The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Chapter Seventeen

They were small things, really, not mentioned to Timothy Plummer because, on the face of it, unconnected with the threat to Duke Richard’s life. Nevertheless, they bothered me. The lack of any real enthusiasm for the forthcoming war displayed by King Edward at last Saturday’s banquet in Baynard’s Castle; the fleeting yet significant glance that I had intercepted between him and John Morton, his Master of the Rolls; his reported indifference to the fact that his brother-in-law and chief ally, the Duke of Burgundy, instead of coming to greet him and join in a council of war, had dashed off to besiege the little town of Neuss; all these things, for some reason, made me uneasy.

Added to them was the memory of that furtive party of cloaked and hooded men leaving King Edward’s Calais lodgings the night before last. Who were they? And what had been their mission? Above all, was there a connection between them and the Frenchman whose voice I had heard through the crack in the courtyard wall, imparting a message which, I was fully convinced, had been intended for Ralph Boyse…?

‘So this is where you’re hiding!’ exclaimed a voice, and when I opened my eyes Matthew Wardroper was standing in front of me. ‘Master Plummer has sent me to look for you. He needs, he says, to discuss the order of procession for tomorrow. He wants to make sure that you and he ride as close to the Duke as possible.’ The brown eyes twinkled suddenly and he sat down beside me on the bench. ‘But I dare say the matter will keep a while. Let me buy you another cup of ale.’

‘Thank you. But there’s something I want to talk to you about first.’ And I told him of my visit to the stables and the grooms’ revelation. ‘Which means,’ I concluded, ‘that someone in the Duke’s entourage must have pricked the horse’s rump, causing him to bolt. You were there, Matthew, so think, lad! Think hard! Can you recall seeing anything at all suspicious?’

While I spoke, his eyes had widened to a horrified stare. ‘I thought it was the whistle which startled Great Hal, but this puts quite a different complexion on the matter. You’re right. Only someone riding behind His Grace could have been near enough to touch the animal.’ He raised a hand and pushed back some strands of dark hair from his puckered forehead. ‘Any one of us could have done it, that’s the problem. We were all crowding close at his back, unfortunately all looking straight ahead and not at one another.’ The inevitable conclusion suddenly struck him and his head jerked round. ‘Does this mean that Stephen and Jocelin and Humphrey are all innocent? That we are looking for someone we haven’t even thought of yet?’

I sighed. ‘I wish I knew the answer, lad. But I’m convinced of Ralph Boyse’s complicity, even though I can’t prove it. I’m also sure that he’s not alone in the plot. He has an accomplice. Maybe more than one?’

‘I’ll get you that ale and a cup for myself,’ Matthew said, rising to his feet and walking towards the tavern.

As he reached it, Jocelin d’Hiver emerged in the company of one of Duchess Margaret’s Burgundian retainers, whose presence had evidently not been required by his mistress at the Hotel de Ville. When he saw Matthew, Jocelin’s step momentarily faltered, then he gave a forced, brightly welcoming smile and made the necessary introduction. The Burgundian bowed politely and said something in French, to which Matthew just as politely responded before they pursued their separate ways.

‘Good-day, Monsieur d’Hiver!’ I called out as he passed me.

Jocelin started visibly at the sound of my voice and swung round.

‘Ah! Roger Chapman! Good – er – good-day to you, too.’

But he did not stop nor make me known to his companion. Instead, linking one arm through his fellow Burgundian’s, he hurriedly left the courtyard.

Matthew returned with brimming mazers, one of which he handed to me. A few drops of liquid spilt on the flagstones, but were immediately dried up by the heat. The shadows in the corner of the yard where we were sitting slowly receded, whilst lengthening in others, as the sun proceeded on its daily course across the heavens.

‘Did you see that?’ Matthew asked excitedly as he resumed his seat. ‘Jocelin with one of Duchess Margaret’s men.’

‘I did,’ I answered, sipping my ale and falling into an abstracted silence.

‘You’re very quiet,’ my companion accused me after a few moments, during which time he fidgeted irritably like a thwarted child. ‘What are you thinking about? Is it d’Hiver?’ And when I nodded he went on eagerly, ‘Do you think it might have been he and not Ralph who gave that whistle? Jocelin insists he was inside the town yesterday morning, but Master Plummer says there’s nothing but his word for that. He might equally well have been at the camp.’

‘True,’ I agreed, draining my cup and rising.

Matthew pouted when he saw that there was nothing more to be got from me, then laughed reluctantly. ‘You can keep your counsel when necessary, chapman, I’ll give you that.’

‘Maybe, when there’s any to keep. But at the moment I’m still floundering in the dark. There are tiny glimpses of light here and there, but not nearly enough of them to reveal the whole picture.’

He had been busy contemplating his long-toed boots of fine Italian leather, but now he glanced up, his liquid dark eyes snapping with sudden shrewdness. ‘Something’s going on in that devious mind of yours, Roger.’ He lounged to his feet. ‘I’d give a good deal to discover exactly what it is.’

‘You’d have to dig deep then to make any sense of it,’ I answered. ‘Meantime contain your soul in patience and keep a close watch on Jocelin and the other three while Master Plummer and I are away. Make sure that Ralph Boyse especially doesn’t sneak away from Calais and follow us to St Omer.’

‘Oh, trust me for that!’ Matthew grinned engagingly and dealt me a buffet on the arm. ‘You won’t be gone for more than a night or two at most, our Timothy assures me. You can both sleep easy, knowing everything here is in good hands.’

He swaggered off, humming a snatch of one of the lewd ballads popular with the men. I went in search of Timothy Plummer, my head in a whirl. There were even more things now that I did not understand.

In the event, we stayed three whole days and four nights in St Omer before returning to Calais on Tuesday, during which time Duchess Margaret lavished upon her two younger brothers all the hospitality for which the Burgundian court was so justly renowned. A tournament, fêtes and picnics were held in their honour, and they were loaded with costly gifts as the princess strove to make up to them for the discourteous absence of her lord. But all these festivities meant that our own lord was constantly surrounded by strangers, keeping his Squires of the Body, Timothy and myself in a perpetual state of agitation. They meant, too, that Duke Richard grew increasingly fretful, not just because of our intrusive vigilance, but also because there seemed to be no end to the delay in striking the first blow of the war.

‘We came here to fight!’ I overheard him complain one day to his brother. ‘Instead, we waste our time in frivolities.’

‘There’ll be plenty of time for fighting later on,’ Duke George admonished him. ‘Meanwhile just enjoy yourself, Dickon. If you know how to,’ he added, laughing.

‘We’ve taxed people at home to the hilt to pay for this invasion,’ Duke Richard snapped back, ‘and in return we’ve promised them victories. Which we’re not going to get by sitting on our fat arses!’

It was so unusual for him to swear or use common language – too pious and self-righteous by half, many people thought him – that his last remark was some indication of the strength of his feelings on the subject. After that, he and his brother moved out of earshot and I heard no more, but I guessed him to be the prime mover behind our return to Calais on Tuesday. Left to the Duke of Clarence, we might well have remained at St Omer another week, but what puzzled me was the fact that King Edward appeared content to let us do so. He came out to greet his brothers in the market square, but displayed no anger at their protracted visit to their sister. Even more curious, there still seemed to be no preparations to march into France.

Timothy and I sought out Matthew Wardroper.

‘How has all been in our absence?’ Timothy asked him.

Matthew made a discontented face. ‘As calm and as quiet as the grave. Not one of them – Ralph, Jocelin, Humphrey, Stephen – made the slightest move to follow you or even leave the town. They haven’t shown any inclination to visit their friends in camp and when not on duty have loafed around the ale-houses, drinking, dicing and whoring. It’s been most disappointing,’ he added candidly. ‘All my plans to save Duke Richard single-handedly by my superior wits have come to nothing.’

‘Superior wits, indeed!’ Timothy snorted bad-temperedly and stomped away to make sure that his orders for the Duke’s safety were being properly carried out.

I grinned at Matthew. ‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ I recommended. ‘He’s tired from constant vigilance; worn down by the continued uncertainty of what’s going to happen next.’

Matthew nodded gravely. ‘If only we knew the reason for this devilish plot.’ He sighed. And when I failed to agree, he looked at me narrowly. ‘Do you and Master Plummer know something you haven’t yet told me?’

‘I believe Master Plummer to be as much in the dark as ever,’ I answered slowly. ‘As for myself… well… As I’ve already told you, a glimmer of light is beginning to be visible through the murk.’

‘And you’re still not going to tell me what that glimmer is?’

I shook my head. ‘Not yet. Until my ideas are more fully formed I shall say nothing to anyone. I’m as chary as any other man about making a fool of myself.’

Matthew stared at me sullenly for a moment, then his features broke into a good-natured grin. ‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘I’d be the same.’

I had frequently noticed in him this ability to throw off bad temper, like a snake sloughing its skin; one moment he was a man, with all a man’s anger and resentments, the next the happy-go-lucky schoolboy without a care in the world. It was an endearing trait, and one that contributed to his popularity amongst his fellows.

The next two days were quiet. The heat continued, but a thin, grey pall of cloud drifted in from the sea, obscuring the sun. A brooding silence hung over the town and a kind of apathy gripped men’s spirits, making everyone listless and irritable. Now and then tempers flared, resulting in a little blood-letting with bouts of fisticuffs and sword-fights, but none of them lasted long. The protagonists were too indifferent to the outcome. It was as if, after all the months of preparation, of raising and equipping the greatest invasion force ever to leave England’s shores, enthusiasm for the war had drained away as soon as the troops set foot in Calais. But I was convinced that the general malaise started at the very top with the King. His barely concealed inertia infected everyone.

Yet this loss of interest on His Highness’s part was extremely curious for, as everyone kept saying, it was King Edward who had made the decision to go to war with the old enemy across the Channel, who had persuaded Parliament to make him large grants of money for the purpose, who had indefatigably travelled the country, cajoling and bullying his wealthier subjects into contributing substantially to the cause. Almost single-handedly he had fanned the spark of Agincourt fever still burning in every Englishman’s heart, until it once more became a steady flame. So why, now, did he loiter in his stronghold of Calais, apparently content to wait upon the tardy arrival of his brother-in-law before making any move against the French?

But I was not the only one who found the King’s motives hard to fathom. My lord of Gloucester was growing ever more impatient and critical of his eldest brother day by day.

‘I must speak to my lord,’ I said to John Kendall, Duke Richard’s secretary.

He eyed me severely. ‘Chapman, you grow too bold. I suppose we all know by now that you are not really employed by His Grace as a Yeoman of the Chamber, but neither have I received any intimation from the Duke that you enjoy special privileges. I will inform him that you crave the indulgence of an audience, but you will have to wait until I send you word.’

‘It’s urgent,’ I protested.

Again he merely shook his head. ‘I have told you that I will let you know. But I warn you, even if he agrees to see you it will not be today. Nor, probably, tomorrow. The Duke of Burgundy arrives in Calais this morning.’

And with that I had to be content: I could see that John Kendall would not be moved. I went to find Timothy, only to be asked snappishly why I was not at my customary post of duty amongst His Grace’s guards.

‘The Duke of Burgundy’s advance runners arrived not half an hour since, to announce that he himself will be here by noon.’

I had discovered Timothy in the ground-floor counting-house, a room which had been temporarily converted into a dormitory for some dozen of Duke Richard’s personal retainers, Master Plummer and myself amongst them. By a lucky chance he was alone, an unusual circumstance with so many of us constantly coming and going. Quickly I closed the door.

‘In heaven’s name, what are you doing?’ Timothy paused in the act of pulling on his best azure-and-murrey tunic, kicking his second-best one under his pallet bed. ‘We must be ready to accompany the Duke as soon as he leaves the house.’

‘Listen,’ I said urgently. ‘I have an idea as to what might lie behind this plot to kill Duke Richard.’ I had his attention now and proceeded, ‘I may be wrong. I have as yet no proof of any kind, although if I’m correct in my thinking it can’t be too long now before it’s confirmed by events.’

‘For God’s sake, chapman, come to the point!’ Timothy was rigid with impatience. ‘What do you think you know?’

The door burst open behind me and we both jumped. To my relief it was Matthew Wardroper, but his message was that the Duke was about to join his brothers in the marketplace.

Timothy swore. ‘We daren’t stop now, chapman. There’s a tavern just around the corner, tucked away in a small courtyard. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Then meet me there this evening, after supper.’

Matthew asked sharply, ‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’

Timothy straightened his tunic. ‘Roger thinks he knows what lies behind this plot against Duke Richard.’

Matthew exclaimed excitedly, clutching my arm, and I hastened to assure him that I had as yet no grounds for my suspicions and that only time would tell if I were right.

‘In which case young Matt had best come to the alehouse too,’ Timothy said, pushing past me to the door. ‘Two opinions will be better than one, I reckon. Now for God’s sake let us be going and, as always, stay as close to the Duke as you both dare.’

Duke Charles of Burgundy, known as ‘the Bold’ to his friends and as ‘the Rash’ to almost everyone else, was a long-faced, haughty-looking man, dressed all in black, the Order of the Golden Fleece gleaming at his throat and his horse’s harness hung with dozens of silver bells which jangled loudly each time that the unfortunate animal moved. He had one child, a daughter Mary, the progeny of his first wife, and seven years of marriage to our own Plantagenet princess had failed to produce any more; a constant source of barrack-room jokes among the Burgundian soldiery, or so Jocelin d’Hiver had told Matthew.

When Duke Charles rode regally into the market square at Calais I was standing some few paces behind Duke Richard, my eyes constantly flicking from one person to another in the crowd, on the watch for any untoward movement which might herald another attempt upon his life. I was therefore unaware for several minutes of the buzz of consternation which had arisen amongst the onlookers, or the signs of a heated altercation between the Duke and his brothers-in-law. When at last I did realize what was happening I hissed, ‘What’s going on?’ at one of my neighbours.

I recognized from his livery that he served under the captaincy of Louis de Bretaylle, one of the King’s most trusted and highly thought-of lieutenants.

‘Good God, man!’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘Where are your eyes? Burgundy’s brought no army with him; no men other than those few at his back. Our lords are furious, as well they might be.’

But when I glanced towards the knot of royal brothers it seemed to me that only the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence were at all perturbed by the circumstance of their brother-in-law’s dereliction. King Edward appeared to accept with equanimity the fact that, as it afterwards transpired, Charles of Burgundy, having abandoned the siege of Neuss, was off, for reasons known only to himself, to invade the dukedom of Lorraine. In a hard, grating voice, which I could hear from where I stood, he was haranguing King Edward and his brothers, but as he spoke in French I was unable to understand what was being said. Later, when the greetings and ceremonies, much muted in their tone, were over, and the lords had gone off to King Edward’s lodgings for a council of war, I asked Matthew Wardroper for a translation.

He shrugged. ‘Only something to the effect that the English army was great enough to sweep across Europe to the very gates of Rome itself without any help from him. Also that he will be ready to join forces with us later, after he has finished pillaging Lorraine. Of course, he didn’t put it quite so bluntly, but that’s what he meant,’ Matthew added with a grin, but sobered quickly. ‘Tell me when you’re ready to meet Master Plummer, won’t you? I’m dying of curiosity to hear what it is that you’ve discovered.’

‘I haven’t discovered anything,’ I protested. ‘Matt, I know this is hard, but I want you to stay with the Duke this evening.’ His face fell ludicrously and he pouted defiantly. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s a lot to ask, but I promise you shall know all presently. I need someone to keep an eye on Ralph Boyse. He’s singing for Duke Richard tonight. I overheard one of the pages say so.’

He hesitated, but only for a second before his sunny nature reasserted itself. ‘And you swear faithfully to tell me later? Oh… very well, then.’ He smiled at me, and I had a sudden, vivid recollection of Lady Wardroper as I had seen her five weeks ago at Chilworth Manor. ‘But what about the others? It won’t be easy to keep watch on all of them.’

‘Never mind the others,’ I answered tersely and walked away, leaving him staring.

The rest of the day passed swiftly. The council of war came to an end and the lords returned to their various lodgings, the Duke of Burgundy remaining for the night with the King.

By the time I reached the tavern Timothy was already seated in the courtyard, waiting for me, two brimming mazers on the bench beside him and one in his hand. ‘Where’s Matt?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve persuaded him to stay behind and keep watch on Ralph Boyse who’s entertaining His Grace this evening.’ I sat down and drank some ale.

‘Why Ralph in particular?’ Timothy asked. ‘What about the other three?’

‘Because I no longer believe they’re any threat to the Duke,’ I answered, a statement which caused my companion to raise his eyebrows.

‘Why not? What information have you uncovered?’

‘As yet nothing that you’d really call information.’ I sipped my ale. ‘Let that be for the moment.’

‘If you know something,’ Timothy began threateningly, then took a look at my face, paused and shrugged. ‘Very well. For the moment. So! You say you know the reason for the plot against Duke Richard.’

I took another swig of ale before replying. ‘I said I think I know. How serious is King Edward about this war do you imagine?’

Timothy choked as he swallowed his drink the wrong way. When he had recovered his breath he demanded incredulously, ‘What makes you ask such a question? How serious! Deadly so, that’s obvious to even the meanest intellect. The French, poor sods, have done nothing to invite it. It’s the old, old story. He who is King of England should also be King of France. It’s the same claim which has sparked all the wars of the last two hundred years. It goes back to Isabella Capet, the wife of the second Edward.’

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. At the other end of the bench a young couple were staring soulfully into one another’s eyes, those of the young man, slightly protuberant, shining like dark, ripe plums. In richness of colour they reminded me of Matthew Wardroper’s.

‘I believe the King to be playing a deeper game,’ I said slowly. ‘I believe him to be in touch with King Louis. To have been in touch with him for some long time. King Edward needs more money than Parliament is prepared to grant him for the extravagances of his queen, her family, his mistresses and his court. King Louis wants England under his thumb. And how better for both men to achieve their aims than for King Louis to pay King Edward a generous annual sum of money on condition that he withdraws from France, never to trouble her borders again?’