Death and the Chapman (18 page)

It was the same story as I had heard before, with always the same conclusion. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Clement Weaver had been murdered by footpads. In any mind but mine, that is. I still felt there was a mystery to be unravelled. But there seemed nothing more to be gleaned from either Mistress Weaver or her daughter-in- law, so I said I must be on my way.

‘You must have some refreshment before you go,’ the older woman insisted, and led the way to the kitchen. ‘Bridget, my dear, fetch the chapman some ale.’

But when it came, it was sallop, a ‘poor man’s ale’, made from wild arum. Bridget Weaver was not such a fool as to waste the real thing on a pedlar. The two women drank an infusion of calamint, which my mother had been fond of, swearing by it as a cure for coughs and the ague. They did not offer me a seat, and I stood towering above them, as they sat at the kitchen table. Neither of them offered to buy anything from me.

I was still drinking my sallop when a swarthy, thickset young man entered the kitchen. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Alderman Weaver, so I had no difficulty in placing him as one of the nephews. And as he stooped and gave Bridget a smacking kiss, I guessed him to be her husband. My presence, of course, entailed further explanations, which to my relief were given by Dame Alice. I felt that if I had had to repeat my story again, I should have gone mad.

When she had finished, the young man, whose name I had learned was George, grunted and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

‘Uncle Alfred’s a fool,’ he said, not mincing matters. ‘Clement’s dead. If he wasn’t, we should have heard by now.’ He turned to his mother. ‘Father and Edmund sent me to tell you that they won’t be home for their dinner. There’s trouble among the weavers over at Portsoken. They want more money. They say the cost of bread is rising. They’re talking of sending a deputation to the King, to remind him that he promised to control the price of food this coming winter.’

I remembered what the Canon of Bridlington had written in the previous century: it had been a favourite quotation of our Novice Master at Glastonbury. ‘Any attempt to control prices is contrary to reason. Fecundity and dearth are in the power of God alone, so it follows that the fruitfulness of the soil, and not the ordinances of men, will determine the cost of our goods’ I had always felt that this was a little unfair, making God responsible for our problems.

Bridget said: ‘They’re always making trouble. They want a good whipping. Is there any news from the city?’ George shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Only the same gossip that’s been rife for the past few weeks. The Duke of Gloucester wants to marry Anne Neville and the Duke of Clarence says he shan’t. And the King tries to keep the peace between them.’

‘Heaven alone knows why.‘ Mistress Weaver threw up her hands. ‘He owes the Duke of Clarence nothing.’ These were much the same sentiments as I had heard expressed by my pilgrim friends two days earlier. Interest in the King and his family seemed a popular pastime here in London.

I put my empty mazer down on the table and said quietly: ‘Thank you. I must take my leave now.’

Mistress Weaver and the other two, who had been momentarily diverted, suddenly recollected my presence. Bridget said: ‘I’m sorry we were not of more help.’

I smiled regretfully, but I had not really expected to gain any further information from them. The truth of the matter lay where it had always lain, at the Crossed Hands inn. I was still convinced that that was where I should discover the truth about Clement Weaver. And about Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender.

By dinner-time my pack was almost empty and I retraced my steps to the city and East Cheap, where the butchers and cookshops plied their trade. There were also fishmongers selling baked as well as fresh cod and mackerel, salmon and trout, and I wandered happily among all this abundance of fare, wondering what to buy first. In some of the shops the owners stood in the entrance, darting out to pluck me and other passers-by by the sleeve, urging us to sample what was on offer. On one occasion I saw a small man lifted bodily off his feet and carried forcefully across to a pie-stall. His little legs, in their parti-coloured hose and long leather boots, kicked unavailingly against his captor.

I strolled across and tapped the pieman on the shoulder. ‘Release him,‘ I said quietly, but at the same time clenching one of my hands into a fist.

The pieman hesitated while he looked me up and down. My size, however, evidently decided him. Reluctantly, and with a muttered oath, he set the man on his feet again and moved away, casting around him for his next victim.

The little man smoothed down his tunic, trying to appear dignified, but only succeeding in looking extremely ruffled.

‘Thank you, my good man,‘ he said. ‘I am much obliged to you.’

‘My pleasure,’ I answered. I noticed for the first time that his tunic was embroidered with the crest of the White Boar and the motto ‘
Loyauté me lie
-Loyalty binds me.’ Memory stirred. Those, surely, were the crest and motto of the Duke of Gloucester.

‘May I offer you a cup of ale at the Greyhound?‘ he went on, indicating one of East Cheap’s many hostelries.

‘If you’ll allow me to buy some pasties to go with it.’ My stomach was rumbling so hard I was sure he must have heard it.

He gave no indication of having done so, however, merely inclining his head with a kingly gesture and waiting patiently until I had made my purchase. I had always heard that the nobles’ servants were often grander than their masters, which accounted for so many of them being nicknamed ‘King’ or ‘Prince’ or ‘Bishop’. I followed him into the ale-room of the Greyhound, and was amused to notice that, once the ale was ordered, he tucked me away in a corner, where we should be unnoticed. He had no wish to be seen by his cronies and fellow servants in the company of a chapman. Only gratitude had prompted his gesture.

I ate my pasties, one of which he fastidiously declined, unperturbed by his obvious embarrassment. Conversation was difficult at first, but after a while the ale began to loosen his tongue. By the time we had both drunk our second cup he was becoming, if not garrulous, then very confidential. And when we had downed a third cup he was telling me things which I was certain he shouldn’t.

‘Such a to-do this morning,’ he confided, tapping the side of his nose with a delicate forefinger. ‘My lord - my lord of Gloucester, that is, ‘ he added, in case I was ignorant of the significance of the badge on his tunic, ‘ arrives at his brother the Duke of Clarence’s house with a demand to see Lady Anne. Lady Anne Neville, the late Earl of Warwick’s daughter.’

‘I know,’ I said, unable to resist airing my knowledge. ‘I saw her last spring in Bristol, riding down Corn Street with Queen Margaret.’

My acquaintance looked scandalized. ‘The Lady Margaret of Anjou,‘ he corrected me in admonitory accents. ‘You must never refer to her nowadays as the Queen.’ He put his head on one side, consideringly. ‘That must have been before the battle of Tewkesbury.’

‘A few days before,’ I agreed.

‘Well,’ he continued, lowering his voice to an even more confidential whisper, ‘since then she’s been staying with my lord of Clarence and his wife. The Duchess Isobel is her sister.‘ Again I nodded, and again he appeared a little crestfallen by the extent of this country bumpkin’s knowledge. ‘My lord of Gloucester wants to many her. Naturally. They were childhood sweethearts years ago when my lord was an apprentice knight in Warwick’s household at Middleham. But the Duke of Clarence, who‘s inherited all his late father-in-law’s estates in right of his wife, can’t bear the thought of parting with half of them.’ ‘Understandably,’ I interrupted.

The little man snorted disparagingly. ‘He shouldn’t have got anything at all, if you want my opinion, not after betraying his brothers like he did and supporting King Henry.’ I wondered idly why it was all right to refer to ‘King’ Henry but not ‘Queen’ Margaret, but I held my peace. The politics of those days were extremely complicated. My acquaintance continued: ‘Anyway, my lord appealed to the King, and the King told brother George that he was not to interfere with brother Richard’s courtship, especially as Lady Anne herself seemed anxious for the marriage. So--’ the little man leaned towards me across the table, his pale eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement, his breath stinking with ale, fanning my cheek-- ‘this morning as ever was, we ride out to call on Lady Anne. But when we get to my lord of Clarence’s house, what do you think has happened?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I answered, shaking my head.

‘She isn’t there! And the Duke disclaims all knowledge of her whereabouts. He says she’s simply disappeared!’

Disappeared! That word seemed to have haunted me, both waking and sleeping, these past few months. First Clement Weaver, then Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender. Now, here was a great lady of the realm gone missing. Not that there was anything I could do about that, but it was a strange coincidence, nevertheless. I drank some more ale and glanced sideways at the little man.

‘What did my lord of Gloucester have to say about that?’

‘He just answered quietly that he would find Lady Anne however long it took him to do so, and left. He’s not one to rant and rave when crossed. His anger smoulders, never burns. He’s not a true Plantagenet in that way.’ There was a tender note in my acquaintance’s voice when he spoke of his master. It was obvious that he was devoted to the King’s youngest brother, as, I suspected, were all the Duke’s servants. I had noted the same look of loving respect in the eyes of his entourage who had protected him from the crowds yesterday morning. The people liked him, too.

‘Do you think my lord of Clarence knows where Lady Anne is hidden?’

My question provoked a contemptuous glance. ‘Of course he knows! Don’t imagine that she’s disappeared of her own free will! She’s being held somewhere on Clarence’s orders. And somehow or other, he’s persuaded Duchess Isobel that what he’s doing is for her sister’s good. George Plantagenet has always been a plausible rascal.’ The little man spat on the floor, making a wet patch in the sawdust. ‘But whatever he does, his brothers remain fond of him, particularly my own lord. Christ alone knows why! Clarence is a treacherous bastard.’

I noted the swift progression from ‘plausible rascal’ to ‘treacherous bastard’ and connected it to an additional consumption of ale. My little man was getting too drunk for safety, both his and my own. There might be servants of Clarence in this alehouse - in this very room! I preferred not to be overheard criticizing the Duke, however indirectly.

‘I must be going,’ I said, getting to my feet and hoisting up my pack. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Thank you for saving me from that brute of a pieman.‘ He, too, got up and bowed ceremoniously, but staggering slightly as he did so. His speech was clear and unslurred, but I felt, all the same, that it was time to go. I returned his bow and made my way out into East Cheap once more.

By mid-afternoon, I had sold all that was in my pack, and debated with myself whether to go straight to Galley Quay or wait until the next morning. There would be fresh ships in tomorrow, and in the meantime there might be shopkeepers willing to sell such items as needles and thread, ribbons and laces to me in quantity, reducing their prices accordingly. A third possibility was to declare the rest of the day a holiday. I had worked hard from early morning and had done well, earning more than enough to keep myself at the Baptist’s Head for two or three days longer; sufficient, in fact, to insist on paying for my room and to stop imposing on Thomas Prynne’s generosity.

It was, needless to say, the last choice which appealed to me most. I needed to clear my head and put the confused impressions of yesterday and today in some sort of order. And so that I could salve my slightly uneasy conscience, I decided to walk down by the river, along the wharfsides, heading in the general direction of Galley Quay. If, when I reached it, there was still merchandise to be bought of the kind that I needed, I could do so. Otherwise, I would return to The Street later in the day, just before the shops were stripped of their wares for the night, which would be stored under lock and key in the living quarters. It had been my experience that shopkeepers were more prone to strike a bargain when they were tired and looking forward to their suppers. I had grown craftier, I felt, now that I had passed the age of nineteen. (Four days before, while I was still on the road from Canterbury, it had been my Birth Day, although I had mentioned the fact to no one.) I realized that, in the past months, since leaving the Abbey and being on the road, I had truly become a man.

I made my way down to the river, where the gilded barges of the gentry sped along like great angry swans, imperilling lesser craft in their headlong flight. Watermen shouted abuse, crane operators paused in their work of unloading vessels moored at the wharves and people on the bank, including myself, stared sombrely but without resentment at these symbols of a power we could not hope to attain. But then, I suppose we English have never really envied our nobles, because we have always believed in Justinian’s maxim that what affects the people should be approved by the people, and throughout our history have taken steps, however slow and feeble, to ensure that this is so.

I emerged on to the quayside near London Bridge, close to a flight of water-steps, where a fleet of small boats, both uncovered (one penny) and covered (two pennies), were moored, waiting to ferry passengers up and down the river. A party of youths in satin and velvet tunics, with shoe-pikes so long that they had to be chained round their knees, were vying with a couple of more soberly dressed citizens for the attention of the boatmen.

‘Wagge! Wagge! Go we hence!’ the young men shouted, and the boatmen, rightly calculating that there was more money to be made in tips from them than the other two would-be customers, swarmed up the steps to offer their services.

I wandered on, threading my way in and out of the cranes and the workmen’s huts on the wharfside, deliberately letting my mind empty of all thoughts of Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory, and now, the missing Lady Anne Neville. For a while, at least, I would allow myself to think of nothing but the pleasant October afternoon and the delicious supper which Thomas Prynne was no doubt at that moment preparing.