Wheel of Fate

EIGHT

The ground-floor room of the cottage was much as I had expected it to be: a beaten earth floor covered by a sprinkling of rushes, a table, several stools, a bench on which stood various cooking utensils, a corner cupboard and a couple of shelves supporting a candle in its holder, a tinder box, a pen and inkwell and some sheets of that thin cheap paper made from rags. (These latter items surprised me a little: not all parish priests are able to write and a few cannot even read, learning long passages of Holy Scripture by rote.) In one corner, a ladder rose to the second storey and a single window at the front of the house, at present unshuttered, let in a shaft of pale spring sunlight. An open fire in the centre of the room was straddled by a meat-stand from which hung a pot of the saintly Ellen’s stew.

The priest invited me to sit down by pulling one of the stools from beneath the table and waving a somewhat grimy hand towards it. As though suddenly conscious of the condition of his nails, he said apologetically, ‘I’ve been digging in the vegetable plot this morning. My housekeeper likes a few onions with the rabbit. And now, sir, in what way can I help you?’

I explained as briefly as I could the fears of the Godsloves, my involvement in their story (omitting, of course, the real reason for my coming to London) and my hope that he might be able to shed some light on the subject. But I could tell it was a lost cause by the expression of bewilderment on his face; and when he requested me to repeat the tale again, I guessed he could tell me nothing I did not already know.

When I had finished my account for the second time, he passed a hand across his brow, leaving a streak of mud behind, then ruffled the thick fringe of brown curly hair around his tonsure.

‘A most extraordinary story,’ he said finally, frowning. ‘I agree that the deaths of Martin and Charity Godslove were terrible tragedies, and now it seems that Mistress Sybilla has also been hurt. Dear me! Yes, I can see why they might begin to think that the family is cursed. That God has turned His face from them. But that someone is deliberately setting out to do them harm! No, no! I can’t and won’t believe it. They are a most respected family, well liked in the neighbourhood, giving their mite to charity. Who would wish to eliminate them all? And for what reason? Even if one of them had an enemy, why would that person wish to kill the siblings as well? It doesn’t make sense. And who is this Reynold Makepeace you mention? A landlord, you say, of an inn in Bucklersbury, killed two years ago in a tavern brawl? But what has he to do with the Godsloves? Forgive me! I expect I’m being very slow.’

‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a most complicated family. Landlord Makepeace and his brother were — are, in the case of Julian — stepbrothers to the elder sisters and Lawyer Godslove, half-brothers to the younger pair, Celia and her now dead brother, Martin. Widow Makepeace was Morgan Godslove’s second wife.’

The priest gave his head a shake as though to clear it. ‘Dear me! Dear me!’ he exclaimed again. It seemed to be a favourite phrase. ‘I had no idea. I’d heard of the affair at the Voyager. Word gets around, but it was all such a long time ago-’

‘Two years,’ I put in, and he nodded.

‘A long while ago, as I said. These things happen, unfortunately. Young men get drunk and do stupid things. Wicked things. The times are growing more lawless — and likely to get worse now that King Edward’s restraining hand has gone. The saints alone know what’s to become of us all! The Woodvilles. .! But that’s neither here nor there. So, the Godsloves reckon that this Landlord Makepeace was the first to die?’ His face creased with the effort of remembrance. ‘Two years. . That must have been the same year that Mistress Clemency was taken ill.’

‘It was not long after, I believe. At the time, no one made any connection between the two events, only later when the sister, Charity, died from eating mushrooms. And again, some months afterwards when the half-brother, Martin Godslove, was set upon by footpads and killed.’

‘Oh, I remember that.’ Father Berowne once more rubbed his forehead. ‘A terrible thing to have happened. But there again, such murders occur almost nightly. It’s what I was saying just now, law and order are breaking down. It’s not at all like it was when I was a boy.’

It never is in my experience. If I had a silver penny for every time someone has lamented to me that things aren’t what they used to be, I reckon I’d be a rich man. A very rich man.

I regarded the priest curiously. ‘Where do you come from?’ I asked. ‘I’d swear there’s some Irish in your voice. I can hear it every once in a while.’

My companion smiled, a sweet, twinkling smile that reached his eyes even quicker than his lips.

‘Your hearing must be very acute,’ he said. ‘I can detect traces of it, myself, now and then, although I’ve never been there in my life. But my father came from the southern tip of Ireland, around Waterford. Do you know it?’

I shook my head. ‘Like you, I’ve never been there, but it’s the part of that country Bristol trades with the most, Waterford being the nearest Irish port of any size. The slavers, I fancy, use the smaller coves and inlets, not wishing to attract attention to their illegal cargoes.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He regarded me straitly, the smile no longer in evidence. ‘I’ve heard that the people of Bristol still fuel that dreadful trade with their unwanted relatives and enemies, even though it was banned by the Church many centuries ago.’

His voice was suddenly so stern that I felt bound to reiterate the fact that I was born in Wells and was a Bristolian only by adoption. It surprised me how much I wanted the approbation of this simple, godly man. Even Hercules, who had been lying quietly at my feet, raised his head from his paws and — or so it seemed — stared at me reproachfully.

I must have sounded even more defensive than I felt, for my companion made haste to disclaim, ‘No, no! Dear me! I was not implying that you, my son — no, indeed — that you are — were — have been — in any way involved. Forgive me! I. .’

It was my turn to reassure him that he had in no sort given offence; and as I had no wish for him to discover that I had, in the past, come to know at least one of the slavers quite well, I steered our conversation back into less troubled waters.

‘That trace of Irishness in your tone comes, then, from hearing your father speak when you were a child?’

He nodded, eager and willing to follow my lead. ‘Yes, that must be it, although few people detect it as quickly as you, if at all.’

‘It comes from listening to the many Irish sailors around the Bristol docks,’ I said and got to my feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Berowne. I won’t trouble you any further.’

‘No, no! Dear me!’ He also jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t go without some refreshment. What am I thinking of? Sit down again, please.’ He went to the corner cupboard and produced a flask and two beakers. ‘Some of last year’s elderflower wine. I make it myself and this was a particularly fine brew. And while we drink, tell me again if you please about your good self. You say you are a solver of mysteries and have had some successes in the past. I should like to hear about them if it wouldn’t bore you too much.’

It would take a far more modest person than myself to resist such a flattering offer, so for the next hour, against a background of Hercules’s wheezing snores, I recounted some of my more successful exploits while the priest and I gradually emptied the flask of its contents. Once I had to go outside and relieve my bursting bladder and twice the priest was forced to do the same; and finally we went together, arm in arm like two old comrades, to play the schoolboy game of who could piss higher against the wall. After which, there seemed nothing else to do but wish my new found friend goodbye, whistle up my dog and wend my unsteady way back to the Arbour.

What Adela’s reaction to my drunken state would have been, had I been able to remain upright, I never learned, as almost immediately I was violently sick and collapsed into unconsciousness and delirium. After that, I was vaguely aware, on various occasions, of people coming and going, of anxious voices, of things being forced down my throat, of my wife’s frightened face hovering above me, of the doctor’s ponderous tones. But for the most part I inhabited an insane world of my own peopled by distorted images and horrors that made me sweat with terror; a place where the boiling seas were blood red and the earth gave up its ghosts and my heart thumped nearly out of my body; where my long dead mother waved a bony finger and warned me I was damned unless I renounced my profligate way of life and became a true believer. It seemed to go on for ever. .

And then, quite suddenly, one morning, I awoke to the early sun rimming the shuttered window, to a feeling of light-headed calm and peace and the sight of Adela’s drawn face beside me on the pillow. I knew at once that I had been ill. I also knew that now I was better.

It took me a minute or two longer to work out where I was and how I got to be there, but in a much shorter time than I would have thought possible, clarity and memory had returned and I could recollect everything that had led up to the moment of my return to the Arbour. The probable cause of my illness remained a mystery until I remembered the sour-tasting ale at the Voyager. And I had been foolish enough to order a second cup, some of which, at least, I had drunk. The smell of it, the rancid taste of it were once again in my throat and nostrils, and I felt my stomach heave in protest. .

‘Roger?’ It was Adela’s voice. She was awake, propped on one elbow and staring at me in disbelief and joy. ‘You’re better.’

I smiled weakly at her. ‘How long have I been like this?’ I asked. ‘What day is it?’

‘Tuesday,’ she said, then burst into tears. ‘We thought you were going to die.’ She smothered my face in watery kisses.

‘Tuesday?’ I demanded incredulously. ‘Are you telling me I’ve been ill for six days?’

She nodded, lying down again and pressing her head into my shoulder. ‘We’ve all been so worried. Poor Father Berowne has called nearly every day. Apparently you had both been drinking his elderflower wine just before you returned here, and he’s desperately afraid that it might have been the cause. Although he himself has suffered no ill effects, he fears he might have made it too strong for someone not accustomed to it.’

‘Nonsense!’ I declared. ‘It was the rotten ale at the Voyager.’ And I told her what I had done and also what I had discovered the preceding Wednesday afternoon. I was amazed at how much the telling took the virtue out of me and how tired I felt afterwards. I was as weak as a kitten.

‘Better now?’ enquired a voice in my left ear, and there was Adam peering at me over the edge of the mattress. He climbed the small flight of steps at the side of the bed and, ignoring his mother’s remonstrations, wriggled in beside me. He stroked my face. ‘You’re better,’ he assured me firmly.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ I put an arm around him.

He eyed me, solemn as a little owl. ‘“Sweetheart” is for girls,’ he said sternly. I apologized, but noted that he didn’t seem to mind being cuddled.

A moment or two later, having been woken by the sound of our voices, Elizabeth and Nicholas bounced into the room. (Adela had obviously not thought it worthwhile to keep the intervening door locked during my indisposition.) They were delighted that I was my normal self again, and were the first of a stream of visitors who arrived at my bedside throughout the day with their congratulations on my recovery. I was desperate for sleep, but everyone wanted to talk. Clemency and Celia were anxious to share their fear that this might have been another attempt on a family member’s life and refused to be altogether convinced by my argument that I could hardly be counted as a Godslove or be reassured that I was correct about the cause of my sickness. Sybilla also paid me a visit, but was less interested in my condition than in describing her own recent sufferings which, according to her, had been many and varied. Next, the housekeeper made a brief appearance to inform me that whatever I fancied to tempt my appetite would be prepared by her own fair hands (the kitchen maids being a couple of fools who could be trusted with only the most basic of recipes). And both the priest and doctor called, the former still anxious for confirmation that I held his elderflower wine in no way to blame for what had happened, the latter ostensibly to see how his patient fared, but in reality, I suspected, to catch a glimpse of Celia and snatch a clandestine word with her if at all possible. By the time Oswald returned from Westminster and the law courts in the late afternoon, I was feeling like one of my daughter’s rag dolls after Hercules had given it a mauling.

At least with Oswald I was able have a rational conversation and glean whatever news there was to be had from the outside world.

‘Has the duke arrived yet?’ My companion shook his head. ‘Is there any word of him? Or from him?’

Oswald pursed his lips. ‘The rumour in the city — and it’s a pretty strong one — is that His Grace will reach Northampton sometime today, where he is due to meet up with the royal party travelling across country from the Welsh border.’ He stroked his chin. ‘What is certain is that a few days ago, Sir Richard Grey left the capital for Wales with a train of some thousands strong to join his uncle and half-brother before they set out on their journey.’

‘Why? Surely the king and Earl Rivers have enough men stationed at Ludlow to supply a sufficient retinue for the purpose of a peaceful entry into London?’

The lawyer chewed a thumbnail. ‘One would have thought so. But it would seem the queen and members of the Woodville family think otherwise.’

I detected the note of unease in his voice. ‘What do you believe is the reason?’

Oswald laughed and got up from the bed, where he had been sitting. ‘Oh, I try not to have opinions. Well, my dear fellow, your first week with us has been unfortunate. I suppose you had no time, in the few hours before you were struck down, to discover anything of significance? No, obviously not. But I hope this unhappy episode hasn’t changed your mind about helping us. Not for my sake, you understand. But it would bring a certain measure of peace of mind to my sisters. For my own part, I still remain somewhat unconvinced by this theory of a mysterious enemy waiting to strike us all down.’ He smiled in his irritatingly superior way. ‘And now I’ll leave you to get some rest. I’m sure you need it.’

He was right, and I slept, on and off, for the remainder of the day and all of the night. But my powers of recuperation have always been remarkable, thanks in the main to my generally good health and the strength of my body. By the following evening, the last day of April, I was almost myself again and left our bedchamber to join the family for supper.

It was a splendid meal of mutton stewed in red wine vinegar flavoured with cinnamon and saffron, chopped parsley and onions, and followed by a curd tart with cream. It was all washed down with a pale amber-coloured wine whose name I refused to ask for fear of displaying my total ignorance, but whose soft, warm glow spread throughout my body and completed my recovery. When I finally laid down my spoon and drained my cup, I felt ready for anything.

I turned to Oswald, cutting across some desultory small talk between the three sisters (Sybilla was now well enough to leave her sickbed) and said abruptly, ‘Before I was taken ill, Adela was telling me about a man who wishes to buy this house from you; a man who, for some reason, feels he has a right to it. Jollifant? Was that the name?’

The lawyer laughed dismissively. ‘Oh, Adrian Jollifant! Yes, there is such a man. This house belonged to his father — or grandfather, I forget which — many years ago, but the family were forced to sell it. (We bought it, I think, from the man who bought it from them.) Now that the Jollifants are prospering again, Adrian wants it back and seems to think that I am under some obligation to oblige him. He is, of course, a fool with no knowledge of the law. But if, my dear Roger, you’re thinking that he is behind these attacks on us — if deliberate attacks they really are — forget him. I told you, the man’s a fool and has neither the wits nor the strength of purpose to sustain such a campaign.’

‘Nevertheless, I should like to see and speak with him,’ I said. I could not share Oswald’s slightly contemptuous view of humanity, nor believe, as he so patently did, that the world was peopled entirely by idiots. ‘If you know where he lives, I should be grateful if you could put me in the way of meeting him.’

‘Nothing easier,’ Oswald replied with a shrug. ‘Adrian Jollifant has a silversmith’s shop in Cheapside, close to St Paul’s. If you care to accompany me tomorrow morning on my way to Chancery Lane, I’ll point it out to you.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I’m certain Clemency won’t mind if you borrow her horse, Old Diggory. He’s a quiet enough animal and won’t play you any tricks.’

How Oswald had divined my uneasiness around horses I had no means of knowing, unless Adela had been revealing family secrets during my illness. But somehow I didn’t think she would. I decided that my host’s intuition, based on powers of observation, was greater than I had given him credit for.

‘Thank you. I should be grateful if you would do that,’ I answered politely.

He nodded and rose from the table. ‘Now, if you will all excuse me, I have some work to do; case notes to look over. I shall see you then, Roger, at breakfast. I like to leave the house as soon as it’s light.’

In the event, it was a good hour after sun-up before we passed through the Bishop’s Gate. For this, the May Day crowds streaming out into the countryside to bring in branches of may and to dance barefoot through the grass were largely to blame. Strangers, even those on horseback, had to be stopped and kissed and garlanded with daisy chains before being allowed to go any further. The recent gloom following King Edward’s death seemed to have vanished with the official arrival of spring. Oswald and I, he on his showy grey mare and I on Clemency’s quiet Old Diggory, finally forced our way into the city against the outgoing tide of merrymakers, only to find ourselves, at the bottom of Bishop’s Gate Street, caught up in another crowd making its way to Cornhill to dance round the maypole, which had been set up overnight. By the time we reached the Great Conduit, I was unsurprised to find my companion growing tetchy and ready to curse anyone who crossed his path.

I felt sorry, therefore, for the young apprentice who shot out of a goldsmith’s shop in Cheapside and grabbed at Oswald’s bridle. Before Oswald could snap at him, however, the boy gasped, ‘Oh please, sir! I can see you’re a lawyer by your robes. My master says will you come and speak to him and tell him what it all portends?’

‘What it all portends, boy? What are you talking about?’

The apprentice’s face fell ludicrously. ‘Haven’t you heard the news then, sir?’ He turned to the old man who had hobbled out after him, leaning heavily on a stick. ‘The lawyer hasn’t heard anything, master.’

The goldsmith seemed bemused. ‘Not heard anything? Why they’ve been crying it ever since midnight, or the early hours at the very least. As soon as possible, anyway, after the lord mayor and members of the great council received the news. They say the duke sent his messenger express, and that the poor man’s horse was nearly dead under him when he finally arrived.’

‘The duke?’ I queried sharply.

‘His Grace of Gloucester.’

‘Where is His Grace?’

‘Why, Northampton with the young king, so the crier said, and as I understand it, not like to leave there for maybe a day or so yet.’ The old man continued to look troubled. ‘What does it mean, sir, this arrest of Lord Rivers and Sir Richard Grey?’

‘There was a third man mentioned, too, master,’ the apprentice cut in. ‘Vaughan, I think his name is.’

Oswald frowned. ‘Sir Thomas Vaughan? Probably. He’s a Woodville kinsman.’ Suddenly, we could hear a bell ringing in the distance and the upraised voice of the crier. He turned to me. ‘We’d better get on to Paul’s Cross and see what we can find out. My good sir!’ He addressed the goldsmith who was clutching at his arm. ‘Kindly unhand me! I know no more than you do. Indeed, less.’ And with a jerk on the rein, he set the mare in motion once again.

But the crowds around Paul’s Cross were dense, and by the time we had pushed the horses through to a position of vantage, the crier had finished. Oswald was just looking around for someone he could question, when a man wearing the striped gown of a fellow lawyer came hurrying out of St Paul’s churchyard — the cloisters were a favourite business place for the legal fraternity — and hailed him.

‘Godslove! In a happy hour!’

Oswald dismounted, so I did the same, taking the opportunity to soothe Old Diggory, who was displaying distinct signs of unease. The newcomer indicated that we should follow him and led us back among the gravestones where it was quieter.

‘I’m glad I caught you, Oswald,’ he said. ‘Are you in court today?’

‘I shall be at Westminster after dinner, certainly. For the present, I’m in chambers. But never mind that. What in God’s name is-’

‘I just wanted to warn you,’ his friend broke in, ‘to expect trouble in Westminster. Delays getting through. The place is in chaos.’

‘Chaos? Why?’

‘My dear fellow, you can barely move. Carts and chests and crates all over the road.’ He encountered Oswald’s and my blank stare and went on impatiently, as though it were something we ought to know, ‘The queen — queen dowager — is going into sanctuary, taking the princesses and the little Duke of York with her. Moreover, she’s obviously anticipating a long stay. Workmen have had to knock down a part of the sanctuary wall to get all her household goods inside. You’ve never seen such stuff! Furniture, coffers full of clothes, chests of household linen, not to mention all the belongings of her attendants and the younger princesses’ nurses. And I’ve heard on good authority that Dorset has been sent to the Tower to grab the remainder of the royal treasure. Edward Woodville’s got the other half, and he’s put to sea.’

‘What in the name of all the saints is going on?’ Oswald demanded, his sense of order and propriety outraged. The world was being stood on its head. ‘And what’s all this about Rivers, Grey and Vaughan being arrested at Northampton? I thought the idea was that the king’s party and Gloucester should meet up there and then enter London all together.’

The other lawyer shrugged. ‘That was the proposal as I heard it. But obviously something went wrong. My lord Gloucester must have suspected treason. A plot of some kind by the Woodvilles to take him prisoner? A threat to his life? Queen Elizabeth’s flight into sanctuary could indicate something of the kind. Maybe she and Dorset are expecting to be arrested.’

I said nothing, merely stroking Old Diggory’s nose, but all the while trying in my own mind to assess the possible danger in which Duke Richard now stood. Or, at least, thought he stood. Relations between him and the queen dowager’s family had always been strained, one of the reasons he had stayed in his northern territories, visiting London as seldom as possible. And he had made little secret of the fact that he held their influence responsible for the late king’s decision, five years previously, to sign the Duke of Clarence’s death warrant. Somehow I doubted he would ever forgive them for that, and they must know it. But would they seriously plot either his downfall or his murder? Wouldn’t they be too afraid of the people’s reaction if any harm came to Richard of Gloucester? On the other hand, many of the Woodvilles had proved themselves ruthless and grasping in the past, while the queen dowager’s rush for sanctuary could easily be interpreted as the action of a woman with guilty knowledge. But there again, it could just as easily be interpreted as the action of a frightened woman. We should have to wait upon events.

I touched Oswald on the shoulder. ‘If you’ll tell me where this silversmith’s shop is,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave you now. I doubt there’s much more to be learned at present. We’ll have to contain our souls in patience until the king and duke arrive from Northampton. We may learn more then, I suppose.’

Oswald nodded, looking gravely portentous. I dreaded supper that evening. The women would be hanging on his every word while he expounded his theories. Nevertheless, as I rode back along Cheapside, I had to own to a sense of foreboding. I wasn’t sure why, but realized that the feeling had begun two weeks ago, when I had first heard the news of King Edward’s death. I told myself that I had been ill; that this was surely the cause of such womanish vapours, but even so, I found it hard to dispel my gloomy thoughts.

The early morning sunshine had vanished and a thin wind, sharp as a knife, was blowing between the overhanging eaves of the houses. People were returning from the countryside, bringing their branches and garlands of may with them, but they seemed to have lost their earlier exuberance, slouching wearily along, dragging their feet.

I shivered suddenly, for no apparent reason.