The Midsummer Crown

THREE

My heart gave a great lurch and sank into my boots. I had no need to ask whom she meant by ‘that man’, but nevertheless I stalled for time, staving off the actual moment of acknowledgement.

‘What man?’

My daughter made no answer, simply staring at me with the large blue eyes that were so like my own. Indeed, she bore such a strong resemblance to me, fair-haired and big-boned with the promise of height to come, that I could see nothing in her of her small, dark Celtic-looking mother. I had often noticed my former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, searching for some likeness of feature between Elizabeth and Lillis but failing to find one; and I often reflected that it must be a source of great disappointment to her that her one true grandchild had not a single feature to remind her of her long-dead daughter.

We were joined by my stepson, Nicholas, who arrived from the direction of Small Street closely shadowed by his little half-brother, Adela’s and my son, Adam. The latter would be five years old at the end of the month and was now of an age to want his siblings’ company, a fact which they resented. From the moment Adela and I had married, six years previously, Elizabeth and Nick had been inseparable and had needed no other companions than each other. Now, a persistent little serpent was invading their Eden.

‘That man’s here,’ Nicholas said, unconsciously echoing his stepsister.

‘Man,’ Adam repeated, his expression hostile. He added, ‘You going ’way again, isn’t you?’

‘No,’ I told him firmly. I turned back to Elizabeth. ‘I suppose you mean Master Plummer?’

She nodded, her lips set in a thin, inimical line.

‘He says you must go back to London with him,’ Nicholas said. ‘I heard him telling Mother.’

‘Well, this time I’m not going.’ I took a deep breath and braced my shoulders for the coming tussle of wills. ‘I promise you.’

My daughter looked sceptical. ‘You always say that, but you always do. Go, I mean.’

‘You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,’ my stepson reproved me. He had known me long enough, and had so little recollection of his real father, to accept me as his true parent and to treat me with the easy, affectionate lack of respect that my own children showed towards me. It was my fault, of course, being a sad disciplinarian and leaving correction and punishment to Adela. It was inevitable, I suppose, as half the time I wasn’t at home, sometimes for months at a time. The only advantage was that when, on occasions, I did lose my temper, I frightened them all to death.

‘Where is Master Plummer?’ I asked grimly, and was informed in chorus that he was at Small Street, lounging at ease in our parlour. ‘I’ll soon put a stop to that,’ I announced through gritted teeth.

We proceeded in procession to the house left to me five years previously by Cicely Ford, and the cause of a great deal of resentment and envy on the part of some of my former friends who considered me undeserving of such good fortune. The disapproval of the neighbours was of a different sort as they found it demeaning to have a common pedlar and his family living amongst them. We didn’t let it worry us, although at times it could prove uncomfortable.

Adela was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, making dumplings to add to the pot of sweet-smelling rabbit stew that was bubbling away over the fire. Without looking up, she began, ‘He’s-’

‘In the parlour,’ I finished for her. ‘Yes, I know. The children told me.’

She did glance up then, recognizing my tone of voice, and gave a rueful smile. ‘You can protest all you like, but he isn’t going to take “no” for an answer, Roger,’ she warned me. ‘I’ve already pleaded your cause and told him you’ve promised to stay at home for a while.’

‘And what did he say?’

She began transferring the dumplings to the stewpot. ‘Nothing. He didn’t bother arguing. He just produced a warrant signed by the lord Protector and waved it under my nose.’

‘Signed by who?’ I was so angry, my wits had gone wool-gathering.

‘The Protector.’ Then, as I still gaped at her, she added impatiently, ‘My lord of Gloucester.’

I dumped my nearly empty pack on the kitchen floor and up-ended the plentiful contents of my purse on to the table. ‘I’ll go and have a word with Timothy,’ I said darkly.

‘It won’t do any good.’ My wife came across and gave me a floury kiss on one cheek. Her tone was resigned. ‘I know the signs only too well. You won’t prevail. Besides,’ she added with a laugh, ‘half of you doesn’t want to.’

‘Nonsense!’ I declared stoutly.

She laughed again, but said nothing more.

The children, who had crowded after me into the kitchen, now preceded me into the parlour and faced Timothy Plummer before I had time to prevent them.

‘He’s not coming with you!’ Elizabeth exclaimed shrilly.

‘No, he’s not,’ Nicholas corroborated.

‘So go away!’ roared Adam. Even as a baby he had possessed a fearsome pair of lungs, and although he had grown quieter with age, he still liked to exercise them on occasions.

The Spymaster General looked dazed, which was unsurprising. In the world which he inhabited, children were respectful and deferential to their elders, answering only when spoken to. He was unprepared for this unprovoked, verbal assault.

I shooed the three of them out of the parlour and closed the door firmly in their wake. A voice from the other side shouted, ‘You promised!’

I drew up a stool and sat down opposite Timothy, noting resentfully that he had appropriated my own chair, the one with the carved, acanthus-leaf arms. I held up a hand.

‘Before you utter a word, my friend, I want to impress upon you that the children were speaking the truth. I am not returning to London with you, so there is nothing more to be said.’

The spymaster cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there is, Roger. It’s not as simple as that.’

I leant forward, stabbing the air with a finger in order to emphasize my point. ‘It’s just as simple as that. I repeat, I am not going back to London. There isn’t any point. For the saints’ sweet sake, man, I told you all I know in that letter I wrote to you, and which I presume you’ve received. You wouldn’t be here, else. I swear to you I have no later information.’

Timothy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, it’s not about Hastings and his treacherous little band of plotters. We know all about them. We’re just giving ’em enough rope to hang themselves before we strike. We have our own spy amongst ’em.’

I was interested in spite of myself. ‘The lawyer, Catesby, I presume.’

My companion eyed me sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’

I shrugged. ‘It was obvious when I overheard Hastings and Catesby talking that the lawyer resented the Lord Chamberlain’s treatment of him.’

‘And how was that?’

‘Like an unpaid servant. So, am I correct? Is Catesby your spy?’

Timothy frowned. ‘Seeing you know so much, I suppose I might as well admit it. But not a whisper to anyone, Roger! At least, not yet. Once we arrest the ringleaders it won’t matter.’

‘Who am I likely to tell? I’ve already said, I’m not going to London with you.’

Timothy heaved a sigh, the long-suffering one he kept specially for when he considered that I was behaving like a recalcitrant child. He reached into the pouch at his belt and produced an official-looking document which he proceeded, slowly and solemnly to unfold. The parchment crackled. He held it up so that I could see the royal seal at the bottom.

‘The lord Protector’s signature,’ he said, tapping with one fingernail the scrawled ‘R. Gloucester’ alongside it. ‘I was instructed to use this only as a last resort; to persuade you if I could, to appeal to your loyalty, to remind you of the place you hold in the duke’s affections and of his continuing friendship. But I can see that you’re in one of your pig-headed moods, in one of your hard-done-by sulks, so I’m not going to waste my time and breath on persuasion. It’s no use arguing, Roger. We leave for London tomorrow morning, on horseback of course, and should reach the capital by Friday.’

I did some rapid calculations in my head. ‘That’ll be the thirteenth,’ I said. ‘June the thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth. Oh no! With an augury like that, I’m certainly not going.’

‘Well, if you prefer being clapped in chains in Bristol Castle dungeons, that’s up to you,’ was the sharp response.

‘An empty threat,’ I argued uncertainly. ‘You wouldn’t do it.’

‘I won’t have any choice,’ Timothy retorted. ‘Those are my orders.’

I hesitated. I knew from past experience that my lord of Gloucester, kind and loyal friend though he could be, had a ruthless streak in him when it came to getting his own way. In this, I supposed, he was no different from any other of our lords and masters. There was no room for weakness and sentimentality in a position of command, and even less so when one was governing a country.

For a second or two, I regarded Timothy with a fulminating eye, my mind scrambling around like a squirrel in a cage, trying to find some means of escape. But there was none. Finally, I shrugged and asked resignedly, ‘What’s this all about, then? If it’s nothing to do with Hastings and his conspiracy, why do you want me back in London?’

Timothy relaxed and returned the parchment with its royal seal to his pouch. ‘That’s better,’ he approved. ‘Now you’re talking like a sensible man.’

‘Just get on and tell me,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want any pats on the head.’

At that moment, there was an interruption as Adela knocked on the door. ‘Supper’s ready,’ she called.

It was a quiet meal. The children, adept at reading my face, knew at once from my hangdog expression that if I had not already reneged on my promise, I was about to do so. They pointedly ignored me and treated all the visitor’s attempts to engage them in conversation with scorn, addressing such remarks as they did make either to one another or to Adela. Adela herself was meticulously polite to her guest, but her tone of voice was frosty. Eventually Timothy felt himself bound to reassure her.

‘His Grace will, as always, make sure that neither you nor the children are in want during Roger’s absence.’ He once again rummaged in his pouch, this time producing a couple of gold coins which he placed on the table before her.

My wife eyed them dispassionately. ‘I’d rather have my husband’s company,’ she said at last, ‘as probably the duke well knows.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Timothy conceded gracefully. ‘Unfortunately, my lord has need of Roger’s extraordinary talent for unraveling mysteries.’

‘Not again!’ I groaned. ‘Doesn’t the duke know someone other than myself who’s able to use his brains to good effect in these matters? It’s not so difficult. Just follow William of Occam’s rule — his Razor as it’s known — that the obvious answer is generally the correct one.’

‘But not always,’ Timothy countered swiftly. ‘You’re too modest, Roger. No one knows as well as you do that Occam’s Razor does not invariably apply. And on those occasions we have need of your especial gift.’

Amusement lit Adela’s eyes. ‘You’re a shrewder man than you look, Master Plummer.’ The spymaster looked unsure whether to take this as an insult or a compliment and smiled uncertainly. My wife added sweetly, ‘You understand that your fellow men are rarely proof against flattery.’

He made no comment, merely passing his bowl for a second helping of rabbit stew while I recharged his beaker with Adela’s home-brewed ale. There was, I reflected, nothing to be gained by being unpleasant to Timothy: he was merely the messenger. Besides, if the truth be told, my ready curiosity had been aroused at the mention of a mystery, and I found myself more than a little eager to hear what he had to say.

As soon as we had finished eating, therefore, he and I retired once more to the parlour, leaving Adela to clear the table and wash the dirty dishes, while the children huddled together deciding which of their many games to play before being forced up to bed.

‘Well?’ I asked once we were again settled, the difference being that this time I was sitting in my own chair and my companion in the window embrasure, a little less comfortable than he had been before supper. ‘What’s happened? What sort of occurrence that the duke thinks it necessary to send you all the way to Bristol in order to drag me back to London against my will?’

‘Murder and abduction,’ was the succinct answer. Timothy scrutinized me closely as he waited for my reaction.

‘Shit!’ I said loudly, which was perhaps not the one he had been expecting.

‘It’s serious,’ he said. ‘The boy who’s been taken is a ward of Francis Lovell. You know who he is, I suppose?’

‘Of course I know who he is, you fool. Quite apart from the fact that he’s one of the duke’s — the Protector’s I suppose I should say — best friends, and has been ever since they were boys together in the Earl of Warwick’s household, I was with the army in Scotland last year, in case you’ve forgotten. And not as one of the poor bloody foot soldiers, either. As a member of Albany’s entourage — and that was another perfectly safe and simple little job that nearly cost me my life, I might remind you — I was within daily sight and sound of most of the leaders of that expedition, including Francis Lovell.’

‘All right, all right,’ Timothy grunted. ‘There’s no need to get in your high ropes about it. I’m just telling you it’s his ward who’s been snatched, so you can see how serious the matter is.’

‘You call him a boy. How old is he?’

‘Thirteen. The same age as the king.’

‘Is that significant?’

‘In a way, but we’ll come to that in a minute. The murdered man is Gregory Machin, tutor to young Gideon Fitzalan.’

‘The boy who has been abducted?’

‘Yes. At least, the presumption is that he’s been abducted. He’s most certainly disappeared.’

‘So-’ I was beginning, but Timothy interrupted.

‘No, wait! The point about Gregory Machin’s murder is that, although he was stabbed, his body was found in a locked room.’

‘Suicide, then?’ I asked, startled, but Timothy shook his head.

‘No. Whoever killed him was standing behind him. The entrance to the wound was at the back. A quick, sharp jab up under the rib cage into the heart with a narrow, stiletto-type weapon. There was very little blood.’

‘And the room was locked? You’re certain?’

‘Of course I’m fucking certain! Do you think I’m a clodpoll? Or that all the other people who’ve examined the room are clodpolls, as well? The door had to be broken down. It was bolted on the inside.’

‘Where and when did this happen?’

‘Baynard’s Castle, last Friday.’ Timothy eased his lean buttocks against the hard stone of the window seat and eyed my chair longingly before continuing, ‘The day previously, the Duchess of Gloucester finally arrived from the north — she’s staying at Crosby’s Place, by the way, where the duke intends to join her eventually — and as far as I can gather, she brought young Gideon Fitzalan with her at the duke’s request. Or at Francis Lovell’s request, acting on Prince Richard’s orders, whichever you please. The following day, the lad was brought to Baynard’s Castle with his tutor and nurse to meet his uncle, Godfrey Fitzalan, who’s just arrived in London to attend the coronation, and for the present is a part of the Lovell household.’

‘Wait a moment,’ I said. ‘You’re telling me that this boy has a nurse?’

‘They all have nurses,’ Timothy answered with a shrug. ‘We’re talking about young noblemen, not the street urchins you know. They’re not nursery-maids if that’s what you’re thinking. I suppose you could call them surrogate mothers, making sure my young gentleman is warmly wrapped up if it’s cold, that he takes his medicine — if he has any to take, that is — that he has regular bowel movements and physics him if he hasn’t; that, in short, he’s healthy and happy. Well, maybe not necessarily happy, but you get the general idea. Although I don’t imagine Dame Copley will retain her post for very much longer. You’re right in thinking that at thirteen Master Fitzalan is on the brink of manhood. Indeed, many lads of that age already regard themselves as men. But I gather that young Gideon, the Benjamin of a large family of brothers and of a delicate constitution, has been somewhat mollycoddled from infancy onwards. Certainly, Dame Copley is devoted to him, and the way she’s carrying on — the tears, the hysterics — you could be forgiven for thinking the boy is her own son.’

I nodded, staring thoughtfully at the empty hearth and wishing, irrelevantly, for the glow of a good fire. Although only two weeks from Midsummer Eve and Day, the evenings still had a tendency to turn chilly, sunlight rarely penetrating the streets and houses in this overcrowded quarter of Bristol.

Finally, I spoke. ‘You hinted just now at some particular reason why this Gideon Fitzalan has been brought to London. At the instigation of my lord Gloucester was what you said. Why?’

It might have been my imagination, but I fancied Timothy suddenly looked slightly uncomfortable. The expression was so fleeting that, afterwards, I wasn’t really sure I had seen it.

‘He and one or two other boys of the same age are to be the king’s companions and attend him at his coronation.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I should have thought His Highness would have his own retinue, his own companions. He can’t have lived all those years at Ludlow without contemporaries to share his lessons and leisure time. He can’t have been permanently surrounded by his elders.’

‘No, of course not.’ There was the slightest of hesitations before Timothy proceeded smoothly, ‘But they were the children of Woodville adherents, picked by the Queen Dowager and Lord Rivers.’

‘So?’

‘They have been dismissed. My lord Gloucester wishes the king to be attended by people he can trust.’

I frowned, suddenly uneasy. ‘You mean that poor child has not only had his uncle and half-brother forcibly removed and clapped up in prison, but now his attendants, people he’s been familiar with all his life — his playmates, his fellow scholars — are also being replaced?’

Whatever his own feelings in the matter, Timothy would never allow even implied criticism of his beloved master. He brought a hand down hard on the stone of the window seat, then winced with pain. ‘You don’t understand, Roger! Or, worse still, you’re not making the effort to understand. That situation at Northampton posed real danger to the duke’s life. Oh, I’m not a fool. I have spies everywhere. I know there are rumours among some sections of the populace that the whole story was a fabrication on my lord Gloucester’s part; a lie in order to provide grounds for arresting Rivers and Vaughan and Grey. But take my word for it, that wasn’t so. The duke knew that he might be in some danger from the Woodvilles, and of course it’s true that he doesn’t like them; that he has always held them responsible for Clarence’s death. But he was still hoping to work with them for a peaceful accession. I can vouch for it that he wasn’t truly suspicious even when we reached the rendezvous at Northampton and discovered that the royal party had moved on to Stony Stratford. I don’t believe it occurred to him that Stony Stratford was only a short distance from the Woodville’s family home at Grafton Regis. When Earl Rivers rode back with an explanation of why the king had ridden ahead by fourteen miles — and a pretty feeble explanation it was, too — my lord was willing to accept it and invited him to supper. If it hadn’t been for Lord Buckingham’s arrival to warn him of the truth, our duke could well be dead by now. So he dare not trust Woodville sympathizers of whatever age around the king.’

I said nothing for a moment or two. It was a story I had heard before, and from Timothy, and had no doubt that it was true. But somehow I doubted that the queen’s family would have risked killing so popular a figure as the Duke of Gloucester. They could have incarcerated him at Grafton until such time as the king had been crowned and the Woodvilles had assumed positions of power. But even then, there would almost certainly have been trouble on the duke’s release.

I sighed. No; taking everything into consideration, I felt bound to admit that my lord Gloucester’s reaction, his instinct for self-preservation, had probably been the right one. As was his present determination to rid the king of all those of his attendants appointed by, and therefore loyal to, the Queen Dowager’s family.

‘So tell me about this murder and the boy’s disappearance,’ I said.

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Only the barest outline,’ I protested indignantly. ‘Give me the details. This Gideon what’s-his-name. .?’

‘Fitzalan! Try to pay attention.’

I ignored the rider and proceeded, ‘This Gideon Fitzalan, then, arrives in London in the company of the Duchess of Gloucester, accompanied by his tutor. .?’

‘Gregory Machin.’

‘And his nurse. .?’

‘Rosina Copley.’

‘And is taken to Crosby’s Place for the night. So I assume that the Fitzalans are a family loyal to the duke?’

Timothy nodded. ‘Completely. Their home, Fitzalan Hall, is in Yorkshire, near Sheriff Hutton. As I told you, young Gideon is the youngest of a large family of brothers, and two years ago, Francis Lovell was granted his wardship, since when the boy has been living at Minster Lovell, in Oxfordshire, training for knighthood. The duchess stopped there on her way south from Middleham to collect him.’

‘Also his tutor and nurse.’

‘Yes. As I mentioned, the lad is of a delicate constitution.’

‘And the following day, he is taken not to the royal apartments in the Tower, but to Baynard’s Castle. Why?’

‘I wish to God you’d pay attention!’ Timothy exclaimed violently. ‘I told you just now that one of his uncles, Godfrey Fitzalan, is in London to attend the young king’s coronation and is temporarily a member of Francis Lovell’s household.’

‘Francis Lovell is also at Baynard’s Castle?’

‘He’s there to support the duke. My lord is very sensibly gathering his closest friends around him.’

‘Sweet Virgin!’ I said. ‘That place must be crammed to the doors. Has Duchess Cicely arrived yet?’

‘Yes. That’s why my lord went to stay there. He’s a devoted son, as you know. But now that Duchess Anne is settled at Crosby’s Place, he’ll naturally join her.’

‘Very well, so tell me some more about this murder in a locked room. Locked from the inside, you say?’

‘Bolted,’ Timothy amended. ‘The top bolt only. There was one lower down but that was still open.’

‘You must realize,’ I pointed out, ‘that murder in a locked room is impossible. You are quite sure about this, aren’t you?’

The spymaster took a deep breath, his chest swelled and his eyes threatened to pop out of his head, like a frog’s. ‘I told you, they had to break the fucking door down to get in there!’ he shouted, once again doing damage to his knuckles by pounding the window seat. This time I winced for him, but, for the moment, he seemed oblivious to the pain. That, I reflected with inward satisfaction, would come later.

‘You’re certain the door wasn’t just stuck?’ He made a gobbling sound as if he were about to choke and I began to be seriously concerned for his sanity, ‘All right! All right!’ I murmured soothingly. ‘I’ll accept your word for it that the door was bolted. At least,’ I couldn’t resist adding, ‘that was how it seemed.’ I settled more comfortably in my chair. ‘So tell me everything you know,’ I invited.