Death and the Chapman (22 page)

The little man turned to the sentries. ‘Let him go,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll vouch for him.’ And to me, he added: ‘Come this way!’

The sentries reluctantly stood aside, having relieved me of both my stick and the knife. They were still unconvinced and deeply suspicious. I gave them what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and followed my guide across the outer courtyard and through a door to the inner, which housed the bakehouse, laundry and kitchens. The wall torches, high up in their iron sconces, had already been lit, flaring against the old stones with a noise like torn parchment. In this courtyard there was far more hustle and bustle; a constant whirl of activity and chatter, without which the great and the mighty seem unable to live. Men and boys in the livery of the Duke of Gloucester scurried self-importantly about, without ever, or so it appeared to my jaundiced eyes, actually achieving anything.

I was led up a narrow stone staircase, along an equally narrow passage, up another twisting stair, all the time having to flatten myself against the wall as people forced their way past me. My little friend was growing impatient at the delay, and finally cried out: ‘Holla! Holla! Make room! Make room! We are about the Lord Richard’s business!‘ I can’t say it had an instantaneous effect, but our progress did speed up a little. Finally we reached an archway shrouded by a leather curtain, which when pulled back, revealed an ante-chamber. Into this, I was ceremoniously ushered. I had a feeling that the little man was enjoying his moment of glory.

A young man, seated behind a table and busy with important-looking documents, raised his head inquiringly as we entered. My friend hissed in my ear: ‘John Kendal, His Grace’s secretary.’

‘What can I do for you, Timothy Plummer?’ John Kendal asked. ‘And who’s this you have with you?’

‘His name’s Roger Chapman and he has very important news for the Duke.’

The secretary‘s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief and he looked me up and down. I returned his gaze as steadily as I could in the face of such unnerving scrutiny. But he evidently liked what he saw, because he smiled suddenly and nodded.

‘What might this news be, Roger Chapman? And I warn you, it will have to be very important indeed for His Grace to see you at this hour. It is the time of day he spends with his mother and children.’

‘He’ll see me all right,’ I answered boldly. ‘I think I know the whereabouts of Lady Anne Neville.’

The room into which I was shown was not a large one, but it was luxurious. A fire of scented pine logs burned on the hearth, and the rushes on the floor were mixed with an abundance of dried flowers. There were at least three armchairs, their backs delicately carved with patterns of birds and intertwined leaves, and four or five joint stools. A low table against one wall supported a silver ewer and goblets of fine Venetian glass, which winked and glowed in the firelight. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting the fight of Hercules with Nereus, first as a stag, then as bird, dog, snake and, finally, as a man. A myriad wax candles - or so it seemed to my dazzled eyes - hung in a copper chandelier from the ceiling.

Two children, a girl and a slightly younger boy, were playing on a rug - something I had never seen before - in front of the fire, and I knew they must be the Duke’s two bastards. Seated in one of the armchairs, also close to the hearth, was a formidable-looking woman with strongly marked features. This, without doubt, was the Duchess of York, mother of the King and the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence, sister of the late Earl of Warwick, and mother-in-law of the Duke of Burgundy. And, if all stories were true, an extremely redoubtable lady.

Duke Richard himself was on his feet as I entered. He was wearing a long, loose robe of dark red, sable-trimmed velvet, with black satin slippers heavily embroidered in gold thread. He was obviously resting after the cares of the day, and had it been for any other reason, I should have felt guilty at disturbing him. His thin face was sallow in the flickering candlelight, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, as though he had been sleeping badly. I learned later that the Countess of Desmond had once described him as the handsomest man in London, after his brother Edward. He certainly did not look it that night, but he was a man whose physical appearance was very much dependent on his state of health and the peace, or otherwise, of his state of mind.

He had been informed by John Kendal of the reason for my visit, and I could sense the tension in that slender body as I approached and made my obeisance. He held out a hand, prismatic with rings, for me to kiss.

‘I understand,’ he said in a voice which was slightly breathless, ‘that you have some idea where my cousin, the Lady Anne Neville, might be. If that is so, tell me at once. But first, tell me how you knew that she was missing.’

I stood upright, dwarfing his slight, dark figure, but he was used to that. Both his remaining brothers were big, golden-haired men.

‘Your Grace,’ I said, ‘that is part of a story which, with your permission, I will tell you as briefly as possible, because I need your help for my own purposes, once you have rescued the Lady Anne. If you will be gracious enough to hear me out.’

He hesitated, clearly anxious to know only one thing, but his natural courtesy overcame his impatience. He sat down in one of the other two armchairs and indicated that I should begin.

‘Sit down, lad, and have some wine. You look exhausted.‘ Thomas Prynne urged me to a seat in the ale-room, where Master Parsons, his legal worries temporarily forgotten, was regarding me goggle-eyed. ‘I presume this hullabaloo at the Crossed Hands inn has something to do with you? His Grace of Gloucester seemed very friendly before you parted company.’

Master Parson’s look was now a blend of curiosity and awe. I had suddenly ceased to be a common chapman and become instead a person on friendly terms with a royal duke. Abel Sampson, who had followed us into the ale-room, also accorded me a new respect, while Thomas was as good as his word, and brought me a cup of his finest Bordeaux wine, drawn from a barrel in the cellar.

‘Tell us the whole story,’ Abel commanded, putting another log on the fire, then drawing up a stool to join us at the table.

Thomas nodded. ‘You seem to have been right about that place.’

I sipped my wine a little disconsolately. ‘Partly,’ I agreed, ‘but not wholly. There seems nothing to connect Martin Trollope or the inn with Clement Weaver’s disappearance. Nor, indeed, with Sir Richard Mallory’s, except for the fact that he and his man, Jacob Pender, stayed there. The Duke’s men searched the house from top to bottom, but found nothing.’

Abel Sampson shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t expect to find anything, surely? All evidence would have been destroyed.‘ He was right, of course; but there had been something about Martin Trollope’s protestations of innocence on that score which, despite my disinclination to believe him, had nevertheless convinced me. And there had been no sign of any conduit leading from the cellars down to the river. The Duke’s men had searched long and hard, even calling for picks to be brought and hacking at the walls, but all to no avail. Why this seemed of such importance to me, I had no idea: there were other ways of disposing of dead bodies, after all. It was just an instinct; an intuition which had possessed me ever since I had heard the conduit mentioned by Bertha’s friend, Doll.

Thomas Prynne replenished my glass, which by now was half-empty, and once again urged that I tell my story. Suppressing my disappointment, and the feeling that I had but half a tale to tell, I complied, adding to what the two partners already knew and ending with the discovery of Lady Anne Neville at the Crossed Hands inn.

‘She was being held there against her will?’ Abel Sampson asked incredulously.

I sipped my wine carefully, determined not to drink too much, but unwilling to give my hosts offence by appearing to drink too little. I nodded.

‘Although,’ I added fair-mindedly, after giving the subject some thought, ‘perhaps that might be overstating the matter. She was not locked in, nor bound. The Duke of Clarence had placed her there, under the pretence of being a new cookmaid, to hide her from Duke Richard, who wants to marry her. Had she been made of sterner stuff, she could probably have walked free at any moment. I doubt very much if Martin Trollope would have dared use force to detain her.’

‘Then why in God’s Name didn’t she leave?’ asked Master Parsons.

I shrugged. ‘A number of reasons, I should imagine. She is young and the Duke of Clarence is her guardian. It would be natural in her to obey him, even if she doesn’t agree with his orders. Then the Duchess of Clarence is her older sister, and the two have always, or so I understand from those who know, been very close. And the Duchess would naturally uphold her husband. Whatever her natural inclinations or desires, Lady Anne would be afraid, possibly, to flout the wishes of two so close to her, particularly as her father was an attainted rebel.’

Master Parsons, anxious to air his knowledge, agreed with me sagely. ‘And she has been through much this past year, poor child. The Earl’s sudden defection to Queen Margaret and her cause, after a lifetime’s loyalty to King Edward; her enforced marriage to that young bully and braggart, Edward of Lancaster; his death on the field at Tewkesbury; being put, maybe against her will, into the custody of her sister and brother-in-law; all these things would have served to intimidate her.’

Abel Sampson peered into my cup and saw that the level of my wine was still very near the top. He smote me on the shoulder. ‘Drink up, lad! Drink up! You deserve the pleasure of getting drunk, tonight of all nights!’

His partner frowned reprovingly at him. ‘Let the lad be, Abel! So what has my lord of Gloucester done with the lady, now that he’s found her?’

‘Escorted her to the sanctuary of St Martin-le-Grand, where, so he told me, she will remain in safety until such time as he can win both his brothers’ consent to their marriage.’

Abel grimaced at Thomas, and a little of the mocking tone he had used towards me earlier crept back into his voice. ‘“So he told me”!‘ he mimicked, and sighed gustily. ‘What it is to be the confidant of royalty!’

I felt the colour stain my cheeks. Thomas saw it, too, and squeezed my arm. ‘Take no notice of him, lad! Envy has always been Abel’s besetting sin. You’ve done well and deserve Duke Richard’s thanks. Did he offer to reward you?’

I shook my head. ‘I did no more than my duty.’ But although I said nothing, I would never forget the warmth with which the Duke had pressed my hand on parting, as he prepared to leave the Crossed Hands inn to escort his cousin to sanctuary, nor the words which had accompanied the gesture.

‘I shall remember the service you have rendered me, Roger Chapman. If there is anything I can do for you, any assistance I can offer you at any time, you have only to send me word.’

Lady Anne, mounted in front of him on the big white horse and wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, had also shyly murmured her gratitude and given me her hand to kiss.

I had bowed as gallantly as I knew how. ‘Your Grace has already repaid your debt by ordering your men to search the house.’

The Duke had pulled down the corners of his wide, thin mouth. ‘To little purpose, I’m afraid. But I shall be keeping watch on Master Trollope in the future, and if I find evidence of any murderous activities, I shall instigate all necessary action, you have my word. I shall take a personal interest in the case. That rogue is capable of anything.’

Thomas Prynne’s voice cut across these thoughts. ‘You haven’t told us what became of Matilda Ford. After her attack on you, didn’t she return to Martin Trollope and warn him that she had been unsuccessful?’

I took another sip of wine and felt the warmth course along my veins; liquid fire relaxing the body.

‘It would seem not,’ I said in answer to Thomas’s question. ‘There was no sign of her at all at the Crossed Hands when we reached there. She has simply disappeared. Gone to ground, perhaps, in case I accuse her of an attempt on my life; an attempt to which I have witnesses.’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Thomas replied, laughing. ‘Though witnesses who are not the most respectable of citizens.‘ He refilled Master Parsons’s cup before turning once more to me. ‘So what will you do now, lad? Will you be on your way in the morning, or will you remain a while longer and pursue your quest for what became of Clement Weaver?’

I hesitated, staring into the heart of the glowing fire. For the first time since I arrived in London, I felt unsure of my purpose. This evening’s adventure had provided a climax to my first visit after which everything else seemed of little importance. In my mind I went back over the events of the past few hours.

As soon as I had finished telling the Duke my story, he had leapt to his feet, shouting for one of his squires to dress him. The children’s nurse had been summoned to take them to bed, and a page sent scurrying into the ante-room to give orders for a posse of His Grace’s men to accompany him to Crooked Lane. In the middle of this whirl of activity, the Duchess of York had sat unmoving, until, finally, she had risen and placed her hands on her youngest son’s shoulders.

‘Richard,’ she had said gravely, ‘if this story should prove to be true, promise me that you’ll take no action against this Martin Trollope. If you do, George is bound to be implicated. Now that I have you all together again, I want nothing to come between him and Edward. The Queen’s family hate George and will stop at nothing to harm him. Please don’t give them any more reason than they have already.’

The Duke had paused, looking deep into her eyes, then, with a sigh, he had leaned forward and kissed his mother on the forehead. ‘Very well. If I find Anne safe and well, I’ll lay no charges.’ He had added with a wry smile: ‘I’m fond of George, too, damn him!’

And so, when we finally arrived at the Crossed Hands inn, after a ride in which I rode pillion behind my little friend rescued from the pieman, there had been no arrests, no violence, only a polite, but deadly quiet request to be conducted to the Lady Anne Neville. I had expected bluster and denials from Martin Trollope, but he must have seen from the Duke’s eyes that the game was up, because my lord was conducted upstairs at once. No one was witness to his reunion with his cousin, or heard what they said to one another, but when the Duke finally brought her down to the courtyard, her eyes shone like stars. I don’t think, either before or since, I have ever seen two people more in love than Richard of Gloucester and Lady Anne Neville.