The Goldsmith's daughter

Eighteen

‘But how could we ever have been married?’ Eleanor asked. She pushed aside her embroidery frame with shaking hands. She repeated, ‘He was married to Isolda.’

I shrugged. ‘But who knew what the future held? Fatal illness, accidents, both these things are everyday occurrences, which, by his reckoning, could have happened to your cousin at any time. He wished to accustom you to the idea that, one day, you and he could possibly be man and wife. But Gideon was like all of us: while he could quite easily envisage the death of somebody else, he regarded himself as immortal.’

Eleanor considered this idea for a second or two, then emphatically shook her head. ‘No! You’re wrong! Isolda and Gideon were happily married.’

It was my turn to demur. ‘Maybe Mistress Bonifant was happy, but I wouldn’t be certain about her husband. My guess is that he’d fallen in love with you. You were only a child when they were first married but, over the years, you’d grown into a beautiful woman. I suspect that he suddenly — perhaps to his own surprise — found himself attracted to you. Maybe, to begin with, it was against his will. Let us give him the benefit of the doubt and say that he struggled to suppress his feelings for a while, but that, eventually, they proved too strong for him. That was when he started to spread rumours about Isolda and your brother.’

Eleanor lifted her lovely eyes to mine. ‘You mean that he was lying?’

‘Have you never considered the possibility that he might have been?’

My companion drew a deep breath. ‘I thought Gideon was mistaken about the man being Kit, who has never been enamoured of. . of. . well, ugly women.’ Eleanor pressed her hands to her cheeks and hung her head. ‘That’s a horrible thing for me to say about Isolda, but. . but. .’

‘Why be ashamed of stating the truth?’ I soothed her. ‘I know very little of your brother, but judging by the woman who was hanging on his arm last Sunday, I would be prepared to wager good money on Master Christopher feeling nothing for Mistress Bonifant beyond normal, cousinly affection. But please go on. You were implying that while you thought Gideon to be wrong about the identity of Isolda’s lover, you nevertheless believed that there might, in fact, have been one.’

Eleanor raised one hand to her forehead. ‘Did I imply that? Yes, I suppose, to be truthful, I did.’

‘You thought Isolda was in love with someone other than her husband? What made you think so?’

My companion, however, seemed to have no clear idea why she had entertained such an idea and, as far as I could make out, it rested on nothing more than the belief, already expressed to me by my wife, that no man would claim to be a cuckold without good reason.

‘But who could your cousin’s lover possibly have been? Were there any men that you knew of with whom she was particularly friendly?’

It seemed there was no one to whom Eleanor could immediately put a name, and she was too anxious to return to the subject of Gideon and his nocturnal prowlings to give the idea any positive thought.

‘Are you serious in your suggestion, Master Chapman, that what I imagined was a. . a spirit haunting my room, was really Gideon himself, in the flesh?’

‘I’m convinced of it,’ I answered gently. ‘Mistress Bonifant herself told me that, over the past months, Gideon had risen from his bed on many occasions and gone wandering about the house at night. This sleeplessness was one of the reasons why she had begun to fear for his health. In reality, of course, he was not ill, merely lovesick. And he had seen a way to turn your confidence about the magical properties of the original pendant — the one you bought in Leadenhall market — to his advantage. He would enter your chamber which, I believe, is next to his and Mistress Bonifant’s, touch you lightly on your cheek or forehead in order to rouse you and, then, before you were properly awake, remain just long enough for you to recognise him before slipping from the room and hurrying back next door.’

‘But — but the visitations stopped after I threw the pendant away.’

‘Not for long, I should guess. Only until you received the new one for your birthday. Am I not right?’ And when she nodded, I continued, ‘According to Toby Maybury, it was Gideon who not only proposed a pendant as the family gift, but who also suggested the design for it. Did you know that?’ This time she shook her head, an expression of increasing horror on her face. I asked softly, ‘Were you fond of Gideon Bonifant?’

‘No!’ Eleanor shivered, wrapping her arms around her body for comfort. ‘No, I wasn’t. I didn’t dislike him, not for years, and he was always kind to me, although he could be sharp-tongued with other people. But I was never fond of him. There was always something about him that, deep down, I didn’t really care for. That’s why I was so distressed when. . when these nightly visitations started. I wouldn’t have wanted him for my husband even if he’d been free, but I thought that fate had. . had decreed that I should marry him one day.’ She gave a little laugh that faltered in the middle. ‘I was worried for Isolda’s life, not his. I was afraid, as you said just now, that she was the one who was going to die. Every time she left the house or complained of a headache I was worried. And then, after all, it was Gideon who died, who was poisoned.’

‘Tell me honestly,’ I said, ‘do you believe your cousin discovered that Gideon was in love with you and murdered him as a consequence?’

‘Yes, tell Master Chapman honestly, Nell, my dear, what you really think.’ Isolda Bonifant’s voice sounded behind us, although there was no rancour in her tone.

Neither of us had heard her enter the parlour and we both started with surprise. Eleanor gave a muffled cry, jumped up, pushing past her cousin, and fled from the room. Isolda made no attempt to detain her.

‘How long have you been there, Mistress?’ I asked, when I had recovered my breath.

‘I’ve been listening outside the door, which you failed to close properly, for quite some time,’ she admitted unashamedly. ‘Long enough to understand what Gideon was up to.’ She moved towards the fire, sitting down in her cousin’s vacated chair and idly playing with the needle that Eleanor had left jabbed into the canvas of the embroidery frame.

‘And did you ever suspect that your husband was in love with Mistress Babcary?’ I asked bluntly.

She made no answer for a moment or two, then suddenly shrugged and looked me full in the face.

‘I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to believe it was true. He was twenty-two years older than she was, and I’d managed to convince myself that what he felt for her was no more than the affection of, say, an uncle for his niece.’ She laughed and looked away again. ‘What a self-deluding fool I was! But as for his attempt to persuade her into thinking of herself as his future wife in the manner you’ve just explained to Nell, of that I had no idea.’

‘Had you known, what would you have done?’ I asked.

She regarded me straitly. ‘I should have done my utmost to put a stop to such nonsense — but not by murdering Gideon.’

And suddenly, I found myself believing her without any of my former reservations. There was something about Isolda Bonifant that commanded my respect. She might be considered ugly by many men’s standards of beauty — although not by mine — but her mind was like her face, strong and honest. And there had been too many others, that night of Barbara Perle’s birthday feast, either around the table in the parlour or downstairs in the kitchen, who benefited from Gideon Bonifant’s death. For Miles Babcary it removed a son-in-law uninterested in the goldsmith’s trade, and who would quite possibly have sold the shop the moment it became the property of his wife. It rid Meg Spendlove of one whom she saw as a tyrannical master, and prised a thorn from Toby Maybury’s side. Eleanor Babcary was freed from a continuing nightmare, while her brother was no longer the target of Gideon’s false accusations. The Napiers ceased to suffer from the threat of exposure, he as a philandering husband, she as a cuckolded wife (surely something not to be borne by a woman as proud and as vain as Ginèvre). Most important of all, however, Barbara Perle’s future as the second Mistress Babcary still lay before her whenever she chose to accept Miles’s proposal of marriage. She would neither be forced to give up her pretensions to being his wife nor revealed as an adulteress. Of all of those around that supper table, she, perhaps, had more to gain than anyone else.

I suddenly realised that if I went to the Duke of Gloucester with as much knowledge as I now possessed, he could lay enough evidence before Mistress Shore to convince her that her kinswoman was far from being the only possible murderer of Gideon Bonifant, and demand his favour in return. On the other hand, if these facts became common property, they would not only throw suspicion on the innocent as well as the guilty, they would also destroy at least two lives, Miles Babcary’s and Barbara Perle’s. It was therefore my duty, if I could, to unmask the real murderer, even if it meant giving up a chance to return home with Adela the day after tomorrow.

‘You’re looking pensive, Master Chapman.’ Isolda’s voice broke through my thoughts, making me jump. ‘Have you come to the conclusion that I’m speaking the truth?’

‘I might have,’ I answered cautiously. I longed to tell her the whole story, but there were secrets that had to be preserved, at least until the truth was exposed. And perhaps — who could tell? — even after that revelation. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. ‘Mistress Bonifant,’ I asked abruptly, ‘why do you think no one has tried to kill me?’

‘Why has no one tried to kill you?’ she repeated blankly.

‘Yes. Oh, several times I’ve thought my life was in danger, but on each occasion so far, it seems to have been a false alarm, arising out of a natural expectation on my part that the murderer of Master Bonifant would try to prevent me discovering his — or her — identity. After all, a person who has killed already has less reason to fear killing again. However many your victims, you can only be hanged once.’

‘Master Chapman!’ Isolda rose to her feet. Her face was white and strained, like someone who was holding her emotions on a very short rein. ‘This has been a trying morning. I have found out things about my husband I would far rather never have known — or at least not known for certain — so I have no wish to be further burdened by talk of hanging. It’s almost ten o’clock and dinner will soon be ready. Will you stay and eat with us?’

I declined her invitation, wanting to get back to the Voyager to spend as much time with Adela as I could before her departure the day after next.

‘But there is one more question I should like to ask you,’ I murmured apologetically. Taking Isolda’s resigned expression as permission to proceed, I said, ‘On the evening of the murder, did Master Bonifant visit you in the kitchen before going upstairs to change into his Sunday clothes?’

She frowned. ‘I don’t recollect his doing so, but I may have forgotten the incident if it was of no significance. Who claims that he did?’

‘Toby Maybury. He says that he saw your husband going into your bedchamber some while after he had left the shop. According to Toby, Master Bonifant explained away his tardiness by saying that he had been to the kitchen to have a word with you.’

Isolda gave a crack of laughter. ‘If I were you, Master Chapman,’ she advised, ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that Tobias Maybury says.’ She spun on her heel and made for the parlour door, where she paused, her hand on the latch. ‘That boy is a menace and always has been. Well, I doubt if we shall run into one another tomorrow at the tournament. The crowds will be far too dense. But in case we do, promise me that, just for once, we won’t talk about my husband’s murder.’ She passed a hand wearily across her forehead. ‘And now I must go to Nell and reassure her that what I overheard this morning will not affect my fondness for her. None of it was her fault. And I have been used to hearing myself described as ugly throughout my life.’

Isolda’s prediction that the tourney ground at Westminster would be crowded proved to be correct.

It was a bright, clear day, warmer than of late, but still with a sharp wind blowing off the river; a day necessitating woollen cloaks, stout boots and pattens for the women, but one also that encouraged people to be out of doors rather than languishing at home.

The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were notable only by their absence, and the Duke of Clarence mouldered in the Tower, still uncertain of his fate. But the lack of the King’s family was amply compensated for by Mistress Shore, wearing her ivy-leaf coronet, and by the multitude of Woodvilles, their courtiers and sycophants, who surrounded him and the infant Duke and Duchess of York, not only in the loges, but also in the arena. Leading the Party Without were the Queen’s brother, Anthony, Earl Rivers, and her elder son from her first marriage, Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, while the ranks of the Party Within were swollen by others of her numerous relatives, including Sir Richard Haute, who was to win one of the principal prizes.

In accordance with the rules laid down by the first Edward, two centuries earlier, no contestant could be accompanied by more than three armed knights or squires, and the carrying of knives, clubs and daggers was strictly forbidden. Heralds and spectators had to be weaponless, and a fallen participant was allowed time to rise. Even so, some ugly injuries were sustained, and the sight of these, together with the noise, dust and incessant clash of arms, were enough to test the strongest nerves. I was not surprised, therefore, when Adela apologised to the Lampreys, who had accompanied us, and insisted that she and I leave the tourney ground and go in search of quieter pleasures. In her condition, peace and rest were becoming daily more essential.

As usual at these affairs, the vendors of drinks and hot pies were doing a roaring trade but, although I bought two meat pasties, one for each of us, Adela said that all she wanted was to quench her thirst, so I was obliged, with very little persuasion, to eat them both. We discovered a man selling cups not only of ale but also of primrose wine, and having purchased one of the former for myself and one of wine for Adela, we retired to some tables and benches that had been placed near Westminster Gate under a makeshift awning. At that distance, the sounds of the jousting were muted.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Adela sighed, some of the colour coming back into her cheeks. She took another sip of her wine, then leant across the table, proffering me her cup. ‘Try this, Roger. It’s very good. You’d like it.’

I gave a decided shake of my head. ‘No, I shouldn’t. I hate primrose wine. You know I do.’

‘But this is different. I don’t know what’s in it, but it has a more pungent smell to it and a stronger flavour than any other primrose wine I’ve ever drunk. I’m sure you’d agree with me if only you’d taste it.’

Once again, I shook my head vehemently, setting down my beaker of ale on the table between us, while I finished off the second of the two pasties.

‘Primrose wine is primrose wine,’ I observed thickly, through a mouthful of pastry.

Adela never argued with me when I was in one of my unreasonable moods. She had other methods of dealing with my obstinacy.

My attention was momentarily distracted by a brawl between a couple of drunkards which was taking place some twenty paces distant, the distraught wives hanging on to their husbands’ jackets and vainly trying to separate them. Not that there was likely to be much physical damage done: it was mostly hot words and posturing. Grinning to myself, and keeping my eyes on the contestants, I put out my hand, picked up my cup and raised it slowly to my lips. . The flavour burst, like a golden bubble, inside my mouth. There was a delicate hint of sage, of rosemary, of wild arum, like nothing I had ever previously tasted. It was like drinking the essence of spring.

‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ demanded my wife.

‘I. . What? That isn’t my ale.’ I stared indignantly from the table to Adela, who was smiling at me and looking ineffably smug.

‘I switched the cups while you were watching those two men. Be honest, Roger! Admit it! That primrose wine is like no other you’ve had before.’

‘It’s better than Margaret’s or Goody Watkins’s, I’ll give you that,’ I answered grudgingly, unwilling to concede her the victory. Our eyes met and she held my gaze. After a moment or two, I burst out laughing. ‘All right! You win! It does indeed have the most wonderful flavour, and just to prove to you that I’m sincere, I’ll buy myself a cup.’

I swung my legs over the bench and went in search of the wine-seller. I found him eventually, his tray slung around his neck by its leather strap, but its contents diminishing fast. In response to my request for the recipe for the primrose wine, he shook his head lugubriously.

‘I don’t know what’s in it, friend. I’m not allowed to know. My goody makes it, and the secret’s been in her family for generations, handed down from mother to daughter. But it sells well, which is the most important thing as far as I’m concerned.’

I was elbowed aside by other customers returning for second cupfuls, and I made my way back to Adela, who had now been joined by the Lampreys.

‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ Jeanne said, stooping to kiss my wife’s cheek. ‘We must get back to the shop and I’ve had enough of men playing at being warlords. Adela, my dear, we shan’t see you again as you’re off home tomorrow. I hope you have a safe journey with only this Jack Nym, or whatever his name is, for company.’ She raised her head and stared at me accusingly. ‘I suppose we might see you, Roger, as you’re remaining in London on the Duke of Gloucester’s business.’

It was only later that I pieced together what she had been saying because, at the time, I was like a man in a dream. For no apparent reason, I had just recalled a remark made earlier by Adela, and this had inspired a train of thought concerning Gideon Bonifant’s murder that had absorbed my whole attention. All at once, it was as though a candle had been lit in a darkened room: suddenly, I could begin to see my way forward.

Philip, ever sensitive to an atmosphere of female disapproval, pressed my hand in sympathy as we took our farewells, but it was a gesture whose significance was lost on me at that particular moment.

‘You’re very quiet,’ Adela remarked, as we made our way back to the Voyager. ‘Do you regret not going home with me tomorrow?’

Most ungallantly, I shook my head. ‘No, I trust Jack Nym.’ I was scarcely conscious of what I was saying. ‘My love,’ I went on, putting an arm about her shoulders as we pushed against a strengthening wind, ‘I must leave you at the inn and go on to Crosby Place. I need to borrow a horse from His Grace’s stables.’

‘A horse?’ Adela stopped in the middle of the Strand, forcing me to do likewise. She knew that I was a poor rider and was puzzled. ‘Why do you want to borrow a horse?’

‘I have to go to Southampton,’ I answered, urging her forward. ‘If I walk, it will take me over a week to get there and the same amount of time to return. On horseback, each journey can be accomplished in two or three days.’

‘But why do you have to go to Southampton at all?’ my wife demanded, none too pleased by this unexpected development in my plans.

I couldn’t explain until I was more certain of my ground.

‘It’s where Gideon came from,’ I said feebly. ‘He lived there before he moved to London, after his first wife died.’

Adela glanced doubtfully at me, but she was wise enough not to ask any more questions. I guessed that her anxiety stemmed from her concern that something might happen to me during my travels, and I hastened to reassure her.

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m in no danger. I know that now.’

She made no further comment, but her sleep that night was broken, and I suspected that my words had been of little comfort to her. With the coming of daylight, she was no less preoccupied, and said almost nothing as we made for the Leadenhall, our box loaded on to a handcart pushed by one of Reynold Makepeace’s cellarmen. (I had extracted my few belongings from the box earlier and stuffed them into a canvas sack lent to me by our ever-accommodating host.)

Jack Nym was before us, and, at first, viewed my intention to remain behind with even greater disapproval than that shown by Jeanne Lamprey. But once he understood my reasons, and that no less a person than the King’s brother was involved in my decision, he changed his tune, assuring me that he would take every care of Adela, and that not the smallest risk would be taken that might endanger her health.

‘Trust me, Roger!’ he exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘Trust me!’

I told him that I did, embraced Adela passionately, helped her mount to sit beside Jack, and watched the cart until it was out of sight, lost among the noonday crowds as it crawled towards the New Gate, the village of Holborn and the open countryside beyond. Then I went back to the Voyager, where I paid our shot, saddled the horse lent to me from the Crosby Place stables the previous day, settled the canvas sack containing my belongings on my back, where it felt instantly at home, and set out, crossing to Southwark by London Bridge before turning the roan’s head in a south-westerly direction.