The Midsummer Crown

NINETEEN

The crowds gathered in the vicinity of Paul’s Cross were so dense, it was almost impossible to get closer than halfway along West Cheap, and I doubt if I should have got much further had not my elbow been suddenly grasped.

‘Tryin’ to get to the Cross, are you?’ enquired a solicitous voice, and I glanced round to see a small, sandy-haired figure, wearing the Gloucester livery, standing just behind me. ‘Simon Finglass,’ the man reminded me. ‘Met you with Timothy Plummer some days back. Day of the arrests at the Tower.’

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Do you know what Friar Shaa’s sermon is about?’

My companion shrugged. ‘Something’s in the wind. Don’t know quite what. But it’s important. The duke’s there an’ most o’ the lords with him.’ He looked up into my face. ‘Want to get nearer, do you? Then follow me.’ He tapped the man ahead of us on the shoulder and shouted, ‘Make way for the Lord Protector’s messenger!’

I must confess I wasn’t expecting much result from this, but his livery acted like a charm and the crowds parted before us like the Red Sea before the Israelites. In a surprisingly short space of time, I found myself at the very front of the press, somewhat to one side, it’s true, but within sight and hearing of the tall, ascetic figure of the mayor’s brother in his flowing Franciscan habit. Immediately in front of him were ranged my lord of Gloucester, the Duke of Buckingham, the Archbishop of Canterbury and what I guessed to be more than half the nobility, both lay and clerical.

All around me, I could feel the tense expectancy of the mob. At last, something was about to happen. The quivering uncertainty of the past weeks since King Edward’s death was about to be resolved. Anticipation hung in the air like a tangible force, but whether the resolution would be what people wanted was another matter.

The friar stepped forward and began to speak. The text for his sermon, he announced, was, ‘Bastard slips shall not take root’.

The crowd gasped and there was a ripple of movement like wind through corn. Someone, a woman, cried out, then there was a profound silence broken only by Ralph Shaa’s throbbing tones.

I forget now all that he said, but I know he reminded us that of the late Duke of York’s four sons, the Duke of Gloucester was the only one who had been born in England and was therefore the most truly English. Next, he lauded Richard’s character and bravery in battle from a tender age. Indeed, it was only last year that he had won back Berwick-on-Tweed from Scotland’s clutches. And for decades, he had tamed the unruly north with his good laws and sense of justice. Was this not a man worthy to be our king? Was Richard of Gloucester not entitled to wear the crown?

Before either of these rhetorical questions could be answered by a crowd now shifting uneasily and murmuring among itself, the friar continued that, by the grace of God, it had recently been discovered that the late King Edward’s marriage to the Lady Elizabeth Grey had been bigamous, the king being at the time solemnly contracted to the Lady Eleanor Butler (who was then still alive) and therefore not free to marry. Consequently, all children of the union were illegitimate and barred from accession to the throne. The Duke of Clarence’s son, the young Earl of Warwick, was similarly barred by reason of his father’s attainder. Ergo, the friar ended triumphantly, the Duke of Gloucester was the rightful king of England!

I don’t know if he expected there to be wild acclamation from his audience, but if so, he was disappointed. Certainly, the nobles raised a cheer — although I thought that some of them, including, surprisingly, the Duke of Buckingham, looked a little sour — but the crowds, once they found that it was the end of the sermon, simply shuffled away for their Sunday dinners. There was a good deal of muttering and low-voiced conversation, but whether people were discussing the momentous news they had just received, or simply debating if it was wise to dish up the remains of Thursday’s pig’s cheek for a second time in three days, no one could be certain. I did, however, get the impression of a sense of relief, as if a boil that had been suppurating had suddenly burst, leaving a wound that might — or might not — heal cleanly.

My lord of Gloucester was preparing to move, the other lords falling back before him as though he were already king — nothing but a matter of time now, of course — and I looked frantically among his retinue for any sign of Timothy Plummer. He wasn’t there, and I turned anxiously to Simon Finglass.

‘Where’s Master Plummer?’

The man spat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Dunno. In view of what we’ve just heard, off on His Grace’s business I should reckon.’

I cursed. ‘I must see him.’

My new friend was unable to help. It was dinner time and he was off to Baynard’s Castle to make sure that he got his fair share. It was as he moved away that I saw Amphillis Hill and the unknown woman deep in conversation beside one of the graves in the churchyard. For a moment or two, knowing now what I did about the former, I could not drag my eyes away from the delicate girlish face and wide, innocent eyes. Was she, could she possibly be, a ruthless killer? I recalled some words of Master Chaucer in one of those amusing tales of his. ‘The smiler with the knife under the cloak.’ Even so. .

I switched my attention to her companion whose features I could not place, and was struck by how many times God had brought this woman to my attention: at Westminster, at the Boar’s Head and now here at St Paul’s. He was trying to tell me something and, as usual, I was too stupid to understand what it was. Worse, it came to me that, so far, I had not really tried to solve the riddle of her identity. I had simply put the problem to one side as something to be thought about later. Now, suddenly, I realized that the answer might well be of the greatest importance.

She was going, moving towards the Lud Gate, saying something over her shoulder to Amphillis who nodded and walked off in the opposite direction without, fortunately, once glancing my way. The crowds had thinned to almost nothing and I was highly visible. I turned quickly to find a place of shelter, tripped and was caught by someone’s steadying hands.

Piers Daubenay and I stared at one another.

‘Roger?’ he queried uncertainly. ‘Wh-where have you been? I haven’t had sight nor sound of you for nearly three days. Not since you left the Boar’s Head.’

He was very pale, and the bruising down the left-hand side of his face, although it was beginning to fade, was still prominent, making him look as if he were wearing a half-mask. I remembered the cockerel’s mask of my assailant and once again knew a niggle of doubt. Whether or not Piers saw it, I don’t know, but he suddenly embraced me, saying with genuine warmth, ‘It’s so good to see you again. But, I repeat, where have you been?’

I didn’t answer, instead asking abruptly, ‘Where’s your aunt?’

‘Rosina?’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t know. Still with Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan I presume. Why?’

Once more, I avoided the question and countered with one of my own. ‘Do you recollect once saying to Master Plummer and me that you reckoned she was a witch? Were you serious?’

He stared at me for a long moment before bursting out laughing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘There’s always been something a bit odd about her. .’ His voice tailed away and the laughter faded. He regarded me doubtfully. ‘What’s wrong, Roger? Something’s happened. What is it? Perhaps I can help with what’s troubling you.’

But I wasn’t really listening; at least only with half an ear. Enlightenment had suddenly dawned, breaking over me in a great, crashing wave. I seized Piers by the shoulders, opening and shutting my mouth like a stranded fish. He stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses, and who could blame him.

He pushed my hands away and backed against the nearest wall. ‘Roger, what’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I fetch help? There must be a physician hereabouts.’

‘No, no!’ I managed to get out. ‘I’m quite all right. It’s just. . It’s just that suddenly I know who that woman is, where I’ve seen her before. I know where Gideon is being held! Sweet lord! What a fool I’ve been!’

I dragged Piers with me to Crosby’s Place, but there was no getting in to see the duke. He had other, far more important matters to concern him now than the fate of one young boy. Moreover, the place was crammed as sycophants and time-servers flocked to swear their allegiance to the future king. For who could any longer doubt that it would be Richard III, not Edward V who would go to his coronation in Westminster Abbey before many more weeks had passed?

I was unable to find either William Catesby or Francis Lovell, either of whom might have taken a message for me to His Grace. I didn’t doubt but that they were there somewhere, but all my requests for someone to convey a message to them fell on deaf ears. I was equally frustrated in my attempts to locate Timothy Plummer. No one knew where he was or what he was about, only that he couldn’t be found and that no one could be persuaded to seek him out.

‘Take yourself off, you great oaf,’ one of the stewards snapped. ‘Can’t you see that you and your petty concerns are of no importance here?’

‘This is a child’s life I’m talking about,’ I yelled, losing my temper, but the man had already gone, bustling away through the press of bodies in answer to a summons demanding his immediate attention.

Piers grabbed my arm and pulled me outside into the equal chaos of Bishop’s Gate Street Within. All the world and his wife seemed to be congregated in the roadway, and, finally, in desperation, I allowed him to steer me free of the crowds into the comparative Sabbath calm of the Poultry, where he forced me to sit down on the edge of a water trough.

‘Now,’ he begged, ‘for God’s sake, will you tell me what this is all about? Because not another step do I stir until you do! You’ve already dragged me halfway across London, running me off my feet till I’m so out of breath that my heart feels near to bursting, and with nothing more than a few garbled words and phrases I can’t make head nor tail of.’

I stood up, pushing aside his restraining hands. ‘Where can we hire a couple of horses?’

He choked with exasperation. ‘Will you answer? Oh, never mind! We don’t need to hire horses, you fool! Our own — the ones we came to London on — are in the stables at Baynard’s Castle. Eating their heads off most likely.’

Of course! Dolt that I was, I had forgotten them. My brain simply wasn’t functioning properly, so filled was it with my momentous discovery. For it was as though God had suddenly taken pity on me and, tired of trying to jog my memory, had hit me over the head with a truncheon.

Amphillis Hill’s companion was none other than the woman I had encountered at the homestead west of London, on my way home to Bristol all those weeks ago; the woman with the young daughter and the unprepossessing husband. And the vicious dog so like the dead Beelzebub. Was she a member of the Sisterhood? I had no proof, but I was willing to wager a considerable sum of money that she was. I was also willing to wager that the homestead was where Gideon Fitzalan was being held prisoner.

I had hoped to convince Timothy of my reasoning and persuade him to raise a posse to go with me to the farmhouse, but more momentous events had intervened. I should have to go alone unless Piers would accompany me. But first I should have to tell him all that I had discovered, and time was running short. Tomorrow was Midsummer Eve and if what I feared were true, Gideon would have to be moved to the capital before nightfall. I could hardly ask Piers for his help on so dangerous a mission without putting him in full possession of the facts.

I sat down again on the edge of the water trough and indicated that Piers should do the same.

When he had done so, his face alight with curiosity, I patted his hand and said, ‘What I’m going to tell you, lad, you will probably find hard to believe. Indeed, you may refuse to believe it as both your aunts are involved.’ I hesitated for a second or two, then went on, ‘The reason you haven’t seen me for the past three days is because someone tried to murder me.’ He gasped and half rose from his seat, but I pulled him down again. ‘We don’t have a lot of time, so just sit still and listen. And however much you want to, don’t interrupt me until I’ve finished.’

It was growing dusk before we finally sighted the homestead in its sheltering dell. For this, several factors were responsible. Firstly, Piers, understandably, but infuriatingly, had required a great deal of convincing that I wasn’t making the whole thing up; that I hadn’t accidentally fallen into the river after drinking too much ale at the Boar’s Head on Thursday, and that my mind hadn’t suffered as a consequence. Secondly, by the time he was at last persuaded of the truth, it was well past dinner time and he insisted on eating, declaring that no one could be expected to face danger on an empty belly. Thirdly, getting free of London was a nightmare, the normal traffic being engorged with troops of mounted men who suddenly seemed to have sprung from nowhere and who were themselves constantly hampered by groups of agitated and excited citizens discussing the morning’s events in the middle of the roadway. And fourthly, it had taken me a considerable while to locate the house again, being unable to recall exactly where I had originally turned off the main track and taken to the bypaths. Moreover, the bright June day had grown overcast and the light had faded early.

And then, suddenly, just as I was desperately wondering if I should ever find the place again, there we were standing on the tree-lined ridge, looking down at its daub-and-wattle walls and roof of twigs and brushwood. This evening, there were no hens scratching for food in the courtyard, but I could hear the pig snorting and snuffling in its sty. I dismounted, indicating that Piers should do the same, and we tethered the horses to a tree a few yards further back and out of sight of the house.

As Piers strode forward to descend the slope, I flung out an arm to stop him. ‘You fool!’ I hissed. ‘We can’t just go marching up to the door. We have to think of some story to get us inside. And I’ve told you, there’s a dog very like Beelzebub and just as vicious.’

Piers then proceeded to take my breath away by flinging off my restraining arm and saying loudly, ‘I’m not afraid of a poxy dog even if you are, Roger!’ and half-running, half-slithering down the bank into the courtyard.

I had, perforce, to follow, but I drew my knife as I went and was hardly surprised when the door of the homestead opened and the great beast I had encountered weeks earlier bounded out, fangs bared and its malicious little eyes gleaming evilly.

‘Piers, beware!’ I yelled at the top of my voice, and was preparing to launch myself forward in a valiant attempt to protect the mad fool when I was brought up short by the most amazing sight. Piers simply raised his right hand, the first finger extended upwards, then slowly lowered it, at the same time emitting a piercing whistle whose volume sank with the finger. As it did so, the dog crouched on the ground, slobbering out of the corners of its great jaws, and grovelled on its belly.

‘How on earth. .?’ I was beginning when the woman, still in the decent Sunday clothes I had seen her wearing that morning, when she had been talking to Amphillis, appeared in the doorway. Then she started forward, her first look of angry suspicion turning rapidly to smiles.

‘Pernelle, my dear, what on earth are you doing here? Nothing’s amiss, is it? All’s well for tomorrow night?’

Pernelle? Pernelle? And suddenly I remembered Rosina once addressing Piers as ‘Perry’. I had thought the name a little strange, but had dismissed it as an affectionate diminutive. Which, of course, it had been, but of a female name! And in the flicker of an eye, certain facts began to resolve themselves. First of all, Piers’s insistence on never sharing a bed or a room with other people started to make sense (twice during our journey we had stopped to relieve ourselves, and each time he had disappeared into the bushes with what I considered to be modesty taken to extremes). Secondly, those recurring dreams about Eloise Gray had been trying to tell me what, deep inside me, I had already known but failed to recognize: that Piers was a woman masquerading as a boy. And the third fact which stood out like a sore, pulsating thumb, was that she was one of them, one of the infamous Sisterhood, and that I had walked blindly into a trap from which I would be fortunate to escape with my life.

I turned to run. Immediately, at a word from Piers — Pernelle! — the dog was up and barring my way, saliva dripping from its bared teeth, its whole body quivering with hatred. I guessed that a command from either woman would be enough to set it at my throat.

‘My dear,’ I heard Piers — Pernelle — say, ‘let’s go inside. There’s a great deal I have to tell you. But first, has the boy been safely got away?’

The other woman nodded. ‘John took him to London in the cart late this afternoon.’

‘Still drugged?’

‘Still drugged and concealed under some sacking and a load of cabbages. I sent the girls as well. I thought an officious gatekeeper less likely to search the cart — and considering this morning’s events, everyone in London is probably as jumpy as a cat — if they were with their father.’ She glanced towards me. ‘But who’s this? I seem to recall his face from somewhere. Yes! Now I have it. He was here, snooping around, several weeks ago. John was suspicious of him to begin with, but then we decided he was harmless.’ The hazel eyes narrowed. ‘Can it be that we were wrong?’

‘Very wrong,’ was the grim reply. ‘But let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it.’

Half an hour had gone by and I was sitting in the only chair the cottage afforded. This fact, however, had nothing to do with the women’s concern for my comfort. It simply meant that my arms could be pulled around its back and my wrists lashed together with rope. A foot or two away, its wicked little eyes fixed almost unblinkingly on my face, lay the dog, ready to spring if I so much as moved a muscle.

Pernelle — for as such I was now forced to think of Piers — had finished her story and was easing her throat with some of our hostess’s ale, regarding me mockingly as she did so, understanding how parched I must be. But I refused to beg a drink and tried to ignore my raging thirst.

Pernelle knew this, of course, and grinned at her companion, whom she addressed as Margaret.

‘Roger’s very stubborn. And he’s nigh impossible to kill. I’ve tried twice already so I should know.’ She shifted on her stool so that she could see me better. ‘Oh yes, I’m the executioner, not Amphillis. Amphillis hasn’t the stomach for it. Whatever my aunt told this Owlgrave woman you mentioned, she was simply protecting me. After all, why would she trust someone who has left the Sisterhood and might decide, in the future, to betray us? I killed Gregory Machin.’ She turned momentarily back to her friend. ‘It frightened me half to death, I can tell you, when he walked away into his room and bolted the door, even though he did seem more than a little dazed and disorientated. Imagine my relief when I discovered that he was in fact dead!’

‘Yes, indeed,’ the other agreed with a shudder.

Pernelle turned again to me. ‘I was the one who attacked you outside your chamber.’ She touched the disfiguring bruise down the left-hand side of her face. Her voice hardened and she sneered. ‘Fortunately, you were easy to fool. You believed me when I said I’d walked into a door. Just as when you thought I’d hurt my foot when you saw Margaret here going into the sewing room to speak to Amphillis.’ The sneer became more pronounced. ‘The bigger the body, the smaller the brain. You large men are so easy to dupe.’

‘And the blow over the head in the room beneath St Etheldreda’s crypt?’ I asked.

Pernelle grinned malevolently. Still in her boy’s clothes, it was difficult to remember that she wasn’t really Piers.

‘No, unhappily I didn’t have that pleasure. If you remember, you’d left me behind in the Boar’s Head eating my dinner. That was Aunt Etheldreda, which is why you survived. Her arm doesn’t have the force of mine. Had I hit you then, you wouldn’t have survived the water. You’d have been dead before your body left the drain. But I did go to the Rattlebones.’ Her expression sharpened. ‘Incidentally, where exactly were you last night?’

It was my turn to curl my lip, but I said nothing.

This intransigence annoyed her and she half-rose from her stool, an ugly look on her face, but the other woman interrupted by asking, ‘What are we going to do with him? Kill him? But I don’t want the body disposed of here. From what you’ve told me, if he really is an agent of the Lord Protector, his disappearance will cause a stir and there’s bound to be a hue and cry. The trail might well lead to us. John can look out for himself, but I’ve the girls to think of.’

Pernelle got to her feet. ‘Oh, I’m in no hurry to get rid of him. He can wait. I’ll think of something later. Meanwhile, we’ve tomorrow to concern us and there’s still a lot to do to prepare for the ceremony. John knows to take the boy straight to St Etheldreda’s Church?’

‘Of course. Your aunt will be waiting for him?’

‘Yes. He and the girls will stop the night with her. It’s all arranged. Three of the Sisterhood will stay with the boy in the underground chamber, administering more of the drug if he seems like waking. You’ve had no trouble with him?’

‘None. We did as we were told. If he stirred, we forced more of the potion down his throat before he had time to recover consciousness. That apothecary’s assistant you recruited certainly knows how to concoct a potent brew.’

I caught my breath. Could it be Naomi they were talking of? I remembered the sprig of birch twigs pinned to her bodice, but that was commonplace at this time of year. I prayed for Julian Makepeace’s sake that it wasn’t true, but without much hope of having my prayer answered. Naomi was just the sort of giddy young woman to be easily influenced and convinced of her own importance. Moreover, she had access to all of Julian’s drugs, and I wouldn’t put it past her to have picked his brains without his realizing why she needed the information. And indeed, why would he suspect her of any nefarious dealing?

‘So what do we do now?’ the woman called Margaret went on anxiously. ‘Are you leaving him with me?’ She nodded in my direction.

‘No. I need you in London. There are horses outside. If we ride hard, we may reach the gates before curfew. If not, there are ways in and out of the city if you know them.’ Pernelle laughed suddenly and stretched her arms above her head. ‘You know, Aunt Rosina couldn’t believe her luck when Lady Fitzalan asked her to be nurse to young Gideon. The seventh son of a seventh son! She knew the time must come when we could make use of him. It’s been a long and patient wait in the cold and gloomy north, but the gods have moved at last. If you believe in them and make them sacrifice, the Old Ones never fail you.’

Her friend ignored this. ‘If I come to London with you, what happens to him?’ she demanded.

Pernelle laughed again, a sound that increasingly made me break into a sweat. Why had I never noticed before that there was a hint of madness in it?

‘He can stay here until we return the day after tomorrow. He can’t escape. Even if he could manage to get his hands free, the dog won’t let him move.’ She smiled at me. ‘He’s a brother of Beelzebub. He’s from the same litter.’ The smile grew even more pronounced. ‘Margaret is Nell Blancheflower’s sister. I shall have something to tell her on our journey.’ She turned to the dog, pointed a finger at me and uttered the one word, ‘Guard!’

The vicious brute growled and bared his teeth. I shivered inwardly. I had seen what his brother was capable of and I didn’t fancy my throat being torn apart.

Pernelle turned once more to her friend. ‘Hurry,’ she said. ‘Get your cloak. We must be going. We’ll see you again, Roger. The day after tomorrow!’

I must, in spite of my agonizing discomfort, have fallen into an uneasy, nightmarish doze, because the light now coming through the cottage window was rosy with the first feeble rays of the rising sun. For a moment or two, I stared around me, unable to get my bearings, before the pain in my legs, my wrists, my bladder brought me once more fully to my senses. My distress, after so many hours, was acute enough to convince me that another day and night of this torment would very likely kill me. Was this what Piers — Pernelle — had planned? Death by slow torture?

My throat was so parched that I could barely swallow, every joint screamed out in pain, cramp had both legs in its grip. My bowels, like my bladder, were full and would shortly humiliate me even further by emptying themselves. I should stink as badly as the room in general where the dog, unhampered by any such inhibition, had fouled the rush-strewn floor throughout the night.

Once more, I made a desperate attempt to free my wrists. In a second the creature was up and baring its teeth, but so long as I remained still, I guessed it wouldn’t attack me. I recalled my earlier assessment of its character; that it was a stupid animal who would slavishly obey orders, but whose enterprise and initiative had been eroded by cruelty and lack of affection. In that moment, I almost wished it would attack. I felt that death would be welcome. There was no hope of escape. The homestead was so isolated that nothing and no one ever seemed to pass that way. No sound disturbed the silence except the soughing of the wind in the trees. .

It was with total astonishment therefore, that I saw the door of the cottage slowly opening. Seconds later, the daughter of the house, the young girl I had seen weeks before trying to escape the clutches of her mother, stepped across the threshold.

‘Hello, who are you?’ she asked, staring at me in astonishment.