London (79 page)

If only a voice within her, first in a whisper, then every day a little louder, were not urging her: stop. Stop before it’s too late. But as she watched the preparations so rapidly advancing she thought: it already is too late.

Amy Fleming had made her own decision more easily. With the death of her father, it was natural that her marriage to Ben Carpenter should be temporarily postponed. Carpenter himself had suggested they consider the autumn, but now Amy secretly decided otherwise.

It was not her mother’s words but her father’s sad little note that had finally swayed her. His ringing endorsement of Ducket, his desire for the brave fellow to take his place, his message that they should trust him. Was he trying, in his own way, to tell her something before he departed?

She knew she did not love Carpenter, but he had always seemed secure, while Ducket, so carefree, was a risk. The events of the last twelvemonth, however, had given her pause for thought. Carpenter at the Savoy; Carpenter with his Lollard texts. Were the solemn craftsman’s obsessions going to lead them into trouble? And now, she discovered, even her quiet father had been in trouble too. Yet who had saved both men, or tried to? Ducket, whom her father urged her to trust. It was Ducket, after all, who was the strong one. Ducket the brave.

She supposed he would marry her. After all, he had lost everything else. If Fleming wished him to run the business, he could hardly do it with no money. Her father’s message had been for Ducket too. Marry my daughter, it said. But she decided to proceed carefully – to ascertain Ducket’s position first.

She had just come to this conclusion one morning when she saw Tiffany Bull approaching the George. Supposing she might want Ducket, she met her at the entrance to the yard and told her that he was minding the stall at the Cheap. But to her surprise, the merchant’s daughter shook her head.

“Actually,” she said, “it is you I came to see.” And with a glance around she enquired: “Could we speak privately?”

Though she had seen Tiffany, Amy had never spoken to her before, and she observed the rich girl curiously. She admired the fine, silk clothes, so different from her own, noticed the dainty way that she sat down. It was strange to think that once her simple young Ducket had lived in the same house as this creature from another world. It was even more surprising when, with pain in her eyes, the girl said simply: “I need your help. You see,” she added frankly. “I’ve no one to turn to.”

Tiffany told her story as shortly as she could, while Amy listened. “So you see,” she concluded, “Ducket has made these charges against the man I am to marry. I find it hard to believe them. No one else does. Yet if any part of them is true . . .” She spread her hands. “In two weeks Silversleeves will be my husband.” She looked at Amy earnestly. “You have seen Ducket every day for years. You must know so much more about his life than I do. Have you any idea if all this could be true?”

Amy gazed back at her. How strange. If she had thought she had problems herself, it seemed to her now that the dilemma before this rich girl, who apparently had everything, was worse. “I’ll gladly tell you all I know,” she said.

Tiffany listened intently as Amy outlined the apprentice’s story. She explained how she had begged him to find Carpenter during the revolt and how he had saved the craftsman at the Savoy. “That was all true, then,” Tiffany interjected. “I was sure it was.” Then, sadly, Amy explained the strange circumstances of her father’s death and his message about Ducket. “So you see,” she continued, “he didn’t steal anything.” But it was another aspect that especially caught Tiffany’s attention.

“You say your father took money and lost it, but didn’t explain how. And Ducket knows, but won’t tell.”

“He promised Father he wouldn’t.”

“But he warned me Silversleeves was a necromancer who defrauded people. Then when your father died, he said he couldn’t prove it any more.”

The two girls looked at each other.

“Silversleeves,” they both said at once.

“That’s it then,” Tiffany said, “I’m not marrying him.”

“We’ve no proof,” Amy pointed out. “He’ll deny it.”

“Too bad,” Tiffany said. And then she smiled.

“You shouldn’t be smiling,” Amy said. “You’ve just lost your husband.” But with a strange sense of relief, Tiffany suddenly laughed. “Never mind,” she grinned. “I never really liked him.”

It was curious, Amy considered, how she should already feel a bond of friendship. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you something,” she confided. “I’m planning to ditch my man Carpenter too, only nobody knows.”

“Really?” Tiffany liked the girl more and more. “Have you someone else in mind?” And now Amy smiled broadly.

“Why, Ducket, of course,” she said.

The sun was setting and the reddish glow along the river was touching the green glass in the window as Tiffany stood before her father that evening and told him what she wanted. At first he did not believe her.

“But the marriage is all arranged,” he said in bafflement. “You can’t back out now.”

“I must, Father,” she said.

“Why?” He suddenly turned on her suspiciously. “Have you been talking to Ducket? He’s been spreading rumours.”

“I know,” she answered calmly. “But that’s not the reason.” Strictly speaking it was true. Amazed by such words from the daughter on whose obliging nature he had always been able to count, Bull made an effort to be conciliatory. “Can you tell me what is the matter, then?” he gently asked. And she, thinking that he might understand, cried out. “I do not love him, Father.”

For a moment or two, Bull said nothing. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Was this just a sudden panic before a wedding? He knew that girls were sometimes prone to these unreasonable fits. When he spoke, he was firm.

“I’m afraid you must marry him,” he said, “and that’s the end of it. Let’s not discuss it any more.” And from the look in his eye, Tiffany realized that this was going to be even more difficult than she thought.

“You gave your word,” she cried. “Now you’re breaking it. You promised I could choose.”

This was too much. First an absurd demand, then an insult. No Bull ever broke his word.

“You chose,” he roared at her. “You chose, young Miss, and you chose Silversleeves. Now it’s you who want to break your word to him. I won’t allow it.”

“I hate him,” she cried back. “He’s a villain.” She had never fought with her father before in her life.

“Too good for you, I see,” he shouted. “But you’ll marry him anyway.” And then, with a bellow that almost knocked her off her feet: “Enough! Get out of my sight or by God I’ll thrash you before you reach the altar.”

Yet still, to his amazement, she held her ground.

“I will not speak the vows. I’ll appeal to the priest. You cannot force me, no matter what you do.”

“Then I’ll send you to a nunnery,” he yelled.

“Send me to St Helen’s then,” she cried in exasperation. “At least I’ll have some fun.” And she rushed from the room, leaving her father puce in the face, and stupefied.

An hour later, Tiffany was in her room at the top of the house, with the door bolted from the outside. “She will stay there until she sees sense,” Bull declared. Only the fat girl was allowed to go up with a jug of water and a bowl of gruel.

So three days passed. Her mother, supposing that it must be a case of nerves, went to talk to her and returned looking helpless. The preparations for the wedding, at Bull’s insistence, continued. Nor was Silversleeves even told about the trouble when he called. “She’ll come round, or I really will send her to a convent,” Bull told his worried wife. But as the days passed, even he began to grow discouraged until, at the end of the fourth day, he was so uncertain that he did something he had never done in all their married life. “What do you think I should do?” he asked her.

“I think,” she said quietly, “you will have to send her to a convent or let her have her way.”

Tiffany’s room was a good place to think. It was directly above the big upstairs room and had a pleasant view up the Thames so that she could sit and watch the traffic on the river by the hour. There, as the days passed quietly, she had plenty of time to consider.

What did she want? At first, she hardly seemed to know herself, except that she had no desire to marry Silversleeves, or be a nun. By the second day, she began to realize. By the third, she knew, and it all seemed so simple, so natural, that she wondered if she had not known it all along. But how could she bring it about? She did not know.

She would have to play for time.

She spoke quietly. Her voice was meek and small.

“I have always obeyed you, Father. If you loved me, you would not condemn me to a life of unhappiness.” She waited. When at last he replied, his voice was gruff.

“What do you want, then?”

Now she looked up at him. Her eyes were soft.

“I wish you would help me,” she said. “I am so confused. I beg you, give me a little time.”

“For what? To choose another husband?”

“To be sure of my heart.”

Bull paused. He had no wish to see her in a convent. God knows, he wanted grandchildren. He also had some knowledge of the human heart. Doing his best to set aside the embarrassment he felt towards Silversleeves, he tried to guess at his daughter’s real state of mind. Was she sure about Silversleeves? Even if she chose someone else, mightn’t she change her mind again? Few fathers in his position would have allowed their daughters so much freedom; it had probably been a mistake. He announced his decision.

“I will make a bargain with you,” he said, “but it will be the last.” Then he told her what it was, and left, bolting the door behind him.

After he had gone, Tiffany looked pale, and thoughtful. It was not at all what she had wanted. Yet what could she do? It seemed that she would have to gamble everything on a single throw of the dice.

When Ducket received the message the following morning, he questioned the fat girl closely. But the message she delivered had been typically brief.

“That’s all she said? Come to the house this evening?”

“I’ve to let you in.”

“What’s going on?”

“I dunno.”

“You must know something.”

“Cook says Tiffany’s got to marry or go to a convent.”

“Who?”

“The long-nosed one, I s’pose.” She watched him impassively. “You coming?”

“Of course I will,” he cried, as she waddled away.

If anyone had been observing as the guests arrived at the house of Bull the merchant that evening, they might have noticed a curiously high proportion of eligible young men. There were several middle-aged aldermen with their wives, two of whom had brought daughters, also a widow and even a priest. But there were seven or eight bachelors.

No one knew of any particular reason why they were there. Before noon that day, the merchant had invited as many as he judged necessary. Besides Silversleeves, who looked very comfortable and at ease, standing in the middle of the upstairs room near Bull’s precious astrolabe, there were four sons of merchants, a young mercer and a draper, both from solid gentry families, and even the young fellow with a great estate. The only exception in terms of eligibility was the figure who, tall, red-faced and a little flustered, had clumped up the stairs behind the others. Chancing to see James Bull in the street, that afternoon, the merchant, with a shrug, had invited him too. He was, at least, a kinsman.

As it was almost midsummer, there were still hours of daylight left. It was warm; the lower half of the big window had been thrown open, allowing in a pleasant waft of air, cooled somewhat by the river which, the tide having just turned, was rushing with a roar through the channel far below. The company was relaxed; even James Bull, who to give himself confidence in such society had been thinking how honest he was all afternoon, soon began to feel at ease. The master of the house chatted to everyone affably.

Tiffany entered. How charming she looked. Perhaps she was a little pale, but she went over to Silversleeves, greeted him affectionately, and began to mix with the other guests. She even came and talked to James. From time to time her gaze strayed towards the door, but nobody noticed. Her father smiled at her and she at him.

For this meeting was their bargain. “I’m not telling anyone,” he had told her the day before, “because I’m not going to embarrass either Silversleeves or myself. But this much I’ll promise you. If you like any of the other young men in the room, you can marry them. They’ve all expressed an interest before. I’ll break it to Silversleeves. But if you don’t choose anyone else, then it’s Silversleeves, or a convent. I shan’t go back on this,” he had said with a stare. “You have my word.” And she had known he meant it.

It had been a bitter blow. She had intended to bring him round to the idea gradually; but there was no chance of that now. So she had planned her great gamble. She hoped it would work.

She was going to point to Ducket.

Yet even then, there was still one terrible danger – a flaw which, if she were wrong, would bring the whole plan down in ruin. What if Ducket did not want her? What if, that very day, he had promised himself to Amy? She had not dared tell the fat girl too much when she sent her to Ducket. She had not even dared to send a letter. And now, as there was no sign of him, she even began to wonder: did the fat girl deceive her? Had her father, who smiled at her now, already fore-stalled him? Where was he?