The Dance of Death (11 page)

Duke Richard accepted this with a wry smile and prevented Timothy from bullying me into submission by announcing that it was the dinner hour and he knew that I was always hungry. ‘Roger's a good trencherman,' he laughed. ‘And with that great frame to feed, it's small wonder.' He rose to his feet, giving me a hand to kiss, at the same time delaying Timothy's departure by laying the other on the spymaster's shoulder. There were evidently things they had to discuss that my arrival had interrupted. ‘I'm relying on you to do your best, Roger,' he added.

I bowed. ‘I always endeavour to do that, Your Grace.' I realized I sounded offended.

The duke kept his grip on my hand, pressing it strongly. ‘I know,' he said, ‘and I appreciate it, the more so when I'm aware that I don't have your wholehearted approval.' He laughed again as he released me. ‘Timothy's trying to look shocked, pretending he believes I have a mandate straight from God.' The dark eyes twinkled. ‘He knows it's not true, of course, just as we do.'

The duke's caustic sense of humour, always so unexpected in someone who outwardly seemed so serious, caught me off guard as it had a good many times in the past and completely won me over. It was, I decided, the secret of his charm, a side of himself he revealed only to those whom he liked and trusted, and explained why men accorded him either their deepest devotion or their instant dislike. I have always been one of the former. (And that admission is another reason why these chronicles must never be made public in my lifetime.)

I was about to take my leave when Duke Richard, regaining his grip on my hand, turned to Timothy and asked, ‘Who are we sending to France with Roger and Mistress Gray as their bodyguard?'

I blinked in surprise: this was the first intimation I had had that Eloise and I were to be afforded any sort of protection.

Timothy replied promptly, ‘John Bradshaw, Your Grace. He will travel as their servant.'

‘Ah!' The duke nodded his approval. ‘The very best.' He smiled at me. ‘John Bradshaw is one of my most trusted agents. A fine man, and one who has done me great service in the past.' He looked again at Timothy. ‘Is he privy as to why Roger is going to Paris?'

The spymaster shook his head. ‘Not precisely, my lord. He knows, however, that Roger has . . . er . . . has business other than simply posing as Mistress Gray's husband, and that it maybe necessary, on occasion, to distract the lady's attention while Roger slips away to make his enquiries.'

‘You don't think it would be better to put John in the picture?'

Timothy pursed his lips judiciously while he considered the matter. Finally, he shook his head. ‘My own feeling, Your Grace, is that the fewer people who know the true nature of this mission, the less likelihood there is of the secret getting out. And Bradshaw would be the first to agree with me. But I will say this. If ever you feel, Roger, for whatever reason, that you need to confide in him, you have my permission to take Jack Bradshaw into your confidence. He won't let you down, I promise.'

‘And when do I get to meet this paragon?' I asked, my tongue running away with me, as usual.

The duke's lips twitched, but Timothy frowned angrily. He would have liked to utter a stinging reproof, but obvious royal amusement kept him silent. ‘At our meeting after dinner with Mistress Gray,' he snapped. ‘You haven't forgotten it, I hope. You are to be measured for some more suitable clothes than those you are wearing.' He eyed my own with disparagement.

‘You aren't having these clothes specially made, are you, Timothy?' the duke asked, suddenly anxious. ‘Roger's and Mistress Gray's departure should not be postponed too long. It's already late October and winter storms will soon be causing problems in the Channel. Besides, there is Olivier le Daim's visit to Paris to be considered, the ostensible reason for their going.'

‘No, no!' The spymaster waved dismissive hands. ‘The tailor will provide the necessary clothing from his warehouse.' He smiled evilly. ‘Our little party should be in Calais by Friday evening. A night there and then on to Paris.'

‘Good! Good!' The duke pressed my hand for a second time. ‘Once again, Roger, let me express my deepest gratitude to you for undertaking this dangerous commission for me.' The quizzical look came back into his face. ‘And don't say what I'm perfectly aware you'd like to say: that you don't suppose you had any choice. I know how your mind works by now. Well, perhaps you didn't, but that doesn't make my gratitude any the less sincere. Now, go and have your dinner. I can hear the trumpets braying. And let me commend your good sense this morning in leaving that poor man's corpse for others to find and not getting involved yourself. Stay within the castle precincts for your remaining time here. I don't want you recognized.'

‘Your Grace.' I bowed and withdrew, wondering more than ever how dangerous this forthcoming visit to France might prove.

I was faintly surprised, after a dinner of tasteless pottage and dry bread, to find not only Timothy but also Eloise already waiting for me in the room overlooking the water-stairs. I had looked for Eloise in the dining hall but failed to find her. However, she appeared sleek and well fed. Timothy, on the other hand, had the irritable expression of a man who had been forced to give up his mealtime for work.

‘Where have you been?' he rapped out as I entered. ‘You're late.'

‘I was late going for my dinner,' I answered, giving him a level look. I opened my mouth as if to say more.

‘Yes, yes! All right!' he interrupted quickly. He turned towards another man, whom I had not noticed, standing by the table, his young apprentice by his side. ‘This is Master Taylor, the tailor. Get your jerkin off and he can begin measuring you. Mistress Gray won't mind seeing you in your shirt, I don't suppose.'

Eloise smiled serenely. ‘Not at all,' she said, but crossed the room and stood looking out of the window all the same.

I reflected that if we were going to play at being husband and wife for the next few days – or possibly a week – she would have to get used to seeing me in a state of undress, as I would her. This last thought hit with a suddenness that made me blush, something I rarely do.

The tailor and his apprentice set to work, pulling me about and prodding me in the sort of places I prefer not be prodded in, the former calling out figures that the latter wrote down in a book in a sprawling and somewhat crooked hand. Timothy looked on anxiously.

‘Will you have anything to fit him, Master Taylor? He's rather on the large side.'

‘Lord bless you, sir,' the tailor retorted huffily, ‘I've stuff in my warehouse would fit a giant or a dwarf. I assume you want the best quality as this gentleman is to wait upon the king?'

Wait upon the king? What now? Fortunately, before I could voice a question and bring the vials of Timothy's wrath down upon my head, I realized that this was a story simply for the tailor's benefit to explain his and my presence here.

‘Oh, the very best,' I said without giving Timothy the time to reply. ‘Two of your most expensive outfits. A man must have a change of clothes if he is to wait upon the king.'

The spymaster eyed me malevolently, but made no comment. No doubt he would have a quiet word with the tailor afterwards.

At last, they had finished with me and I was able to resume my old jerkin. I saw the tailor regarding it askance and heard him mutter something to his apprentice. The next moment, however, he was all smiles again and bowing himself out.

‘Both outfits will be delivered by tomorrow morning at the latest, Master Plummer,' he mouthed obsequiously, his nose almost touching his knees, ‘in good time for Master . . . er . . . to try them on and any necessary alterations to be made.'

‘Splendid.' Timothy beamed before adding tartly, ‘Tonight would be even better.'

The tailor bowed again, but I could tell by the look on his face that he had no intention of working late or losing sleep over a mere hiring job (for I didn't suppose for a moment that I would be allowed to keep my fine feathers once they had served their purpose). Silently, I applauded his independence.

He had barely left the room, his apprentice scurrying behind him, when a sharp rap on the door was followed immediately by the appearance of a square-faced, square-bodied man whom I judged to be in his late forties or early fifties. He had powerful arms and thighs, but apart from that, there was nothing to distinguish him from any other well-built man you could pass half a dozen times a day in the street without particularly noticing him. He had brown hair, bluish-grey eyes, big hands and feet, encased in good leather gloves and boots, was clean-shaven and altogether suggested that here was a person to be relied upon in a difficult situation.

‘Ah! John!' Timothy turned to Eloise and me. ‘This is John Bradshaw, who will be acting as your bodyguard and servant. He speaks French—'

‘Well, let's just say that, if absolutely necessary, I can make myself understood,' John Bradshaw interrupted, his eyes twinkling. ‘It wouldn't be any good you people thinking that I can parlez vous with the m'soos much better than you can.'

‘My mother was French,' Eloise informed him coldly. ‘I speak the language perfectly.'

The spy swept her a deep bow. ‘My apologies, mistress.'

Unsure as to whether he was mocking her or not, Eloise maintained a dignified silence, but her general demeanour was hostile. I hoped to God that they weren't going to rub each other up the wrong way for the rest of the time we had to spend together. More than ever I cursed that long-gone day when I had rescued Timothy from the importunate pieman and first become entangled in the Duke of Gloucester's affairs.

Seven

I slept badly that night. My dreams were muddled, stupid. People came and went in them without rhyme or reason. At one point, Philip Lamprey distinctly told me that Jeanne was not dead, nor the baby, but that they were living in some other part of London because they were afraid of being killed like Reynold Makepeace. At another, Eloise and our new acquaintance Master Bradshaw were having an almighty quarrel about who could speak French better. (Although their threatened animosity had in reality come to nothing, and, in spite of my apprehension, they had parted the best of friends; for which happy state of affairs we had to thank Timothy, who had united the couple in good-natured derision of me and my total inability to grasp even the rudiments of any language other than my own.) On yet another occasion, I was in the kitchen at home, attempting to explain to Adela why I was unable to remain with her and the children as I was on my way to Gloucester to seek out Juliette Gerrish, who was about to give birth to my child.

This was when I awoke, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding as though I had just run up a long flight of steps.

‘Dear God, dear God, let it not be true!'

I found I was praying aloud, my lips were dry, and my throat was parched. I got out of bed, my legs trembling beneath me, and poured some small beer from the flagon on my all-night tray into the beaker and then tore a crust from the accompanying loaf. While I chewed on this, and to clear my head of the miasma of unwelcome dreams, I strolled over to the narrow window and opened the shutter. The bright, frosty sky, peppered with stars, told me that it was getting colder even before the chill night air stroked my bare skin. I shivered and leaned out to close the shutter again. It was then that I realized my chamber – if one could dignify it with such a name – must be somewhere directly above the room where my meetings with Timothy were taking place. For there, below me, were the water-stairs and beyond them the river, faintly silvered under a waxing moon.

Someone was walking up the steps, as a boat, with muffled oars, pulled silently out towards midstream. I had no idea what the time was, but there was a sense of the city sleeping, and the cries of the night watchmen, although faint and far off, came to my ears with a clarity born of silence. It was the dead hours of night, I felt sure of that. So who was entering Baynard's Castle in such secrecy? And why?

I tried to make out the contours of the shadowy figure, but dared not risk drawing attention to myself by leaning out of the window too far. And whoever it was moved swiftly, seeking the shelter of the castle walls as quickly as possible, shifting with an agility that suggested someone small and light on his – or her – feet. Man or woman? I found I couldn't say. Often I got a feeling about the sex of someone seen from a distance – the outline, the way a person moved would provide a clear hint – but not tonight. The glimpse had been too brief, too nebulous. It had also, for some reason I was unable to fathom, disturbed me. Foolish, of course! How was I to know the comings and goings of a place as big and as complex as Baynard's Castle? Servants rose early, long before dawn, to make sure that all was in readiness for their masters and mistresses when the sun eventually rose above the horizon. Maybe the early morning visitor was a scullion or a serving maid sent out on some urgent errand, or even a lackey who lived at home in the city arriving for the start of yet another working day.

Somehow or another these explanations failed to satisfy me, even though I knew I was being foolish. As compensation, I watched the boat until it was little more than a speck on the opposite shore, coming to rest on the mudflats, where its owner left it, disembarking, climbing the steps and disappearing, a tiny figure, into the Southwark stews.

I became aware that I was still trembling, no longer from the effect of uneasy dreams, however, but because I was frozen to the very marrow. Hastily, I closed the shutter and crawled back into my, by now, stone-cold bed, where I resigned myself to lying awake, shivering, for the rest of the night.