Edward V, on an equal footing with Richard of Gloucester?

Trumpets sounded as the principal guests were conducted indoors, the remainder of their retinues left to straggle after them, a gaudy throng, chattering like so many magpies as they followed in their masters’ gorgeous wake. Eloise and I were standing respectfully to one side of the steps in company with other servants and people of no account who had come to watch Earl Rivers’s arrival. One of the last to mount the water-stairs from Sir Edward Woodville’s barge, not so splendidly dressed as some of the others and plainly one of the lesser fry, turned his head to stare at the spectators. I caught my breath.

I recognized him instantly, even without his hat.

It was the smart young gent of the blue feather.