13 - The Midsummer Rose (16 page)

‘This is all yours,’ she said, ‘if, from now on, you can remember nothing of what happened at Rownham Passage.’

I regarded her thoughtfully. She had no idea that I had already been warned against remembering anything further. She only knew that my initial accusations had not been taken seriously and, accordingly, felt safe.

But not safe enough, apparently. After more than two weeks of mulling things over, Elizabeth Alefounder had decided to offer me a bribe.

I watched her jingling the gold pieces in her hand, but said nothing. My silence annoyed her.

‘Well?’

‘The price of treason?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she answered sharply. ‘What you witnessed …’ I raised my eyebrows mockingly and she continued. ‘Oh, all right, then! What you accidentally became embroiled in, when I mistook you for someone else, was nothing more than a private, family feud …’ Her voice tailed away as she confronted my stare of naked disbelief.

I clicked my tongue. ‘I expected better of you than this, Mistress Alefounder. Are you unaware that your brother has been watched by the city’s law officers ever since last summer, when a man suspected of being a Tudor spy was seen leaving this house? Fortunately for Master Avenel, the man was murdered before anything definite could be proved against him.’

She returned me look for look. I had to hand it to her. She was not a woman to lose her nerve.

‘No, I was not aware,’ she replied coolly. But there was a glint in her eye that suggested her brother would be hearing more from her on this subject.

‘So, I repeat, is this the price of treason?’

‘Surely that depends on your definition of treason?’

She was right, of course, up to a point. To an ardent follower of the House of Lancaster, supporters of the House of York were the traitors. But, like many others of my persuasion, I happened to believe that the sons of York were the rightful occupants of the English throne, being descended from King Richard II’s legitimate heir, who had been illegally set aside by the usurper, Henry Bolingbroke, when he seized the crown as King Henry IV. But even had I been less assured in my convictions, there would still have been an insurmountable obstacle.

‘Henry Tudor!’ I mocked. ‘How can anyone support Henry Tudor? A scion of the bastard line of John of Gaunt! A whey-faced nonentity, who, by all accounts, jumps at his own shadow! Sickly, too, I understand. What sort of loyalty can he inspire compared with King Edward?’

‘The golden boy?’ she sneered. ‘Although not so golden these days, according to what I hear. Running to seed. Too much food, too much wine, too many women. But in any case,’ she added, almost as an afterthought, ‘there are other contenders for the English throne.’

I was instantly alert, especially as her expression told me she was afraid she had said too much. But if there was someone else, it would surely explain Timothy Plummer’s presence in the city and his interest in what was going on.

But I pretended to be sceptical. ‘Other contenders? What other contenders? The Lancastrians had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to come up with Henry Tudor.’

Elizabeth Alefounder flushed with anger and I stood up abruptly. The flush receded and she gave a forced smile, indicating with a slight wave of her hand that I should resume my seat. When I refused to do so, she dropped the coins, one by one, chink by chink, back into the green satin bag.

‘You don’t accept my offer, then?’

‘Did you expect me to?’

She made a little moue of impatience. ‘I didn’t think you a man of many convictions. Certainly not political ones.’

‘You should have enquired more thoroughly, Mistress. Almost anyone in Bristol, including your brother, could tell you that I have worked on several occasions for His Grace, the Duke of Gloucester; that I regard myself as his man.’

‘But you’re still poor,’ she mocked. ‘Oh, I know you have a house in Small Street, but that, as I understand it, has nothing to do with Crookback Dick.’

That was the first time I ever heard him called that; a description so widely and commonly used today that it has become almost a part of his name. I was astounded. It was as scurrilous as it was untrue. He had no deformity that I had ever noticed. There might have been a slight thickening of the right shoulder muscles and sinews, as there so often is with many fighting men, but that was all.

‘My poverty,’ I answered furiously, ‘is no one’s fault but my own. I have never wished to be obliged to anyone, not even to Prince Richard, who has all my loyalty.
All
my loyalty,’ I stressed through clenched teeth. ‘I have always refused his frequent offers of reward. I am my own man. But make no mistake about it. He is as generous with his purse as he is great in spirit. Which is more than can be said for the skinflint you and your brother serve!’

Her eyes narrowed to the merest slits, but she answered me levelly enough. She had her emotions well under control by now.

‘I don’t remember admitting that I and my brother
serve
anyone. And if you think back over our conversation, I’m sure you’ll have to agree. I told you that your unfortunate embroilment in my affairs came about because of a family feud. It had nothing to do with Henry Tudor.’

‘True. But you may also recollect what I told you about your brother having been under suspicion since last summer. Sergeant Manifold might take my word in preference to yours.’

‘That idiot!’ I only wished Richard could have heard her uncompromising opinion of him. She once more jingled the bag of coins. ‘Are you sure you won’t accept my offer? A small recompense for the … er … the discomfort you had to endure.’

I laughed. ‘I’ve never heard attempted murder called “discomfort” before. And tell Master Avenel that the next time he tries to break into my house, he won’t find it so easy. I’ve had bolts fitted to the top and bottom of the street door.’ Elizabeth Alefounder’s startled face told me that the incident of the break-in was something she had not known about. ‘He left one of his shoes behind,’ I added. ‘He was in a hurry to be gone once his presence had been discovered. He really should get better-fitting footwear if he’s to make a habit of sneaking into other people’s houses uninvited.’

‘This is calumny,’ she answered coldly, but I could see a nerve twitching at the corner of her mouth. She was not as calm as she pretended to be. I smiled at her and her eyes met mine, dark with dislike.

‘I make a bad enemy,’ she warned me.

‘But, in this case,’ I pointed out, ‘it would be unwise to do anything about it. I told my story and wasn’t believed. That should suffice you. But if something were to happen to me, the Sheriff and his officers might begin to take my accusations seriously. Moreover, I have a witness who saw what really happened.’

‘Who?’ The word rapped out like a hailstone hitting tiles.

I laughed. ‘You don’t honestly expect me to tell you that, now do you?’

‘You’re lying,’ she replied, but without conviction.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Suddenly I was tired of this cat-and-mouse game, of saying things and not saying them, of fencing around one another but landing only glancing blows. ‘Look, Mistress! I’m prepared to forget everything that took place at Rownham Passage if you’re willing to leave me and mine alone. So, what do you say? Do you agree?’

She gave no hint of the relief she must have been feeling, but she was suspicious.

‘Why would you be prepared to do that?’

‘Because I’m sick of people thinking me a fool or a liar.’

She thought this over. ‘Very well.’ She half proffered the purse again. ‘You’re certain …?’

‘I’m certain, Mistress,’ I told her harshly. ‘I’ll wish you good evening.’

I found my own way out. Robin Avenel was still lurking in the hall and I nodded to him as I strode past.

Although I knew Adela would be worried about my safety, I did not go straight home, but treated myself to a beaker of ale at the Green Lattis, where I found a secluded corner and sat, going over my meeting with Elizabeth Alefounder in my mind. Her unguarded remark that there were other contenders for the English throne had made a deeper impression on me than anything else she had said. Something was afoot; something that had brought Timothy Plummer hotfoot from London to Bristol.

But why Bristol? There were many other ports far better situated for any matters concerning the Tudor court – if one could dignify it by that name – in Brittany. Bristol looked towards Ireland, and much of its commerce, good or bad, was then, as now and as it forever had been, with the inhabitants of that island. But Ireland had always been a hotbed of intrigue, of seething unrest and a desire to put a spoke in England’s wheel whenever and wherever possible. Furthermore, Eamonn Malahide had been Irish.

Someone sat down on the stool beside mine. He looked dreadful and smelled worse. I choked into my ale.

‘You shouldn’t take on these undercover duties, Master Plummer,’ I advised. ‘It’s over and above the call of duty. Go back to serving Duke Richard. He’s not a man for disguises and skulking around back alleys. He accords his servants dignity and comfort.’

‘You recognized me.’ Timothy was disappointed.

‘I’m afraid so. But then, I know you so well.’

‘Then if you know me well, you also know that I mean what I say,’ he rasped. ‘You’ve been to visit Mistress Alefounder. I thought I told you to keep your long nose out of this business.’

‘I couldn’t help it,’ I protested. ‘She sent for me.’

‘What did she want?’

‘To offer me a bribe.’ Briefly, I gave him details of my conversation with Elizabeth Alefounder, including her unguarded remarks on the subject of Henry Tudor and his not being the only contender for the English crown. ‘What’s going on, Timothy?’

‘Nothing you need worry about,’ he answered shortly.

‘Oh, I know that,’ I agreed humbly. ‘Not while you’re in charge of things, at any rate.’

He eyed me severely, uncertain if I were joking or not. He decided I probably was and rose with as much dignity as his smelly rags permitted.

‘I’m telling you for the last time, keep your long nose out this, Roger!’

He disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared, melting into the crowd in the Green Lattis taproom. This was now filling up fast with people getting into the holiday spirit as they looked forward to the next few days of midsummer jollification. I remembered that I had to be up before dawn the following morning, and set out on my belated way home.

As I approached Saint Giles’s Church, I noticed a woman entering by the Bell Lane door. I was unable to see her face because of an all-concealing hood. But then the skirt of her cloak was blown aside by the breeze, revealing a blue brocade gown.

I
called out, ‘Mistress Hollyns!’ and quickened my stride. I thought, from the slight movement of her head, that she had heard me and would wait for me to catch her up. But then she pushed open the church door and disappeared inside.

Bell Lane was quiet at that time of the evening. It couldn’t have taken me more than a minute to cover the ground between myself and Saint Giles’s, but when I entered, the nave was empty.

‘Mistress Hollyns!’ I called again. There was still no answer.

I descended to the crypt. There was no one there either, and I searched the next two chambers, but to no avail. I recalled Luke Prettywood telling me that the old synagogue cellars stretched the length of Bell Lane as far as Saint John’s-on-the-Arch, but the distance seemed twice that length as I cautiously edged my way forward, every nerve tensed in expectation of sudden confrontation. But it soon became apparent that wherever Rowena Hollyns had gone, she was not in the church. She must have walked straight out of the opposite door into Jewry Lane. A short cut to the quayside perhaps? Or had the sound of my voice and the possibility of an encounter with me frightened her away? And if so, why?

I did not linger. The place filled me with the same sense of unhappiness and suffering that I had experienced once before. Grief and despair seemed embedded in the very stones. I shivered and made my way back outside, where the warmth and sunlight were like a benediction.

I went home.

The following morning, we were all up and dressed while it was still dark. Adela saw to that.

The two older children, robbed of their sleep, were fractious, while Adam, in no mood to be trifled with, was vociferous in his disapproval of being awakened so early. And long before we had finished a hasty breakfast, I was feeling positively liverish. Adela, however, with admirable fixity of purpose, ignored our collective bad temper, assembled warm cloaks and sensible shoes for each of us and put slices of honey cake, wrapped in dock leaves, into a basket to sustain us later on. The basket would also hold the necessary herbs.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘you know what we’re looking for. Saint John’s wort, mugwort, plantain, corn marigold, elder, yarrow, ivy and vervain. They’ll all be woven into the garland which I shall hang on the street door tonight to ward off the witches and other evil spirits of the air. And after dark, when the bonfires are lit on the high ground above the city, you may stay up late to see them. If you are good.’

‘Does that include me?’ I enquired caustically.

My wife gave me a look, but made no reply.

We joined the general exodus from the Redcliffe Gate to the meadows beyond, calling for Margaret Walker on our way. She was another staunch believer in propitiating the ancient gods, and together with the toothless Maria Watkins, who had also joined our party, kept up a constant refrain about the good old days and how nothing was the same today. Hercules and Margaret’s dog, a small black and white mongrel to whom she had given a home the previous year after its mistress had deserted it, cavorted at our heels, intoxicated by all the fresh air and the prospect of innocent little rabbits to chase.

By the time we reached the fields beyond the church of Saint Mary Redcliffe, the darkness was lifting to unveil a misty sun. The early morning distances were here fretted with gold, there flooded with shadow. Campion, foxglove and the foaming heads of cow parsley starred the meadows, and the scent of crushed wild thyme, thick as incense, rose from beneath our feet.