Wheel of Fate

FOURTEEN

It was not, however, to be that simple.

It seemed as if everyone in London, as well as his brother and his wife, had gathered in and around Cheapside to see the young king’s entry into his capital. It was almost inevitable, therefore, that Oswald and I would chance upon someone whom we knew. Or, rather, that they would chance upon us, for neither of us was looking for company. Oswald was sullen and ill-tempered because his plans had been thwarted and yet another day must pass before one of us — in all probability me — could return to Old Dean’s Lane to find out if Roderick Jeavons had at last come home.

For my part, I was busy assessing the scene I had just witnessed, particularly mulling over in my mind the angry and chagrined expression on the face of Lord Hastings, who had been riding several paces to the rear of the king, his handsome person lost among the crowd of other dignitaries and nobles pressing in upon their sovereign. I had little doubt that he was furious at this relegation to a minor role when he had had, quite justifiably, every expectation of occupying the place now usurped by Henry of Buckingham. After all, it was he who, since the death of his lifelong friend and master, King Edward IV, had constituted himself chief champion of the Duke of Gloucester against the Woodvilles, interpreting, both verbally and in writing and in the most favourable light, the former’s action at Northampton. In his shoes, I should have expected to be rewarded with the distinction of being at least second-in-command to the man who was now the true ruler of the country. I could foresee trouble ahead, and was thankful that it was none of my business. But I didn’t envy Timothy Plummer.

As Oswald and I turned eastwards along Cheapside — where the crowds had now thinned out, everyone hurrying towards St Paul’s — making for the inn where we had stabled the horses, a hand smote me on the shoulder and a pleasant voice queried, ‘Master Chapman?’

A glance behind me revealed the smiling face of Julian Makepeace, attired in his Sunday best and with an equally smiling and smartly dressed Naomi clinging to his arm. He went on, ‘I thought I recognized your back. You’ve come, like us I suppose, to get a glimpse of our little king.’ He glanced down teasingly at his housekeeper. ‘Naomi, here, is near swooning with excitement. All her maternal instincts have been aroused by that angelic young face. Hers and nearly every other woman’s in the crowd, I imagine.’ He suddenly caught sight of my companion and jerked out his hand. ‘Why, Oswald, my dear brother, how nice to see you again. We don’t meet nearly often enough. Indeed, it’s hard to recollect when we did last speak to one another. And how are my stepsisters? Nothing further untoward has befallen you all, I trust?’

Oswald, ignoring his stepbrother’s hand, gave a groan and looked imploringly at me, plainly unable to cope with the thought of an explanation; so I drew Julian, together with his companion, into the side of the road, beneath the shelter of a shop’s overhanging gable, and gave him the facts of Celia’s disappearance as briefly as I could. He was horrified and at once offered his services if there was anything we thought he could do.

‘Anything at all,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t hesitate to call on me at any time. Business is not so brisk these days that I can’t shut up shop for an hour or two.’ He turned back to Oswald, looking doubtful. ‘You say you suspect Roderick Jeavons of having a hand in Celia’s disappearance? No, no, my dear brother. I think you’re making a mistake, if you’ll pardon my saying so. I know Dr Jeavons and I simply can’t believe him capable of being the author of all your troubles; of paying someone to murder Reynold and our half-brother. Impossible!’

Oswald’s face flushed a dark, angry red. ‘If that’s all you have to say, I’ll bid you good-day, Julian. I appreciate your offer of help, but it won’t be needed.’

The apothecary grimaced apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. I had no intention of offending you. And the offer stands. If there is any way at all in which I can be useful. .’

‘We’ll let you know at once,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’

He nodded, smiled ruefully and walked away, Naomi still clutching his arm. I stared after him for a moment or two, unable to fathom why the sight of him suddenly made me feel so uneasy. Something he had once said to me — or was it, perhaps, something that he had not said? I was no longer certain — gnawed at the edges of my mind, but try as I might, I still could not work out what it was.

Oswald thumped me on the back. ‘Let’s get on,’ he said. His tone was surly, and I bit back the retort that if he did not treat people with more consideration, he would find himself without support. But then I recollected what he and his family had suffered, were still suffering, and thought better of it.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘There’s nothing further to be done today.’

But once again, we were not allowed to escape so easily. Yet another hand on my shoulder accosted me for a second time, but on this occasion it was a woman’s voice that spoke my name.

‘Roger! How pleasant! We meet once more.’

Ginèvre Napier.

Forcing a smile, I bowed over the hand she extended towards me, and then, in answer to her raised eyebrows and pointed glance in Oswald’s direction, felt in duty bound to perform the introduction. He grunted something in reply to her civil words, his impatience to be gone almost palpable, but it would take more than a little discourtesy to deter Ginèvre.

‘I’m surprised your sisters aren’t with you, Master Godslove. And your wife, Roger. I would have expected a glimpse of our new little king — and such a pretty child, even if he does favour his mother’s family too much for my taste — would have appealed to them more than to you two men, hard-hearted creatures that you are.’

I could have told her that such coquettishness was wasted on a man like my companion, impervious as he was to any female charms apart from those of his sisters. But instead I drew her aside and, yet again, repeated the story of Celia’s disappearance and the real reason for our presence in Cheapside.

‘We are about to return home,’ I said in conclusion. ‘There’s small chance of pressing on to Old Dean’s Lane now. The crowds around St Paul’s will be thicker than flies in summer.’

She agreed, adding, ‘I, myself, am simply wasting time until I can comfortably return to Paternoster Row. Although I daresay that if I spoke some kind gentleman fair, he would force a passage for me amongst the crowds.’

This was so suggestive a remark that, in another second, I would have found myself offering to be her escort, had not an unwelcome diversion occurred in the person of the silversmith, Adrian Jollifant. Until that moment, I had failed to appreciate that we were standing directly outside his shop, and his sudden appearance with his key in his hand, preparatory to letting himself in, came as an unexpected shock. (He had evidently been as far as St Paul’s, but decided that enough was enough and had returned home for a little peace and quiet.)

He did not immediately recognize either Oswald or myself, pausing merely to greet Ginèvre as an old acquaintance. She, recalling our conversation of three days earlier, did make a momentary effort to distract him, but then that malicious streak in her nature surfaced and she deliberately drew his attention to Oswald’s presence.

‘You know Lawyer Godslove, I think.’

The silversmith spun round, his face white with anger. ‘Y-you!’ he spluttered. ‘W-what are you doing here?’ His slightly protuberant eyes lit with sudden hope. ‘Or perhaps you’ve come to tell me that you’ve finally seen the justice of my claim and are willing to sell me the Arbour?’

Oswald’s face was livid and all at once he looked a lot older than his forty years. ‘No, I have not, you stupid old fool,’ he hissed and moved forward, shouldering the other man none too gently out of his way. ‘The Arbour is mine and will stay that way until there are no more Godsloves left to protect it.’

In the circumstances, it was, perhaps, an unfortunate choice of words. I know I thought so, and I saw Ginèvre raise her eyebrows and pull down the corners of her thin, painted mouth. As for Master Jollifant, he was literally jigging up and down with rage, not only furious at being addressed as a stupid old fool in the open street, but also burning with a misplaced sense of righteous indignation. He bounced forward and advanced his face to within an inch or so of Oswald’s.

‘Well, maybe there will come a time when there won’t be any of you left,’ he uttered venomously. ‘Have you ever thought about that?’

For several seconds, Oswald stood as though turned to stone. Then, before I could guess what he would be about, he had seized the silversmith by the throat and forced him back against the wall of the shop.

‘What do you mean by that?’ he screamed. ‘Where is she? What have you done with Celia?’

It took all my strength to loosen his grip. Passers-by were beginning to take an interest, grinning to see a respectable lawyer involved in a street brawl like any apprentice.

‘Stop it!’ I shouted, forced to raise my own voice in order to penetrate his inflamed senses. ‘The man doesn’t know what you’re talking about, can’t you see that? Besides, you can’t have it both ways. If you’re so convinced Roderick Jeavons has abducted Celia, then Master Jollifant is innocent. He’s just a bit mad, that’s all. He’s just a prey to this ridiculous belief that he has some sort of claim to the Arbour.’

In my own mind, I wasn’t so convinced of the silversmith’s innocence, but that was because I was unconvinced of the doctor’s guilt. Both were suspects as far as I was concerned, and in some ways Adrian Jollifant’s was a less stable character than Roderick Jeavons’s; his grudge against the Godslove family had far less reason behind it than the older man’s. Indeed, it was totally unreasonable, whereas Roderick’s resentment sprang from the very credible belief that Celia’s rejection of his love and his suit had undoubtedly been influenced by her siblings.

My intervention had drawn attention to myself, and Master Jollifant gave a start of recognition. Rubbing his mangled throat, already beginning to show a bruise where Oswald’s fingers had gripped it, he managed to croak, ‘You’re that country bumpkin what bought the ring off me! And not speaking the way you spoke then.’ His anger almost choked him. ‘If-if I’d known you were hand in glove with that. . that thieving rogue, I’d never have let you have it so cheap. Sorry for you, that’s what I was!’

Without warning, he pushed himself away from the shop wall and launched himself at me, trying to punch me on the nose. But I was too quick for him, releasing Oswald’s arms and spinning round to parry the blow with one of my own, which caught my would-be assailant neatly under the jaw and sent him crashing to the cobbles.

On a day when the wine, flowing freely in the Great Conduit and others throughout the city, was the cause of many a fight amongst the drunken London citizens, our little spat was of minor interest to the Watch or anyone else in authority. Nevertheless, Ginèvre suggested — not without an ulterior motive, naturally — that Oswald and I accompany her to Paternoster Row and take some refreshment to calm our nerves before attempting a return to the Arbour.

‘The crowds will surely have eased a little by now,’ she said. ‘The service of thanksgiving for the king’s safe arrival must be well underway by this time.’

Oswald refused point-blank, making it plain that he expected me to do the same. But I was in a mood to distance myself from the whole tribe of Godslove and their affairs, so I accepted with an enthusiasm that seemed to surprise Ginèvre. I told Oswald that I would collect Old Diggory from the inn stable when I was ready and follow him home at a later hour. He was obviously displeased, but was too tired and dispirited to argue. The day had been a disaster as far as he was concerned.

I turned to the silversmith to help him to his feet, but he had disappeared indoors while we had been talking, for which I was thankful. I could not have hit him as hard as I had feared. I offered Ginèvre my arm and we began walking back along Westcheap.

The crowds had not thinned out as much as we had hoped, many people waiting patiently in the vicinity of St Paul’s for another glimpse of their young king when he emerged after the service. From within the great church, the sound of the Te Deum rose in a surge of praise and thanksgiving, answered at once by a chorus of chirping sparrows and starlings that made their home amongst the churchyard trees. Moreover, the surrounding streets and alleyways were thronged with the grooms and horses and general retainers of the nobles inside, the different liveries and trappings making a colourful display that vied with the tapestries, rugs and floral garlands suspended from the windows of the neighbouring houses.

Ginèvre and I were at last within sight of Paternoster Row when we and others were pushed unceremoniously to one side to make room for a latecomer who, for some reason, had failed to keep up with the rest of the procession. I had a brief impression of hot, sweaty faces creased in anxious lines, a strong smell of horseflesh, the flurry of priestly vestments and the blur of white saltire crosses against an azure ground. I knew at once who the tardy prelate was.

‘Robert Stillington,’ I informed my companion. ‘Bishop of Bath and Wells. He arrived at Reading Abbey the same night that my daughter and I were staying in the guest hall there.’

Ginèvre made no comment then; but half-an-hour later, when we had finally reached the relative peace and quiet of her house in Paternoster Row and were sipping wine and nibbling at little almond doucettes — typical women’s fare which I would willingly have traded for a good, honest pot of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese — she remarked, ‘Stillington! I seem to recall that His Grace suffered a spell of imprisonment around the time that Clarence was arrested and executed. Does that fact have any significance, do you think?’

I had always thought her an astute woman, who kept a finger on the pulse of public life, unlike most of her sex who found politics a bore.

‘It might well have,’ I agreed. ‘The two men were always friendly in a conspiratorial sort of way. I saw them together once at Farleigh Castle, near Bath. I thought then that they shared some secret. But I could be wrong, and probably am. Certainly at Clarence’s trial, the bishop’s name was never mentioned. Which reminds me,’ I went on, ‘are you still friends with the Babcary family?’

Miles Babcary was — or had been — a goldsmith in Cheapside, and five years earlier I had been instrumental in proving his daughter, Isolda Bonifant, innocent of poisoning her husband.

Ginèvre shook her head. ‘Miles sold the shop two years ago and they moved away, or so I was told. But where they went, I’ve no idea. Nor care. They were nothing to me. Weren’t they related in one degree or another to the late king’s mistress, Jane Shore?’ When I nodded, she gave a sneering little laugh and went on, ‘Not much of a connection now that Edward’s dead. They say that at the moment her favours are being shared by both Hastings and Dorset, but if young Edward’s to be influenced by his Uncle Gloucester, there’ll be no place for her at court.’

‘No. I remember the duke didn’t like her.’ I bit into another doucette.

Ginèvre leant back in her chair. ‘He wouldn’t. He’s too puritanical, my dear. Besides, he blames people like her and poor old Hastings for his brother’s decline in both health and morals.’ She laughed again.

I fired up in the duke’s defence as I always did, even at merely implied criticism of him. ‘Not that puritanical, surely. He has two acknowledged bastards.’

‘Both born before his marriage to Anne Neville. For the past twelve years, he’s been a model of propriety and the husbandly virtues.’

‘You seem to think that something to be scoffed at.’

She gave me a leery, sidelong glance. ‘I should have thought, after all you’ve told me, you’d agree.’

Once again, I regretted having been so frank with her regarding Juliette Gerrish, and was thankful I’d made no mention of Eloise Gray.

‘I admire the duke,’ I answered briefly. ‘A man of integrity. I wish I were more like him.’

She gave an angry snort and changed the subject abruptly. ‘Tell me about the disappearance of Lawyer Godslove’s sister. Did I understand aright? Does he really suspect Roderick Jeavons of abducting her?’

I gave her a more detailed explanation of events at the Arbour during the past few days. ‘Although,’ I hastened to add, ‘I don’t share Oswald’s conviction of the doctor’s guilt. But then again, he can be forgiven for his suspicions — which might, after all, prove to be right.’

Ginèvre poured herself more wine and offered to refill my cup, but I waved the jug aside. She shrugged, her disappointed expression indicating that she found me less amusing company than she had hoped.

‘I wouldn’t like to say that Lawyer Godslove is entirely wrong about Dr Jeavons,’ she admitted at last, having mulled the matter over in silence. ‘Roderick’s a passionate, strong-minded, strong-willed man — ’ she gave a small, cat-like, reminiscent smile obviously meant to pique my curiosity — ‘and any woman’s a fool who tries to play fast and loose with him. I can see that he might be provoked into taking matters into his own hands. But I very much doubt that he’d continue to hold this Celia against her will. As soon as he discovered that his action had upset her, that she really was averse to his advances, he’d let her go and return her to her family. Besides,’ Ginèvre added shrewdly, ‘you think Roderick’s in love with Mistress Godslove. Surely that doesn’t sort with the terrible things you say have been happening to the other members of her family?’

‘It might,’ I argued, ‘if he were trying to rid himself of all the obstacles to his ultimate goal of marrying Celia.’

‘Then why not carry out his plan? Why ruin everything by abducting her before disposing of all her siblings? According to what you tell me, this person, whoever he or she is, has been a model of patience so far, so why suddenly abandon his deep-laid scheme? It makes no sense.’

I nodded, sighing. ‘I agree with you,’ I said. ‘And in any case, Celia isn’t in Old Dean’s Lane. Oswald forced his way in and searched the house. There was no sign of her.’

‘Not even in the cellar?’ Ginèvre mocked. ‘Or didn’t the brave lawyer go down there for fear of the rats?’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked sharply. ‘Mistress Ireby, the doctor’s sister, told us that the house has no cellar.’

My companion looked startled, raising a hand, childlike, to her mouth, plainly regretting this unguarded remark. Then she shrugged fatalistically. ‘I don’t know why Mistress Ireby should have said that. All the houses in Old Dean’s Lane have cellars.’ We regarded each other significantly for a moment or two before she laughed. ‘Oh, come on, Roger! You can’t read anything into that! The poor woman just wanted you both out of the place. You had no right to be in there anyway, without an invitation. She didn’t want Lawyer Godslove rampaging down to the cellar and disturbing whatever bottles of wine Roderick keeps there.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said slowly, trying to look convinced, and turned the conversation back to other things.

Ginèvre seemed more than willing to follow my lead and we chatted desultorily for a while longer about the death of the late king, about the uncertainties of a minority reign and of the unpleasantness that was obviously brewing, stirred up by the Duke of Gloucester’s sudden preference for his cousin, Buckingham, instead of for Lord Hastings, who undoubtedly, in his own mind, had cast himself in the role of the duke’s right-hand man. But after a while, when I realized that the dinner hour was past and that Ginèvre was not asking me to stay, I took my farewell. She made no effort to detain me, but, having accompanied me outside, she laid a hand on my arm.

‘Take care, my dear,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’ With which somewhat cryptic utterance, she returned indoors, closing the door firmly on both me and on the crowds milling around St Paul’s.

These were still thick, the service not yet being over and the women anxious for another glimpse of that seemingly angelic face with its thatch of blond hair encircled by a golden filet studded with rubies and sapphires, the latter emphasizing the intense blue of the young king’s eyes. I contemplated the possibility of forcing a passage the length of Paternoster Row into Old Dean’s Lane, but then abandoned the idea. If, when I got there, Mistress Ireby refused to let me in, what could I do? There were far too many people about to overcome her resistance by forcing an entry, as Oswald had previously done. And even if the lady were out, enjoying the Sunday holiday, making one of the excited press that continued to throng around the church, the same reasoning applied: I could hardly search for a way to break in with so many onlookers to observe me. So I decided that, for the present, there was nothing to be done but to return to the Arbour, where at least I would be fed. Wearily I made my way back along Cheapside to the inn where I had stabled Old Diggory.

By the time I passed through the Bishop’s Gate, having been held up for a good five minutes by the increased activity outside of Crosby’s Place, I was debating with myself whether or not to tell Oswald of Ginèvre Napier’s revelation concerning the houses in Old Dean’s Lane. If I told him, I could guess his probable reaction. He would almost certainly read something sinister into Mistress Ireby’s deception and insist on returning at once to Roderick Jeavons’s house. But I was too tired, too bone-weary and still feeling the effects of my recent illness to undertake the ride and brave the crowds again. I could, I supposed, let him go on his own, but in his present state of mind, he was liable to do something violent if Mistress Ireby refused him entry. And, if there was truly nothing to find, it would be disastrous for one of his profession to be taken up by the Watch and brought to court. I owed him something for his unstinting hospitality of these past two weeks and for the weeks before that during which he had housed my wife and sons. So I decided to say nothing, but to return to Old Dean’s Lane the following day and see what I could discover for myself.

I looked forward to spending the rest of Sunday as quietly as circumstances would allow, helping Adela to keep the children and Hercules in check in a house that was now plunged into renewed mourning, something of which the Godsloves had had more than their fair share in recent years. But alas for such plans! As I stepped across the threshold into the hall, I was met by a distressed Adela with tears in her eyes.

I groaned inwardly as I folded her in my arms. ‘Sweetheart, what’s amiss?’ I nearly added the word ‘now’ but thought better of it.

‘The ring you bought for me, it’s missing. The children and I have searched every inch of the bedchamber, but we can’t find it anywhere.’ She added, ‘I don’t want to say anything to the others until I’m absolutely certain that it’s nowhere to be found.’

‘When did you see it last?’

‘Earlier this morning. It was in its little box on top of the clothes chest. The box is still there, but the ring has gone.’

‘Have you worn it today?’

She shook her head. ‘No, because after breakfast I was playing with the children in the garden. When we came indoors, I went to put it on, but the box was empty.’

I accompanied her upstairs to our bedchamber, where the children were still hunting for the missing ring. Judging by the state of the room, they had entered into the spirit of the thing with enthusiasm, but the search had yielded nothing.

‘It’s not here,’ Elizabeth announced as we entered. ‘We’ve looked everywhere.’

‘Looked everywhere,’ confirmed Adam, while Nicholas just nodded.

They had even stripped the bed of its coverings, tossing them on the floor, and Hercules emerged from beneath the pile, barking delightedly at my return. He obviously thought it some new game, devised expressly for his enjoyment.

I hushed him and began my own search of both our and the children’s chamber, but after almost an hour, hot, thirsty and extremely dusty, I was forced to admit that they were right. The ring was nowhere to be found.

‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘We shall have to tell Clemency and Arbella about it.’

My wife looked unhappy. ‘They’ll think we’re accusing one of the maids.’

But when we descended to the dining parlour, where we had all been summoned for a belated dinner, no one expressed any surprise, only dismay.

‘What else has been taken?’ Oswald demanded, staring about him. ‘I’ve told you women time and again about leaving the doors unlocked. You know perfectly well how many thefts there have been in this neighbourhood in the past few years.’

Clemency nodded sadly. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘Even the church was broken into. A valuable pyx was taken from St Botolph’s, and a man living near the Bedlam, who kept all his savings in a secret hiding-place under the floor had them stolen. It was a shock to us all because no one I’ve ever spoken to was aware that he had a penny to his name. But someone knew and robbed him.’

‘And now,’ Oswald shouted furiously, ‘that same someone has walked all over this house, taking what he wanted, while you precious three were no doubt gossiping in the kitchen.’ He slammed his hand down hard on the table, making everyone jump.

Sybilla burst into tears.