The Midsummer Crown

ELEVEN

I flung wide the shutters and shouted, ‘Well? Can you see any way to get in?’

It was the following morning and I had recruited Piers Daubenay to assist me in a small experiment. I had, without its occupier’s knowledge or permission, locked, or rather bolted, myself into the room next door to Tutor Machin’s, having previously directed Piers to remain outside on the castle’s landing-stage. Now, as I leant out of the open casement, his youthful, smooth-skinned face was upturned to mine, the morning sun catching the red glints in his curly hair and turning it to copper.

‘Well?’ I demanded again testily. ‘Is there any way in which you can climb up the wall to this window?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t see one,’ he reported cheerfully. ‘This stretch of wall is smooth, But you must know that. You must have inspected it already.’

‘I just wanted a second opinion, that’s all. You would agree with me, then, that no one could have climbed into any of the rooms along this passageway from outside?’

‘Impossible,’ he confirmed.

‘Now come in and see if there is any way — any way at all — that you can get inside this room without me unbolting the door.’

‘You know fucking well it can’t be done.’

As once before, at Minster Lovell, the swear word jarred, not because I was a prude and didn’t use it myself on occasions — quite a few occasions, if I’m honest — but because it seemed deliberately chosen to prove a point. But what point? That the soft-cheeked boy was really a man who could hold his ale and curse along with the next fellow? Probably. He couldn’t possibly believe it would shock me.

‘Just come in and do as you’re told,’ I said.

A few minutes later, the latch rattled, then there was a thump as Piers presumably threw his weight against the door. Nothing happened, of course. The bolt didn’t even tremble. Like its counterpart in what had been Gregory Machin’s room, it was too stoutly made. I partially loosened it, so that only the tip of the shaft remained in the socket.

‘Try again,’ I ordered my helper. ‘Harder this time.’

Piers obliged, but once more there was no appreciable result. No one could have entered the tutor’s room even if the bolt had not been properly rammed home. I sighed and opened the door.

‘So what’s the answer?’ Piers asked as I stepped outside and went to look yet again at the neighbouring chamber.

This had at last been swept clean of the shards of wood from the broken door, although the castle carpenter had not so far had time to make and fit a new one.

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘There doesn’t seem to be one.’

Piers crossed himself and made the sign to ward off the evil eye, his jaunty air suddenly deserting him.

‘There’s only one explanation then, isn’t there?’ he demanded unhappily. ‘This was the Devil’s work.’

I didn’t reply because there seemed to be no satisfactory alternative solution. And yet I still couldn’t bring myself to accept it. I felt strongly that the murder was human handiwork. For one thing, if the Devil, for whatever reason, had wanted to take Gregory Machin’s life, he would have had no need to use a dagger. Old Nick would simply have appeared and frightened the poor man to death. Or just ripped his soul from his body. No, no! The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that there was a rational explanation. But what it was, I had as yet no idea.

An exclamation from Piers made me turn sharply in the hope that he might have discovered something I had overlooked. But he had wandered over to the window and flung wide the shutters to let some air and light into the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan have just arrived at the water-stairs with all their baggage. They must have come up river by barge.’ He turned, a slight smile on his lips. ‘Now there’s likely to be some wailing and gnashing of teeth. Poor Sir Francis will be held entirely responsible for Master Gideon’s safety and will feel the full force of her ladyship’s tongue.’

A young lad, one of the household pages by the look of him, who had just mounted the stairs from the lower passageway, glanced towards us, obviously having overheard what Piers was saying.

‘Not Sir Francis any longer, if you please,’ he admonished us. ‘Word arrived from Crosby’s Place not half an hour ago that my lord’s been made a viscount and appointed Lord Chamberlain in Lord Hastings’s place.’

Piers gave a long, low whistle, and once again I felt as though someone had punched me in the chest. Things were beginning to move. The duke was taking steps to surround himself with his friends, appointing them to key positions in the government. It surely could not be long now before he took the biggest step of all and laid claim to the crown.

Piers gave an uncertain laugh as he studied my face. ‘What’s the matter, Master Chapman? You look as though you’ve lost a shilling and picked up half a groat.’

At his words, the page, who had been about to move on, swung round and examined me carefully from head to foot. ‘Are you Roger Chapman?’ he asked doubtfully. I inclined my head. ‘In that case,’ he went on, ‘Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan want to speak to you. I’ve been sent to find you. They’re in the great solar. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where it is.’

Piers chuckled unfeelingly. ‘Now the fur will fly. You’ll be subjected to all her ladyship’s hysterics. And neither she nor Sir Pomfret will believe you’re the duke’s choice to investigate this mystery. Not in those clothes! What a pity you’re not wearing one of your gentleman’s outfits.’

The page was sympathetic. ‘I’ll wait,’ he offered, ‘if you wish to change.’ And he leant his shoulders against the passage wall. ‘They won’t know how long it took me to find you. I certainly didn’t expect to run you to earth so soon.’

‘My room is several landings up,’ I warned him.

He shrugged. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

Of course he wasn’t. I’d never yet met the domestic servant who was, unless he was threatened with condign punishment for dawdling.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Piers offered. ‘I ought to accompany you to the solar anyway. I daresay Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan will want to see me.’

And without waiting for my agreement, he followed me along the passage, up two more flights of cold stone stairs, under an archway and on to a landing which I immediately recognized as the one outside the sewing room. And there, facing me, standing by the door talking to another woman whose back was towards me, was Amphillis. I hadn’t seen her since the previous day, nor had I sought her out after my return to Baynard’s Castle, but I thought the gaze she turned on me now was both guilty and startled. I was not, however, much concerned with her at that moment. I had realized with something of a shock that her companion was the same woman she had been talking to at Westminster the day before when the little Duke of York had been delivered from sanctuary. And for the second time, I felt that that back was somehow familiar.

‘Amphillis!’ I said, and was about to start forward when a cry of pain behind me made me turn abruptly to find that Piers had stupidly taken a step backwards and slipped down a couple of stairs. He was propped against the wall, hopping on one leg and cradling his left foot in both hands.

‘I’ve twisted my ankle,’ he moaned. ‘When you stopped suddenly like that, I wasn’t expecting it.’ He lowered the afflicted member to the ground and gingerly tested it with his full weight. ‘No harm done,’ he added with a sigh of relief. ‘It will be better in a minute or two.’

I gave an unsympathetic grunt and swung back to speak to Amphillis, but neither she nor the woman with her were anywhere to be seen.

Cursing, I stepped towards the sewing-room door.

‘I must speak to Mistress Hill,’ I said, but Piers hobbling after me, grasped me by the elbow.

‘You can’t waste time talking, Roger,’ he said urgently. ‘You still have to change and Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan won’t tolerate being kept waiting much longer. You’ll get that young page into trouble. So come on! Let’s get up to your room.’

I ignored this.

‘Did you see them?’ I demanded. ‘Amphillis Hill and another woman! Did you see where they went?’

‘No, I did not,’ Piers answered crossly. ‘Thanks to you, I was too busy falling downstairs. But I’m telling you, you haven’t time to go looking for anyone now. You can speak to Amphillis later if it’s urgent.’

‘It’s not her, it’s the other woman I want. That’s the second occasion I’ve seen her, but unfortunately only her back view each time. All the same, I feel certain that I know her — or at least that I’ve seen her somewhere before. Let go of me! I’m going into the sewing room to see if they’re there.’

But when I glanced around the door, there was no sign of Amphillis or her mysterious friend. Moreover, I got very short shrift from the chief seamstress, who was plainly growing impatient with my frequent and unwelcome appearances in her domain. In reply to my query, she snapped that Amphillis was out on a commission for Her Grace of York and was not expected back for some hours.

When I would have argued the point, Piers hissed in my ear, ‘For God’s sake, come on! Just remember that poor lad waiting for us downstairs.’

Reluctantly, I tore myself away. As I had at least one more flight of steps to ascend, Piers excused himself from accompanying me on account of his ankle.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘Don’t be long.’

His peremptory tone annoyed me, and once in my narrow cell of a room, I took my time shedding my comfortable attire and donning brown hose and yellow tunic, not forgetting my velvet cap so that I could doff it respectfully in Sir Pomfret’s presence. Then I loitered some more, staring out of my window. .

I caught my breath. Two women were hurrying towards the water-stairs. One was definitely Amphillis and the other almost certainly her mysterious companion. A passing boat having been hailed and rowed to shore, the pair embraced, a little perfunctorily it was true, but with enough affection to warrant a kiss on both cheeks and a quick hug. The second woman was now facing me, but too far away for me to make out her features with any clarity. And yet I was again seized by the conviction that I had seen her somewhere before: there was something about her build and her stance that teased my memory, but cudgel my brains as I might, I could not place her. Where and when we had met continued to elude me.

The woman turned and went down the steps, the boatman steadying his craft as she stepped into the bows and took her seat. A final wave, and she was being rowed upstream towards Westminster, while Amphillis walked slowly back towards the castle. But before she could reach the landing-stage door, another figure bustled out to meet her.

Dame Copley!

The nurse took Amphillis by one arm and turned back with her towards the building, her head bent to catch what her companion was saying. This seemed to be a great deal, which surprised me. I had not gathered from Dame Copley’s previous remarks on the subject that she and Amphillis were anything but nodding acquaintances; certainly not on the friendly terms that now appeared to exist between them. And twice during the short walk, Amphillis paused, gesturing behind her towards the water-stairs and obviously imparting information about the woman who had just left her. I cursed my bad luck that from my eyrie I was unable to hear a single word that was being exchanged. (And I dared not lean out of the window for fear of being seen.)

I returned to the sewing-room landing to find Piers hobbling up and down in frustration. ‘What, in the name of all the saints, have you been doing?’ he demanded without waiting for me to offer an explanation. ‘In spite of the pain I’m in, I was just about to go up to look for you. It hasn’t taken you this length of time, surely, just to change your clothes?’

I made no answer to this reprimand, but asked instead, ‘How well does Dame Copley know Amphillis Hill?’

Piers blinked a little at this abrupt change of subject and stammered, ‘Sh-she knows her. Well, you know that she does. It-it was Rosina who mentioned her to you as being the last person to have seen Tutor Machin alive. You must remember!’

‘Of course I remember!’ Once more I was startled by Piers’s easy use of the nurse’s Christian name. ‘But I didn’t get the impression that they were friends.’

‘They’re not.’

As we began descending the stairs, I told him what I had just observed, reiterating my conviction that I had met the third woman at some time in the past, but not that I had seen her the previous day. Indeed, I continued to keep the whole of yesterday’s adventure a secret. Why, I wasn’t sure.

Piers refused to be impressed or see any significance in what I had recently witnessed. ‘They were simply having a gossip, that’s all. You know how women love to chat.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘And now for heaven’s sake hurry up! Sir Pomfret will be having an apoplexy by this time and that poor page will be in trouble.’

Neither prediction came true.

The page, having conducted us to the great solar, had the good sense merely to announce us as quickly as possible before making himself scarce. As for Sir Pomfret, he was plainly too travel-weary, and had his hands too full comforting his wife to be concerned with any tardiness on our part. Besides which, both his brothers, Godfrey and Lewis, and his sons, Bevis and Blaise, were already with him, making the room feel uncomfortably full of people. For several minutes our presence was ignored, while Lady Fitzalan was coaxed into abating her sobs with a platter of doucettes and another goblet of wine. Finally, however, young Bevis, prodded in the back by Piers, condescended to notice us and announced our arrival again to his father. The huddle of anxious relatives drew to one side.

My change of raiment evidently failed to impress Sir Pomfret, because he eyed me up and down with obvious suspicion, and his tone, when he spoke, was decidedly chilly.

‘So you’re this. . this. . this chapman — ’ the word when he at last produced it was redolent with contempt ‘- that the Lord Protector has appointed to look into my son’s disappearance, are you? Well, I suppose Duke Richard knows his own business best. Although I shouldn’t have thought-’

Blaise interrupted him. ‘Master Chapman has a great reputation for solving these sort of mysteries, Father. At least,’ he added ingenuously, ‘so I’m told.’

I saw Piers, standing a little ahead of me, suppress a grin.

Sir Pomfret, having digested this, inevitably posed the question I was dreading. ‘So what have you discovered, my man?’

I was saved from immediate reply by the sudden entrance into the solar of Dame Copley, coming to pay her respects and duty to her employers. At the sight of her, Lady Fitzalan gave a little scream — rising to her feet and spilling wine down the front of her gown as she did so — and stumbled towards her.

‘Rosina!’ she sobbed. ‘Where is he? Where’s my baby boy?’

Bevis and Blaise exchanged glances, the former making a gagging sound which, mercifully, was heard by neither parent.

The two women clung together, mingling their tears and making sufficient noise to call forth a terse reprimand from Sir Pomfret, demanding quiet. He then, as I had been afraid he would, turned his attention back to me.

‘Well, Master Chapman, I’m waiting to know what you’ve discovered.’

I had, by this time, marshalled my thoughts into some sort of order and was ready with my excuses. ‘Sir Pomfret, I regret that I cannot, just at present, reveal any details. Protocol compels me to present my findings first to my lord of Gloucester before telling anyone else. Also secrecy at this point in my investigation is vital.’

Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Piers’s head jerk round, his eyebrows raised, but I stared doggedly ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.

‘So you have discovered something?’ the knight demanded.

I made no direct answer, but smirked knowingly. Sir Pomfret could make what he liked of that.

He was not disposed to make anything of it and barked at me that he supposed, as Gideon’s father, he had as much right to be informed of my discoveries as anyone, including the Lord Protector.

There was a general all-round nodding of heads, but once again, I was saved by the opening of the solar door. A diminutive page announced the Dowager Duchess of York and Cicely Neville made her stately, unhurried entrance, leaning on an ebony, silver-handled cane and attended by two of her women.

There was an immediate flurry of bobbing and bowing, in acknowledgement of which she gave an impatient wave of her hand as if bored by such homage; as no doubt she was, I reflected, after a lifetime of adulation. In her youth, she had been known as the Rose of Raby, one of the loveliest women in England; and remnants of that beauty still showed in a face that wore its age with dignity, making no attempt to hide the wrinkles beneath a layer of white lead and paint.

I studied her carefully as she advanced on Sir Pomfret and his lady, holding out a gnarled hand for them to kiss. She was dressed austerely in a black gown and white coif, as nearly akin to a nun’s habit as was seemly in a woman still very much of her world, however much she might wish people to think otherwise. I imagined that the shrewd, keen eyes missed very little, and had no doubt whatsoever that she was wholeheartedly behind her remaining son’s bid — if that was indeed what it turned out to be — for the crown. She had never made any secret of her dislike of her daughter-in-law, the queen dowager, and her cohorts of Woodville relations, and was outspoken, so rumour had it, in holding them responsible for the execution of the Duke of Clarence. The young king might be her grandson, but he had been raised surrounded — smothered one might almost say — by his mother’s kinsmen from early childhood. The poor boy could not help but be more Woodville than Plantagenet.

‘Sir Pomfret!’ After a brief nod, she ignored Lady Fitzalan. (I fancied she did not care overmuch for her own sex.) ‘I cannot express how deeply distressed I am that this terrible murder should have taken place in my house. And the disappearance of your son! I, too, have lost children. I can enter into your feelings.’

This assumption that Gideon must be dead was of no help to his parents, Lady Fitzalan immediately falling into another fit of hysterics, which her agitated husband strove vainly to assuage. In the end, it was a sharp word from the duchess which stemmed the flow of tears.

‘Control yourself, madam!’ She then bent her disapproving gaze on Bevis and Blaise who were trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. ‘Are these your sons?’ Sir Pomfret assented. ‘Then one of them must take his brother’s place. You!’ She pointed at Bevis. ‘You must present yourself at the royal apartments at the Tower as soon as possible to wait on the k- on my grandson.’ I wondered if anyone else apart from myself had noticed her balk at the word ‘king’, but there was nothing in any face to suggest that someone had. She went on, ‘My son wishes Edward to have people he can trust around him.’

Lady Fitzalan stretched out a trembling hand. ‘Your Grace, Bevis won’t. . won’t disappear, as well, will he?’

The duchess deigned no reply to this, merely snorting impatiently before suddenly swivelling round to confront me.

‘Ah, Master Chapman, we meet again. It’s been a long time.’ She looked me up and down. ‘You’ve put on weight. And smarter, too, I notice.’

To my annoyance, I found myself colouring up under that keen scrutiny. I managed an ingratiating smile.

The duchess continued, ‘I understand my son has summoned you to London to unravel this mystery. Have you done so?’

‘N-not yet, Your Grace,’ I stuttered, feeling like an errant schoolboy. (Or should I say a fat errant schoolboy? Had I put on weight? Probably. I liked my food too much and Adela fed me too well.)

‘Do you have any ideas?’ the duchess shot at me. ‘We need this unfortunate matter cleared up before the coronation.’

She forbore to say whose coronation, and once again I wondered if I was the only one to think the omission significant.

I gave the silent smirk another airing, but it had as little effect upon my interlocutor as it had done on Sir Pomfret.

‘Well? Yes or no?’

I lied through my teeth: there was nothing else to do.

‘For the moment, my lady, I prefer to remain silent. I need first to speak to my lord the Protector.’

She regarded me thoughtfully for a second or two, pursing her lips, then nodded briefly. ‘I understand,’ she said. (I prayed to God she didn’t.) ‘Sir Pomfret, rooms have been prepared for you and your lady. I will send my steward to conduct you to them. Meanwhile this young man — ’ she once more indicated Bevis — ‘can be escorted to the Tower.’ She looked at Blaise. ‘And his brother may as well accompany him.’ The duchess seemed to become aware of Godfrey and Lewis Fitzalan for the first time. ‘Ah! The twins! You are in good health, sirs?’ They both acknowledged the question, each with a deep bow. ‘And the rest of the brood? Henry? Warren? Raisley? George?’

There was a general gasp, and Godfrey said admiringly, ‘Your Grace is a marvel to remember all their names.’

The duchess smiled. ‘I never forget the names of our loyal adherents. The House of York has reason to be grateful for your family’s support over the years.’ She turned to Sir Pomfret who had momentarily forgotten his troubles and was goggling at her with admiration quite as open as his brothers’. ‘You, too, I believe, have four other sons besides these two lads here and. . and Master Gideon?’

As the last name was uttered, Lady Fitzalan gave a convulsive sob, and the duchess, without waiting for a reply, took her leave on a somewhat hurried note.

‘God be with you all,’ she said, and swept from the solar as quickly as her rheumatic limbs would allow.

I decided it was time to beat a hasty retreat of my own before the bereaved father could question me further. Fortunately, Lady Fitzalan’s renewed attack of the vapours gave me an opportunity to slip away quietly while her husband’s attention was otherwise engaged. Piers followed me out.

‘A little of that caterwauling goes a long way,’ he remarked callously as he caught up with me and slipped a hand through my arm. ‘Let poor old Sir Pomfret and Mother Copley deal with my lady.’ He looked sideways at me. ‘Did you really mean what you said in there? Have you found out anything?’

I hesitated, tempted to admit the truth, but pride held me silent. ‘Perhaps,’ I said.

‘You know how the murder was committed? What’s happened to Gideon?’

I disengaged myself. ‘You ask too many questions. Listen! There’s the trumpet sounding for dinner. I don’t know about you, but my encounter with Duchess Cicely has left me extremely hungry.’

‘You’re always hungry,’ Piers laughed. And mimicking the duchess’s voice, added, ‘You’ve put on weight.’

I treated this jibe with the disdain it deserved and quickened my step, leaving him to make his way to the servants’ dining hall in his own good time. I heard him laugh as I rounded a corner.

Later that day, in the warmth of the June afternoon and to ward off the somnolence that threatened to overcome me after two large helpings of pottage followed by oatcakes and goat’s milk cheese, I left Baynard’s Castle and went for a walk through the crowded city, pausing every now and then to watch the erection of stands and decorations for the forthcoming coronation. But nowhere did I see the name Edward or any reference to the young king at all. It was almost as though he had ceased to exist. And what of his mother and sisters? They were all still in sanctuary, and I had heard no rumour that they were about to come out.

I wandered on, lost in thought and taking no real heed of where I was going until I suddenly found myself in Bucklersbury, outside the inn of St Brendan the Voyager. I was standing staring at the painted sign over the door of the saint in his cockleshell boat, wondering vaguely how I came to be there, when a hand smote my shoulder and a familiar voice spoke in my ear.

‘Master Chapman! Roger? It is you, isn’t it? I thought you’d gone home to Bristol.’