The Green Man

Seven

As we continued northwards, it became ever more obvious that the devastation in these northern shires, occasioned by the recent, terrible weather, was greater by far than anything we had experienced in the south. Although an uncertain June had brought bouts of tremulous sunshine, much of the soil was still waterlogged, and such shoots as had dared to thrust their way above ground, were pallid and weak. The people working the land were grey-faced and despondent, barely lifting dull eyes from the toil of grubbing in the earth to watch our brave cavalcade pass by. Facing the prospect of yet another bad harvest, they had no time to waste on the vagaries of their lords and masters. It was all one to them if Berwick were an English or a Scottish town, and was of small importance beside the fear of death, disease and empty bellies. It’s true that as we moved into sheep country, there were a few raised fists, and a few raised voices, also, demanding to know why England had not gone to Burgundy’s aid in her war with France. But, generally speaking, apathy and despair held the bulk of the population silent.

I stayed close to Albany, riding behind the two squires, watching carefully for any hostile move on the part of either one of them; or on the part of Davey Gray, James Petrie or the groom. However, as the days went painfully by, nothing happened except that I became ever more weary and saddle-sore, while the conviction grew in me that the threat from his late brother’s retainers was merely a figment of Albany’s over-fertile imagination.

Eventually, I told him so and demanded to be released from his employ.

‘My lord, I beg you to tell Duke Richard that you have been mistaken and no longer have need of my services.’

It was the evening of the 17th day of June, and the entire army was encamped outside the walls of York in readiness for the Duke of Gloucester’s triumphal entry into the city the following morning. This was the heartland of Prince Richard’s vast northern palatinate, and he would have been less than human had he not wanted us all to see how revered and beloved he was by those whom he regarded as his own special people. Albany, already short-tempered at the prospect — realizing, perhaps, that he would never command such devotion — was in no mood to grant my request or even to consider it.

‘Do you think I’m a fool?’ he barked. ‘A hysterical woman who jumps at shadows? Besides, it’s not just these five, one of whom may — all right! I admit it — may have been suborned by my brother, James. But there are those, too, in the English camp who wish me ill and doubt my good intentions once the Scottish crown is set on my head. No! I will not release you, Roger. You are the only person I trust wholeheartedly; the only person who has proved himself my friend — and that at some risk to himself. Now, please don’t raise this subject again, or I shall be forced to advise my cousin Gloucester that you are unwilling to obey his orders.’

Albany had gone very red in the face, and I found myself wondering, in a detached kind of way, if he might not die of an apoplexy and so relieve me of the necessity of looking after him. He was obviously working himself up for another such outburst, accompanied by the further possibility of a seizure, when, just at that moment, James Petrie’s tall, emaciated figure entered the crimson silk pavilion, anxious — or so I gathered from Albany’s reply — to know what clothes his royal master would be wearing on the morrow. His agitation made it plain that Scotland’s honour must be upheld amidst this horde of Sassenachs.

‘The purple velvet and ermine of course,’ Albany snapped. Then, with a shrug of impatience, repeated the words in the broad Scots dialect that I found so hard to follow, in spite of some recognizably English words being embedded in it, like jewels amongst the dross.

James Petrie nodded, apparently satisfied, before adding something else that made Albany yelp in protest.

‘Daybreak?’ He turned to me, aghast. ‘Jamie says we’re entering the city at daybreak! Dear, sweet God in heaven!’

His henchman smiled grimly.

While the duke was still voicing his disgust, in both English and Scots, with some choice French phrases thrown in for good measure, I escaped from the pavilion and went to cool both my head and my temper amongst the other splendid silken tents, topped by their gaily waving pennants. I had strolled some distance, fascinated by all the bustle of a great encampment — the comings and goings, the toing and froing, the many and varied orders shouted and then almost immediately rescinded — when it occurred to me that I had left Albany alone with one of the men he ostensibly distrusted. Yet he had made no move to detain me; just as, four days ago, he had gone hunting in Sherwood Forest, quite content to leave me behind. There was something odd about it all. It was making me very uneasy.

The Aldermen were resplendent in scarlet. There were also dignitaries in crimson, who, someone said, were the Twenty-four — although the twenty-four what I never discovered. Craftsmen and other citizens sweated in their Sunday best as the common folk crammed the narrow alleyways in a wildly cheering throng. Every house was decorated with some token or another; a bunch of flowers, a tapestry hung out of an upper window, knots of ribbon in the duke’s colours of blue and murrey. Women vied to get themselves noticed, flaunting more flesh than was seemly. (Well, not as far as I was concerned. I like the female form, but some, no doubt, objected.)

My lord of Gloucester himself, his face alight with pleasure and happiness, was presented with gifts of a fine milk loaf, ten gallons of wine and a great many very large fish, all of which seemed to be of the extremely pungent varieties. Albany, as guest of honour and future king of Scotland, received a similar offering, but not quite so generous, a fact he acknowledged with a small, ironic quirk of his eyebrow. And afterwards, there were pageants, songs and speeches by the score, and all before the sun had properly gilded the sky above the eastern horizon. For my own part, I groaned inwardly. I could feel in my bones that it was going to be a long, hard day.

Judging by the slightly jaundiced eye that Albany rolled in my direction, he thought so, too. But honour had been satisfied, and vanity appeased, by references to his anticipated kingly status and by the reverence accorded him — although any fool with half a brain would know that these blunt and honest Yorkshiremen were merely buttering him up to please their prince. That Richard of Gloucester was adored — almost worshipped — in these parts was plain to all; the love and warmth radiated towards him everywhere he went was almost palpable. It was doubtful if the king himself, had he been present, could have commanded one tenth of such affection. But not everyone was happy at this demonstration of unbridled loyalty: I noticed my lord of Northumberland, for one, looking as sour as a green apple.

Albany and his immediate entourage, myself included, spent the night at the Augustinian Friary, a favourite lodging, so I was told, of Prince Richard himself when he stayed in York. Tonight, he graciously ceded his place to his guest and withdrew to the Archbishop’s Palace, with orders to his generals that they were to be on the march again at dawn the following day.

‘Such energy,’ Albany complained in that half-mocking tone I was coming to recognize so well.

He was, I reflected, a difficult man to know, who revealed far less of himself than I had thought in the beginning. My original impression of Albany — both during our brief acquaintanceship in Bristol and earlier this year, in London — had been of a shallow man, motivated by vanity and petulance, envy and overweening ambition. He was not the first man, nor, doubtless, would he be the last, to resent having been born a younger son, and to aim at his brother’s crown. But he was less of a George of Clarence than those who so dubbed him (behind his back, it goes without saying) would admit. Over the past weeks, I had come to realize that Albany was not so trivial as popular opinion made him out to be. There was an unfathomable side to his nature that he took great pains to keep hidden; a side of which I had had the barest glimpse just once or twice when his guard had slipped, but so elusive that I could not pin it down. A circumstance that caused me a good deal of apprehension.

‘So, what do you think of the great northern city?’ he asked me as we lay side by side beneath the roof of the friary’s guest-house, on a deeply filled goose-feather mattress in a bed with richly embroidered hangings. ‘This must be your first sight of it, as it is mine.’

‘A very rich city,’ I said. ‘Rich by any standards, north or south. The castle’s a bit of a ruin, but otherwise the buildings are well maintained with plenty of gilding and good paintwork. And the mayoral banquet tonight,’ I added with a certain amount of bitterness, ‘sported enough dishes to feed the five thousand.’

Albany chuckled. ‘Plenty of rich leftovers, though, or so I should imagine.’

I snorted derisively. I didn’t suppose that he had ever eaten leftovers, rich or otherwise, in his life, not even when he was on the run from his elder brother’s court or in hiding.

‘Leftovers,’ I pointed out with an aggrieved air, ‘are either cold when they’re meant to be hot or tepid when they should be cold, and the saucers are usually wiped clean.’

That made my companion laugh outright.

‘Ye’re getting too particular, man! Too used to good living. You’ll have to get accustomed to common fare again when you eventually go home to your Jenny.’

‘Adela,’ I snapped.

He turned his head towards me on the pillow and grinned.

‘I like you, Roger,’ he said. ‘When I become king, I’ve a good mind to keep you with me as a lucky talisman.’

‘You couldn’t,’ I retorted sharply. ‘I shouldn’t stay.’

‘You might have no choice,’ was the soft response; so soft that it was like the breath of doom sighing between the bed curtains and gently brushing my cheek and making my blood run cold. I could have sworn that I saw the embroidered hangings stir.

I was seized by a sudden fear of never getting home again; of never seeing my wife and family again; after the fear of death, the most primeval fear of all.

My terror must have communicated itself to Albany for he grasped one of my wrists and shook it.

‘I don’t mean a lot of what I say, you know. I was jesting.’ He gave a sudden groan and sat up, his knees doubled up to his chest.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Bellyache!’ He groaned once more, clasping his hands around his knees. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had second helpings of everything, especially the peacock. There was something evil about that bird … Ah! … And I thought the pike tasted a bit queer, but you couldn’t really tell. The galentyne sauce disguised it … And I had three servings of curd flan and pears in white wine syrup … Eeeh! … For God’s sake, where’s the night-stool, Roger?’

‘Over here, on my side of the chamber.’ I pushed back the curtains and sprang out of bed, hoping desperately that Albany could control his bowels and vomit until he was clear of my side of the sheets. I lifted the lid of the night-stool invitingly.

The duke, who was now heaving most pathetically, flung himself on his knees beside it and I held his head down over the pot, waiting for the inevitable. But although the retching continued, nothing happened, and after several minutes, Albany jerked upright and sank back on his heels, tears streaming down his cheeks, but with nothing else to show for this sudden spasm.

‘I–I don’t think I am going to be sick after all,’ he announced, wiping his face with the hem of his night-shift and giving me a splendid view of his powerful physical attributes. (In his time, he had probably made a lot of women extremely happy.) ‘The nausea seems to be getting less … Yes … Yes … Praise be! I’m definitely beginning to feel better.’

‘If Your Highness is certain …’ I murmured doubtfully, unsure whether or not to replace the night-stool’s lid.

‘I’m certain,’ Albany replied, getting to his feet. He gave an apologetic smile. ‘At least, I think I am.’

‘Perhaps Your Grace had better wait a moment or so longer,’ I suggested, ‘just to avoid a nasty surprise.’

Although the June day had been mild, a fire had nevertheless been lit on the hearth in our bedchamber, and now one of the logs gave a dying spurt of flame as if caught by a sudden draught of air. I remembered the other small draught I had experienced earlier, but which I had attributed to my imagination. I stepped quickly around the bed, but the stout oaken door was firmly shut. I lifted the latch and pulled it open, expecting to see Davey or one of the squires sleeping across the threshold, but saw only a blanket in an abandoned heap.

I became aware of the duke at my elbow.

‘What’s wrong?’ His voice sounded shrill. ‘And where’s Davey? He was supposed to be on watch tonight.’

At that moment, the page appeared round a bend in the narrow passageway that led to the main door of the guest-house.

‘Where have you been?’ the duke demanded angrily.

‘Your grace … my lord …’ Davey stammered. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to use the privy in the yard. It’s my belly, my lord. I was feeling sick.’

Albany was grudingly sympathetic.

‘You, too? Roger here will tell you that I’ve been suffering likewise.’

‘And were you sick?’ I asked the page. ‘And how long have you been out there?’

He shook his head, as though dazed.

‘I don’t know. Some little while. And yes, I was sick,’ he added resentfully. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

Albany, still clutching his belly, turned to look at me with raised eyebrows.

I was forced to admit that, as far as I knew, nothing actually had. ‘I just thought that perhaps someone had entered the bedchamber,’ I explained. ‘Draughts,’ I muttered not very intelligibly.

‘Draughts?’

‘Yes, my lord. I was just being careful.’

Albany shrugged, wished Davey goodnight and turned back towards the bed.

‘We’d best get some sleep if we’re to be up at dawn,’ he advised, pulling back the hangings on his side of the bed, which had so far remained undisturbed.

I heard, almost with incredulity, the long, shuddering intake of breath that became a half-strangled cry of terror, and moved swiftly to his side.

‘My lord? What is it? What’s the matter?’

Albany, bereft of speech, could only point with a shaking finger. Sticking out of the bedclothes, its blade invisible, was the haft of a black-handled knife.

We fell into an uneasy slumber eventually, but not before we had both partaken liberally of the wine in our ‘all-night’ jugs and sat, huddled in conference, around the dying embers of the fire.

‘You see!’ the duke accused me in trembling accents. ‘I have not been imagining the danger that I’m in. Someone has made an attempt on my life and only by the greatest of good fortune — my feeling sick and needing the night-stool — have I avoided being done to death while I slept. And you have been trying to persuade me that I don’t need your protection.’

I was too shaken myself to think of pointing out that I, too, could have been asleep and therefore unable to avert the tragedy. My only thought was that Davey’s absence from his post had been all too opportune. I said nothing, but the same idea shortly occurred to Albany, who promptly stormed into the passageway, kicking his dozing page awake with a violence that made the poor boy jerk upright, shivering and whimpering with fright.

‘My-my lord?’ He blinked in astonishment at his master, but was still more horrified when confronted by an accusation of having deliberately deserted his post in order to leave the way clear.

‘No! No, my lord! I was sick. I told you! Something I ate at supper.’

His tearful protestations sounded sincere enough, and his white face gave credence to his claim of feeling ill, corroborated as it was by the duke’s own bout of nausea. But it would have taken a shrewder man than myself to say for certain whether Davey’s tale were true or merely a skilful piece of play-acting. The fact remained, however, that whoever had made this attempt on the duke’s life could have had no foreknowledge of the page’s possible absence from outside the door unless he were in league with Davey himself …

Then I recollected that the boy normally slept on a truckle-bed or pallet inside the bedchamber, and only lack of a bolt on the door had, on this occasion, banished him to the passage. Davey’s absence might therefore have led the killer to suppose that such was the case tonight, and he had stolen in to accomplish the fell deed as quickly and quietly as possible.

Yet surely, I thought, as I tossed and turned sleeplessly beside the duke when we had finally decided that nothing further could be gained by continuing our deliberations until morning (and having decided, also, that our assassin was unlikely to chance his luck a second time that night) the man must have heard the noise of Albany’s suffering as he retched and strained at the stool. There had been no candle burning: the light of the dying fire had been sufficient for our needs, but the hangings had been drawn back on my side of the bed and it could easily have been seen by the killer. On the other hand, a man intent on murder might well not have noticed the glow until too late. He would, of necessity, only have pulled back the bed-curtains as little possible before plunging his knife into what he imagined was the duke’s sleeping form. Realizing his mistake, and that the occupants of the room were both wide awake, he would have withdrawn with all speed to try again another day.

I rolled on to my back and stared sightlessly at the canopy above me. Something was bothering me and would not let me rest, but in the end, I fell into an uneasy slumber without resolving what it was that troubled me. And the next thing I knew, it was morning.

A careful study of the knife in daylight gave no clues as to its owner. Indeed, it was plainly a kitchen knife — one of those sharp, broad-bladed implements used primarily for cutting up meat — and could have been procured by anyone who had access to the friary’s kitchens. And who was to say that it necessarily belonged to the friary? It could have been stolen at Fotheringay, Leicester, Nottingham or at any other of the stops we had made during the past week on our journey northwards. No, there was nothing to be learned from the intended murder weapon. Nor was there any certainty that the murderer himself was one of Albany’s servants, for the Austin friars had offered hospitality to the retainers of many other lords who could not be accommodated under the same roofs as their masters; and upon enquiry I discovered that there had been very few spare corners anywhere in the buildings that night.

The duke himself seemed to have recovered the tone of his mind with surprising speed. He was almost inclined to make light of the incident except for his insistence that I was necessary to his safety and must never again consider leaving him until we reached Scotland and he was crowned king. My suggestion that last night’s happening should be reported to the Duke of Gloucester, so that extra measures might be put in place for his protection, was brushed aside.

‘And lay myself — in whom the honour of Scotland is invested — open to the ridicule of Sassenachs?’ Albany demanded indignantly. ‘Never!’

‘It was a determined, a genuine, attempt on your life, my lord,’ I argued, amazed at his attitude. ‘Neither Prince Richard nor any other English noble will think you ridiculous for making a fuss over such a matter. Do you really believe that if such a thing had happened to any one of them the whole city would not now be in an uproar in an attempt to find the would-be assassin?’

But Albany remained adamant, even going so far as to swear both Davey and myself to silence on the subject.

‘We’ll never catch this murdering bastard if we put him too much on his guard,’ he said, as we once more rode northwards just after dawn, leaving the rose-tinted walls of York behind us.

I considered him to be over-sanguine if he thought the page would keep a still tongue in his head. I wondered if Albany were truly unaware of the close bond of comradeship that existed between the late Earl of Mar’s former servants, or if he simply ignored it as an inconvenient fact. For my own part, I had no doubt whatsoever that both the squires, James Petrie and John Tullo would be in full possession of the story before many hours had passed. Indeed, it seemed to me, glancing at the faces of Donald Seton and Murdo MacGregor, as they rode alongside me, immediately behind their master, that they already knew. There was a sly expression in the former’s green-flecked eyes, and a wry twist to the latter’s usually stern-set mouth that convinced me Davey had wasted very little time in informing his fellows of the night’s events.

As for what I thought myself, I was in a quandary, my head reeling from a lack of sleep and a growing sense of unreality. The suspicion kept obtruding that the previous night’s attempt on Albany’s life had been staged for my benefit, in order to keep me from defecting, as I had threatened to do. I could not choose but remember that the duke, although pleading sickness, had not actually thrown up into the night-stool. There had been a great deal of retching, but no actual vomiting. His claim to be ill, however, had removed him providentially from his side of the bed, and had, moreover, occupied my full attention. And that was another thing, the killer had, apparently, known in advance on which side of the bed Albany was sleeping. Had he been forced to part the bed curtains wide enough to ascertain this fact, he must have seen that Albany wasn’t there; could not have helped seeing, in fact, his quarry’s kneeling figure beside the night-stool and myself bending over him. Furthermore, Davey’s absence had been so opportune …

And yet the whole notion was so absurd as to be laughable. It was foolish beyond permission. There was no possible reason why Albany should go to such lengths to keep an unwilling man in his service. It argued some sinister motive for which there was no justification. No; his desire for my presence must surely be what he had always claimed it was. I was somebody in whom he could trust; somebody who, for no better reason than that I liked him, had once broken the law to help him evade his pursuers by arranging his passage to Ireland. It was no use my complaining. As Timothy Plummer had pointed out to me, I had brought my present situation on myself.

So I might as well get on with things and see what transpired.

We reached Berwick at last, sometime in the early weeks of July, all twenty thousand of us, together with siege machines, baggage waggons and the hangers-on that, or so I was told, all armies gather to themselves as they progress. The town was already under siege, and had been since the preceding October. But now we had arrived to wrest this border town back from the Scots and establish it as a part of England once and for all. Such was the Duke of Gloucester’s avowed intention.

As we approached, I could just make out through the gloom the scorched and flattened earth outside the town and the battered fortifications beyond. As preparations began for the pitching of tents and the lighting of camp fires, dark clouds began to gather. Dragons, mountains, castles stood carved in ebony against the rays of the dying sun. Thunder muttered across the hills, and a flock of crows swooped and cawed their way overhead as they flew to roost. The surrounding countryside stretched black and purple in the fading evening light. Heavy drops of rain began to fall.

There was a flurry of horse’s hooves as my lord of Gloucester rode alongside. He clapped Albany on the back.

‘Not an auspicious beginning, cousin,’ he said, laughing, and pulling his cloak tighter about him as protection against the elements. ‘But I’m sure you don’t believe in such auguries. You’re within spitting distance of your native soil. We’ll be across the border in no time at all. You’ll see! You’re almost home now.’

‘There might be a case for arguing that I am home already,’ Albany answered dryly. He noted Gloucester’s swift, sidelong glance and added, ‘Oh, don’t worry, coz. If you can retake Berwick, it’s yours as far as I’m concerned. It’s always been a troublesome place and not one worth fighting over. When I’m king, I shan’t go back on my word.’

Prince Richard smiled, a little grimly I thought. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He suddenly noticed me and the long, thin mouth relaxed somewhat. ‘Roger!’ he acknowledged before turning once more to Albany. ‘My intelligence is that your brother is on the march. It seems there’s a sizeable army moving south from Edinburgh.’