Wheel of Fate

THIRTEEN

It was answered by a tall woman, sharp-featured and thin to the point of emaciation. In spite of this, it was nevertheless possible to recognize an elusive resemblance to Roderick Jeavons — there was a similarity about the eyes — and I guessed her to be his sister. Oswald, however, noting only the bunch of keys at her waist and the gown of brown homespun beneath an apron as white and spotless as her coif, at once assumed her to be the doctor’s housekeeper. He would have pushed past her into the house had she not showed a surprising strength in barring his way.

‘Let me in, my good woman,’ he snapped. ‘I need to speak to your master.’

‘My brother,’ she replied firmly, ‘is not here. He was called away urgently this afternoon to attend the deathbed of an uncle of ours in Barnet. If you require a physician, there is one in-’

‘You’re lying!’ Oswald roared, causing several passers-by to turn and stare. One even fingered the dagger at his belt, as though wondering if he should come to the protection of a goodwife being harassed by a couple of ruffians.

I laid a restraining hand on my companion’s arm. ‘Calm down, man, calm down.’ I turned to the doctor’s sister. ‘Mistress. . Jeavons, is it?’

‘Ireby,’ she corrected with dignity. ‘I am a widow, sir, and have kept house for Roderick for a year now, ever since my husband died. May I know who you and this. . this gentleman are?’

‘For God’s sake, Roger,’ Oswald exclaimed, ‘stop wasting time!’ And without further ado, he forced his way past Mistress Ireby. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded. ‘What has your brother done with my sister?’

He began to yell the doctor’s name. Hurriedly, I closed the street door and, turning to a by now very frightened woman, attempted to explain the situation. And it said much for Mistress Ireby’s strength of character that she not only listened to what I had to say, but having grasped the gist of my story, exhibited a certain amount of sympathy and understanding. But she was highly indignant that her brother should be thought capable of such a dastardly act as abduction.

‘I know of this Celia Godslove, of course. Roderick has, naturally, talked of her to me. I know him to be in love with her. But that he would try to coerce her. . How can you suppose such a thing?’

To his credit, Oswald did momentarily look a little ashamed of himself, but the next minute he announced his intention of searching the premises and, without waiting for Mistress Ireby’s permission, stormed off to do so. He returned a little while later, frustrated and angered by his lack of success, but still unconvinced of Dr Jeavons’s innocence.

‘Is there a cellar to this house?’

‘No, there is not,’ our unwilling hostess retorted. She had by now recovered both her poise and her courage and would no longer allow herself to be intimidated. She drew herself up to her full height and turned on Oswald. ‘You fool!’ she upbraided him scornfully. ‘Do you think I wouldn’t know if my brother had returned home with an unwilling woman? Do you think she wouldn’t have set up a screech? Do you think the neighbours wouldn’t have heard? You’re at liberty to interrogate them if you wish. I’m sure they’ll tell you that they heard nothing.’

‘He might have drugged Celia,’ Oswald argued. ‘He’s a doctor, after all, and has such things in his medicine chest. And how do I know you’re not aiding and abetting him? You might be in this together.’

‘And why would I want your sister here?’ Mistress Ireby scoffed. ‘I’ve no wish for my brother to get married again. At least, not since the death of my husband. I’ve been very comfortable here these past twelve months, caring for Roderick. I have no desire to live alone.’

I doubted if Oswald had heard much of this. He was chewing his lower lip and pursuing some thought of his own.

‘You say your brother has gone to visit an uncle at Barnet. Whereabouts exactly does this man live?’

Mistress Ireby sucked in her breath. Her eyes were like flints. ‘I have told you, my uncle is reported to be on his deathbed. Do you really suppose I would give you his direction so that you could blunder in with your wild accusations against Roderick and disturb his final hours? Get out of this house now, Master Godslove, before I summon my neighbours to help eject you.’

‘We’re going, Mistress,’ I said gently, ‘but before we do, would you be gracious enough to describe to us your brother’s movements today. We know that he was at the Arbour this morning after breakfast and had words with Celia.’

‘Words!’ Oswald interjected furiously. ‘He damned well forced his unwelcome attentions on her if your children are to be believed.’

I frowned him down. ‘Did he return here afterwards, Mistress Ireby?’

Her thin bosom swelled and, ignoring Oswald, she addressed herself to me. ‘Roderick did return for his dinner, yes. Then he went out to see one of his patients in Paternoster Row, and it was while he was gone that a man servant of our uncle’s arrived to request his presence urgently at Barnet. As I told you, our uncle is thought to be dying. When Roderick returned, he paused merely to pack a few necessaries in his saddlebag and he was off. He told me to expect him when I see him. There’s no telling how long Uncle Silas might linger.’

I thanked her again for her courtesy, took Oswald firmly by the arm and led him out to the patiently waiting horses. He was my host and I could hardly criticize his behaviour, but as we rode back through the city, I did venture to remark that Roderick Jeavons seemed to be innocent of whatever had befallen Celia.

‘If you think that, you’re a simpleton,’ he answered scornfully. ‘I’m not at all convinced that he knows nothing. In fact, I intend having that house watched for the next few days, and I’m entrusting the task to you, my dear Roger.’

I was so taken aback that I found myself unable to utter a single word of protest, and we completed our journey in almost total silence, passing out through the Bishop’s Gate with only minutes to spare before the curfew bell tolled. (We heard the gate creak shut as we drew abreast of St Mary’s Hospital.) But I had plenty to say to Adela as we fell wearily into bed after what seemed like one of the longest days of my life. (I had hoped against hope that Celia might have returned during our absence with some perfectly reasonable explanation for her disappearance, but the long faces of the women had told their own story.)

Adela said now, snuggling into my side, ‘You really aren’t perfectly well yet, sweetheart, but I don’t see that you can refuse. And they are all in such distress, and so frightened after the other dreadful things that have happened to them, and they have all been so kind to me during the past few weeks that it would be worse than churlish to say no.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that if she had trusted me more, been less willing to believe Juliette Gerrish’s pack of lies, we would be under no obligation to the Godsloves: we would never have set eyes on them nor become involved in their sorry saga. But suddenly I felt too tired, too bone-weary even to speak. I could hear the children’s muffled snorts and snufflings from the neighbouring room, reassuring sounds that there was some sanity left in a world that suddenly seemed bleak and menacing, so I put my arm around Adela and went to sleep.

For the next two days, while Oswald half-heartedly pursued his calling, either in chambers, off Chancery Lane, or in the law courts at Westminster — I felt sorry for his clients who could not possibly have been commanding his full attention — I spent much of my time in and around Old Dean’s Lane, watching for signs of Roderick Jeavons’s return. On more than one occasion, when Mistress Ireby left the house, I had to dodge about on the opposite side of the street, hoping she would not notice me, and I lived on meat pies and small beer obtained from vendors of these commodities in Westcheap. This diet, plus the conviction that I was wasting precious hours when I could be pursuing other lines of enquiry elsewhere, in no way improved my temper or my digestion. On Saturday evening, therefore, I told Oswald bluntly that in future, while I was prepared to visit Old Dean’s Lane once a day until I was satisfied that the doctor had finally come home, I refused to hang around the district all day, every day.

‘It’s folly,’ I said. ‘I shall be bound to know when he’s returned.’

Oswald, whose features were as ravaged as his sisters’ and whose eyes were like two dark bruises from lack of proper sleep, was forced, in the end, to agree with me.

‘But we’ll go together tomorrow,’ he insisted, ‘after Mass. We’ll all go to St Botolph’s in the morning to pray for Celia’s safe return. .’

His voice broke and he pushed aside his half-eaten supper with a trembling hand, an act which set Clemency and Sybilla off crying again, the former quietly, the latter with her customary noisy abandon. Hercules, who had somehow managed to creep unseen into the dining parlour, started to howl in sympathy. Elizabeth, Nicholas and Adam were looking frightened and Adela shepherded them away to play upstairs. She pressed Clemency’s shoulder as she passed her cousin’s chair, but I could see that she, too, was beginning to wish we were well out of a situation that seemed to grow more dark and menacing with every passing day. The Arbour, with its increasingly fraught and fearful atmosphere, was fast becoming no place for children.

In bed that night, we talked again of returning home, and this time Adela agreed with me. But, yet again, we decided that to do so would be both mean and cowardly. Adela would have to devote herself to keeping the children — and, of course, the dog — amused, while I did my best to unravel the mystery of who hated the Godslove family enough to try to kill them.

‘Have you,’ I asked, ‘ever heard any one of them mention, or perhaps hint at, something in their past that could be in any way. . disgraceful?’

Adela raised her head from my shoulder and stared up into my face, her forehead, as far as I could see in the gloom, creased in puzzlement. ‘No, never. Why? Do you know of something?’

I broke my promise and told her what the little kitchen maid had said to me, having first obtained her promise to utter not a word to anyone else about it. But when I had finished, she was as bemused as I was.

‘The child must have been mistaken in what she heard. Or thought she heard. What possible secret — “terrible secret” — could any of them possibly have?’

I kissed her. ‘If we knew that, my love, we might have a better idea of who it is who is trying to murder them all.’

‘You don’t really believe it?’ Her tone was indignant. ‘They have their faults like all of us, but essentially they’re very good people.’

They were related to her by blood, however remotely, and she did not care to believe ill of them. Moreover, as she kept repeating, they had been kind to her.

‘It’s quite possible that the girl was mistaken,’ I answered soothingly, but kept my true opinion to myself: that the household was a peculiar one; that the almost lover-like devotion of the siblings was unhealthy and unnatural, a potential breeding ground for evil. ‘Go to sleep now and forget about it.’

I would have made love to her, but my wife is a good daughter of Holy Church, which decrees that copulation is sinful before going to Mass. So I lay staring into the darkness, stifling my urges, listening to Adela’s even breathing as she sank deeper into slumber, longing for home and wondering where it would all end, and when.

The five of us with the children and Arbella — and it struck me forcibly that the Godsloves, who had originally been six in number were now only three — went to St Botolph’s, before breakfast, for early Mass. (St Botolph, I’m ashamed to confess, was not a saint I was well acquainted with, although I knew that in Lincolnshire he was considered of sufficient importance to have a town named in his honour. Unhappily for the poor man, due to our lazy English predilection for shortening everything whenever possible, St Botolph’s Town had rapidly become St Bo’s Town, and is nowadays called simply Boston.) The other members of the congregation, standing together in the nave, eyed Oswald and his sisters curiously, having been alerted by my questioning to Celia’s disappearance; but either they were not on sufficient terms of intimacy with the family, or were too indifferent, to enquire further. The only person anxious for news was Father Berowne, who, as soon as the service was over, scurried across to Oswald, laying an eager hand upon his shoulder.

‘Have you heard anything?’

Oswald shook his head. ‘But we are keeping a watch on Dr Jeavons’s house, near Alder’s Gate. We think he may know something.’

The priest’s eyes widened in surprise and he was plainly agog to hear more, but Oswald hurried us all away, back to the Arbour. Thankfully, Arbella insisted that he and I stay and eat breakfast, plying us with hot porridge, oatmeal cakes and honey and pickled herrings.

‘You’ll make yourselves ill if you don’t eat properly,’ she scolded, ‘and I repeat, where will that get you? You’ll be of no use to Celia if you’re laid up in bed.’

There was much to be said for this common sense view of things, but I regret to say that I was the only one, apart from the children, who took her advice and made a hearty meal, a fact which earned me reproachful looks from the others. But my appetite had returned, and after a week of near starvation when I was sick, I needed to build up my strength.

A Sabbath calm reigned as Oswald and I rode through the Bishop’s Gate, and I could see that the work was nearly finished. There was only one small stretch of wall still under repair and that would probably need less than a week to complete. But the site of Sybilla’s accident reminded me of something I had been meaning to say.

I turned to my companion. ‘It occurs to me that this enemy of yours must have money.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Oswald spoke sharply.

‘Because, if we’re right, he, or she, has already bribed someone to kill your stepbrother, Reynold Makepeace, and your half-brother Martin, and someone else to attempt the murder of Sybilla. You don’t persuade ruffians to do that sort of work for a pittance. If they’re caught it means Tyburn and the rope’s end for them. And then again, you have to know where to find these people.’

‘You’re right.’ Oswald took a deep breath. ‘And who fits that description better than Roderick Jeavons? I’ve never yet encountered a poor physician, and I happen to know that he inherited money from his wife. Besides which, he has a large practice. He probably meets all kinds and conditions of people, some of whom most likely can’t pay his bills. Threatened with the debtors’ prison, I’ve no doubt some of them would be desperate enough to carry out his evil work for him. Don’t you see? He’s been trying to scare Celia into marrying him, but now he’s grown too impatient to wait any longer and he’s abducted her.’

I was about to point out the many flaws in this convenient theory, but at that moment we were brought to a standstill by total confusion outside of Crosby’s Place. Carts were again blocking the road while sweating workmen carried in yet more furniture and a number of leather, brass-bound clothes chests.

I leant from the saddle and tapped the nearest man on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘I understood, from what I heard one of you fellows say, that Duke Richard is going to stay at Baynard’s Castle with his mother. That is, when he finally gets here.’

The man turned a hot, red face up to mine. ‘Well, he’s got here, Master Nosey,’ he snapped. ‘Leastways, he’s getting here today. This morning sometime. And ’e can’t go to Baynard’s Castle ’cause Duchess Cicely ain’t in London yet, so it’s all hands to the pump here, I’ll tell you! Look, you and your friend’ll have to wait until we get these coffers in, then we’ll move one o’ them carts out yer way.’

‘Is the king with him?’

‘O’ course the king’s with him! They were leaving St Albans at the crack o’ dawn, and the mayor and aldermen have all ridden to meet ’em. Where you been? Don’t you know nothing? Look, I’ve got to get on. The king and his party’ll be riding in through the Cripples’ Gate any time soon.’

The speaker and his mate strained and heaved the remaining chest on to their shoulders and vanished through the gates of Crosby’s Place. I raised my eyebrows and looked at Oswald, but he seemed as bemused as I was and shook his head.

‘I must admit I’ve heard nothing,’ he mumbled guiltily. ‘At least, if I have, it. . it just hasn’t sunk in.’

The truth was, of course, that we had both been so absorbed by the riddle of Celia’s disappearance that the rumours and murmurings in the city had completely passed us by. Events in the larger world had ceased to interest us. But now it seemed that, at long last, on this Sunday morning, the fourth of May — on what had originally been designated his coronation day by the Woodvilles, had their plans not miscarried — the young king was finally about to enter his capital, three and a half weeks after his father’s death.

Even if we had been inclined to doubt our informant’s word, we should have been convinced of his veracity long before we reached the Poultry and pushed our way on towards West Cheap. Not only was the Great Conduit running with wine instead of water, but the mass of people had become so dense that we were forced to dismount and proceed on foot, stabling the horses at a convenient inn. Fortunately, Oswald had chosen to don his lawyer’s robe, which gave him instant authority amongst the crowd, while I had been bullied by Adela into wearing my second set of decent clothing, blue hose and a yellow tunic, and my despised hat, with its fake jewel and upturned brim. I therefore looked to be a citizen of some substance, a totally erroneous impression which my height and girth did nothing to dispel.

At the corner of Wood Street, where the road from the Cripples’ Gate joins the Cheap, it was almost impossible to move for the press of bodies hemming us in on all sides. Nevertheless, by dint of much shoving and heaving on my part and haughty glares from my companion, Oswald and I managed to force a passage through the crowds until we were very nearly in the front row of those being held back by a line of men-at-arms. And here we had to remain, it being impossible to go any further until the royal party had entered the city and passed us by. Oswald might fume, but I was curious to see our new young king and was glad of the enforced delay.

But as I peered over the heads of those in front of me, all I could see at the present moment were four great carts, rumbling and swaying across the cobbles, piled with weapons and armour. I turned to my neighbour, a large, red-faced man, who informed me that he was a chandler by trade, for enlightenment.

‘What’s going on?’ I shouted, trying to make myself heard above the clang and clatter of the bells from a hundred churches.

He yelled something in reply that I didn’t quite catch, but then, thankfully, some of the bell ringers took a rest from their labours and the noise diminished a little.

‘They say,’ the chandler repeated, dropping his voice to a more conversational level, ‘that these are the weapons gathered by Earl Rivers and the rest of the Woodvilles for use against the Duke of Gloucester when they planned to take him prisoner at Stony Stratford.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Here you are! Here are the criers now, to cry the tale.’

And indeed men in the Gloucester livery, men with stentorian voices, had caught up with the wagons and were repeating the same story to the crowds. ‘See! Here are the Woodville arms, the family crest and motto on this piece of harness. And on this! It was intended to overwhelm His Grace’s forces and take His Grace, himself, prisoner. And who can say but that his life, itself, may have been in danger!’

There was much more in the same vein before the wagons and the criers passed on to regale the crowds waiting in Cheapside and the vicinity of St Paul’s with the same information. I heard a good deal of indignant muttering among the people around me, and cries of, ‘Hang the bastards!’ or ‘Hanging’s too good for ’em!’ But I also noticed that quite a few of my neighbours, including the chandler, looked sceptical.

‘You don’t believe in this plot against the Duke of Gloucester?’ I asked him.

He pursed his lips. ‘We-ell. . Frankly, I dunno what to think, sir. (Adela was right: decent clothes certainly fooled people.) What do we know about the man, after all? He’s lived away up north for years and years.’ The chandler spoke of the north, as did most southerners of my acquaintance, as though it were the dark side of the moon. ‘Oh, he’s been in London now and again, I grant you, but not for any length of time. Not so’s you could get to know him. He was always loyal to the late king, I grant him that; not like the other one, the Duke of Clarence. Regular turncoat he was. But as I say. .’ He broke off, shrugging, then added, ‘All those arms and things they just showed us, they could be left over from the Scottish campaign, last year.’

‘You don’t believe the Woodvilles would try to seize power?’ I felt in duty bound to defend Duke Richard, even though I felt a worm of doubt wriggling around in my own entrails. I suppressed it firmly. ‘Do you know that Sir Edward Woodville has put to sea, taking half the royal treasure with him? And if there was no plot against the duke, why did Queen Elizabeth rush into sanctuary as soon as she heard of her brother’s and son’s arrest?’

My new friend was saved from answering by the sudden pealing forth again of the bells as the ringers returned to the fray with renewed vigour, refreshed by their well-earned break. Moreover, the cheering from higher up Wood Street was growing louder and more insistent by the minute. A moment later, the first of the City fathers, resplendent in fur-trimmed scarlet, came into view, followed by three hundred of the most eminent burgesses, dressed in violet velvet. Then came the Lord Mayor and his aldermen and the hundreds of Welshmen who had accompanied the king from Ludlow, together with my lord of Gloucester’s Yorkshire troops. It was probably a good half hour before the last of them had passed, and the impatience of the crowd had reached a pitch of frenzy that had become not only unpleasant, but dangerous as well as bodies pressed against one another on all sides, making it almost impossible to breathe. I was sweating profusely and, glancing at Oswald, I was afraid that he might be going to faint.

There was a sudden, blessed lull in the shouting and cheering before it started up again, but this time laced with a quieter, more reverential note. The ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the women onlookers, further up Wood Street, could be detected amongst the more vociferous greetings of the men, and we guessed that the young king had finally come into view. It must, however, have been another ten minutes or so before he reached the turning into West Cheap, but at the eventual sight of him people, even men, choked with emotion and several women burst into tears.

He rode a white palfrey and was dressed in blue velvet, that fair hair, which he inherited from both his parents, gleaming in the pale spring sunlight; ‘Almost,’ breathed some fanciful person behind me, carried away by the emotion of the moment, ‘as if he has been blessed by heaven.’ (I could see that sentimentality was going to be the order of the day.) On his right hand rode his uncle of Gloucester, and on his left — somewhat, I think, to everyone’s surprise — his uncle-by-marriage, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Both men were arrayed in unrelieved mourning black, with not a jewel nor any splash of colour in sight; and the unfortunate impression conveyed to my eyes, at least, and no doubt to some others, was that of a prisoner escorted by his gaolers.

It was an impression underscored by the expression of bewilderment and sullen defiance on the young sovereign’s face. But then, I thought, a boy of twelve, abruptly robbed of the company of an uncle and Woodville kinsman whom he had known and trusted for all of his short life — a man he had grown up with — and thrust into the company of another uncle whom he barely knew, had every reason to be upset, if not frightened. Knowing my lord of Gloucester as I did, I had no doubt that he had not only treated his nephew with every kindness, but that he had had good reasons for his arrest of Earl Rivers and Sir Richard Grey. (Unlike the chandler, I was quite ready to believe that the wagonloads of arms belonged to the Woodvilles and had been intended for use against the duke and his retainers.) But the young king could hardly be expected to regard his Uncle Richard’s actions in that light. I noticed, also, that one side of the boy’s jaw seemed swollen and that he rubbed it from time to time, as though it hurt him. He was slow to respond to the crowd’s ecstatic cheers of welcome, and only did so when prompted by one or the other of his uncles.

As the king and two dukes finally drew abreast of us, I could not help wondering what was going on in Prince Richard’s mind. Was he remembering that information I had brought him back from France, the previous year; the story of the two christenings? Was he thinking that he was really the rightful king, and not this scion of the detested Woodvilles? The thought had barely crossed my mind before I was suddenly aware of him staring straight at me over the heads of the intervening crowds, and I saw his eyes flicker in surprise and recognition. It was only for the briefest moment, then he turned away to acknowledge the cheers of the people to his right. But I was certain he had seen me, and once again cursed my height.

It must have been yet another half hour before the tail of the procession finally passed us, but by that time everyone was congregating around St Paul’s where a service of thanksgiving for the king’s safe arrival was to be held. It would be impossible to push on to Old Dean’s Lane and I said as much to Oswald.

He nodded wearily. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said.