Roseblood (25 page)

Argentine was equally scathing about the birth of Edward of York, repeating rumour and gossip from the birthing chamber: how Richard of York, the supposed father, had been away from Rouen at the time of his son’s conception, whilst his duchess had become deeply infatuated with a tall captain of archers in the English garrison. He spun his tale most subtly, quoting this person or that, or referring to particular incidents on a specific date at a certain place.

‘You have crafted a clever illusion,’ Simon whispered to the darkness. ‘As skilled as any Cheapside minstrel.’ Argentine, he reflected, had been a master of the masque, a creator of charades. Little wonder the lords of York and Lancaster were so keen to seize him and his manuscript. ‘I did not want your blood on my hands,’ Simon murmured, yet he conceded that the Beaufort lords would be very pleased. Argentine’s prattling mouth was closed for ever, and Simon now owned his secret chronicle. York would pay handsomely for it, whilst the French court’s interest in Argentine was obvious.

Simon stirred on his stool, watching the candle flame dance as if to some invisible music. He wondered about LeCorbeil. The French had certainly entered St Giles, but for what? To keep an eye on Argentine? To arrange his escape? Or had they come hunting poor Holand, or himself? He couldn’t decide. He returned to the contents of his pannier, sifting through the indentures, letters, bills and memoranda; personal items, nothing extraordinary except for two intricately drawn maps. Simon recognised them both. The first was a carefully inscribed outline of the south Essex coast delineating Walton, the Naze and the river Orwell. An ideal place, he concluded, for a French carrack or galley to slip in and take someone off.

The second map was a finely etched description of the roads leading north from the Tower along the Mile End Road to Bow and across the Hackney marshes into that desolate area of south Essex with the dense sprawling greenery of Epping Forest and a line of isolated villages and hamlets stretching from Wodeforde to Chelmsford and Colchester. One such village in a heavily wooded area had been emphasised. Simon translated the abbreviation for Cottesloe and recalled from his smuggling days how Cottesloe was one of those villages annihilated by the Great Pestilence that had swept like the Devil’s wind across the shire.

He tapped his fingers on the manuscript. LeCorbeil must have wanted Argentine. Were they going to smuggle him out of London through the wilds of Essex, perhaps sheltering at Cottesloe before moving on to the coast? They must have been waiting for the right occasion, perhaps hoping that when Lancaster and York clashed, they would seize their opportunity. LeCorbeil must have had an agent in St Giles, and Master Joachim had been in full connivance. They had become overconfident and been taken by surprise. Sevigny’s visit would have alarmed them. Perhaps they were preparing to leave and decided to settle matters with Holand once and for all.

Simon stared down at the leather-bound ledger. What should he do with it? His allegiance to Beaufort was unwavering, yet, he reflected, he was feasting with wolves, smiling faces that concealed brutish, beastly hearts. When war came, the Beauforts and Queen Margaret would prove as ruthless as York, but he had no choice other than to hunt with them. He rose to his feet and, putting the ledger back in the pannier, walked to the main door, staring out at the fleshing stalls. Soon the Great Slaughter would begin, the strongholds would be stormed and all the furies of Hell would be unleashed. He gripped the pannier. He would keep Argentine’s chronicle for himself, a sure defence against the coming storm.

London, May 1455

K
atherine Roseblood sat deeper in the arbour, almost hidden by the riot of greenery that had sprouted over the years. She brushed leaves off her lap and stared at her fingers. ‘I wish they were pale and long like those of the Lady of the Lake. You know, Melisaunde, on that tapestry in the Camelot Chamber.’ She turned as if her mythical friend was really sitting next to her in that flower-shrouded part of the great garden. For as long as she could remember, Katherine had met her make-believe friend here; certainly long before Mother died. She blessed herself at the thought and, as her brother Gabriel had advised her, whispered the words of requiem for her dead mother’s soul. ‘Where are you?’ She spoke her thoughts. ‘I hope you are happy now.’

All her memories of her mother were bittersweet, especially the last years, her mother’s pallid face betraying a sadness in her marriage her daughter could not comprehend. Katherine truly adored her father, yet there was something, a shadow that deeply tinged their relationship. Her father had enjoyed a rich past. Katherine had heard the whispers about his former life: a street fighter, a riffler, a soldier, a courtier, a spy, and, if some of the whispers were true, he had even considered becoming a Benedictine monk.

Ah well, that was the past. She rose to her feet. Father had returned the previous day. She had been shocked at his appearance, hair all shorn, his face deliberately pockmarked. He had kissed her before becoming closeted with Raphael, Ignacio, Wormwood and the rest of his inner cabal. The pot of politic was certainly bubbling furiously, and all sorts of things were rising to the top. The salacious gossip of the taproom and buttery was now heavily laced with a cloying fear, and this was not just over murdered streetwalkers. Another prostitute’s corpse had been found, her remains crammed like a bundle of old rags into a steaming laystall on the corner of Ink Pot Lane. However, greater fears than this were now gathering.

The recent French attack on Queenhithe had sharpened the realisation of how the tide of war had savagely turned. The French were now bringing to the southern ports and London itself all the horrors heaped on their coastal towns by English privateers. There was no real shield or defence, no bulwark against the creeping terror. The King was weak, the Council divided, the warlords of York and Lancaster ready to sharpen their swords on each other rather than some foreign enemy. York would march and the King could not decide whether to treat with him or bring him to battle. If war did break out, London would erupt like some festering boil, with the gang leaders eager to settle scores. The Roseblood would be swept up in this. And Sevigny?

Katherine stepped out of the arbour. Soon the market bell would ring and she and Dorcas would have to leave. Mistress Eleanor had sent an urgent message begging to see her in All Hallows before Vespers. She did not say why, but according to Dorcas, the personable young man who had delivered the message spoke prettily about how urgent it was and how Katherine must not tell anybody. Yet despite all this, even now Katherine felt that presence in her soul that had brought her out to this secret bower.

Sevigny! Her thoughts returned to him constantly. She had heard all about his prowess in the battle against the French, his ruthless ferocity. Such stories only deepened her fascination with the enigmatic clerk. He was no longer Mordred lately come to Camelot, but one of those mysterious knights at Arthur’s table. Nor had he deserted her. The gargoyles and the babewyns had glimpsed him in the nearby streets and alleyways. Dorcas maintained that she had even seen him in the old Roman ruin on the hill behind the tavern. Katherine had searched for him; she wanted to meet him again. She felt complete when he walked beside her, and they had talked so merrily, as if she had known him for ever. He was still a mystery, yet she wanted to be with him so much.

Katherine blushed and, despite being on her own, felt the embarrassment sweep through her body. She knew all about romance and dalliance. God knows, the tales of Arthur were rich enough, but when it came to kissing, embracing and coupling… She ran a hand down her full breasts on to her stomach. When she had helped bath her, Dorcas had remarked that Katherine was full, ripe and ready. How they had laughed at that! Katherine’s courses had begun five years ago. She’d heard all the salacious stories in the taproom; the sly allusions, the bawdy insults as well as the tittle-tattle of the tavern women about the prowess of certain men. When she had hid in the stables during the cold weather, she had often heard the language and sounds of lovemaking. The tavern galleries echoed with the same, and Dorcas was forever teasing her with crude details about men’s hungry cocks and greedy hands. Surely it would not be like that with Sevigny? And where would their lovemaking take place? In some lush, serene garden, or perhaps a broad four-poster bridal bed…

‘Mistress Katherine!’

She patted her cheeks, which she was sure were flushed, and hastened out of the bower to where Dorcas was waiting. The tavern lay quiet: Simon, Raphael and the others had left for Smithfield, to barter as well as meet the leaders of the various gangs in the Bishop’s Mitre, the sprawling hostelry that overlooked the great market. Toadflax had been left to guard her and would follow Dorcas and herself down to the church.

The plump, insolent-eyed maid handed Katherine her cloak with its deep capuchon and they left by the wicket gate, hastening through the alleyways to All Hallows. Katherine glanced over her shoulder. Toadflax was shambling behind them. Dorcas, all breathless, recited the gossip of the kitchen and buttery whilst loudly praising the handsome messenger, as well as speculating on why Mistress Eleanor should send such urgent pleas.

Katherine ignored her, mind still brimming with thoughts of Sevigny. She peered out of her hood and, for the first time, wondered about the wisdom of what she was doing. The day was drawing to a close and the denizens of the mumpers’ castles were emerging to watch, prey and hunt. Soldiers gathered outside tavern doors, bellies full of ale, hearts bubbling with resentments, mouths yelling strange oaths, fingers not far from sword hilt or dagger handle. Queenhithe was still trembling after the savagery of the French attack, and there was the prospect of more tumult. Mounted archers swung by on their horses, scattering groups, pushing past carts and barrows. A funeral procession emerged from the throng, growing increasingly raucous as the mourners, most of them drunk, staggered, juggling the corpse on their shoulders. Behind these, bagpipes wailed as streetwalkers tied to the tail of a cart were whipped down to the stocks. A baby shrieked, competing with the screeching of a dog crushed beneath the wheel of a barrow till someone cut its throat.

Katherine, Dorcas hurrying beside her, turned thankfully off through the lychgate and up the pavement that cut across God’s Acre. The main door of All Hallows was locked. Surprised at this, she led Dorcas round to the corpse door. She pushed this open and stepped into the cold darkness of that mystical place. Spears of sunlight pierced the windows, sending the dust motes dancing, Eleanor had once told her that these were angels who could assume any size they wanted. Candle smoke teased their nostrils and Katherine felt the perpetual damp that seeped through the ancient flagstones. She glanced over her shoulder again. Toadflax had not followed them in.

‘Eleanor?’ she called. ‘Mistress Eleanor?’ She walked across to the rood screen door and started as it opened abruptly and Father Roger staggered into the nave.

‘What is it?’ The priest stood swaying, voice slurred as he peered through the murk.

‘He is sottish!’ Dorcas giggled. ‘Drunk as any ale taster!’

Father Roger stumbled closer, singing softly under his breath. He stepped into the dappled light, his cheeks and chin unshaven, eyes bleary, mouth slack.

‘Father!’ Katherine hissed. ‘You are not well.’

‘Too true, too true.’

Katherine heard a sound further down the nave and glimpsed a shadow move. She felt the cold chill of this ancient church wrap itself around her.

‘Mistress Eleanor!’ she called. ‘Mistress Eleanor!’

‘Fast asleep,’ Father Roger murmured, swaying dangerously. ‘As I should be!’

‘Mistress Eleanor, it’s Katherine.’

‘Come!’

She followed the direction of the voice towards the darkness of the transept, beckoned on by the light glowing through the anchorhold squint. She reached the cell door, its hatch pulled back, and smiled at Eleanor. Shrouded by a starched white wimple and a dark blue woollen veil, her aunt’s face was more beautiful than ever.

‘Mistress Eleanor, you sent for me, an urgent message?’

‘I did not, oh sweet Lord! I saw figures slip in here. I thought—’

Katherine whirled round. Dorcas screamed. Father Roger staggered over to a pillar, where he leaned, staring in disbelief at the figures who had slipped out of the shadowy recesses. They wore pointed hoods, cloaks fanning out like the wings of some malevolent bird. They moved soundlessly yet menacingly through the gloom. Father Roger tottered towards them, hands raised. Katherine could only stand in abject fear. A trap was being sprung and she could do nothing about it. The church was empty. These nightmare figures could do what they wished. The corpse door would certainly be guarded; if anyone entered, they would be cruelly dealt with.

‘Who are you?’ she blurted out.

‘Bitter memories,’ a voice called back. ‘The past’s dark dreams. Mistress Katherine, you are to come with us. Do not cry out. Toadflax is gone.’