The Midsummer Crown

TWENTY

‘The dog!’ I croaked in a voice I barely recognized as my own. ‘Beware the dog!’

The brute had risen to its feet at the opening of the door and now stood facing the child, hackles raised and teeth bared in a way that made me tremble with fear. She, however, seemed entirely unperturbed.

‘I’m not afraid of him!’ was the scornful reply. Pointing one small, rosy finger at the animal, she yelled, ‘Lie down and go to sleep!’

And to my utter amazement, the beast did just that. It stretched its full length among the rushes and closed its eyes. A moment later, it was snoring.

Meanwhile, the girl had advanced into the room and was studying my face intently. ‘I know who you are,’ she announced. ‘You’re that man who was here — oh! — a long time ago when my sister was ill. Why have you come back?’ But she spoke without curiosity and evinced no further interest when I ignored the question.

‘My hands are tied,’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Can you find a knife and cut me free?’

Without another word, she fetched a large, wicked-looking blade from the cooking bench and hacked through the rope which bound me. I regret to say that I didn’t even stop to thank her, but staggered outside to the lean-to privy which I had noticed yesterday at the back of the cottage and then, when I finally emerged, to the barrel of rainwater where I bathed my face and badly bruised wrists. Finally, as the sun lifted clear of the horizon and the dawn chorus sounded ever louder from the neighbouring trees, I stretched my limbs and filled my lungs with the cold, sweet morning air.

When I returned to the cottage, this remarkable child was calmly filling two beakers from a jug of her mother’s home-brewed ale. She pushed one towards me and I swallowed the contents gratefully.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be in London?’ I queried.

She nodded and shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I got bored sitting on that cart with my sister and a load of cabbages and that stupid boy who’s been living here for the past two weeks. So, when my father wasn’t watching I escaped. I knew he wouldn’t come looking for me because he had to be in London by yesterday evening. I heard Mother tell him so and he mostly does as she says. I shall get whipped for it,’ she added philosophically, ‘but I’m used to that. I’m always escaping. I was escaping that day you were here. One day, when I’m a bit older, I’ll escape for good.’

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Albia. What’s yours?’

‘Roger. Who was the boy who was here, do you know?’

‘No. He was no fun.’ Her tone was contemptuous. ‘He did nothing but sleep, like I told you, or when he was awake he wouldn’t eat and just grizzled and cried for someone called Rosina.’

My heart went out to Gideon. Little did the poor young devil know that the person he was crying for was not his friend and protector, but one of the people responsible for all the evil which had befallen him. I decided there and then that whatever punishment was coming to Rosina Copley — and it would not be pleasant — she deserved every second of it.

‘I must be on my way,’ I said, and again this strangely incurious child nodded her head.

But she was eminently practical, too. ‘If you’re hungry, there’s bread and cheese.’

I realized that I was, very hungry. And I also realized that after all I had undergone in the past few days, my limbs were like lead and my head felt as if it were stuffed with old rags.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

While we ate, I asked Albia if she knew anything about the young woman who dressed as a boy.

‘Oh, her!’ My youthful companion was dismissive. ‘She’s only been here once or twice. Since the boy came, so I think she must be something to do with him. She’s strange. She says she doesn’t care for men, but she dresses like one. That’s stupid. But Mother liked her very much. Father was angry about it, I don’t know why.’

I didn’t enlighten her and we finished our meal in silence. Indeed, I had a job to stay awake, especially after another two beakers of ale. Consequently the sun was rising in the sky when I finally climbed out of the hollow to the ridge above and set out on the long walk back to London. The horses had been taken, of course, by Piers — Pernelle — and the woman Margaret, and Albia had confirmed that the carthorse was the only beast of burden that her father owned. My hope must lie in some friendly carrier giving me a ride.

I awoke with a start to instant awareness and the horrified realization that the light was fading. I knew at once what had happened.

I had found the path leading to the main track with none of the difficulty I had experienced going in the opposite direction the previous day. The track itself was busy as always, and there was no dearth of carts heading for the capital. But the drivers were a singularly surly bunch and not one of them was prepared to offer me a ride in spite of my many appeals to their better natures. Two whom I physically attempted to halt by clutching at their horses’ reins were most abusive, and one even caught me a stinging blow across the shoulders with his whip. A couple of others showed me the two-fingered devil’s horn and consigned me verbally to the fires of Hell, while the rest simply ignored me or pretended not to hear.

Shortly after noon, when the sun was directly overhead and at its hottest, I stopped at a wayside cottage for a further drink of ale which, on reflection, was probably a grave mistake. If my limbs had felt like lead earlier on, they now rebelled altogether. My legs obstinately refused to obey my brain even on the increasingly rare occasions when my brain was capable of giving them orders. Three times I stumbled and nearly fell, but the fourth time I measured my length on the ground and my bruised and battered body insisted on staying there. I had just enough energy and will-power remaining to haul myself behind a large brake of gorse, out of sight of the highway, before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

It was from this no doubt healing, but unfortunate, slumber that I had now awakened to discover that it was almost dusk. I had no idea how far I still was from London, but I knew that the hour was advanced and that it must be almost curfew. I scrambled to my feet and staggered back to the road which now boasted only a handful of people, late travellers like myself.

I caught one of them by the elbow. ‘How far is it to London?’ I asked, waiting with bated breath for his answer.

‘About a mile, by my reckoning.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘I shouldn’t try making it tonight,’ he advised. ‘There’s a little inn I know of ’bout a furlong further on. I’m going t’ rack up there for the night. If you’ve any sense, you’ll do the same. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look too good.’

A mile! I knew that normally my pace was roughly two miles an hour which, at the best of times, would mean another half-hour’s walking, and even that might be too late. (Unlike Piers-Pernelle, I had no knowledge of where one might breach the walls after the gates were closed.) I stared at the speaker in dismay.

‘I have to reach London tonight,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Well, you might get there before curfew, I suppose, if you hurry. But if you’ll pardon me saying so, you don’t look like you could hurry. If you want the truth, you look like a man who’s none too steady on his feet. You’d far better come with me to this inn I told you of. I’ll give you my arm.’

I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but I must get to London.’

He gave another shrug and washed his hands of me. ‘In that case, I’ll be getting along. If you want to kill yourself. .’

A minute later, he was just a speck in the distance and I was left alone on a highway that now seemed completely deserted.

‘Look, God,’ I said desperately, ‘you’ll have to do something — and something spectacular — if you want me to save this child. I know I’ve been stupid and obtuse, ignoring or not understanding the hints you’ve given me. But let’s face it, that’s nothing new. You must realize after all these centuries that you may have made us in your own image, but you didn’t give us your mind or brain. So, if you could. .’

I never finished the sentence. My silent prayer was interrupted by the sound of hoof beats, at first in the distance but then accompanied by the sight of a rider in the saddle of a great bay mare approaching at a shocking speed. Indeed, man and beast were almost upon me before I gathered my wits sufficiently to leap into their path, clutching at the animal’s reins. With a shouted curse, the horseman swerved to avoid me and, convinced he was being attacked by footpads, would have ridden me down had he not, suddenly and by the grace of God, recognized me just at the very moment that I recognized him.

William Catesby!

‘God’s toenails!’ he fumed as the horse came to a plunging halt not a yard from me. ‘Do you want to get yourself killed, Master Chapman?’ He uttered a few choice epithets before taking a closer look at me and stopping short. ‘What’s the matter, man? You look like death.’

‘Take me up behind you,’ I begged. ‘I’ll tell you as we go.’

We made it to the Lud Gate just as darkness fell and the gate was about to be closed.

‘We’ll go first to Baynard’s Castle,’ the lawyer said, ‘and get reinforcements. We can’t tackle these she-wolves on our own.’ He hesitated before adding defiantly, ‘King Richard has moved there to be with his mother. Queen Anne is staying for the moment at Crosby’s Place.’ The die was well and truly cast then. The duke’s closest adherents were already referring to him as monarch. Catesby added, ‘Hold on tightly. Let’s go.’

But we were going nowhere. It was Midsummer Eve, the Eve of St John the Baptist. We had forgotten the Marching Watch.

Thousands of citizens had been assembling in St Paul’s churchyard since mid-afternoon, and hundreds of shops all over the city had closed early so that masters and apprentices alike could take part in the spectacle. The procession, headed by members of the twelve great livery companies were just now moving off towards Cheapside followed by the guilds in all their glory of scarlet and gold. Everywhere was light as hundred upon hundreds of cressets illumined the scene. These iron baskets at the end of long poles, each containing burning wood and coals, were carried by poor men of the city especially chosen for the occasion. Every man was given a straw hat and a painted badge (proudly worn and then stored away to show his grandchildren at some future date) and beside him walked another poor man, similarly attired, carrying a bag of coals for refuelling.

The heat and light generated by these cressets was overwhelming, but as nothing to the noise that assaulted the ears from what sounded like thousands of trumpets, pipes and drums — but were probably less than a hundred in all. It was the enthusiasm of the players that created the din. Lines of armed men guarded the processional route and the flames of bonfires leapt and warmed the crowds at every crossroad. Earlier in the day, women and children had been out in the surrounding fields picking armfuls of flowers and greenery — green birch, fennel, St John’s Wort and others — to make garlands and decorate the houses. Streamers and tapestries hung from every window of those folk who could afford them, while tables groaning with food and drink stood outside the houses of the rich, each man vying with his neighbours to outdo the rest. And in the midst of all this, the Midsummer Queens of each ward were carried shoulder-high, crowned with birch leaves.

Finally, just as it seemed that the splendour had reached its zenith, came the Mayor’s Watch with Mayor Edmund Shaa mounted on a magnificent roan, his armoured sword-bearer riding before him, two mounted attendants behind and torch-bearers on either side. The crowds exploded with excitement.

Every street, alleyway and lane appeared to be blocked with a solid mass of people, moving more slowly than the procession itself because of other diversions.

Catesby said despairingly, ‘We’ll never get through these crowds, at least, not on horseback.’ He signalled to me to dismount, then followed suit. The mare was already showing the whites of her eyes and shied nervously at a more than usually ear-splitting burst of sound. The lawyer went on, ‘You’ll have to try to get to Dowgate on foot. Meantime, I’ll lead Dorcas round the long way to Baynard’s Castle, south by Old Change and Lampard’s Hill and then turn west along Thames Street. I’ll be with you again as soon as I can. Don’t do anything foolish.’ And with that, he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds and leaving me fuming.

Don’t do anything foolish, indeed! Easy enough to say, but I was always finding myself in desperate situations thanks to my involuntary involvement in the duke’s affairs. No! Not the duke’s any more. The king’s!

I took a deep breath and began to shoulder a path through the press of hot and sweating bodies, their owners already high on the excitement of the occasion, but also starting to get high in another sense, on all the free wine and potent cuckoo-ale that was on offer. Women were becoming shrill, men raucous and both belligerent. My determined efforts to forge a way between them soon met with an aggression that threatened my safety long before I reached my destination. But there was one good thing; my anxiety for young Gideon Fitzalan seemed to have given me a renewed strength of which, an hour earlier, I would have deemed myself incapable. The result was that I was able, finally, to outstrip the crowds and turn into Bucklersbury, head south down Wallbrook and east into Candlewick Street much sooner than I had expected. And a very few moments after, the mouth of the alleyway connecting the street with Dowgate Hill yawned on my right.

I plunged along it, my heart hammering in my chest, but taking comfort from the fact that only the length of Thames Street, at the bottom of the hill, now separated me from Baynard’s Castle. I prayed fervently that Catesby had managed to get there with even less hindrance than I had encountered.

As I approached the church, I noted that Etheldreda Simpkin’s house was in complete darkness, the candle which most people put in their windows to guide travellers after dark unlit. Cautiously, I tried the handle of the church door.

It was locked.

I should have been prepared for this, but for some reason it took me by surprise. For what seemed like an eternity — in reality no more than three or four seconds — I stared at the iron ring in the palm of my hand and decided that that was it then. There was no more I could do. But suddenly, very faint and far off, I thought I heard a cry. A child’s cry. A cry of fear and horror. Whether I really heard it or whether I imagined it I have never been quite sure, but it spurred me into action.

The door of St Etheldreda’s was old, the wood splintering in places, in others already rotting. Exerting all my strength, I hurled my whole weight against it, once, twice, three times. And at the fourth attempt, one of the planks split from its neighbour, leaving a sufficient gap for me to squeeze through.

The church itself was deserted, but I had expected that. Whatever was happening, was taking place in the chamber below the crypt. I considered lighting a candle, but decided against it. I knew my way sufficiently by now to risk the comforting cloak of darkness, so I made my way behind the altar, felt for the rope and lifted the trapdoor which fell open with its usual thud.

I stood stock still, listening, my heart in my mouth, waiting to see if the noise was loud enough to have attracted attention. Nothing happened, so I proceeded to descend the stairs into the crypt. The sound of the Wallbrook gushing along its underground bed was loud in my ears and I shivered, recalling the coldness of its water as it emptied itself into the Thames.

Carefully, my eyes now well accustomed to the gloom, I picked my way between the accumulated rubbish of other people’s lives to the door which led to the lower chamber; that chamber which had once, centuries ago and if local lore were to be believed, been the Roman Temple of Mithras. It flashed across my mind that it, too, might be locked, in which case there was nothing further I could do until help arrived. This sturdy door with its iron studs had been carefully maintained and repaired. It would need a battering ram to demolish it.

I found that the hand I had extended towards the latch was trembling, and that with half my mind I was desperately hoping that the door was locked, thus relieving me of all further responsibility. But then there came another scream, high pitched and full of terror, and there was no possibility this time of it being in my imagination. This was real. My blood seemed to freeze in my veins.

I pushed up the latch without even stopping to consider any personal danger and charged down the half-dozen steps into the room below.

It was like a scene from a nightmare, and even now, all these years on and myself an old man who has seen much evil in his life, it still haunts my dreams and wakes me in the night, sweating with fear. At first my eyes were dazzled by the light that came from a dozen or more candles all concentrated in one area of the room. Shadows flickered menacingly over the damp, moss-encrusted walls and plunged the corners of the chamber into darkness. For a moment or two I was blinded, coming as I had from the gloom of the crypt into this blaze of flame and smoke, but as my sight cleared, I saw with mounting horror that there was a makeshift altar set against the far wall and to this was bound the body of a young boy, no longer drugged into blessed unconsciousness but fully awake and aware of what was happening. And grouped about him were figures robed in white, each face hidden behind a hideous bird mask of the kind used at Christmas and Easter mummings, while the figure standing closest to the altar wore a cockerel’s head. And in the cockerel’s upraised hand was a wicked-looking, long-bladed knife.

Somebody shouted — and I realized a second later that it was me.

I threw myself forward, reaching desperately for that hand before it could plunge downwards into its victim’s heart, but if I had recovered my powers of speech and motion, so had others. Robed figures suddenly hemmed me in on all sides and I could hear the sounds of their fury hissing behind the masks.

‘Kill him!’ came a muffled shout in a voice that, in spite of the distortion, I recognized as Rosina Copley’s.

‘Hold him!’ someone else commanded, and the grip on both my arms tightened.

The figure at the altar — which I could now see was nothing more than a double row of planks from the crypt, piled on top of one another and lashed together with rope — advanced towards me, knife held high, the light from the candle-flames reflected in its steel and giving the eerie impression that it was already covered in blood. Exerting all my strength, fear and horror lending me the energy of ten, I tore free of my captors and looked around me for a weapon. For a heart-stopping moment I could see nothing.

‘God!’ I whispered feverishly. ‘Help me!’

Almost at once, a flicker of light from an errant candle-flame, blowing sideways in a sudden draught of air, illumined the statue of St Etheldreda brought down from the church and placed on a ledge of rock close to the ‘altar’; a good woman whose name, story and feast day had been appropriated by an evil sisterhood for their own bloodthirsty ends. I lunged and as I grabbed the statue, I realized with relief that not only was it made from heavy plaster but it was also weighted in the base (either to discourage theft or to prevent it being easily toppled). Grasping it by its head (a sacrilege for which I felt sure the saint would forgive me) I lashed out, catching my nearest assailant a stunning blow to the side of her chin. She fell like a stone, taking the woman directly behind her with her and pinning her temporarily to the ground.

Immediately all was uproar. The rest of the women, mad with fury, struggled to reach me where I stood with my back to the wall, lashing out with my improvised club. But it was the one with the knife I had to watch, the one I was convinced was Pernelle; my old friend Piers whose swaggering and swearing had always seemed a little unnatural and which, together with my recurring dreams of Eloise Gray, should have apprised me of the truth much sooner. Her reach was longer than that of the other women, and twice I felt the blade nick my face before managing to hit it away. To add to the confusion and general nightmarish quality of the scene, the terrified child was screaming and trying to free himself from his bonds. Suddenly, one of the knots which bound his ankles came untied.

I saw it out of the corner of my eye as I swung again at one of the women — hitting off her mask whose strings had become loosened to reveal the plump, pretty features of Amphillis Hill — but so did Pernelle. With a cry of rage she turned away, leaving me to the frenzied attentions of the others and raised the knife.

I remember yelling ‘No!’ at the top of my voice, but in the event my cry was lost as the chamber door burst open and dozens of armed men in the Gloucester livery poured down the steps, swords and daggers drawn ready, if needs be, for use. After which I have only a hazy recollection of what happened, largely due to the fact that I disgraced myself by fainting yet again and did not recover consciousness until I had been safely conveyed back to Baynard’s Castle.

I came to to find the duke himself — no, the king himself — bending solicitously over me. A cool hand was laid on my brow.

‘I understand I have to thank you once again, Roger, for your services,’ he said, smiling. ‘You see, I was right to put you in charge. You have never failed me yet, even when it means putting your own life in danger. And this time you have also saved the life of a young boy, a very precious thing, and averted a very unpleasant scandal at the beginning of a new reign.’ I noticed that he carefully avoided saying whose reign. ‘So how can I reward you?’

I was in no doubt about that. ‘By just letting me go home, Your Grace,’ I said.

It wasn’t as simple as that, of course. Nothing ever is.

As a reward, I was to be given a place, humble and obscure maybe, but a place nevertheless in Westminster Abbey so that I might witness Richard’s coronation, and afterwards in Westminster Hall for the coronation banquet. As both these events were fixed for Sunday, the sixth of July, it meant that I had to kick my heels in London for almost another two weeks. This enforced delay, however, was alleviated by the discovery that I was being treated like a hero, and that even Timothy Plummer accorded me an uncharacteristic respect.

I did not enquire what was happening to those members of the Sisterhood, those Daughters of Albion, who had been arrested at the church. I’m a coward insomuch as while I uphold the due process of law, I’m reluctant to contemplate its workings, hideous as so many of its punishments are. I did ask if anyone of the Daughters was named Naomi, and when the reply was in the negative, I went so far as to visit Julian Makepeace, making him free of all that had happened and what I had learnt. He was appalled and I have reason to think that he sent Naomi away into the distant countryside for her own safety. But I felt sure that whatever had been between them was finished.

Three days after my ordeal I stood pressed against one wall of the great hall of Baynard’s Castle while a great concourse of nobles, both spiritual and temporal, packed it to capacity and listened to the Duke of Buckingham make the case for offering Richard the crown. And when, finally, the duke himself appeared at the head of the marble staircase, accompanied by his mother (who looked, I may say, far more triumphant than he did) they went wild with enthusiasm, waving their hats in approval and falling to their knees while their spokesmen — the Archbishop of Canterbury and half-a-dozen others — begged my lord, with tears in their eyes, to accept the throne.

He made a little show of reluctance for modesty’s sake, but he would have been a fool to carry it too far. The upshot was that he descended the stairs, mounted his horse, White Surrey, which had been led indoors, and rode off to Westminster Hall where, so I was later informed, he seated himself on the marble chair of the King’s Bench and formally laid claim to the crown as his father’s rightful heir. Again, the acclamation of the crowd was overwhelming. He then sent for Sir John Fogge, a close relative of the Woodvilles and one of his own deadliest enemies, gave him the hand of friendship and appointed him Justice of the Peace for Kent, a gesture of reconciliation which the crowd cheered to the echo. (But over which those of us who knew my lord well shook our heads despairingly. It was the same old story: he was clever, but too often not wise, letting his heart rule his head.) He then rode on to the abbey to make an offering at the shrine of St Edward the Confessor.

On the eve of his coronation, I was among the cheering, excited crowds who watched him ride from the royal apartments of the Tower to Westminster, dressed in blue cloth of gold embroidered all over with golden pineapples and with a purple velvet mantle trimmed with ermine. His seven pages wore white cloth of gold and crimson satin. The overall effect was magnificent. Two things bothered me, however. First, Queen Anne was being carried in a litter, obviously too frail to ride the distance on horseback. Second, the Duke of Buckingham was also wearing blue, blazoned all over with a design of golden cartwheels. There was a similarity between his and the king’s costume that I found vaguely disturbing.

The following day, I was squashed into a corner of the abbey to watch the crowning. (Well ‘watch’ is an exaggeration. I didn’t see much of the actual ceremony from where I stood, but it was described to me by various people afterwards.) And then it was off to Westminster Hall where I, along with hundreds of others, gorged ourselves on enough food to have kept the entire population of Bristol in victuals for a month. Probably longer. I have never, before or since, seen so many varieties of soup, joints of meat, roasted birds, pies, jellies, syllabubs, spiced fruits, nuts, fish — fried, boiled and baked — all crowded together on one table at the same time. As for the wines, I never knew the names of a quarter of them. All I do know is that it took me two whole days and nights to recover.

Then I went home.