A Parliament of Spies (23 page)
Read A Parliament of Spies Online
Authors: Cassandra Clark
He was a fleeting figure now, weaving his way through the crowd. She thought she had seen him earlier but had been uncertain. Now there was no doubt. He could not slip away unseen. He was hemmed in by those going up Ludgate Hill towards the city and the ones coming down to Westminster. She watched to see if he looked back but he didn’t.
Ulf returned.
He gave her a puzzled frown. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No,’ she said at once, feeling flustered.
‘If it’s that bastard following you, you’d let me know?’
‘That – oh, yes,’ she recovered. That bastard Ravenscar. ‘Of course I would.’
‘I’ll abide by your decision not to harm him but I swear I’ll drag him in to face the music, you can be sure of that. He can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.’ He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve got news he’s hiding out somewhere in Petty Wales. That makes sense, given that his lands used to be in the border country. He’ll have contacts there because of the wool interests he used to have. He must regret losing the income from them.’
The reason they were standing in a blustering wind in the lane called the Strand was because Hildegard had decided to call on Ulf at the de Hutton house on the way back, needing to let him know that Ravenscar was still around, had visited her at Westminster and uttered more threats.
Ulf had greeted her news with a curse, furious with himself for having so far failed to track him down. He was more determined than ever. With the allies Roger had been able to summon they had searched every likely tenement around the church of All Hallows, he told her; now they were turning their attentions to neighbouring parishes like Portsoken and the area around the docks.
‘That wasn’t him,’ she added when she noticed him glance off across the street. ‘It wasn’t anyone. I’d tell you at once if it was him.’
Satisfied, he handed over one of the pies.
He threw his crust to one of the dogs roaming about
and came to a stop. When he turned to face her he was looking serious. ‘Hildegard, I have something to tell you. It may as well be now as later.’
and came to a stop. When he turned to face her he was looking serious. ‘Hildegard, I have something to tell you. It may as well be now as later.’
‘What’s wrong, Ulf? You look terrible. Are you sick?’
He shook his head. ‘Sick at heart, maybe.’ His eyes were very blue. They bored straight into her. ‘I’ll come straight out with it. Since I was knighted Roger’s determined I should marry. He’s offered me a couple of women: one, his ward, a young girl with no sense, and the other a widow with sense and property.’
‘Which one will you choose?’
He shook his head. ‘The way I feel, it would not be fair to choose either.’
‘But Ulf—’ she bit her lip. ‘For your own good, for your future happiness … ?’
He turned his head. ‘So now you know,’ he said gruffly and walked on.
By the time she returned to York Place it was a scene of organised, even military, chaos with servants hurrying in all directions in an atmosphere of grim purpose. The cats were receiving more kicks than usual.
‘His Grace?’ she asked of a passing yeoman.
‘Gone to Westminster to confer.’ Not even bothering to stop he rushed on.
Hildegard thought, I am reprieved. Again.
She recalled Hubert’s reaction to her news and wondered how the archbishop would take it. Rage against the abbot made her kick the step where she was standing. Damn him. He had failed to show the slightest concern about what she was going through.
Edwin appeared, hurtling out of the chamberlain’s office, and skidded to a halt when he saw her. ‘Just off upriver,’ he called. ‘I’m late!’
‘Wait a moment!’ Pushing her own dilemma aside she said urgently, ‘I’ve just had the most extraordinary conversation with Abbot de Courcy. Listen, Edwin, he has information that makes Jarrold sound dangerous. Can you warn the archbishop when you meet him?’
‘What is it?’ He hurried her into a corner of the yard where they could talk.
‘Jarrold earned the reputation of being a poisoner up at Scarborough. Warn Neville. He cannot know the sort of man he’s harbouring.’
Edwin raised a fist as he hurried off, calling back, ‘Priority, Domina. Tell me more later!’
Alone she went on into the kitchens.
This place was boiling with activity as well. Master Fulford sat high on his wooden throne barking orders. The minions scurried to obey and the kitchen clerk’s quill flew over the pages as, standing, he wrote everything down.
Remembering that Neville had planned a great feast for his closest allies, she realised it would be useless to interrupt the proceedings at present. Later, then, when the feast had run its course and everyone was mopping up while Master Fulford basked in the afterglow of the performance.
The top table on the dais was piled with subtleties in the shape of gilded castles, silver swans and other fantasies the cooks had devised and an endless succession of
platters was brought out to fanfares from the heralds. Sides of beef, mutton, venison, pork and all the edible birds of the air had been fried, baked, boiled, basted and trivetted, then decorated with pastes and sauces and creams and made to look like anything but what they were, and the same with the fish. Wars or not, the fishmongers had brought the best of their catch to the kitchens, harvesting both sea and river. Hildegard surveyed the ornate concoction placed in front of her. She was told it was hake. One jellied eye looked back through a trellis of pastry.
platters was brought out to fanfares from the heralds. Sides of beef, mutton, venison, pork and all the edible birds of the air had been fried, baked, boiled, basted and trivetted, then decorated with pastes and sauces and creams and made to look like anything but what they were, and the same with the fish. Wars or not, the fishmongers had brought the best of their catch to the kitchens, harvesting both sea and river. Hildegard surveyed the ornate concoction placed in front of her. She was told it was hake. One jellied eye looked back through a trellis of pastry.
‘Good stuff,’ murmured Edwin, gnawing on a more prosaic chicken leg.
They were seated at the lower end of the main table, Edwin opposite with his page, and Turnbull standing smartly beside Hildegard, glorying in his new role.
‘So Edwin, time to catch you on the wing. Events are overtaking us.’
‘There’s plenty happening,’ he agreed.
‘What did the archbishop say to you when you mentioned our mutual friend?’
‘Most extraordinary,’ he replied, mouth full. ‘I plainly caught him at the wrong moment. He was just going in to see Abbot Lytlington and when he heard what I was saying he almost turned on me. He said, “We are involved in affairs of state, boy.” He called me “boy”! How do you like that? “We have more pressing matters on our minds than the quarrels of servants. I trust you can bring the matter to a close yourselves.” And then he was gone. I do understand,’ he added, loyally. ‘It is piddling stuff compared to what’s about to erupt when
Parliament meets. I hope we’re going to survive.’
Parliament meets. I hope we’re going to survive.’
He looked worriedly along the table. On Neville’s left was the chancellor, Michael de la Pole. On his right, Sir Simon Burley, the King’s former tutor, and further down were others of the King’s party.
‘Alexander’s in his most sumptuous garments,’ he observed. Brocade, silk, velvet. His ring glittering. His head freshly shaven, giving him an even more pugilistic look than usual. Now he was booming something about craving their indulgence over the poor quality of the food. There was surely no room for complaint, thought Hildegard. Any one of the dishes would have fed a family of six for a week.
‘And,’ he continued, ‘I offer my most contrite apologies over the matter of the sauces.’
De la Pole dipped his spoon into the sauce dish and inspected the contents with a mystified frown.
‘Shortly before we left Yorkshire my best saucier met with a most unfortunate accident. He’s a great loss. His fame was such that even the late Sir Ralph Standish invited him to Scarborough Castle to teach his own man from London how to make a good sauce.’ He raised his goblet. ‘To the memory of a good man.’
‘Standish?’ Chancellor de la Pole murmured flatly, draining his cup. ‘What an unfortunate demise. The sweating sickness, I’m told.’ He picked up a piece of pork from the communal platter.
‘No. It was the bloody flux,’ Archbishop Neville contradicted.
‘I understand there were rumours,’ murmured de la Pole as if the matter was of little concern to him.
‘There are always rumours,’ agreed Neville, smiling at his guest.
As if more urgently aware of the nature of the rumours, de la Pole’s glance darted to the food that lay before him. ‘The King’s food taster works overtime these days,’ he remarked. ‘Dickon won’t let Anne take a sip of wine without it being tried first. He’s the same himself.’ Then he chuckled, albeit with an air of bravado. ‘I hear Mayor Brembre suggested inviting the dukes to supper and poisoning the lot of ’em in one fell swoop! “That would rid us of vermin!” he said.’
Neville chuckled at this too but, like de la Pole, even he eyed the shin of lamb in his fist with a sudden wariness. ‘Call Master Fulford,’ he instructed his page. The boy ran off.
Neville began to tell de la Pole about the attack on his falconer at St Alban’s.
Hildegard’s close questioning of little Turnbull, her new page, had brought no further information on this matter. All he had done, he had told her, was take a message to the falconer with the lie about Master Fulford wanting to speak to him, although, of course, he himself had not known it was a lie until somebody, Medford, had told him it was. And he had got a beating from Swynford anyway, although he didn’t know what for. Hildegard fed the little lad venison from her own platter to comfort him.
He is as honest as the day, she decided. If he had seen anyone in the mews that morning who should not have been there he would have told her.
While Neville and the others began to discuss the
subsidy the chancellor would shortly have to ask for, she leant forward. ‘Edwin, about that matter at the Tower, did you get chance to speak to His Grace about that as well?’
subsidy the chancellor would shortly have to ask for, she leant forward. ‘Edwin, about that matter at the Tower, did you get chance to speak to His Grace about that as well?’
He knew what she meant and nodded.
‘What was his response?’
‘He said, “Why the devil are they skulking round the Tower? They’ll be inside on the rack if they don’t watch their step. Go back and find out.” By which I take it the prisoner will have nobody to lobby for his release until we discover what they’re up to.’
‘We shall have to make greater efforts to find out, then, for that poor man’s sake.’
‘Neville doesn’t seem to have an inkling what it’s about,’ Edwin told her. ‘He thinks as we do, they’re seeing a French envoy. But Brembre’s vociferously loyal. His Grace can’t believe he’d be involved in a traitorous deal with the enemy.’
‘Might the King himself have sent for him?’ Seeing his startled glance she added hurriedly, ‘I don’t mean in a spirit of high treason but merely as a diplomatic approach, to try to avert the invasion?’
‘If that’s the case he hasn’t confided in the archbishop or any other advisors, as far as we know. Even Mr Medford knows nothing about it.’
‘I’ve never met Brembre. Have you?’ she changed the subject.
He shook his head. ‘We shan’t have long to wait. He’s been invited.’
Just then Fulford, attired in his chef’s garb, massive and red-faced, sailed into view. After a difficult bow to the
archbishop and to the chancellor he asked, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Your Grace?’
archbishop and to the chancellor he asked, ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Your Grace?’
‘We hope so, Jonathan, but a remark about the King’s food taster put us in mind of poison …’ He waved his shin of lamb.
‘I would wish to burn in hell for all eternity should I poison you or your guests, My Lord Archbishop.’
‘We, in turn, would lay down our lives should anyone be misguided enough to accuse you of attempting to do so.’ Neville turned to his guests. ‘Eat and drink, my friends, in the expectation of full and happy lives!’
Goblets were raised, refilled and, over the next hour, raised and filled again.
Meanwhile guests entered and others departed. Among those who arrived was Mr Medford with his shadow, Dean Slake, and a few other young men from the Signet Office. Mayor Brembre made a noisy entrance, accompanied by a large retinue, including his wife and her own body servants, and talk turned to the ‘fish wars’ as Brembre called them. Promises to string up a few traitors were made. Then talk circled back to the immediate matter of the forthcoming Parliament and what to do to protect the King from the plotting of his enemies.
The King’s steward, Sir Simon Burley, genial with age and experience and the lustre of having once been among the victors at Poitiers, said, ‘They claim Dickon’s wrong in the head with his fear of assassins but to my mind he’d be wrong in the head not to fear them. The Lancasters want the crown and if they don’t get it Gloucester will. That’s the beginning and end of it for him. He has to defeat them. Or face defeat himself.’
‘The danger comes from the fact that Bolingbroke was made second in line after his father if Richard doesn’t produce an heir,’ de la Pole broke in. ‘I was there when the old King set his signature to a bit of legal chicanery thought up by Gaunt, naming them both. I wish to hell the lad would get on with it and produce an heir.’
‘Is she barren, do you think?’ Brembre broke in.
‘I hear she did conceive but lost it,’ Sir Simon answered smoothly with a covert glance at de la Pole.
‘I expect he’s going to make an announcement in Parliament when they’re all gathered. Let’s hope so.’ The chancellor avoided everybody’s glance.
The rest of them shook their heads and moved off the subject rather quickly.
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