Wheel of Fate (6 page)

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.

FOUR

E
xcept for Paris, London is the noisiest city I know, a great, clamorous hive of activity, a babel of raucous street cries, the din of iron wheels rattling over cobbles, of constantly ringing bells from a hundred churches and the shrieking of kites and ravens as they scavenge for food in the open drains. Yet to me, on that St George's Day, even the normal crescendo of sound seemed muted as if the city were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Not so to Elizabeth who clutched me tighter as another party of armed men rode by, the horses' careless hooves splashing us with mud.

‘It's all right, sweetheart,' I assured her, putting an arm around her and giving her a hug.

Hercules, on the other hand, although momentarily cowed, began to fight back, giving voice to his outrage and barking at everything he saw. He took particular exception to the sole pair of mummers whom we encountered, one dressed as St George, brandishing a wooden sword and with a red cross painted on his tunic, the other wearing a patently home-made dragon's head, his paper tail trailing sadly in the dust. Both men looked dejected, obviously having met with no enthusiasm for their little play. Normally, by now, we should have met with half a dozen such couples, duelling ‘to the death' on street corners, or with crowds watching a full-scale drama of the dragon-slaying on a raised platform in Cheapside. But today, London's busiest thoroughfare was in sombre mood, black hangings draped from upper-floor windows and ashes sprinkled before the doorways in memory of the dead king who had been the capital's darling for so many years.

Jack turned the cart into St Lawrence's Lane. ‘My dropping point is Blossom's Inn,' he said, ‘but if you're willing to wait while I unload, I'll take you as far as the Bishop's Gate.' He added roughly, to conceal his natural tenderness of heart. ‘That girl o' yours looks tired to her very bones. You ought not to have brought her, Roger.'

I accepted Jack's offer meekly, guiltily observing Elizabeth's white face and the beginnings of dark circles beneath her eyes. All the same, I knew she would recover quickly once she set eyes on her beloved stepbrother.

Blossom's was the local name given to St Lawrence the Deacon's Inn because the painted depiction of the saint was surrounded by a border of flowers. The inn yard was also one of the regular places throughout London where carters and carriers unloaded their goods, which were then stored under overhanging balconies until the recipients called to collect them. A couple of stout-looking lads came running out of the inn to help Jack shift the bales of red woollen cloth, and I felt obliged to lend a hand as well.

‘Any news?' I asked, as I had enquired at every stop along our route.

The fatter of the two shook his head. ‘Nah! But everyone's jumpy, I can tell you that.'

‘Why?' Jack wanted to know. ‘What's there to be jumpy about? The old king's dead. Long live Edward the Fifth!'

The other man grimaced. ‘Easy to say,' he grunted. ‘But apart from being an unknown quantity, the present king's not much more'n a child. Twelve, so I've heard. And you know what that means. His uncles will all be grabbing for power and trying to order him about, poor little devil. And who's going to keep all those fancy lords in order now King Edward's gone, I should like to know. They tell me Lord Hastings and that Dorset, the queen's son, are squabbling like a couple of dogs on heat over who's going to get the late king's doxy, that Mistress Shore.'

‘Oh well,' Jack soothed, ‘I daresay things'll settle down once the Duke of Gloucester gets here, eh?'

‘Perhaps,' the first man said, but without much enthusiasm. ‘He's another unknown quantity. He's never come to Lunnon much, either. Mostly he's lived in the north. The north!' he added scathingly. ‘Lot o' barbarians up there. We get a few of 'em here, unloading their goods. I can't even understand what the buggers are saying. Like a foreign language it is!' He stood back and surveyed the stack of bales. ‘Well, we'd better cover these up until someone arrives to claim 'em. Pass us that sacking you had 'em wrapped in, carter. Then you'd better come in and get your money. Landlord said it'd been left.'

Ten minutes later, Jack emerged from a side door of the inn, clutching a leather purse that made a satisfactory jingling sound, climbed back on the cart and took the reins.

‘What will you do now?' I asked.

‘Hang around for a few days,' was the reply, ‘and try to get a return freight. But if not here, I may be lucky and pick up something on the journey home. And you? How will you get back to Bristol?'

I shrugged. ‘That depends entirely on Adela and whether she's speaking to me or not.'

Jack grinned nastily. ‘I trust you've thought up a good explanation for her. But if you and Bess should need my services again in the next day or two, you'll find me at the Boar's Head in East Cheap.'

I nodded, hoping desperately that the whole family might be returning home with me, but I didn't say anything. To have done so would have seemed like pushing my luck.

We made our way along West Cheap, through the Poultry and Stocks Market as far as the Leadenhall, and turned up Bishop's Gate Street, a wealthy area where the houses were mostly constructed of stone or bricks, the latter made in their hundreds out beyond the city walls, near the lime house or the white chapel. I had been here before because the largest of the mansions, lying to our right, was Crosby's Place, usually rented by the Duke of Gloucester whenever he was in the capital, except for those occasions on which he stayed at his mother's London home, Baynard's Castle. And as we rumbled past in the cart, it was apparent from all the activity taking place in and around the house and gardens that His Grace was expected there soon. Men in the Gloucester livery, with the emblem of the White Boar emblazoned on their tunics, and who must have ridden on ahead of their royal master, were busily shouting orders at various menials and directing the unloading of an enormous bed and its hangings from a wagon that occupied nearly the entire width of the track.