Wheel of Fate

THREE

Margaret sat down again at her spinning wheel, but made no immediate move to resume work. She was quite ready to while away an hour or two in gossip. She frowned a little at my helping myself, unbidden, to her ale, but had obviously decided to overlook the impertinence in the interests of harmony.

‘As to where they live in London,’ she said, ‘I believe Adela mentioned that it was out in the countryside somewhere, beyond the Bishop’s Gate — wherever that is. But you’ll likely know, I daresay. It means nothing to me. I’ve never been to London in my life, and don’t want to. Nasty, dangerous place, or so I’ve heard. All those foreigners.’

Considering that the Bristol wharves and streets fairly teemed with foreign sailors most days of the week, I thought this a decidedly unfair stricture on the capital. All the same, I knew what she meant. It was not only a larger city but also far more populous than any other in the country, which meant more thieves, more pickpockets, more hustling salesmen and more tricksters per square foot than you were likely to encounter anywhere else.

Margaret continued, ‘I think Adela said the house is called The Arbour, or Harbour, or some such name. From the description of it, it sounds a bit ramshackle; a big, rambling old place. But then it would have to be in order to accommodate all that tribe.’

‘Tell me about the Godsloves, themselves,’ I invited, finishing my drink and fetching myself another one.

So she did. But there were so many corrections, so much backtracking, such a deal of ‘No, I tell a lie! That wasn’t so-and-so, it was someone else,’ that, for the sake of clarity, I will set down the history of the Godslove family as I eventually came to understand it, once I had sorted out the facts in my mind.

It begins with Morgan Godslove, who was a cousin of Margaret’s father, William Woodward, and who was born around the year 1400. He married twice. By his first wife — whose name Margaret could not remember — he had four children, three of whom were girls, Clemency, Sybilla and Charity, all born within six years of one another. The fourth child, a boy, Oswald, was ten years younger than the youngest daughter and his mother died in giving birth to him.

The following year, Morgan married again, this time a widow, Alicia Makepeace, whom he met while in London on business, and who already had two sons from her previous marriage, thus bringing their combined total of children to six. To this tally, Alicia and Morgan added two more in very short order, a boy, Martin, and a girl, Celia, with little more than twelve months between them. When the girl was only three, however, Alicia died leaving Morgan and his brood once more motherless. But this time, the widower decided against a third marriage and, instead, employed a housekeeper.

‘Tabitha Maynard, that was her name,’ Margaret proclaimed triumphantly, after some cogitation.

But five years later, during the terrible winter of 1455, both Morgan and Tabitha Maynard were drowned when the Rownham ferry capsized in the River Avon during a violent storm.

By this time, the three elder girls from Morgan’s first marriage, Clemency, Sybilla and Charity, were grown up, all in their early to late twenties, all still unmarried, all still living at home, Oswald was twelve and their half-brother and — sister younger again. As the women appeared to be inclined to the single state, it seemed natural that they should decide to bring up the younger members of the family without calling upon any outside help; an arrangement that suited everybody and which still, apparently, pertained to the present day, even though Oswald was now a man of forty and the half-siblings in their thirties.

‘Doesn’t anyone in the family believe in marriage?’ I had asked at this juncture.

Margaret had smiled. ‘They were always, to my way of thinking, a very odd family. A very close-knit unit, who all put great store by being a Godslove and were slightly contemptuous of anyone who wasn’t. It’s difficult to explain to someone who’s never experienced the ties of a large kinship. But even so, big families normally admit outsiders. They have to. But the Godsloves were different, Unhealthily so.’ Margaret had pulled a face. ‘I only visited them a couple of times, with Father, when they lived at Keynsham, but the atmosphere struck me as. . as almost incestuous.’

When Oswald Godslove was fourteen, or thereabouts, he had suddenly taken it into his head that he wanted to study for the law, and although there were lawyers enough in Bristol willing to employ and train a clerk, his three sisters had decided that nothing else would do, but he must go to London, to the Inns of Court, off the Strand. And the rest of the family would, of course, go with him. Money, if not exactly short, was not plentiful, either, but they had what their father had left them and what they could make on the sale of the Keynsham house. Sacrifices would have to be made, but in such a worthy cause, no one was complaining. Somehow, they had scraped together sufficient money to enable them to buy the place in which they now lived, a decaying mansion just outside the Bishop’s Gate, but big enough to accommodate them all, and there they had remained ever since, even though Oswald was now a successful lawyer and growing richer by the day. (As most lawyers, at least in my experience, do.)

When Margaret had finally finished telling me this complicated tale — or what she had managed to turn into a complicated tale, but was really quite straightforward once I had sorted the wheat from the chaff — I asked, ‘But how does Adela fit into the story?’

Margaret considered this as she loaded her spindle with wool.

‘I’m not perfectly sure,’ she admitted at last. ‘She could only have been about six years old when the Godsloves left Keynsham and went to London. But she had visited them once or twice, maybe oftener. I know for certain that she went once because she came with Father and me. But I feel sure that her mother, who was also Morgan’s cousin, must have taken her on visits. Katharina — God rest her soul! — was a very nosy woman and was never happier than when she was prying into other folk’s business. So I should guess that Adela might have become friends with Celia, the daughter of the second marriage, who was, it’s true, maybe three or four years older than herself. But then Adela always seemed more mature than her actual age. Perhaps the two girls started writing to one another, and have continued to do so throughout their lives. Stupidly, I’ve never asked Adela who her correspondent is, which of the numerous Godsloves, but now I think about it seriously, Celia would seem the most likely person.’ She continued spinning for a moment or two in silence, then suddenly laughed. ‘I recollect my poor father going to see them once on his own. He came back absolutely appalled. I can remember him exclaiming, “Eight children! Eight of them! You can imagine the noise! All of them talking and shouting together!” I think it made him thankful that he only had the one.’

‘And you’ve never written to them since they settled in London?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘They meant nothing to me. And I must confess that I was astonished when Adela mentioned, a year or so back, that she was still in touch with them.’

‘And I was completely unaware of the fact.’

‘Ah, well,’ Margaret muttered significantly, so I got hastily to my feet, in order to ward off yet another lecture about my shortcomings as a husband, and offered to pack Elizabeth’s clothes in the sack along with mine.

‘It will save you the trouble later,’ I murmured ingratiatingly.

But I got no thanks, only a cynical smile that told me, more plainly than any words could have done, that she had my measure. So I took myself off to the Green Lattis, where I spent the rest of the day, or as much of it as I could bear until the sole topic of conversation — the death of the king, with its ceaseless, fruitless speculation as to what might happen next — drove me back to Redcliffe and an early bed (the pile of brushwood by Margaret’s hearth) where I slept soundly until morning.

The sun was just showing its face above the city rooftops when an excited Elizabeth, a drowsy Hercules and I — full of porridge and with Margaret’s parting admonitions still ringing in our ears — presented ourselves outside Jack Nym’s cottage in the neighbouring street. But early as we were, Jack was up and about before us, busy tucking an extra layer of sacking over the bales of red cloth that filled the body of the cart. Elizabeth and I mounted the box beside the driver’s seat, with Hercules curled up on my daughter’s lap, where, for the moment, he seemed content to settle down.

‘But watch out,’ I warned her, ‘for other dogs, sheep and, above all, his pet hatred, geese. If you don’t hold on to him tightly, he’ll be off the cart, chasing them and barking like a fiend.’

‘Yes, and I’ll be having summat to say about that,’ Jack said crossly as he climbed up beside us, plainly not in the best of tempers and obviously regretting that he had agreed to let us travel with him.

He had just given his horse the office to start when he had to pull the animal up short as Goody Nym — as slatternly a woman as you could hope to find in a month of Sundays — erupted from the cottage and handed him an evil-smelling parcel wrapped in wilting, brown-edged dock leaves and tied around with a bit of twine so filthy it might just have been fished out of the central drain. (As indeed it was more than likely it had.)

‘You forgot yer dinner,’ she said, tossing the parcel into her husband’s lap. And without acknowledging either Elizabeth or me, she bounced back indoors, shutting the door with unnecessary force behind her.

Jack handed me the parcel. I sniffed it cautiously and then recoiled. ‘Hell’s teeth, Jack! What’s in it?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Dunno. An’ I don’t want to know, either. Don’t waste your time opening it. Just throw it overboard and leave it to poison some poor stray or other.’ He turned his head to look me fully in the face for the first time since our arrival. ‘I take it you’ve got money in your purse, chapman?’

‘I. . I’ve had quite a successful trip these past few weeks,’ I admitted cagily.

‘Right, then,’ he said, flicking the reins. ‘No need for us to stint ourselves on the journey. There’s plenty o’ decent inns and taverns along the London road.’ He grinned, his good humour suddenly restored. ‘We can sample ’em all.’

Fortunately for me, he was only joking. Well, half-joking. We did indeed stay at a couple of small alehouses during our journey in order that Elizabeth might have a good night’s rest. But, the April weather having suddenly turned warm in the way that it does at that time of year, more often than not we all bedded down in the cart, the bales of red cloth with their protective covering of sacking proving a comfortable enough mattress. Elizabeth, of course, thought this much more fun than a conventional bed, even though our slumbers were frequently broken by Hercules’s barking as he took exception to the cries of the nocturnal creatures all around us, and by his constant excursions into the surrounding countryside to relieve himself.

‘Damn dog,’ Jack grumbled, but without rancour.

The fact was, as we soon discovered, that even had we wished to pass each night in some hostelry or another, we should have been hard put to it to find enough empty beds to accommodate us. There were so many people on the move that most inns seemed to be full. Not only were the roads clogged with the customary itinerant friars, pedlars, farmers driving livestock, or smallholders carrying vegetables, to market in the nearest town, lawyers riding to the spring assizes, west country pilgrims on their way to Canterbury, but also with parties of minstrels and mummers leaving their winter quarters for the summer round of manor house and castle. And over and above all these, we met far more royal messengers than usual, either heading back to London after delivering their news, or outward bound for those distant parts of the kingdom that might not yet have received word of the late King Edward’s death.

With so much traffic, our progress was necessarily slow, and it was not until the following Wednesday, a week and a day after leaving Bristol, that we finally reached the capital.

We had spent the previous Monday night at Reading Abbey, in the common dormitory, where we had taken shelter from a nasty storm that had sprung up unexpectedly. This Benedictine monastery was a foundation of King Henry I and famous for the number and variety of its holy relics: two pieces of the True Cross, a bone of St Edmund the Martyr’s arm, St James’s hand, St Philip’s stole, another bone belonging to St Mary Magdalene and a host of smaller items such as laces, girdles, combs, hairpins and a sandal that was dubiously attributed to St Matthew. (It sometimes seemed to me that the saints had been extremely casual with their personal belongings.)

The storm had abated somewhat by the time we had eaten our supper of soup and black bread in the lay refectory and then bedded down in the dormitory on two of the straw palliasses that were laid side by side along three of the four walls. The place was packed with other travellers as well as ourselves and Elizabeth was forced to share my mattress. She was so weary that she had nodded off over her supper, but nevertheless, she was restless, tossing and turning in her sleep and upsetting Hercules, who had curled up at my feet. In addition to this, the groaning, moaning and farting of thirty or so other souls, not to mention the smell, kept me awake for some considerable time, and when I finally did drop into an uneasy slumber, it was to dream that I was back in Margaret Walker’s cottage while she tried to explain to me the ramifications of the Godslove family.

‘“Eight children”,’ she was saying. ‘That’s what my father said, “Eight children! Thank the good lord I’ve only got one!”’

‘How could there be eight children?’ I was objecting. ‘Four by the first wife and two by the second. That’s six.’

‘There were two stepbrothers,’ was the answer. ‘Alicia’s sons. Her first husband’s children. That makes eight. .’

It was at this point that I awoke with a start, staring into the blackness of the dormitory, the words ‘that makes eight’ still ringing in my head.

Elizabeth was lying on her back, one arm flung across my chest. As I have already intimated, she was a robust child — and has grown into an even more well-built woman — and her arm was heavy, restricting my breathing. Hercules, too, was like a dead weight on my feet, but I felt certain that my discomfort was not what had awakened me. For a moment or two, nothing was to be heard except the cacophony created by my fellow sleepers, but then, over and above this, I was able to make out the noise of raised voices and the jingle of horses’ harnesses. Someone — and someone of importance by the sound of it — had arrived at the abbey. Curious to discover who would be travelling so late at night, I gently rolled Elizabeth on to her side, eased my legs from beneath the rough woollen blanket that covered them, pulled on my boots and stood up, all as quietly as possible so as not to disturb my neighbours.

‘Stay there!’ I whispered to Hercules as I tiptoed towards the door at the far end of the dormitory.

Of course he came too, snuffling with delight at the prospect of a midnight excursion. There was nothing to be gained by arguing with him.

I made my way to the abbey’s west gatehouse, with its adjoining chapel, where I judged most of the noise was coming from. And, indeed, I was not mistaken, the courtyard being overpoweringly full of horses and riders, the former breathing gustily through distended nostrils, their flanks heaving and sweating. Torches flared as monks ran from the abbey, calling to the grooms to rouse themselves and come at once to tend my lord bishop’s cavalcade. Light flickered on the azure and silver threads of the saltire cross of St Andrew, emblazoned on saddles and cloaks, and I realized with a jolt of surprise that I recognized the central figure of the party as Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. My lord was not dressed so magnificently as usual, the splendid silks and velvets that he normally wore being replaced by the coarse black frieze of mourning. Members of his entourage, too, were all similarly attired.

The abbot appeared, looking flustered, his eyes blinking owl-like in the sudden blaze of light, the creases of sleep still wrinkling his cheeks.

‘Your Grace! My lord bishop!’ he exclaimed, hurrying to where Stillington was just dismounting, assisted by John Gunthorpe, his dean.

Stillington nodded, saying jovially, ‘My lord Abbot, I trust you can offer me a bed for the night?’ Having received the abbot’s (probably mendacious) assurance that his own couch would be given up to the distinguished guest with the utmost pleasure, the bishop asked abruptly, ‘What is your latest information from London? Has my lord Gloucester arrived there yet?’

‘No, nor will he for some days, or so I understand.’ The abbot dodged out of the path of the scurrying grooms as they led away their charges towards the stables. ‘I sent one of the lay brothers to Windsor last week to discover what he could and he returned only this afternoon. But come in, my lord. You’ll be in need of refreshment.’

The bishop, however, was more interested in such news as the abbot could give him.

‘And what did this man of yours find out? When is Gloucester expected? And what of the. . king?’

The abbot seemed not to notice Stillington’s slight hesitation before the word ‘king’, but I did, as I sheltered in the lee of the church, holding an indignant Hercules firmly in my arms (the only way to prevent him from attacking the episcopal party). I edged forward a little as the two men, now arm in arm, began moving in the direction of the abbot’s lodging.

The latter’s voice, high-pitched and clear, carried easily on the still night air.

‘My man spoke to Lord Hastings, after the late king’s funeral, and my lord says that His Highness and Lord Rivers will not leave Ludlow before this coming Thursday at the earliest, and that my lord Gloucester has arranged to rendezvous with them at Northampton in a week’s time so that he and the king may enter London together. Of course, whether or not matters will fall out as planned, who can tell? But it’s certain that Lord Hastings is most anxious to see my lord Gloucester in London as things go from bad to worse there, with the queen’s family having it all their own way. .’

The voices gradually faded and died, the courtyard slowly emptied until nothing could be heard but the harsh cry of a nightjar in one of the neighbouring trees. I set Hercules down again and made my thoughtful way back to the dormitory, followed by a reluctant dog who thought poorly of my decision to return to bed so soon and after such tame sport. He had not even been allowed to bite a fat monk’s leg.

All the same, he settled down again surprisingly quickly, curling up in his former position at the foot of the palliasse without disturbing Elizabeth, who seemed not to have stirred since I left her. I removed my boots and slithered down beside her, at the same time casting a leery eye at Jack. But he was snoring away, dead to the world, his mouth wide open and spittle dribbling on to the straw-filled pillow beneath his head. An unlovely sight, in comparison with which my daughter’s deep, sweet breathing made a heart-stopping contrast. I bent over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She murmured in her sleep, but did not wake.

I, on the other hand, lay stretched out on my back, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep, remembering. .

Remembering that five years ago, although he had been released after a comparatively short spell, Robert Stillington had been incarcerated in the Tower at the same time that the late Duke of Clarence had been tried and condemned to death. Remembering, two years further back, how the couple, bishop and duke, had walked and talked together at Farleigh Castle in Somerset, heads inclined towards one another, voices low, for all the world like two conspirators. Remembering the well-known story that when, nineteen years ago, the late king had finally disclosed his hitherto secret marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, Cicely Neville, Dowager Duchess of York, had offered to declare her eldest son a bastard, the son of one of her Rouen bodyguard of archers, conceived while her husband was absent, fighting the French. Remembering, above all, my own secret mission to France the previous year, in an attempt to contact, on the Duke of Gloucester’s behalf, another member of the Rouen garrison who might possibly be able to confirm the truth of a tale which Duchess Cicely had since refused to repeat. I had never managed to speak to Robin Gaunt, but his wife, a Frenchwoman, had told me of the odd affair of the two christenings.

She had recalled that Edward, the first surviving son and his father’s heir, had been christened very quietly in a small chamber in Rouen Castle with little pomp and less ceremony, whereas the second son, Edmund, had received a lavish christening in Rouen Cathedral, attended by French and English dignitaries with no expense spared. The Rouen Cathedral Chapter had even been persuaded to allow the ducal couple to use the font in which Rollo, the first Viking Duke of Normandy, had himself been baptised, and which had been kept covered ever since as a mark of respect. Moreover, Edmund, later Earl of Rutland, had gone everywhere with his father, finally dying beside him at the bloody battle of Wakefield. Not incontrovertible evidence that the duchess had been speaking the truth, but. . But what? A straw in the wind?

Remembering. . But at this point I must finally have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew was Jack shaking me by the shoulder and urging me to ‘shift my arse’.

‘We’ve still got nigh on forty miles to go, Roger, and I must deliver this cloth by Thursday at the latest or Their Worships may cancel the order, and I don’t fancy humping it all the way back to Bristol at my own expense. So, come on, my lad! Rouse Elizabeth and let’s get breakfast.’

Grumbling, I did as I was bid.

And less than an hour later, we were on the road.

We made good enough time to reach London by Wednesday, April the twenty-third, St George’s Day. But there were none of the usual mummings and play-acting to celebrate England’s national saint, only sober suits and long faces and a general air of unease over all. We had stopped first at Westminster to get some breakfast, having spent the previous night in a barn, but even in that notoriously lax city, the pimps and thieves and pickpockets, with which the place abounded, seemed more subdued and less busy than normal, the shopkeepers and stall-holders less inclined to harass you into buying their goods with threats of bodily harm. This might in part have been due to the fact that the streets were crammed with Woodville retainers, all either going to, or coming from, the palace where the queen — the dowager queen now — was in residence with her children, the young Duke of York and his sisters. But it was also due to a sombre atmosphere that hung over everything, like a pall.

As we made our way along the Strand I noticed that there, too, there was less noise than was customary, the street cries more muted, people huddled together in little groups, talking with lowered voices. But several bands of armed men passed us, forcing the cart into the side of the road until one of the wheels got stuck in a rut so deep that Jack and I, even with our combined strength, had to solicit the aid of a passer-by to help us free it.

The man, a butcher from the Shambles to judge by the state of his bloodstained apron, nodded towards the rapidly disappearing cavalcade.

‘Arrogant young sod,’ he growled, indicating the man at its head. I raised my eyebrows in enquiry and he went on, ‘That’s Sir Richard Grey, Queen Elizabeth’s younger son from her first marriage. Busy as a cat in a tripe shop he’s been ever since he came back from Windsor and the old king’s funeral. Riding up and down this road, in and out o’ the city, and every time he’s got more and more men with him, and all o’ them armed.’

‘What do you think he’s up to?’ I asked.

The butcher grimaced. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, friend. But whatever it is, it ain’t anything good, you can take my word on that. And I don’t reckon it bodes well for the Duke o’ Gloucester, whenever he gets here.’ His eyes suddenly filled with tears as he harked back to his previous words. ‘Don’t seem right to be referring to King Edward — God assoil him — as the old king. God! How the merchants and burgesses of this city loved him. And their wives even more!’ His sorrow was momentarily quenched by a great guffaw of laughter, but he sobered quickly. ‘Well, I must let you get on. I can see your friend is getting fidgety. And I don’t much like the way that dog of yours is eyeing me up, either. Got a nasty gleam in his eye.’

I should have liked to talk to the man longer, but he was right; both Jack and Hercules were growing impatient. Only Elizabeth was content to sit and stare at the unaccustomed sights around her, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes round with wonder.

I climbed back on the seat beside Jack, and a few minutes later, we were rattling across the drawbridge that spanned the ditch by the Lud Gate. The guards, who were there to turn back lepers and other such undesirables, let us through without a murmur once Jack had stated his business and shown them the contents of his cart.

‘Bristol red cloth for the mayor and aldermen,’ he announced, not without a certain amount of pride — although his thick West Country vowels caused confusion for a moment or two.

But once any misunderstanding had been sorted out, we were waved through the gate and even accorded a sketchy salute.

‘This is London,’ I said to my daughter and laughed when she clutched me, suddenly frightened as she was swamped by the great wave of noise and activity that is the capital.