Wheel of Fate

TEN

‘Very strange,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps now you can understand, why the Godslove family are worried. And added to those two deaths are the near fatal illness of the eldest sister, the death by mushroom poisoning of another and the narrow escape of the second eldest, Sybilla, from falling masonry at Bishop’s Gate wall. Your half-sister, Mistress Celia, and the head of the family, Oswald Godslove, are the only two who have so far suffered no apparent attempt on their lives.’

Julian Makepeace gave a wry smile. ‘And myself,’ he pointed out. ‘If you intend to include Reynold as a family member, then I suppose I must regard myself as one, too. Although I have to stress that neither he nor I ever considered ourselves as such. Polite acquaintances, maybe, but no more than that. Even our mother became a stranger to us after she went away. We never saw her again once she had left London, and Morgan Godslove we met only at the wedding. He was Reynold’s and my stepfather, but I doubt if we thought of him in that way. I doubt if we ever thought about him at all, if the truth be told. I can’t speak for my brother, of course, but I know I didn’t.’

‘I don’t think he can have done, either,’ I said, ‘or, knowing that I was from Bristol, I feel he would probably have mentioned something of the circumstances to me. But he never gave the smallest indication that he had any connection whatsoever with the city.’

‘There you are then.’ The apothecary spread his hands and shrugged. He went on, ‘I’m unable to believe that Reynold’s unfortunate death has anything to do with these other accidents that have befallen my stepfamily.’

On the face of it, his argument seemed reasonable enough, but I couldn’t allow myself to be convinced. To a deranged mind, nothing was simple or straightforward. But the thought occurred to me that whoever the killer was, he or she must have intimate knowledge of the Godsloves’ complicated family history. There had been no obvious tie between them and the Makepeaces; nothing to tell an outsider that they were even on speaking terms. Which, to be fair, ruled out even further the possibility of Adrian Jollifant being the moving spirit behind the killings, leaving the finger of suspicion pointing at Roderick Jeavons and Arbella Rokeswood as the more likely suspects.

Julian Makepeace refilled my beaker with ale and pushed it towards me.

‘Drink up,’ he urged. ‘You look very tired, like a man who should be home resting in his bed, rather than worrying his head over things that don’t concern him.’

I gave a rather strained laugh. ‘I’m afraid my wife wouldn’t agree with you. She’s made the Godsloves’ concerns her own and therefore mine.’ I added, with seeming inconsequence, ‘Are you married?’ (I had guessed that he wasn’t.)

It was his turn to laugh, flushing slightly as he shook his head. ‘Women, eh?’ he said, but his quick glance towards the door told me that my surmise was probably correct. The lucky devil was bedding young Naomi.

I swallowed my ale and set the empty cup back on the tray. My companion was right: I was extremely tired and wanted nothing more than to return to the Arbour and Adela’s loving embrace. But there was one other question I had to ask.

‘Master Makepeace,’ I said, ‘has anything untoward, however slight, happened to you recently?’

He looked astonished. ‘To me? No, of course not. Oh come, Master Chapman! You surely didn’t take me seriously just now?’

‘I’m not saying you really have anything to worry about,’ I protested. ‘I’m merely asking if anything has occurred lately that you couldn’t explain. Anything in the nature of an accident or a near miss that could have injured you.’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he answered firmly, ‘nor, frankly, do I expect it to. In spite of all you’ve told me, I still believe that Reynold’s death was an accident. He simply got in the way of a knife intended for another man.’

‘Were either of the Genoese seamen caught?’

‘No, but there’s nothing to be read into that. When they saw what had happened, they were out of the Voyager before anyone could stop them. Indeed, I doubt if anyone tried to stop them with those knives in their hands and their apparent readiness to use them. They were never found in spite of enquiries by the sheriff’s men. They must have gone straight back to their ship where they laid low, protected by their fellow shipmates and the master of the vessel. I never had any expectations that they would be taken. Nor, I think, did anyone else.’

Of course not! It was the simplest explanation. And hadn’t William of Ockham always taught that the simple explanation was usually the correct one? Ockham’s Razor, men had called it since the thirteenth century.

I rose to my feet, steadying myself on the edge of the table as a slight dizziness threatened to overcome me.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ the apothecary enquired anxiously, also getting up and putting out a steadying hand.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘A momentary weakness, that’s all.’ I squared my shoulders. ‘I’m better now. Master Makepeace, thank you for your time and patience. I’ll relieve you of my company.’ He followed me out into the shop, where he hovered, a worried frown creasing his brow. I forced a reassuring smile. ‘There truly is nothing wrong with me. But promise me you’ll take care. Watch your step, and if anything should happen that gives you the slightest cause for concern, please let me know at once. You know where the Arbour is.’

It was not a question, but he nodded and said, ‘Of course,’ then stood in the shop doorway until I had untied and mounted Old Diggory and ridden off up the street. ‘God be with you!’ he shouted after me.

I raised a hand and waved.

It seemed to have grown warmer since I entered Bucklersbury half an hour or so earlier (but May is that sort of month, when all four seasons can happen in one day). I suddenly found that I was sweating profusely, while all about me the city noises assaulted my ears and everyone I met seemed intent on doing something to annoy me. Other riders jostled my horse, beggars rattled their tins under Old Diggory’s nose, making him shy nervously or come to a complete standstill, abandoned garlands of mayflowers littered the roadway and the stench from the central drains, normally something I didn’t even notice, made my belly heave. I felt that at any moment, I might disgrace myself and throw up all down my smart green tunic and nice brown hose.

But by the time I reached Bishop’s Gate Street, I no longer cared if I were sick or not. Old Diggory was heading home without any guidance from me, which was just as well as my senses were swimming so much that I was barely conscious of my surroundings. I was vaguely aware that the thoroughfare was still blocked, but that was all. I had just enough strength left to pull on the reins and bring the horse to a halt before I swayed in the saddle and began to fall into darkness. .

I opened my eyes and stared up at the richly carved, red and gold ceiling above me. Light flooded in through spacious, lofty windows, one an oriel window of peculiar size and beauty. I could also see a minstrel’s gallery and the floor beneath my trailing hand was marble. For a moment, I wondered if I had died and gone straight to heaven, until conscience told me that such a contingency was highly unlikely. After that common sense reasserted itself and I realized that not only was I still very much alive, but also that I knew this place. I had been here before.

I was lying on a velvet day-bed. Somewhere behind me, a door opened and closed.

‘Well, well, well!’ said a familiar voice, and a hand was placed on my forehead. ‘Drunk again, eh, Roger? And not long gone noon.’

I sat up with such violence that the room spun around me and I was forced to lie down again in a hurry. But at least now I knew where I was — in the great hall of Crosby’s Place — and I knew who was speaking, although I hadn’t expected him to be in London yet awhile.

‘You know damn well I’m not drunk, Timothy,’ I snapped. ‘Even you can’t be such a fool as to believe that.’

He came closer, where I could see him, pulled up a low, velvet-covered stool and sat down beside the couch.

‘There’s the smell of ale on your breath,’ he said, ‘but I must admit I’ve never seen you drunk in the middle of the day.’

‘Nor at any other time,’ I declared. ‘I can carry my ale as well as the next man. I’ve been ill this past week and only got up from my sick-bed yesterday. What happened? How do I come to be in Crosby’s Place?’

‘One of the workmen, unloading the duke’s furniture, caught you as you fell out of the saddle. And by the way, that sorry piece of horseflesh you were riding has been put in the stable here for the time being. I’ve sent for some decent wine. It should settle your guts and make you feel better. Now, when you feel able, sit up carefully and then you can tell me what you’re doing in London.’

‘And you can tell me what you’re doing in London,’ I retorted. ‘I thought you’d be with the duke — wherever he is.’

At that moment, a serving-man arrived with the wine and two Venetian glass goblets on a silver tray which, having dragged over a beautifully carved small table with his free hand, he placed at Timothy’s elbow. By the time he departed as noiselessly as he came, I had once more pulled myself into a sitting position, but with greater caution than before. The room stayed steady. The nausea had gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief and nodded towards the goblets. ‘Doing yourself proud while His Grace is still absent, eh? Which reminds me, I heard he wasn’t coming here until the duchess arrives. Going to his mother’s at Baynard’s Castle was my information.’

A shade of annoyance crossed Timothy’s face. ‘Now, how by the Holy Mother do you know that? It’s not supposed to be common knowledge.’

I grinned. ‘Dear God, how old are you, Timothy? Don’t you know by now that the man in the street always gets the news before the man in the council chamber? So it’s true. But what in Jesu’s name is going on? Earl Rivers arrested! Sir Richard Grey as well! And what’s happened to the king? The whole city’s buzzing with the news. And, as I said just now, why are you here in advance of the duke?’

He handed me a brimming goblet and filled one for himself, sipping the golden liquid with relish, in contrast to myself, who had emptied half the glass in one go.

He winced, eyeing me up and down. ‘You never did have any appreciation of good wine, Roger. So! You want to know what I’m doing here. Very well! But first tell me why you’re in London, less than six months after you vowed never to return if you could possibly help it.’

Once again I repeated my story, but with variations. I wasn’t stupid enough to tell Timothy Plummer, of all people, the real reason for my being in the capital. In this version, Adela and the children had come on a visit to her relations and I had arrived simply to escort them home. The rest of the tale I was open and honest about, feeling sure that Timothy would have no interest in the plight of the Godsloves. And I was right. He had too much else on his mind.

He was silent for at least a minute after I had finished, staring at me speculatively over the rim of his goblet, which he finally replaced carefully on the tray. Then he leant forward, his elbows propped on his knees.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you the truth. In any case, the reason behind the arrests will have to be made public sooner or later. And it may be providential that you’re in London, Roger. I might have need of your services.’

‘Oh no you won’t!’ I spluttered, showering both myself and Timothy with spittle. ‘You’re not playing that game again. I’ve had enough of that, and so I told you last autumn. I’ve done obliging you and the duke. Most of last year away from home! First Scotland, then France! This time you can find someone else to do your dirty work.’

‘Just hold your tongue and listen, will you?’ he demanded savagely, wiping his face in his sleeve. He relieved me of my goblet and placed it beside his own. ‘The duke is in danger, Roger. Serious danger. The Woodvilles are out to make trouble and this city is a hotbed of intrigue. That’s why I’ve come on ahead, to spy out the land and see if I can find out exactly what’s going on. I rode with the messengers sent yesterday. We got here at midnight and I haven’t been to bed since. I’m telling you this so that you won’t try my temper too far. I’m dog tired and I’m worried as I’ve rarely been worried in my life before.’

I lay back against the pillows of the day-bed. I could see that he was rattled. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tell me what went on at Northampton. I promise I won’t interrupt. If I’ve any questions, I’ll keep them to the end.’

He took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Very well, then. Here’s what happened. The arrangement was that the duke, en route from York, and the king’s party, coming across country from Ludlow, should rendezvous at Northampton. That was clearly understood from the messages sent and received. But when we reached Northampton early on Tuesday afternoon, there was no sign of the king or his entourage. At first, the duke assumed they’d been delayed on the road, but then, to his utter astonishment, he discovered that the royal troops, with Rivers and Grey at their head, had passed through the town that morning, but had ridden straight on, heading south, towards London.

‘I’ve never, in all the years that I’ve known him, seen the duke so angry. John Kendall — you know, his secretary — told me that at one point he was literally shaking with rage. But I fancy there was an element of fear in it, too. He’s been jumpy ever since he got news of the late king’s death. But then, midway through the afternoon, Earl Rivers appeared, attended by a small number of his immediate circle, as pleasant as you please, full of smiles and apologies. The king had thought Northampton not big enough to house both his retinue and his uncle’s, so had ridden on to Stony Stratford, where he would wait until the duke caught up with him yesterday morning.’

Timothy sniffed. ‘Well, the story had an odd ring to it, Northampton being not exactly short of inns and with plenty of open fields around it for the troops to camp in. And Stony Stratford is a much smaller place. But the duke chose to accept it, calmed down and invited Earl Rivers to take supper with him. However, the meal had hardly begun when the streets were suddenly filled with all the clatter and bustle of someone arriving. And someone damned important by the sound of it. I was having my meal in an alehouse a little way down the street, but I sent one of my lads’ — presumably Timothy meant one of his fellow spies — ‘to find out what the commotion was all about and when he came back he said that the Duke of Buckingham had just turned up with a following several hundreds strong, and had joined Duke Richard and Earl Rivers for supper at the duke’s inn.’

I knew vaguely of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. He was a descendant of yet another of the third Edward’s brood of sons — if ever a king could be said to have had too many sons it was that lusty monarch — and was therefore cousin, in the second, third or even fourth degree, to every other member of the royal family. I had seen him once, five years earlier, when he had been appointed Lord High Steward at the trial of George of Clarence, but my memory of him was not vivid. If the truth were told, I couldn’t recall his face at all, but I nodded as though I knew him intimately.

Timothy continued, ‘Well, we thought nothing of it and went to bed. But yesterday morning I was wakened with the news that Earl Rivers had been arrested an hour or so earlier. The inn where he was sleeping had been surrounded under cover of darkness and the earl had been taken into custody as soon as it was light. Moreover, Duke Richard and his cousin were already on the road to Stony Stratford to bring the king back to Northampton — which they did several hours later, together with his half-brother, Sir Richard Grey, and another of his kinsmen, Sir Thomas Vaughan, also under arrest.’

Timothy paused to refresh himself with more wine. I broke my promise and asked impatiently, ‘So what was it all about?’

My companion regarded me reproachfully and I hurriedly apologized. He went on, puffing out his skinny chest a little, ‘I was called to see Duke Richard that afternoon and informed that I was to ride to London within the next hour or so with the messengers he was sending to the mayor, to explain his actions. There was a Woodville plot afoot, he said, to take him prisoner until after the king had been crowned and the dowager queen’s family established in all the positions of power.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ I breathed. ‘But — well, how did he know?’

Timothy became his usual pompous self. ‘Perhaps you don’t realize, my dear fellow — indeed, I suppose there’s no reason why you should — that the Duke of Buckingham is married to Catherine Woodville, one of Queen Elizabeth’s sisters. He was forcibly married to her many years ago by command of the late king, and has deeply resented the fact ever since. Unlike his cousin, he did not consider an upstart Woodville a fit mate for a Plantagenet. My guess is, however, that although he may have scorned her, the lady has always done her best to woo him-’

‘With the result,’ I cut in, ‘that she has told him all about this plot to take Duke Richard prisoner on his way to London. I begin to see. When my Lord of Gloucester, all unsuspecting, and Earl Rivers got to Stony Stratford yesterday morning, the duke would have been. . Been what?’ I frowned.

Timothy gestured excitedly. ‘He would have been told that the king had gone to rest at Grafton Regis. Grafton Regis,’ Timothy explained, ‘is the Woodvilles’ principal seat. It’s where King Edward first met Elizabeth Woodville and where he secretly married her all those years ago. And, most significantly, it’s not many miles from Stony Stratford! Once there, Duke Richard would have been taken prisoner without any fuss and probably died of a “seizure”, like Humphrey of Gloucester in the late King Henry’s reign. Meantime, Earl Rivers and Sir Richard Grey would have been on their way to London to stage a triumphal entry as sole protectors of the young king. And if my Lord Buckingham hadn’t ridden all through the day on Tuesday to apprise my lord of the Woodvilles’ intentions, the chances are that their treacherous plans would have gone smoothly. And that’s why I’m here, in order to foil any other of their little plots.’

I gave a long, low whistle. ‘Dear God. . The dowager queen’s gone into sanctuary, taking the Duke of York and the princesses with her. Are you aware of that?’

‘Of course I’m aware!’ Timothy bade me sit up straight and handed me more wine. ‘And Sir Edward Woodville has put to sea taking most of the fleet with him, not to mention a good half of the royal treasure from the Tower.’

‘And I hear that the Marquis of Dorset was despatched to grab the other half this morning.’

I had, astonishingly, managed to tell Timothy something that he didn’t know.

‘What?’ he yelped, spilling half his goblet of wine down his tunic. ‘Are you sure?’

I nodded smugly. ‘At least, that’s what I was told in the city this morning. And it would seem the natural thing for him to do.’

My companion was already on his feet, the precious glass goblet dumped back on the tray as carelessly as if it had been a wooden beaker.

‘I must go at once,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to find your own way out. Your horse is in the stables.’

‘Yes, you said. And thank you for your assist. .’ But he was gone before I could finish the word, a small whirlwind of activity, leaving me to sit pensively on the edge of the day-bed, turning over and over in my mind what he had told me.

If all of it were true — and I saw no reason why it should not be — it was disturbing news indeed. It meant that Richard of Gloucester’s life had already been in jeopardy and could well be again. In my own mind, I doubted if Earl Rivers had planned the duke’s death, only his detention until the Woodvilles had seized power. (I had got to know a little of the earl during the Scottish campaign the previous year, and judged him to be less ruthless than the rest of his family.) But I had no such reservations concerning the remainder of that tribe. One of the dowager queen’s brothers was already at sea in possession of half the royal treasure, having ordered the fleet to sail with him. Another, Lionel, Bishop of Salisbury, was no doubt busy stirring up sedition throughout the capital. And added to this poisonous brew was something that only I and a very few others knew about: Duke Richard’s conviction that the late king had been his mother’s bastard by an archer called Blaybourne and that he was already, given his brother Clarence’s attainder, the rightful king.

This, however, was something the duke was unable to prove, because of Duchess Cicely’s refusal either to confirm or deny the accusation she had made at the time of her eldest son’s marriage. But the information I had brought back from France six months earlier, concerning the christenings of Edward and Edmund, the next brother to him in age, must have confirmed Duke Richard in this belief. And now, to discover that the Woodvilles had been seriously plotting his downfall and possible murder could only exacerbate an already dangerous situation. I shivered. The future seemed suddenly uncertain. It was like looking down a long, dark tunnel and seeing no light at the end. .

I stood up slowly, experimentally testing my legs. But they appeared to have regained their strength, and the dizziness, thanks be to all the saints, had gone. Indeed, I felt remarkably refreshed and clear-headed. Deciding that the wine must be a contributory factor to my recovery, I helped myself to another glass before making my way to the stables to find Old Diggory. The house and magnificent gardens were still so crowded with servants and workmen that no one questioned my presence or challenged my right to be there, and I was able to collect the horse and ride out of Crosby’s Place with no more than the odd inquisitive glance from a couple of busy gardeners and a half-hearted attempt by one of the grooms to discover my identity. I rode off unhindered up the street towards the Bishop’s Gate, continuing to mull over all that Timothy Plummer had told me. But after a minute or so, my own concerns began to intrude upon my thoughts once more, and I stopped worrying about Duke Richard’s affairs to wonder why I found the history of Reynold and Julian Makepeace so disturbing. Julian’s version of his and his brother’s life story had only served to confirm that given to me by the stranger in the Voyager, and I had no reason at all to doubt it. Yet something about it bothered me. But what? The more I chased the possible reason round and around in my head, the more it eluded me. With a sigh, I abandoned the quest. My brain would spew up the answer eventually. Until then I should do well to let it be.

The stonemasons were still at work on the wall and barely accorded me a glance as I passed through the gate. Even the gatekeeper nodded me through as if I were an old acquaintance, continuing his argument with the owner of a cartful of cabbages over the correct tariff necessary to bring it into the city.

‘I dunno,’ the countryman was grumbling, ‘the bloody taxes keep going up every soddin’ week as if they ’ad a soddin’ life of their own. When’s it goin’ to end, that’s what I want t’ know.’

‘Don’t we all?’ snapped the gatekeeper. ‘But for now, just pay up and stop whinging. There’s a queue forming behind you.’

I left them to it. There must be arguments like this going on at every gate in every city in the land. Having deliberately emptied my head of all thoughts regarding my own and Duke Richard’s concerns, I began to feel extremely sleepy — Old Diggory’s plodding gait rocked me gently from side to side — and there is little doubt that, for the second time that day, I would have fallen from the saddle had I not been jerked awake by a voice asking, ‘Chapman, is something wrong?’

I pulled myself upright, blinking stupidly against the gentle afternoon sunlight, and looked down into the concerned, bright-eyed gaze of Father Berowne.

‘Yes, yes! I’m quite well, I thank you. A little tired, perhaps.’

‘You’ve been doing too much too soon,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’ve not long risen from your sickbed, and I saw you ride off with Master Godslove at a very early hour this morning. Come inside and have a cup of my elderflower wine. That. . That is. .’ He broke off, looking flustered, suddenly recollecting that I had fallen ill shortly after drinking it the last time.

I grinned. ‘I won’t, I thank you, Father, but not for the reason you’re thinking. I exonerate your elderflower wine entirely. But I’ve been drinking already this afternoon’ — I didn’t say where or whose wine — ‘and I’m sleepy enough as it is. Besides, I can see you’re busy.’

I indicated his earth-stained cassock and his mud-encrusted hands, one of which he was using to push back his unruly fringe of curls.

He laughed guiltily. ‘Gardening is one of my great pleasures in life, I’m afraid. I do it when I should be on my knees, praying. But somehow, I find it easier to talk to God in the open air, rather than in a stuffy church. Oh dear, oh dear! Is that very wrong of me? Not,’ he added, ‘that I’ve much of a garden here. Just this little plot. But I do what I can.’

‘And you do it very well, Father,’ I assured him, ‘very well indeed. And now I must get on. You’re right. I have done more than I should today. I shall be glad of a rest.’

I jerked Old Diggory’s reins and we plodded on up the track, pursued by the priest’s good wishes, until, round the second bend, we came in sight of the Arbour. I expected to find it dozing in the warmth of mid-afternoon. Instead, there seemed to be a flurry of activity, with people milling around the gate and looking anxiously up and down the road. Adela was one of them, but as soon as she sighted me, she came flying towards me, just as she had done the day of my arrival. But this time, it was not good news.

‘Oh, Roger!’ she gasped. ‘Thank God, thank God you’re back at last! Celia’s disappeared! We can find no trace of her anywhere!’