The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Chapter Sixteen

We did not return to Calais for our belated dinner until close upon noon, by which time my stomach was rumbling with hunger.

The reason for the delay was the Duke’s insistence on visiting his levies, walking around that part of the camp where his own particular troops were mustered and following in my footsteps of earlier that morning. He displayed an interest in the comfort and welfare of his men shown by very few of the other commanders, asking pertinent questions and displaying considerable knowledge concerning the answers. (This should not have surprised me, however, because this young man, who was my own age exactly, had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine by the time he was eleven years old.)

At last, however, the Duke was ready to leave and return to the town, a decision I silently but heartily applauded, and not just because I was famished. The familiar way he moved among the soldiery, stopping to speak to the roughest and ugliest of characters, filled me with the greatest apprehension; and on more than one occasion I urged his Body Squires to stand closer to him, even presuming to mount guard over him myself. How easy it would be, I reflected, for someone to produce a knife from beneath his tunic and slide it between his victim’s ribs.

Duke Richard gave no sign of noticing these manoeuvres, except for a slight lift at the corners of his wide, thin mouth. However, when at last he turned to go, back to where the horses had been tethered at the edge of the vast encampment, he brushed against me, murmuring so low that only I could hear, ‘It’s time I put you out of your misery, Roger Chapman.’

He and his Squires cantered leisurely over the paved causeway which led eventually to Calais’s landward gate. The rest of us were on foot, swinging along at a vigorous pace, but unable, nevertheless, to keep abreast of the horsemen. I was relieved therefore to see a party of the Duke’s retainers, headed by the unmistakable figure of Timothy Plummer, riding out across the lowered drawbridge to meet us. I was also pleased to recognize Matthew Wardroper amongst the group. There was something reassuring about the sight of his slender, upright figure, mounted on a chestnut gelding. Moreover, it was good to know that here, at least, was one man free from the taint of any suspicion.

I was less pleased, a moment later, to note Ralph Boyse, still clutching the portable organ, standing in the crowd lining the roadside to watch the Duke and his retinue pass. Why was he not safely in Calais by now? It was an hour and more since we had parted company; ample time for him to have reached and entered the town, even hampered as he was by his burden. I tried to keep him in view as my fellows and I drew level with the onlookers, but there were too many people milling around the edge of the causeway, and on more than one occasion he vanished from sight.

The two parties of horsemen had by now met and mingled, Timothy Plummer and his escort closing in behind the Duke who, even at a distance, was patently none too gratified to see them. He was doubtless displeased by this public demonstration of concern.

Suddenly, above the general hubbub, there sounded a brief but piercing whistle. Almost immediately Duke Richard’s horse careered off the track and began a headlong gallop towards the deep ditch which surrounded Calais’s double circle of walls. For a moment nobody moved, unable to take in exactly what had happened, and then for a few short seconds after realization dawned we all waited for the Duke, deservedly famous for his equestrian skills, to bring the maddened beast under control.

‘Jesus!’ breathed the man next to me, those of us on foot having slowed to a halt. ‘His saddle’s slipping. The girth’s broken.’

‘Or been cut,’ I muttered grimly under my breath.

We all started to run, knowing full well that it was hopeless. We could never catch up. It needed another horseman, and a skilled one at that, to overtake and check the bolting thoroughbred, a high-spirited animal and difficult enough to handle at the best of times. The Duke’s entire mounted retinue was already streaming in pursuit, but I placed little faith in the ability of any one of them to prevent the tragedy so obviously impending. If the Duke did not break his neck, he must, barring a miracle, be seriously injured in a fall.

The cumbersome ornamental saddle slithered first to one side, then to the other of the horse’s back, and Duke Richard twice avoided being thrown by the merest hair’s breadth and his own superb skill as a rider. But the ditch was getting closer by the second. Once the animal stumbled into that nothing on earth could save either him or the Duke from an extremely dangerous tumble.

Then, with disaster looming, young Matthew Wardroper seemingly came out of nowhere, reaching his master’s side at breakneck speed, leaning across to snatch at the runaway’s bridle and flinging a steadying arm about the prince’s shoulders. There was a moment of wild confusion when it looked as if both men and their mounts must plunge together down the steep, rolling slope into the bottom of the ditch; but at the very second when all appeared lost, Duke Richard wrenched his horse’s head to the left and veered sharply away from the edge, taking Matthew Wardroper with him. The blown steeds came to a stop a furrow’s length from the brink, standing docilely while the two men dismounted.

I was near enough by now to see that young Matthew looked considerably more shaken than the Duke, who put up both hands to ward off a host of anxious retainers.

‘I am perfectly safe. There is nothing to be alarmed about,’ I heard him say, before he was blocked from my view by a sea of bodies.

And he was the only one of us who looked calm and unruffled as, twenty minutes later using a borrowed saddle, he rode over the drawbridge and into the town at the head of his retinue.

The following day I found myself, more by chance than design, wedged next to Timothy Plummer as the three princes, supported by their immediate household officers and friends, crowded into the market square of Calais to await the arrival of Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. After the formal greetings and exchange of presents, King Edward and his two brothers, accompanied by their sister, would withdraw for rest and relaxation into the Hotel de Ville, where they would be able to discuss more intimate family matters.

Timothy edged a little closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Have you been told that tomorrow my lord and the Duke of Clarence will escort the Duchess back to St Omer?’ I shook my head as he grinned, taking his usual pleasure at imparting unwelcome news. ‘True, I assure you. And I have arranged with His Grace that you shall be one of his following. Can you sit a horse?’

‘I have ridden, although not recently. Does Ralph Boyse go with us?’

‘No. Nor Stephen Hudelin, nor Jocelin d’Hiver, nor Humphrey Nanfan. They will remain here under the watchful eye of young Wardroper. But we two must go with the Duke just in case none of the four proves to be the guilty person and danger threatens from another quarter.’

I shifted my position slightly in order to obtain a better view of Duke Richard, straddling his horse beside his brothers in the centre of the square. I noticed that today he sat a different saddle. I spoke to Timothy without turning my head. ‘I haven’t asked if His Grace’s girth was deliberately cut yesterday morning. I took it for granted.’

‘And right to do so,’ Timothy responded glumly. ‘There was no possibility of a mistake. The leather was almost new and the break was clean. A knife, or some other sharp instrument, had been used to slice it through.’

‘What did the grooms say?’

‘Swore that all the harness had been closely inspected as usual before the Duke set out. They’re good, sound Yorkshiremen. Been in the Duke’s employ for years, both at Middleham and at Sheriff Hutton. There’s no cause to doubt their word or actions. Like all his northern levies, they’re both zealously protective of his person.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t doubt it for an instant. The horses were tethered on the outskirts of the camp for over two hours and more while the Duke went about his business. Anyone could have got at them. Ralph Boyse was in the camp throughout that period, as I’ve told you. Have you inquired about Humphrey and the others?’

‘The three of them were absent from the Duke’s lodgings all morning. This is attested to. Apart from that, however, their whereabouts are unknown. They could have been inside the walls, but no one can say for certain.’

‘What do they say themselves?’

Timothy sighed. ‘His Grace has strictly forbidden any general questioning of the household. It will only draw unwelcome attention, he thinks, to this threat upon his life.’ Timothy straightened his back as the distant sound of trumpets echoed from the landward side of the town. ‘Nevertheless, I have ventured to ignore his commands in the case of our particular friends.’

‘With what result?’ I prompted as everyone in the square now came to attention, the tips of bills and halberds glittering in the sunshine.

‘Naturally enough, considering the circumstances – for rumour of the true cause of the mishap has spread like wildfire in spite of the Duke’s attempts to keep it secret – they all claim to have been in Calais about their own or His Grace’s business.’

‘That’s nothing to their credit. The girth may well have been tampered with before Duke Richard set out for the camp but after the animal left the stable. The leather could have been sliced almost through, but not quite, leaving the motion of the saddle on the homeward journey to complete our assassin’s handiwork.’

Timothy shook his head decisively. ‘The cut was clean. No part of the strap was frayed.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘You’re not the only one, chapman, who knows what to look for, or what conclusions to draw from the things you see.’

There was no chance just then for further conversation. With the banners and pennants of Burgundy hanging limply above her head in the noonday heat, and with the sunlight gleaming on the ubiquitous collar of the Golden Fleece, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, rode into Calais and the crowded market-place.

In appearance, she was very like her two elder brothers, tall and big-boned with the florid Plantagenet complexion. When she had dismounted, she first made obeisance to King Edward before rising from her curtsey to be embraced more informally by all three men. From my position of vantage, with only a single row of halberdiers between me and the main players in this little scene, I noted that although the Duchess warmly greeted both her eldest and youngest brother, it was George of Clarence whom she was most delighted to see. She held him longer in her arms, kissed him more soundly and clung to his hand more possessively when the royal party and the most privileged of their respective retainers finally moved inside the Hotel de Ville.

Those of us left outside in the square immediately relaxed, the soldiers allowing their shoulders to slump and their grip on their bills and halberds to slacken. The rest of us began to disperse about our various business. Timothy rubbed the back of his neck, his short stature having made it necessary for him to crane over the heads of the guard of honour in order to see what was happening.

‘Where’s the Duke of Burgundy?’ I asked. ‘Why hasn’t he come with the Duchess?’

My companion snorted. ‘You may well ask. He isn’t called Charles the Rash for nothing. Apparently, he’s gone dashing off to besiege some tinpot town called Neuss just because the Mayor, or Burgomaster, or however they term ’em here, has annoyed him. Our own lord’s hopping mad, by all I hear, and even Duke George ain’t too pleased about it.’

‘And King Edward?’ I asked. ‘What does he say?’

‘Strangely enough, he’s not too bothered by all accounts. Mind you, it’s not surprising, really.’ Timothy smiled the superior smile of one who was in the innermost counsels of the high and mighty. ‘I don’t know as I’d worry too much about having Duke Charles constantly dancing attendance at my elbow. And I dare say His Highness’d rather have his brother-in-law’s room than his company.’

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, but made no further comment on the subject.

Instead, ‘What do you think caused the Duke’s mount to bolt yesterday when it did?’

Timothy hunched his shoulders. ‘Someone in the crowd let out a whistle. Didn’t you hear it? Well then! There’s your answer.’

‘But it didn’t affect the other horses.’

‘Maybe they ain’t so high-strung as that bay of the Duke’s. It’s always been a funny-tempered animal. It was why my lord of Clarence sold it to his brother in the first place. There was no one in his stables who could handle it, including himself.’ Timothy glanced sharply at me with an arrested expression in his eyes. ‘You don’t think…?’ he began, then pulled himself up short, shaking his head. ‘No. That was over a twelvemonth since.’

We had by now reached the house where the Duke was staying and thankfully entered its portals, leaving the market-place to the burning midday heat and the wilting halberdiers and billmen: poor souls who must wait for the Duchess to emerge from the Hotel de Ville and then escort her to her overnight lodgings. I agreed with Timothy that he was probably right to discount the fact that the Duke of Clarence had been the bay’s original owner and we separated just inside the door with a parting injunction from him to remember that I was riding with the Duke tomorrow to St Omer. I nodded and watched his retreating back as he bustled away about his own affairs. It seemed to me that there were times when Master Plummer was far too complacent about his powers of reasoning for Duke Richard’s safety.

I stood for several seconds, head bowed in thought, recalling the scene in the market-place. Had the Duke been riding the bay this morning? I fancied not. He had been mounted on a chestnut mare, if memory served me aright, and I intercepted a scurrying page to ask if he knew where my lord was stabling his horses.

‘In Pissoir Lane,’ came the answer.

This I found without much difficulty, every local inhabitant knowing where the public urinals were located. The stables stood at the opposite end of the alleyway, next to the smithy, and my azure-and-murrey livery gained me immediate access. I was directed without hesitation to the half-dozen stalls reserved for the Duke of Gloucester’s horses and the two grooms accepted me with the same lack of reservation. As Timothy had told me, they were plain, blunt Yorkshiremen, who addressed each other as Wat and Alfred, and I came straight to the point, knowing that I need not beat about the bush.

‘What do you think caused my lord’s horse to bolt yesterday?’ I asked them. ‘Master Plummer thinks the animal was frightened by a whistle from someone in the crowd, it being highly strung and therefore volatile.’

The man called Alfred snorted. ‘I’ll tell thee this for nowt,’ he said, in an accent so thick that to my West Country ears it sounded almost like a foreign language. ‘Great Hal’s nay s’ highly strung as that Master Plummer, flittin’ in and out, hoppin’ around like a flea on a griddle, askin’ a hundred bludy questions and nay list’nin’ to the answers. Here!’ He led me to one of the stalls and opened the door, indicating by a jerk of his head that I should follow him inside, where the bay, Great Hal, was peacefully foraging in his manger. In spite of this I approached the hindquarters of the spirited beast with caution.

The groom named Wat now joined us and it was he, pushing his obviously younger colleague aside, who ran an experienced hand across the beast’s left buttock, close to the tail.

‘See here,’ he urged. ‘If you look carefully where my finger’s pointing you c’n just make out a smear o’ dried blood.’ I peered closely and sure enough a tiny scab, no bigger than a pinhead, was visible among the short, stiff hairs of the glossy coat. ‘That’s what made him bolt, isn’t it, old fellow?’ And Wat caressed the horse’s neck with a loving hand. The animal paused briefly in its feeding and whickered a soft greeting through its nostrils.

There was silence. Then I said slowly, ‘You’re telling me that someone deliberately goaded Great Hal into bolting? Well, it’s no more than I expected. That shrill whistle alone is unlikely to have unsettled him, but a sharp jab in his rump would almost certainly have upset a mettlesome animal such as this. Did you inform Master Plummer of your find?’

‘We would’ve, reet willingly, if he’d only stayed to inquire. But he were off, like a hare when t’dogs are after it, once he’d satisfied hisself that girth’d been tampered with. Seemingly that were all he needed to know. We hadn’t properly examined Great Hal by then. And Master Plummer’s not returned here since for any further answers.’

I thanked them and left, deep in thought. I was convinced in my own mind, although it would be a difficult thing to prove, that the whistle had been a signal. From Ralph Boyse perhaps? He had been amongst those who had lined the causeway and I was growing increasingly mistrustful of this son of a French mother who most surely had not been where he said he was during Duke Richard’s sojourn at Northampton.

My mind went back to Berys Hogan and Lionel Arrowsmith. I recalled how everyone had warned Lionel of impending trouble, of Ralph’s jealousy, if he persisted in paying court to her. Yet those warnings had proved false and Berys herself, who must know the temper of her betrothed as well as anyone, had seemed unconcerned by the threat of Ralph’s anger. There was something about their actions that worried me, but it was like trying to see to the bottom of a pond through muddy water.

My thoughts harked back to the events of yesterday, coupled with what I had just learned. If the whistle had been a signal, then for whom had it been intended? Only someone close to the Duke, someone in his immediate retinue, could have pricked the horse’s rump and made it bolt. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized that this presented me, and of course Timothy Plummer, with an entirely unexpected problem, for neither Jocelin d’Hiver, Humphrey Nanfan nor Stephen Hudelin had been amongst those riding behind Duke Richard.

As I approached, I could see that the market square was still full of people, the sweating soldiers still waiting for Duchess Margaret to emerge from the Hotel de Ville. Red-faced Sergeants-at-arms, as weary and uncomfortable as their men, bawled conflicting orders, the horses neighed and stamped their feet, while the townsfolk irritably tried to get on with everyday living. High above, the sun shone down relentlessly, making this the one truly hot day we had had since our arrival in Calais. To my right a flag-paved courtyard was sliced in two by shadow thrown by the transverse section of a roof. A bench ran along one wall of the houses which surrounded this little haven of peace and silence and I noticed that the building facing me was a tavern. I became conscious of an overpowering thirst. Within minutes I was seated on the bench, out of the sun’s glare, swallowing the contents of a mazer.

When I had drunk to the dregs, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, leaned my head against the wall behind me and gave myself up to despair. I was no nearer an explanation of events than I had been when first approached, more than two weeks ago, by Timothy Plummer. It was now the sixth day of July and the Eve of Saint Hyacinth was more than five weeks distant. Long enough for desperate men to make a further, and perhaps this time successful, attempt on Duke Richard’s life. Two had been made already and I was as far as ever from solving the all-important question – why? I stretched my legs out in front of me and, having assured myself that no one was watching, I began muttering to myself as I ticked off on my fingers such fragments of the puzzle as I possessed.

Of all the five suspects presented for my consideration, and known by Timothy and Lionel Arrowsmith to be working for other masters, one had been cleared by my own observation, while of the remaining four Ralph Boyse appeared to me to be the most definitely implicated. His whereabouts during the first attempt on the Duke’s life had never been established and, although this could also be said of the other three, it was only Ralph whom I had so far detected in a blatant falsehood. Why had he begged leave of absence from the Duke in order to visit a sick kinsman in Devon when he had obviously never visited the county? No one who had ever seen that rich, red earth would agree with the suggestion that it was chalky. Yet even if Ralph were indeed in the pay of France, as Timothy, Lionel and now I myself all thought him, what possible reason could the French have for wanting Richard of Gloucester killed? From the beginning, Timothy had been at pains to point out the unlikelihood of any such wish. King Edward, perhaps, as the sole instigator of this projected invasion; but Duke Richard’s death, like that of his brother Clarence, could surely avail them nothing.

I shifted my position on the bench, let my hands drop into my lap and closed my eyes. A ragged cheer from the market-place, followed by the renewed barking of orders, indicated that Duchess Margaret and her brothers had at last come out from the Hotel de Ville, and that she was now ready to be conducted to her lodgings. I stayed where I was however. Tomorrow I should be one of those accompanying her back to St Omer. I should see all I wanted to see of the lady then. Meantime, there were other matters needing my consideration.