The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Chapter Ten

Stephen Hudelin was, I judged, somewhere in his middle thirties, thickset without being squat, the top of his head reaching well above my shoulders. He had red hair in which there was not a trace of brown, so that his fiery pate was visible wherever he was, indoors or out, and his eyes were a greenish hazel. I soon discovered that he had the quick temper which went with his colouring, but which, in general, he was forced to subdue, a necessity which left him in an almost permanent state of truculence. It also became obvious that the other Yeomen of the Chamber, or at least those who had accompanied the Duke of Gloucester south on this expedition, did not much like him. They were wary, however, of his bouts of ill-humour, treating him with an off-hand civility which excluded him from their fellowship far more effectively than picking a quarrel could have done.

I learned from Humphrey that the Hudelins had been in the service of Sir John Grey, Lord Ferrers of Groby, the Queen’s first husband and sire to her two eldest sons. The Greys, and therefore the Hudelins, had supported the House of Lancaster, and both Lord Ferrers and Walter Hudelin, Stephen’s father, had been killed at the second battle at Saint Albans, fighting for the late King Henry.

When, however, King Edward’s fancy had settled on Lord Ferrers’s widow, the Hudelins, like the new queen’s own family, the Woodvilles, had found no difficulty in changing sides and becoming staunch followers of the House of York. Their loyalty, in common with that of so many, was not to a cause but to the masters they had served for generations, now embodied in the young Marquess of Dorset and his brother, Lord Richard Grey, and in Anthony Woodville, their maternal uncle.

‘How does Stephen come to be in the service of the Duke of Gloucester?’ I asked Humphrey as he instructed me in the laying of the dinner-table.

My mentor shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t he be? There’s no law of the Medes and the Persians which says a man may not move from one place to another if he so wishes. Perhaps Stephen wanted a change and Lord Rivers recommended him to His Grace, for he’s a good enough worker and pulls his weight. I myself was previously with my lord of Clarence, but fell out with a fellow servant and wished to find another berth. His Grace used his influence with his brother and here I have been, very happily, ever since.’

I made no answer, keeping my thoughts to myself, and concentrating instead on Humphrey’s instructions concerning the protocol of place settings. The raised dais at the end of the hall, facing the musicians’ gallery, was easy: the Duke and his mother, the Duchess of York, would sit beneath the canopies with other persons of note on either side of them.

‘The table to the host’s right,’ Humphrey explained, ‘the one against that wall, is known as the Reward, because people at the head of it are served with the same dishes as the lord and his guests. The table opposite, to the host’s left, is called the Second Mess, and the people sitting there mostly get the same food as the upper servants. And in both cases, the lower you sit down the board, the further away from the dais you are and the nearer to the kitchens, the coarser the victuals. Wooden plates and spoons below the salt, pewter above it. Trenchers of bread for all, with smaller ones to heap the salt on. While we’re here in Baynard’s Castle, we keep the same hours as the Duchess Cicely: breakfast at seven, dinner at eleven and supper at five o’clock, although at home, at Middleham or Sheriff Hutton, the Duke likes his meals somewhat earlier.’ Then, without being asked, he provided the information which interested me most. ‘Members of the household have their meals beforehand.’

I breathed an inward sigh of relief. The prospect of having to watch others eat whilst suffering the pangs of hunger myself would have been more than I could bear. At least now I knew that I should be comfortably replete and, consequently, alert to those scraps of gossip or information which can often be gleaned where people are gathered together and off their guard. I tried not to dwell on the impossibility of the task I had been set, nor on the vulnerability of any man in the public eye to the poisoned chalice or the assassin’s dagger. I could only do my best and trust the hand of God to guide me.

There were still three other suspects whose acquaintance I had not yet made, all of whom were Squires of the Household, and in order to identify them I had to rely on Matthew Wardroper. For this purpose, we both kept an eye cocked for one another whenever we crossed a courtyard or sped from one chamber to the next, along the passageways or up and down the stairs. The first time we met, after I had been supplied with a suit of livery, he gave way to unseemly mirth.

‘It’s too small for you,’ he hooted. ‘You’re bursting out of that tunic in all directions.’

‘Of course it’s too small,’ I snapped, losing my sense of humour. ‘How many men of my height do you think His Grace employs? But I’ve been promised that a sewing woman from Duchess Cicely’s household will lengthen it and let out the seams. Now, stop that foolish sniggering and tell me what news you have, if any.’

We were standing in the inner courtyard, half concealed by one of the pillars of a colonnade, which supported part of the building’s upper storeys. We drew back a little further into the shadows.

‘None of any moment,’ Matthew sighed, ‘but by a stroke of good fortune, Ralph Boyse, Jocelin d’Hiver, Geoffrey Whitelock and myself are all four on duty tonight at supper. If you can also contrive to be on hand I’ll try to point them out to you. What of your two fellow Yeomen?’

‘Little enough as yet. I know who they are and am ready and willing to believe the worst of Stephen Hudelin. On the other hand, if Humphrey Nanfan were to be proved innocent of the charge of being in my lord of Clarence’s employ I should be happy. I like him. However,’ I added on a grimmer note, ‘my judgement is not always sound. I have in the past liked – and in one case more than liked – those who have turned out to be rogues and villains. Do you have a message for me from Timothy Plummer or Master Arrowsmith?’

The dark eyes darted this way and that, making certain that no one was within earshot.

‘Only that the former was for once mistaken, and the Duke, after great persuasion from my cousin Lionel, has allowed his three other Squires of the Body to be admitted into the secret. They are, apparently, considered to be above suspicion, with the result that His Grace is far more closely guarded than ever before. Master Plummer now considers it possible that, luck being on our side, we can reach the Eve of Saint Hyacinth without harm befalling Duke Richard, even if you are unsuccessful in discovering the would-be assassin.’

‘Which is more than possible,’ I answered gloomily. I knotted my brows. ‘But why, oh why, the Eve of Saint Hyacinth? For by then the Duke will be in France, fighting.’

‘It was only what Master Plummer was told by Thaddeus Morgan,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘A rumour which, perhaps, may have been false. We don’t even know for certain that there is any plot to kill my lord of Gloucester.’

‘Then why was Thaddeus Morgan killed?’ I shook my head. ‘No, no! I think we have to accept the truth of the story.’ I ran one hand despairingly through my hair. ‘If only we could find a motive for someone – anyone! – wanting to murder His Grace! I still refuse to believe that either of his royal brothers would wish him dead for any reason. The Burgundians are our allies. And surely the French would prefer King Edward’s death to that of the Duke of Gloucester. This invasion seems to be purely on his whim.’

Matthew Wardroper heard me out in sympathetic silence, but could offer no solution to the problem beyond observing that the French were unlikely to order the murder of an English monarch for such a cause. ‘For every ruler of this country dreams of winning back the Norman and Angevin lands of his ancestors and no doubt will continue to do so for generations to come. To assassinate King Edward might scotch the snake, but would not kill it, and the French are surely clever enough to know that. But in any case,’ he finished with a shrug, ‘it’s not His Highness’s life that’s threatened.’

Sadly I agreed, and we parted to go about our various duties. ‘I shall look out for you tonight in the great hall,’ I called over my shoulder.

And thus it was, not watching where I was going, that I bumped into a young woman who had just emerged from an archway on my right and who was breathless from hurriedly descending a steep flight of stairs. I turned quickly to apologize and found myself looking down into a pert, rounded face with the complexion of a peach, widely spaced hazel eyes, at present brimming with laughter, and a good-humoured mouth which curled up naturally at the corners. She was small and delicately boned, with little hands and feet, and her features reminded me of someone; someone, moreover, whom I had met not all that long ago.

‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going.’

To my surprise, she continued to clutch at me. ‘The fault was mine,’ she insisted. ‘But please don’t run away, because I think you must be the man I’m looking for. With that height and these clothes, you can only be Roger Chapman, my lord of Gloucester’s new Yeoman of the Chamber.’

I acknowledged the fact cautiously, particularly as I suspected that I was an object of some amusement to her. ‘Who are you and why should anyone give you my description?’ I wanted to know.

‘My name is Amice Gentle, sewing-woman to the Duchess of York, and I was told that your tunic is in need of alteration.’ She gurgled with laughter. ‘And indeed, I can see that it is. I must take some measurements. Come with me to the sewing-room so that I can see more easily what needs to be done.’ And so saying, she turned and whisked away again, up the stairs.

Gentle; Amice Gentle; I said the name over to myself as I followed in her wake. Then, of course, I remembered. She was the daughter of the Southampton butcher and his wife.

The room into which she led me was lit by a generous number of candles, for the daylight, even at the height of summer, was poor, filtering in through three small, unshuttered windows, set only in the outer wall. Five or six other young women, some sitting, some standing, were busy at two long trestle tables which ran the length of the room. Two were working on an elaborate piece of embroidery which, at a cursory glance and judging by the subject matter, I guessed to be an altar cloth. The rest were stitching away at various garments, mending rents, darning holes or resetting hems; the sort of good, plain sewing which is a necessity of every household, however humble, but especially in one as large as Duchess Cicely’s was in those days.

Several of the women glanced up from their work as we entered, at first with indifference, but then with growing hilarity as they took in my height and the shortness and tightness of my azure-and-murrey tunic. I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, but with little success.

Amice introduced me. ‘My lord of Gloucester’s new Yeoman of the Chamber. The Sergeant of Livery had nothing that would fit him, and as the Duke has brought no sewing-women in his train we’ve been asked to help. Take the tunic off, Master Chapman, and sit down if you can spare a moment, while I begin unpicking the seams and hem.’

I did as I was bid and seated myself on the end of one of the wooden benches. I knew that I should probably have been helping to oversee the laying of the dinner-tables, or on call in case the Duke desired a message to be run; but I was in no fear of dismissal for my negligence, however vociferously my fellow Yeomen might complain. Whatever excuses were needed to explain my behaviour, they would be found.

One or two of the girls eyed me flirtatiously, but the arrival of the head seamstress quickly put paid to all such nonsense, for which I was very glad.

‘Was that Matt Wardroper you were speaking to?’ Amice Gentle asked, the point of one of her scissor blades slashing at the threads of the tunic’s hem and seams.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course, you know him. I was forgetting.’ And in answer to her inquiring stare, I explained how I had eaten at her parents’ shop some four weeks earlier, adding, ‘While I was still a pedlar. Before I decided I had had enough of life on the open road and came to beg a return of favour from the Duke. Your mother spoke of you and her pride in your situation. She also spoke of young Matthew Wardroper.’

‘Well! Fancy that, now!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a small enough world, I reckon. But as for knowing Matthew Wardroper well, that I don’t. But I’ve heard him talked about since my youth. There were always servants from Chilworth Manor in and out of Southampton and many of them came to Father’s shop, both to buy and to fill their bellies. Naturally, they mentioned Master Matthew, as well as Sir Cedric and his lady.’ She ripped out a final piece of thread and held the tunic up to the light of the nearest candle. ‘I’m ready to start restitching when I’ve measured you. I’m afraid you’ll have to stand up, or I can’t do it.’ When I had complied, Amice passed a narrow strip of material around my body, first around my chest and then my waist, snipping each piece off at the requisite length. While she did so she went on chatting. ‘Of course, I’ve seen Sir Cedric and Lady Wardroper many times when they’ve visited Southampton, but Matthew I never saw as a child. He was sent away soon after he reached his seventh birthday.’

‘To somewhere in Leicestershire, I understand.’ Obediently, I raised an arm on her instructions.

Amice hunched her shoulders. ‘I dare say, although I honestly can’t remember. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him until we came here from Berkhamsted with my lady. Quite by chance, I heard a member of the Duke’s household mention his name one day.’ She began to pin up the dismembered tunic and I resumed my seat on the bench. ‘Later, I got someone to point him out to me.’

‘Would you have recognized him anyway, do you think?’

‘There was something familiar about him. He has the same delicate features and dark colouring as his mother, although he has his father’s eyes. Sir Cedric is much stouter.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. At least, about Matthew resembling Lady Wardroper. I haven’t met Sir Cedric.’ Once again, Amice sent me a glance of interrogation and I had to explain my visit to Chilworth Manor. A sudden thought occurred to me. ‘Do you know the lands thereabouts?’ I asked her.

Ignoring my question for the moment she bade me rise once more while she fitted me with the loosely pinned tunic. At last, satisfied, she eased the garment from my shoulders and laid it out on the table, then broke off a length of linen thread and inserted it into the eye of her needle.

‘Can you remain while this is done?’ she wanted to know. ‘Or are you needed?’

‘I’ll wait for you to finish,’ I said boldly, although uneasily aware that the head seamstress was watching us, suspicious of my protracted stay.

The needle whipped in and out of the cloth, making a row of tiny stitches, exquisite in their neatness and precision. After a moment or two I repeated my question. The hazel eyes opened wide and the soft mouth was pursed in consideration.

‘Around Chilworth Manor?’ Amice shook her head. ‘I never went there above a couple of times, to help out with the sewing when one of the women was sick. True, I’ve made the journey between Chilworth and Southampton, but I couldn’t describe it to you. Now if you asked me about the town it would be a different matter.’

‘No,’ I answered. ‘I wanted to know about the land to the north of the manor. Have you ever at any time heard mention of a deserted shrine in the woods? Think carefully.’

She did so, even pausing momentarily in her sewing and frowning. But the result was merely another shake of the head.

‘Never,’ she answered. ‘But I don’t suppose such things are uncommon. I’ve heard my granddam say that whole villages were wiped out by the Great Death and that the buildings fell into decay. Some were never rebuilt, while others were built again in different places. Why do you want to know? Is it important?’

‘No,’ I said, recalled by her question to a realization of just how unimportant and irrelevant was this petty, personal concern. Indeed, looking back it was difficult to understand the sense of evil which had gripped me in that woodland clearing. So much had happened since that it had almost faded from my mind.

‘You could ask Matthew Wardroper,’ Amice suggested, snapping the thread between strong, white teeth.

‘So I could,’ I agreed. ‘And so I might, if I remember.’

Our conversation languished as she bent again to her task, a fact which appeared to please the head seamstress, who now withdrew her gaze and went to oversee the work on the altar cloth. I debated with myself whether or not to return to my work without the tunic, but finally decided against it. Surely I should not be welcomed on duty only half dressed and in any case, Amice would soon be finished. I had never before met anyone who could sew so fast.

‘What made you give up peddling?’ she asked suddenly, completing the second seam and turning her attention to the hem.

‘I – er – just tired… of the wandering life,’ I lied and swiftly changed the subject. ‘Does the Duchess remain here long?’

‘Only until next Wednesday, the day after the King and his brothers leave for France.’

France! I had temporarily forgotten that dread word and the prospect of accompanying the Duke across the Channel. It was more than I had bargained for when I had let myself become entangled in this mesh. That I could unmask our villain within the next few days, provided that he himself did not strike first, was an impossible dream; and yet again the futility of searching for a needle in a haystack struck me most forcibly. There was nothing to confirm that any one of the five men named by Timothy Plummer was the would-be killer. How foolishly optimistic our assumption suddenly appeared. But what else had we to go on?

‘You’ve grown very serious,’ Amice remarked, looking up from her sewing with a friendly smile. ‘Do you find the duties of your position so weighty?’

I returned the smile, realizing all at once how pretty she was.

‘Your mother,’ I said, ‘didn’t oversing your praises.’

It took her a moment to catch my meaning, but when she understood she laughed and blushed with pleasure.

‘Oh, you don’t want to take any notice of Mother!’ she disclaimed hastily. ‘She’s very partial.’

‘Not without good reason. You’re like her,’ I added.

‘So people say.’ We were both talking at random now in order to cover our embarrassment, as we became aware of the flowering of an unexpected mutual attraction. Amice hurried on, ‘I can’t see it myself. Oh, I’m small, as she is, but I’ve always thought I have something of my father in me.’ In her sudden agitation she pricked one of her fingers with her needle, exclaimed with annoyance and sucked away the tiny bead of blood.

I had half reached out for her hand, to reassure myself that she had done herself no lasting injury, when I recollected how foolish I was being and withdrew it. Amice quickly fastened off her thread, stuck her needle, alongside several others, in the bodice of her gown, stood up and shook out my tunic.

‘There,’ she said, handing it to me, but avoiding my eyes, ‘see if that’s any better.’

The tunic, if not a perfect fit, was certainly more comfortable than it had been before and would make me look less ridiculous in the eyes of my fellow Yeomen.

‘Thank you,’ I said simply.

The colour crept into her cheeks again. ‘Bring it back if you have time to spare before next Tuesday and I’ll lengthen the sleeves.’ Again I received an unpleasant jolt at the reminder of my journey across the Channel and an even greater one when she went on in a subdued tone, ‘War is a fearsome thing. God keep you safe.’

Until that second it had not entered my head that I might be called upon to fight and it only required another moment or two before common sense told me that it was highly unlikely. The Knights and Squires of the Body were a different matter, but the domestic servants of the royal households would merely be deployed in attending to the comfort of their masters behind the lines of battle.

I felt, however, that there was no need to disclose this fact to Amice and continued to bask in the warmth of her concern. As none of the other seamstresses was, at that moment, looking our way, I possessed myself of one of her hands and, lifting it to my lips, gently kissed it. She glanced up, startled, blushed fiercely, then went very pale and removed her fingers from my grasp. Her earlier coquettish air had quite deserted her. She jumped when the head seamstress raised her voice.

‘Amice! If you have finished the Yeoman’s tunic you are wanted over here. We need your skill on this altar cloth. No one can set the more difficult stitches as well as you can.’

‘Coming, Mistress Vernon.’ Amice sent me one last upward glance from beneath her lashes, then turned and hurried towards the little group of women at the far end of the table.

She refused to look my way again and there was nothing left for me to do but return to my duties and my problems.