The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Chapter Fourteen

An outward calm pervaded Baynard’s Castle after the dramatic events of the previous evening. All members of the Duke’s and his mother’s households had been bidden to attend Mass without fail that morning in order to pray for the repose of the young mummer’s soul. But beneath the surface everyone was agog with feverish speculation and rumours of a plot to kill Duke Richard ran like wildfire throughout the building. Little knots of people huddled together in every corner, drifting apart whenever the eye of Authority was bent upon them, but regrouping again as soon as it was safe to do so.

It had not surprised me to be summoned to a meeting with Timothy Plummer and Lionel Arrowsmith in the tower room where we had first met on Tuesday night. The latter, still encumbered by sling and crutch, looked ashen-faced, blear-eyed and half-dead from fatigue. Timothy on the other hand was spryer than usual, relieved that the matter was now out in the open.

‘I always thought it better that the plot should be made public,’ he said. ‘At least now there will be others besides ourselves keeping a watch over the Duke to ensure his safety.’

‘If he lets them,’ Lionel grunted. ‘He’s already putting it about that it was just some madman who had somehow got past the castle guards and who is therefore unlikely to disturb his peace again. All talk of a conspiracy against his life is to be strictly discouraged. I have my orders and so have you. He is relying on the fact that we quit London for Dover at dawn tomorrow to give another direction to people’s thoughts.’

‘Dawn tomorrow?’ I echoed hollowly.

Timothy nodded. ‘Aye. We told you! The King and his brothers embark on the first favourable tide a day or so from now to join the rest of the army at Calais.’

‘Yes. Of course. I had forgotten it was so soon. And it’s certain we go with the Duke?’

‘You and I will most certainly be accompanying His Grace, chapman. Lal will remain here until his bones are mended. He’s no use to man nor beast at present. So!’ Timothy’s tone became brisker. ‘What conclusions may we draw from the events of yesterevening?’

With an effort, I forced myself to abandon all thoughts of the forthcoming journey to France and tried instead to answer the question. ‘Geoffrey Whitelock is not our assassin. He was in my sight throughout the mumming, but I cannot vouch for the other four. Did either of you notice any one of them immediately before or during the attempt on His Grace’s life?’

Timothy slowly shook his head. ‘Not with any certainty, no. The hall was too crowded, and by then the smoke from the torches had made it difficult to see across the room. Lal, what about you?’

‘I might have seen young Humphrey Nanfan talking to someone, but I can’t be sure.’ Lionel hunched his shoulders. ‘Well, at least we know that Geoffrey is blameless. But there are still at least four others who could have been wearing Chanticleer’s mask instead of its rightful owner. Anyone could have slipped from the hall before the mummers’ entrance and lured one of them to that alcove. Did none of the troupe see their fellow led away?’

‘Apparently not.’ Timothy rose and began to prowl restlessly about the room. ‘They had been given one of the chambers opening off that corridor for changing into their costumes and were already masked by the time they were called upon to appear. One of them did recall that the lad playing the part of Chanticleer was tardy and had fallen behind. And he was late, it seems, joining the rest of them for their entrance into the great hall. When asked where he’d been his excuse was that he’d got lost in the maze of passageways, but being muffled by the headdress no one recognized that his voice was unfamiliar.’

‘So,’ I said, ‘someone lay in wait, hidden by the curtain of that embrasure, seized the latecomer as he hurried to catch up with his fellows, despatched him swiftly and cleanly with a knife through the heart, put on his costume and followed the rest of the troupe downstairs.’

Timothy grunted assent and ran a hand through his thinning hair before throwing himself down once more on the window seat. ‘Whoever it is is a ruthless man. He’s already murdered twice in the course of trying to carry out his mission. The mummer who was killed was a slender lad, but the mask and costume would easily disguise a person’s natural shape and make him appear taller than he actually is. Which means that we’ve very little to go on. Well,’ he sighed, ‘we know Geoffrey Whitelock to be innocent, but that is all.’

‘Not quite all,’ I said, and two heads turned swiftly towards me. ‘Don’t raise your hopes too high,’ I begged them. ‘What I am about to tell you may have no substance in it. Listen and make up your own minds.’

I proceeded to give an account of the whispered conversation I had overheard, of my struggle to identify some word or phrase which might have lodged in my mind and of my final realization that one of the words uttered had been ‘demain’.

‘My conclusion therefore is that the conspirators were speaking French, which is why most of their talk was beyond my comprehension.’

But neither Timothy nor Lionel shared my sense of the incident’s importance.

‘It seems to me that you are making altogether too much of it, chapman,’ Lionel said, and Timothy nodded in agreement.

‘Nevertheless,’ I insisted stubbornly, ‘it is worth remembering that the very next day an attempt was made to murder His Grace.’ I thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Does either of you know where Ralph Boyse was the evening Thaddeus Morgan was murdered?’

Lionel flushed painfully. ‘He was with Berys.’

I recollected the conversation between him and Matthew Wardroper, here in this very room, and swore in frustration. ‘You’re certain of that?’

Lionel shrugged. ‘Berys admitted it when I questioned her. Why,’ he added bitterly, ‘should she not? She was, after all, doing no wrong. She is betrothed to Ralph.’

‘But can you trust her word?’ I asked. ‘Would she lie for him if he needed her to do so?’

‘She might, I suppose, but it wasn’t necessary. Several people saw them together during the time we were all at the Three Tuns ale-house.’

Timothy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, one hand thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘We should have considered this circumstance before. It means that Ralph could not have murdered Thaddeus Morgan. Therefore we can acquit him of being the man we want. And now I come to think more carefully on past events, there is no possibility that Ralph might even have got wind of Thaddeus’s visit to me at Northampton, for the Duke had granted him leave of absence the previous day to visit a sick uncle in Devon. He didn’t rejoin us until almost a month later and was waiting for us here in London when we arrived from Canterbury.’ Timothy, drumming with his fingers against one cheek, was silent for a moment before sitting upright again. ‘I think we must now all agree that, as well as Geoffrey Whitelock, we can exonerate Ralph of being in any way concerned in this fiendish plot.’

‘You’re right!’ Lionel spoke with an enthusiasm which seemed to me to betoken relief and I regarded him curiously, recalling other fleeting but unreadable expressions of his which I had noticed whenever Ralph’s name was mentioned.

Timothy continued with satisfaction, ‘I never thought the French likely to wish for Duke Richard’s death, nor indeed that of any member of the King’s family. Therefore we may now whittle our number down to three: Humphrey Nanfan, Stephen Hudelin and Jocelin d’Hiver. And of them, only the last speaks French.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense either,’ Lionel objected. ‘The Burgundians are our allies. They would have no reason that I can see to wish for His Grace’s murder. It’s far more likely to be brother Clarence or the Woodvilles.’

‘Or neither,’ I put in quietly. ‘We must not overlook the fact that maybe none of these three, or indeed any of the five we began with, is our assassin.’

Timothy shook his head. ‘Chapman, we are only human and cannot perform the impossible. There are limits to our powers. All we can do is try to discover the innocence or otherwise of those remaining whom we know to be spies within the household. We have between us proved that two of the five are not our assassin, so let us trust that with observation and patience we may do the same by the other three.’

‘And if none of them turns out to be the murderer?’

Timothy grimaced. ‘We must think again. But by that time the Eve of Saint Hyacinth may well have passed. And in any case,’ he continued, ‘I’m more sanguine than I was of being able to protect His Grace from harm. All his people are now alerted to the fact that he is in some kind of danger, however much he may attempt to throw dust in their eyes.’ Lionel and I agreed with this and we were about to disperse when the chamber door was thrown open noisily and Matthew Wardroper appeared, a little out of breath and full of righteous indignation.

‘I guessed I should find the three of you here,’ he said reproachfully, ‘when Mistress Hogan told me that Lal was meeting with Roger Chapman and Timothy Plummer.’ He turned on his cousin. ‘I do think you might have included me, for it’s been as much my adventure as yours. Anyone would think you didn’t trust me!’ And the youthful face flushed with anger.

Lionel hauled himself to his feet, impatiently fending off all offers of assistance, and with his free hand clapped Matthew on the shoulder. ‘Steady, lad, steady! I’ve told you, you’re too young for me to let you run your head into unnecessary danger. As I said before, how should I answer to my aunt and uncle if any harm befell you?’

Matthew’s soft lips pouted and the dark eyes, fringed by their even darker lashes, wore a sulky expression. ‘I’m not a child,’ he protested sullenly, his demeanour in many ways proving the opposite. He added defiantly, ‘You were quite willing to make use of me when you had need.’

‘That’s true enough.’ Lionel glanced at Timothy. ‘It would be only fair to tell the lad what conclusions we have reached.’

‘Oh, very well,’ came the grudging answer. ‘But be quick about it. It’s time we returned to our duties and used our eyes and ears.’

Matthew listened docilely while his cousin made him free of our deliberations and then eagerly offered to keep watch over his fellow Squire of the Household, Jocelin d’Hiver.

Timothy, after the briefest of reflections, once again gave his consent. ‘It will give Roger all the more freedom to study the movements of Stephen Hudelin and Humphrey Nanfan. Lionel, in case we don’t meet again before our departure at dawn tomorrow, get well soon and join us in France as quickly as you can. Meantime, both Roger and I will keep an eye on your young kinsman here. And to you, Master Wardroper, I say this. Be very careful in your dealings with Jocelin d’Hiver. Until there is proof to the contrary, think of him as an extremely dangerous man.’

I doubt if Timothy Plummer would have approved my immediate action after quitting the tower, which was to seek out Amice Gentle in her sewing-room.

She and her companions were not engaged with their needles today, but had been granted permission to begin packing up some of their work in readiness to leave with Duchess Cicely for Berkhamsted in three days’ time. So Amice told me in the first rush of pleasure at seeing me again; a pleasure all the more freely expressed because of the absence of Mistress Vernon, the head seamstress.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ I said, holding her little hand in mine. ‘We’re off at first light tomorrow.’

‘I know.’ She nodded solemnly, drawing me to sit down beside her on a bench, while her companions giggled and gossiped low amongst themselves, glancing frequently in our direction. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she added, shyly pressing my fingers. ‘I… that is, we… were all very proud of you last night for the way that you saved the Duke’s life.’ While I muttered an uncomfortable disclaimer, the large hazel eyes lifted questioningly to mine. ‘Is there really a plot to kill His Grace, as some people are saying, or was it just a madman, as others insist, who managed to find his way into the castle?’

‘I don’t know,’ I lied, sending up a short prayer for forgiveness. ‘But it will behove all of us to watch over Duke Richard with extra care.’ I took a deep breath. ‘When I get back from France, may I come to visit you at Berkhamsted?’

The eager light died out of her eyes and once again I sensed that withdrawal which had rebuffed me at supper two days earlier. After a moment she said regretfully, ‘No. It would be to no purpose. I am already betrothed.’

I felt for a moment as though I had been winded by a blow to the stomach, but at last I managed to stutter, ‘I see. I– I’m sorry. I– I didn’t know. Your mother, when I talked with her in Southampton, gave no hint of such a thing.’

‘It was arranged, with Her Grace’s approval, the day before we left to come to London. My mother and father know nothing of it yet, for I’ve had no time to send a message to them since it happened.’

‘You… love him, this man you’re betrothed to?’

She answered quietly, ‘I like him. Very much. Robert’s a good man. He’s one of Duchess Cicely’s grooms. He’ll be kind to me and Her Grace will give me a greater dowry than my father can afford.’ Amice freed her hand from mine, smiling tremulously, and lifted her chin. ‘I shall be contented enough and that’s surely as much as most of us can expect in this life.’

‘Perhaps… Then this is indeed goodbye.’ I leaned forward and kissed her gently, full on the lips.

Tears welled up slowly in the hazel eyes and ran down her face unchecked.

‘Yes.’ She stroked my cheek and I felt the coldness of her touch. ‘We hardly know one another. Why, then, does it feel as though I’m saying farewell to a friend?’

I did not answer but kissed her hand and the icy little fingers clung to mine. In the end I had to force myself away. Once outside the sewing-room I propped my back against the wall, breathing deeply until my emotions were once more under control. Amice was right: we barely knew each other. It was foolish to feel so bereft. And yet I found that I had been thinking of her constantly throughout the past few days; that her face had been always somewhere at the back of my mind. Ah well! It was not to be. I should soon forget her, I told myself angrily. There were plenty more fish in the sea and I had often fancied myself sick with love in the past, only to recover swiftly. Why then should this time be any different?

I squared my shoulders and ran downstairs to the bustling courtyard. There was too much else to occupy my thoughts for me to waste them on Amice Gentle.

We set out the following morning in a chill, grey mist, the harbinger of a hot summer’s day. As the seemingly endless procession clattered across London Bridge, on through the sprawling suburb of Southwark and out on to the Dover road, the damp, pungent smell of the still-wet earth tickled our nostrils. Birds, wakened all too soon by the tramp of many feet and the thud of horses’ hooves, started up their plaintive chorus; and as the hours passed trees, their leaves trembling with dewdrops as big as diamonds, swam up out of the milky haze which was beginning now to disperse.

In every village and hamlet through which we passed people left their work and came running to gawp at the brilliant cavalcade and at the three royal brothers who, in all the glory of martial display, with tuckets sounding and pennants flying, rode at its head. Each prince was surrounded by his most senior officers, while far behind followed the hordes of lesser servants and the rumbling baggage wagons.

Never having been a soldier, and knowing nothing of battles, I was astonished to discover how many and how varied were the numbers of retainers necessary for the maintenance of a lord’s comfort in wartime.

‘It won’t all be fighting,’ Humphrey Nanfan informed me, proudly displaying his superior knowledge of these matters. ‘There’s bound to be a great deal of feasting, jousting and suchlike when the King and his brothers entertain the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy at Calais.’

‘It seems to me a funny way to conduct a war,’ I grumbled.

We were sitting on the tailboard of a cart packed with napery, enjoying the warm sunshine and resting our weary legs. The head of Duke Richard’s procession was now miles in front of us and would reach the night’s halt at Rochester while we lesser mortals were still on the open road, where we would content ourselves with such shelter as we could find. I could only trust that Timothy Plummer was taking all precautions to ensure His Grace’s safety; for with Lionel Arrowsmith left behind in Baynard’s Castle, and with the necessity for me to keep watch over Humphrey Nanfan and Stephen Hudelin, an even greater responsibility had fallen upon his shoulders. At least Matthew Wardroper would be keeping Jocelin d’Hiver under his eye.

Idly I watched a man pause in his haymaking to hone his scythe, then take a drink from the leather bottle on the ground beside him. Women were moving slowly, bent almost double in the noonday heat, separating the stalks of already-cut grass in order to ensure that they dried out properly. Others were raking between the swathe lines, making certain that none of the morning’s scything was wasted. It was a peaceful, harmonious scene, repeated at that time of year all over England, and I wondered how these men and women would feel if they thought that a foreign army was about to invade their world and trample down their crops. And, not for the first time, I fell to wondering what had decided King Edward to make war on France at this particular moment.

No doubt the more practical of his advisers had encouraged him to do so for the perennial reason of previous English kings: victories abroad discouraged dissension at home and that could only work to the ruler’s advantage. Others, more idealistic, had probably pressed England’s two-hundred-year-old claim to the French throne through Isabella Capet, wife and queen of the second Edward. Yet from the little I had seen of King Edward the fourth, I suspected that neither of these arguments would weigh very heavily with him. There was a scarcely veiled cynicism in that still handsome face which, to me at least, made his apparently motiveless decision all the stranger.

I hinted at these thoughts to Humphrey Nanfan, who was quick to counter with his own solution. ‘It’s to keep brother George from making more trouble I reckon. There’s been a powerful lot of bad feeling between him and the Queen’s family these many years past; indeed, ever since she married His Highness.’ Humphrey lowered his voice and wriggled closer to me on the tailboard. ‘Years ago, when Jacques de Luxembourg, Her Grace’s uncle, came to this country for her coronation, it was Duke George who dubbed him Lord Jakes. And whenever the poor fool went out riding in the London streets the crowds would pursue him, shouting things like “Here comes the Keeper of the Privy Purse” and directing him to the public privies in Paternoster Row. He didn’t know what was going on, did he, poor sod? He’d smile and nod and thank ’em, and all the time my master would be doubled up with laughter. But the Woodvilles, they took it badly, especially as Duke George had protested one of the loudest against what he called his brother’s misalliance.’

‘You called Clarence your master just now,’ I accused him.

Humphrey looked uncomfortable for a fleeting moment, then smiled guilelessly. ‘My late master, I should have said, for at that time I was a page in Duke George’s household. I told you,’ he added defensively, ‘that I fell out with a fellow servant and wished for another place. His Grace persuaded his brother of my usefulness.’

‘I remember. It was the manner in which you spoke of my lord of Clarence, as if you still regarded yourself in his service.’

‘Nonsense!’ Humphrey tried to change the subject. ‘Sweet Saviour, it’s hot! I could do with a drink of ale.’

‘Where were you the other evening,’ I asked, ‘during the mumming, when the attempt was made on Duke Richard’s life?’

He turned his head sharply, regarding me with a sudden curiosity which he had not displayed before. I could see his suspicion deepening and the swift calculations going on behind his eyes as he pieced together certain incidents of the past six days, the days since I had become one of Duke Richard’s servants.

‘What does it matter to you?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You don’t suspect one of the Duke’s own people, surely? His Grace has explained what happened. A madman got in from outside.’

I shrugged in an attempt to appear unconcerned. ‘No reason. Just interest, that’s all.’ I forced a smile. ‘You take me up too quickly, Humphrey.’

He stared hard at me for a moment longer until, apparently satisfied of the innocence of my intent, he too hunched his shoulders. ‘Why shouldn’t I tell you? It’s no secret after all. I was talking to Stephen Hudelin. You can ask him if you wish. He’s only over there, walking alongside the cart containing His Grace’s silver.’ He raised his voice. ‘Stephen! Come here! You’re needed.’ And when the older man had quickened his pace to catch up with our wagon, Humphrey continued without wink or nod or any change of expression that I could see, ‘When that madman tried to kill Duke Richard where was I? Our friend Roger Chapman wants to know.’

Stephen glanced at me in his usual surly fashion. ‘He was talking to me,’ he said. ‘But what does it have to do with you?’