The Midsummer Crown

SIX

Timothy, Piers and I reined in our horses and pulled them into the side of the road. I looked questioningly at the spymaster.

He shook his head, indicating that he was as much at a loss as I was. Then he leant from the saddle and grabbed a blue-capped apprentice who was shouting as loudly as anyone, ‘Treason! High treason!’

‘What’s happening?’ he demanded. ‘What treason?’

The lad regarded him vacantly for a moment or two before shrugging his narrow shoulders.

‘Lord, I don’t know, master. But everyone’s saying it. I just joined in.’

Timothy pushed him away with a snort of disgust and raised himself in his stirrups, peering over the heads of the people around us, obviously hoping for the sight of someone he knew. The little crowd had greatly increased even in the short time that we had been there, shop-owners and householders pouring out of doors, attracted by the rumpus and anxious to discover what was going on. Everyone milled around aimlessly, begging enlightenment of his neighbours, but getting no satisfaction and growing more frustrated and alarmed by the second.

Suddenly, Timothy’s gaze sharpened and homed in on a small, sandy-haired man struggling through the crowd from the direction of Cheapside. He was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.

‘Simon! Simon Finglass!’ Timothy bellowed in a stentorian voice which I hardly recognized as his; indeed, until that moment, I would have thought him incapable of making so much noise.

In spite of the hubbub, it was loud enough to attract the other man’s attention. He lifted his head and stood on tiptoe, trying to locate the source of the summons. After a while he spotted Timothy’s frantically waving arm and fought his way through the mob to our side. A little breathlessly he gripped the horse’s reins to steady himself and looked up enquiringly into Timothy’s face.

‘What’s happening?’ the spymaster reiterated. ‘Treason at the Tower? What are these fools talking about?’

‘You’re back, are you?’ The sandy head nodded approval. ‘Good thing. If half what’s being rumoured is true, I guess you’ll be needed at the Tower. Where’ve you been?’

‘On the duke’s business,’ Timothy snapped, ‘and none of yours! Just answer my question, will you? What is this all about?’

Simon Finglass shrugged. ‘Don’t know for certain,’ he admitted. ‘Only know what they’re saying.’

He paused, sucking his teeth. Timothy turned purple in the face and, to save him an apoplexy, I leant forward, gently stroking my restless mount between the ears, and asked, ‘What is it “they” are saying?’

The cacophony around us was now deafening and, once again, as just a few weeks previously, I sensed the near-hysteria of the crowd, a product of that febrile atmosphere which had lain like a pall over the city ever since King Edward died. I dismounted, indicating that Timothy and Piers should do the same, and led the way into the comparative peace and quiet of St Paul’s churchyard. Here, at least, we could hear ourselves speak.

Timothy addressed himself to his acquaintance. ‘Simon, what is going on? Tell us, man, for God’s sake!’

The man screwed up his small russet apple of a face in an apologetic grin. ‘I don’t know for certain. I was at Baynard’s Castle collecting some of the duke’s gear he’d left behind when he moved to Crosby’s Place. I knew there was an important meeting at the Tower this morning — the duke, the Lord Chamberlain, the Archbishop of York and some others — but what it was about I knew no more than the next poor sod who ain’t privy to the councils of the high and mighty.’

‘For Christ’s sweet sake, get on with it!’ Timothy groaned.

Master Finglass looked hurt. ‘I am! I am! Well, I’m minding my own business down in the main courtyard, packing the duke’s stuff into a couple of saddlebags, when two of our fellows come bursting in from the Thames Street gate, looking like they’ve seen a bloody ghost. The Archbishop, the Bishop of Ely, and some lord or other have all been arrested on a charge of high treason. And also. .’ He paused momentarily for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘And also arrested is the Lord Chamberlain. Same charge! Treason!’

‘Ah! At last!’ Timothy let out a grunt of satisfaction and nodded at me. ‘We’ve seen that coming.’

Simon Finglass gripped the spymaster’s wrist. ‘Wait! That’s not all they’re saying. They’re saying that Lord Hastings is dead. That he was rushed to Tower Green and beheaded there and then by one of the executioners who’d been brought to the Tower, special-like, for that purpose. That the chamberlain was barely given time to be shrived and that they didn’t even use the proper block. They used a piece of timber that was lying around after some recent building repairs.’

There was dreadful silence. Timothy, Piers and I stood as though struck dumb. I was conscious of the drumming of my heart, of a deep sense of foreboding and of the high, shrill singing of a bird in a tree behind me. Finally, after what seemed an age, Timothy cleared his throat and at the second attempt said, ‘His Grace of Gloucester wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t condemn a man to death without trial. It’s illegal. It’s against the laws of Magna Carta. Even the king himself couldn’t do it, and my lord is only Protector.’ He suddenly gained in confidence and his voice became stronger. ‘There must be some mistake. You must have misheard, Simon.’

The other shook his head. ‘I didn’t mishear nothing. Nor did anybody else. ’Cause we were all saying the same as you. As how it was against the law. As how the duke, who’s a stickler for doing things right, wouldn’t go against his conscience by executing a man without trial.’

Timothy chewed his lower lip. ‘What do you think, Roger?’

It demonstrated the extent of his perturbation that he should ask for my opinion. In normal circumstances, his own was all that counted with him.

I hesitated before answering. The truth was that I didn’t really know what to think. On one hand, the man whose birthday I shared, whom I had known and deeply admired for the past twelve years, who was renowned everywhere for his sense of fair play, would surely never have permitted, let alone ordered, such a travesty of justice; but on the other hand, ever since the previous year’s expedition to Scotland, I had been conscious of a growing ruthlessness beneath the cultured and civilized front which the duke presented to the world.

He had cause, heaven knew, for being embittered. Richard of Gloucester had a strong, puritanical streak in his nature and he had been forced to stand by and watch his adored elder brother, the magnificent, golden warrior of his youth, transformed into a man devoted to hedonism, his health slowly but surely destroyed by the pleasures of the flesh. The chief companions of the king’s overeating, drinking and whoring had been his best friend, William Hastings, and his two stepsons and their uncles, members of the queen’s hated Woodville family, all of whom the duke held responsible for the death of his other brother, George of Clarence. Yet even so. .

‘There must be some mistake,’ I replied at last. ‘A rumour that’s been taken as fact.’

Timothy grunted, presumably in agreement, but said nothing, an omission that made me uneasy. I was about to press him for his own thoughts on the matter when there was a sudden shifting of the crowd as people began invading the churchyard, stampeding towards St Paul’s Cross in the north-east corner.

‘There’s a herald coming,’ Simon Finglass announced, and made off after the rest.

Timothy, Piers and I remounted, giving us a distinct advantage over our fellows, and simply turned our horses to face the right direction. Sure enough, a herald in the royal livery appeared, preceded by a trumpeter whose piercing blasts on his instrument commanded not just silence from the crowd, but threatened to waken the dead all around us and raise them from their graves. But they had the necessary effect. The people fell silent.

‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ The herald eyed us all severely to make certain that he had our attention before proceeding to unscroll and read from the parchment in his hand. It seemed that during a meeting of the Privy Council that morning, the Duke of Gloucester had suddenly turned on Lord Hastings, Lord Stanley — Henry Tudor’s stepfather — the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely and accused them of plotting his own and the Duke of Buckingham’s deaths with the intention of then taking control of the king. The plot also involved the queen dowager, at present in sanctuary, with Mistress Shore, the late king’s mistress, acting as go-between. All the accused — Queen Elizabeth, of course, excepted — were now in custody. There was no need for alarm. Everything was under control. People were to return to work and proceed with their daily tasks.

And that was all. The herald and trumpeter departed. Timothy heaved a sigh of relief and turned to me.

‘No mention of any out-of-hand executions,’ he said. ‘There will be some, no doubt of that. But all legal and above board.’

I nodded, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from my mind. If Hastings and the other conspirators got what was coming to them that was only a fitting punishment for their crime. But it would be by due process of law and that was what mattered.

‘What do we do now?’ I asked as the crowds, somewhat disappointed at this tame ending to all the excitement, began to disperse.

‘I must get to the Tower as fast as possible. I may be needed.’ Timothy’s little air of self-importance made me struggle to suppress a grin. ‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘I must report your safe arrival to the duke. You and Piers had better go straight to Baynard’s Castle and see if there’s any news concerning Master Fitzalan. If not, Roger, you’d best begin your enquiries right away.’

I said nothing. He could take my silence for acquiescence if he liked. But I intended to procure myself some refreshment first. Like the rest of my countrymen, I believed in a sufficient amount of rest and recreation.

The main courtyard of the castle was thronged with guests and servants alike, all avidly discussing the reports from the Tower. I guessed that Gideon Fitzalan’s disappearance and the murder of Gregory Machin had been superseded as the general topic of concern and conversation.

‘Follow me,’ Piers said briskly as he dismounted, at the same time signalling to one of the grooms to come and take our horses. ‘I’ll take you to Dame Copley. She’s bound to be in her room. Or — wait a minute! I can see Godfrey Fitzalan over there. You know, Gideon’s uncle.’

I shot out a hand to detain him, my mind still running on food, but I was a second too late. Piers was already plunging through the knots of people towards a tall man with a shock of curly brown hair and a pair of very light bluish-grey eyes that contrasted oddly with his very dark, almost black eyebrows.

‘Master Fitzalan,’ he cried, grabbing the man by his sleeve. ‘It’s me. Piers Daubenay, Master Gideon’s servant. You know! I was sent to Minster Lovell to apprise them of the news-’

The man held up an imperious hand, checking Piers in full flow. ‘Young man, you have made a mistake. Excusable, I’ll allow. You probably think I’m Godfrey. Well, I’m not. I’m his twin, Lewis. I’ve ridden post-haste from Yorkshire at my brother Pomfret’s request, to find out what’s going on. Pom’s having to travel more slowly to accommodate my sister-in-law, who’s been suffering from fits of hysterics ever since she heard the news of her precious son’s disappearance. Poor soul,’ he added perfunctorily, leaving me with the distinct impression that there was little love lost between him and Gideon’s mother. He added vaguely, ‘If you want Godfrey, he’s probably indoors somewhere or other. Maybe with Sir Francis.’ And he turned back to continue his conversation with another man.

‘How many of these damned Fitzalans are there?’ I demanded peevishly and not for the first time, as we fought our way to the main door, where two of Duchess Cicely’s guards, wearing the badge of York, challenged our right of entrance. But this was because they were bored and wanted something to do. A second glance at Piers’s green and orange Fitzalan livery and they let us through.

‘I told you,’ Piers flung over his shoulder, ‘there are a lot of them. I’d forgotten that Master Godfrey has a twin brother.’

‘Stop!’ I ordered, leaning against the wall of the passage we were traversing and refusing point-blank to go any further. Piers paused, staring at me in surprise. ‘I’m hungry and tired,’ I explained. ‘Before we go looking for anyone else, I intend visiting the kitchen to see what I can scrounge in the way of food. Then I’m going in search of the steward to find out where I’m to be housed.’

‘But we need to know if Gideon is still missing,’ my companion protested indignantly.

‘No, we don’t,’ I sighed. ‘Use your head, boy. If he had been found, his uncle would have told us so, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ was the reluctant agreement. ‘Do you know where the kitchens are?’

‘I do,’ I answered simply, and led the way to the vast servants’ hall which adjoined the furnace-like hell, where most of the cooks worked stark naked because of the heat. ‘I knew this place when it was presided over by one of the biggest men you’ve ever seen. His nickname was Goliath. He’s dead now’

If Piers was impressed by my knowledge, he hid it admirably, lounging at one of the tables, a petulant expression on his handsome face, while I ventured into the kitchen in the hope of encountering a friendly face. I was fortunate and, ten minutes later, Piers and I were each tucking into a plate of broken meats left over from the sausages and pies that had been served at dinner. I was pleasantly surprised at their quality, the dowager Duchess of York being a notoriously parsimonious hostess. Even my companion, impatient as he was to get on and find Dame Copley or Godfrey Fitzalan, permitted himself to relax and enjoy his meal.

‘I was hungrier than I thought,’ he acknowledged.

‘Tell me,’ I said, emptying my mouth of a wedge of beef pie and taking a draught of ale, ‘is Gideon’s father, Sir Pomfret, the eldest of these Fitzalan brothers?’

Piers shook his head. ‘I think he’s the youngest.’

‘So he’s been knighted?’

‘Yes. After Tewkesbury, along with Sir Walter Tyrell and some others.’

I knew Sir Walter, as I did so many more, from the Scottish campaign of the previous year; a big, blond, self-confident man, son of a Suffolk gentleman and one of Duke Richard’s most loyal and devoted servants, the holder of various important offices within the duke’s gift. But Sir Pomfret Fitzalan held no place in my memory so I guessed he had taken no part in the brief war which had seen Berwick recaptured from the Scots to become an English town once again.

‘So he fought at Tewkesbury, did he? Obviously on the winning side.’

My feeble little joke fell flat, Piers firing up in instant defence of the family he served.

‘You don’t suppose any Fitzalan would fight for the Lancastrians, do you? Why, man, Henry of Lancaster was a usurper, for all he and his son and grandson called themselves kings. The true heirs of Richard II were the House of York. .’

‘All right, lad! All right! I was being funny. I hold no brief for old Gaunt’s descendants any more than you do. Look, finish your ale and we’ll go to find this Rosina Copley, and anyone else who can give us information about the tutor’s murder and young Gideon’s disappearance. Drink up! Come to think of it, we’d better discover Sir Francis’s whereabouts, too, and let him know about the happenings at Minster Lovell. I’m talking about Eleanor Blancheflower’s death. And Beelzebub’s.’

And having a somewhat jaundiced view of how a nobleman’s mind works on these occasions, I was willing to wager Sir Francis would be more upset about the dog.

Ten minutes or so later, having negotiated some of the warren of narrow corridors and twisting staircases that comprised the better part of Baynard’s Castle, I found myself yet again on the ground floor. (One was forever going upstairs only to descend once more.) Piers and I were standing outside a room at the end of a short passage whose open door gave on to the castle’s water-stairs and landing-stage. The noise of the river traffic and the shouts of the boatmen, as they plied for trade, came clearly to our ears.

Piers rapped on the door and, after a few seconds, a doleful voice bade him come in. He gave me a quick, almost furtive glance, which I was at a loss to interpret, before entering the room and announcing loudly, ‘Dame Copley, I’ve brought someone to see you.’ He stood aside and waved me in.

‘Who’s this?’

I found myself face to face with a tall, very upright woman of perhaps some forty to fifty summers, her most notable feature being a pair of fierce blue eyes which blazed on either side of a sharp, pointed nose, quivering now with suspicion and, I felt, dislike. Although how that could be when she knew nothing about me, I was uncertain. But the feeling was strong. And the thin, lined cheeks, skeletal in their lack of flesh, were rigid with tension, the narrow lips almost invisible.

‘Who’s this?’ she demanded for a second time.

Piers laid a gentle hand on the woman’s arm. ‘This is Roger Chapman, mistress. He’s been sent for by the Duke of Gloucester to look into the young master’s disappearance and the murder of Tutor Machin. He arrived at Minster Lovell while I was still there and I travelled back to London with him and Master Plummer.’

‘Master Plummer?’ The hostile scrutiny continued.

‘His Grace’s spymaster general,’ I said, giving back look for look.

In spite of all that I had been told of Dame Copley’s grief for her missing charge, of her bouts of hysteria, she seemed to me to be fully in control of her emotions. I could see no trace of redness around her eyes, no swollen eyelids, no tear-streaked cheeks. And as though suddenly conscious of this fact, the nurse turned away abruptly, pressing a handkerchief to her face. (I was impressed. Even though King Richard had introduced this article to England well over ninety or more years ago, it was still something of a rarity. Most people like me continued to use their fingers or their sleeves.)

The room was typical of the castle’s servant quarters, more like a monk’s or a nun’s cell than anything else. There was just space enough for a narrow bed and a clothes chest that also doubled as a bedside table, its curved lid entailing a careful balancing act when used for this purpose. (What, after all, did our masters and betters know of such inconveniences?) A shelf supported tinderbox and candle, and I could see what appeared to be a half-full chamber-pot pushed nearly, but not quite, out of sight beneath the bed.

Dame Copley sank down upon the chest, her eyes covered and her body shaking, while Piers crouched beside her, awkwardly patting her free hand.

‘Master Chapman will find Gideon somehow,’ he assured her. ‘That’s what he’s here for.’

I wished I could share his optimism, but there was nothing to be gained by voicing my doubts on the matter. I, too, crouched down, and although balking at actually touching the dame — there was something I found slightly repellent about her — I nevertheless said in the sort of gentle, encouraging tone I normally used for children, ‘Tell me what you know. Who was the last person to see Gideon before he disappeared?’

Dame Copley gave a sniff and ostentatiously wiped her nose (although I noted that she was still dry-eyed). ‘It was that girl, Amphillis Hill.’ She gave a significant nod in Piers’s direction, as much as to say he would know who was meant. For my benefit, she added, ‘Amphillis Hill is one of the castle seamstresses. A pretty young thing. Or, at least, she thinks she is.’

Piers gave a chuckle. ‘Now, be fair, Rosina, you know very well she is.’ He grinned at me and made curves in the air with his hands. ‘She has a shape like that as well as the most beautiful blue eyes and dimples. You’ll love her, Roger. All the men do.’

I ignored this and pressed Dame Copley for further information. ‘Where and when did this Mistress Hill see Gideon?’

‘On the Friday evening after supper, in company with Gregory Machin. It was in the corridor outside, at the other end where there’s a flight of steps that lead to a landing and a number of rooms similar to this one. Tutor Machin had been allotted one of them for the night.’

‘Had the boy been to see you?’ I asked.

She nodded miserably. ‘He came to say goodnight.’

‘Did he sleep with Tutor Machin?’

Dame Copley shook her head vigorously. ‘Oh, no! Gideon was sharing a chamber with his uncle, Godfrey. And the following day, he was going to the Tower to become part of King Edward’s household.’

I nodded. ‘So I’ve been given to understand. So Tutor Machin was taking him to find his uncle, was he?’

‘Not immediately. Although I suppose he would have done, eventually. Gregory was fussing unnecessarily, as usual. He said that in all this upheaval, Gideon was missing too many lessons; that his mathematics and philosophy were falling behind and that his reading ability was abysmal. And if he was going to serve the king, who is noted for his learning, he must not appear an ignoramus.’ The nurse tossed her head. ‘Of course, Gregory was really only concerned with his own reputation.’

‘And Master Machin was intent on giving the lad some extra tuition, was that the idea?’

‘Oh dear me, yes! I told him to let the child run out of doors before he went to sleep. It would do him far more good than poring over musty old school books. Besides, Gideon was overtired, I could see that. He’s always been delicate, a fact no one has ever seemed to understand, except his mother and myself. All this excitement, all this junketing about, has been bad for him. He needs a quiet life.’

‘Now, Rosina, admit you mollycoddle him,’ said Piers with a smile, and for the second time I felt a slight sense of surprise that the lad should use Dame Copley’s Christian name so freely. I would have expected the nurse to be shown some deference from an obvious inferior in the domestic hierarchy. But as the dame herself took no offence, who was I to cavil? Some households are laxer than others.

I returned, as the French say, to our sheep. ‘So Master Gideon, after bidding you goodnight, left this room in company with Tutor Machin. Did you watch them to the end of the passageway?’

Dame Copley shook her head. ‘No. I was tired and wanted to doze. Gideon promised to come to see me again in the morning before he left for the Tower, and I told Gregory to shut the door behind him. And that — ’ she pressed the handkerchief to her lips with shaking fingers — ‘was the last time I saw my precious boy. And the last time I saw Gregory Machin alive,’

Piers rose from his knees and, seating himself on the bed, leant over and put an arm around the nurse’s shoulders.

‘Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve told you, Master Chapman is here to find him. Master Gideon, I mean. There’s nothing he can do for Tutor Machin.’

‘Except find his killer,’ Dame Copley pointed out.

There was a short and somewhat pregnant pause while I contemplated the task ahead of me. Then I took a deep breath and gathered my forces together.

‘You say that this Amphillis Hill, this seamstress, saw both Gideon and his tutor at the far end of the passageway outside. Do you know how she came to see them? What she was doing there? Why she was there?’

It was Piers who answered. ‘I believe she’d been out, across the river, and had just landed back at the water stairs. She entered the castle by the door you must have noted as we came in.’ He paused, shrugging. ‘I may be wrong. I had precious little time to gather much information in all the panic and flurry after the discovery of poor Master Machin’s body.’

‘No, you’re quite right,’ Dame Copley confirmed. ‘It seems Amphillis saw them from the door as they were mounting the stairs at the other end. They disappeared round the bend, going up to Tutor Machin’s room, but by the time the girl herself reached the top of the stairs, there was no sign of them. Not surprising, of course, as Gregory’s chamber — if,’ she snorted, ‘one can dignify it with that name — was only the second one along. Not that the girl knew that, or cared. They were nothing to her. She didn’t even know their names — at least not then — or what they were doing in Baynard’s Castle. She just happened to be the last person to see them both.’ Once again, the handkerchief came into play.

I got thankfully to my feet and stretched my legs. ‘The best thing I can do is to see this Amphillis Hill for myself,’ I said. I looked at Piers. ‘Do you know where I can find her?’