The Midsummer Crown (10 page)

There was a desperation in his voice. He knew perfectly well that his hopes could have no foundation. As indeed proved to be the case. One glance at the housekeeper's ravaged throat was enough to tell me that there was no chance of her being alive: the dead mastiff had done his evil work all too thoroughly. I wasn't surprised that the bereaved husband had hacked him to death so savagely.

Timothy was looking green as he watched while two stable-hands loaded the corpse on to a hurriedly improvised litter – a large piece of sacking knotted at each corner – and then, with two others, bore their gruesome burden back to the house.

I gripped Timothy's elbow. ‘I must talk to you,' I whispered.

‘Not now,' he answered testily. ‘Are you and that boy packed and ready to go? It's no good looking at me like that. I'm on the Protector's business and I can't let an unfortunate accident like this delay me. There's no question of foul play that I can see. Although what the woman was doing up and about and outside in the compound before the main gate was unlocked is another matter. However, that's not our business, praise be! Get hold of young Master Daubenay, if he still wants to accompany us, and tell him we're off.'

Fast recovering the tone of his mind, Timothy strode through the gateway and across the courtyard with me following at his heels, wondering what to do for the best. It struck me that William Blancheflower had not as yet mentioned the fact that the side-door had been bolted from within, and guessed that in all the ensuing horror and confusion, he had most probably forgotten the fact. He might remember it later, or he might think himself mistaken, depending on how much grief warped his memory and clouded his judgement. Taking everything into consideration, most notably Timothy's urgent desire to get away, I decided, not for the first time in recent weeks, to say nothing; although it disturbed me a little that I was growing so practised in the art of deception.

I thought at first that Piers Daubenay was going to refuse to go with us, his grief at the housekeeper's death seeming so extreme. But in the end, realizing that there was nothing he could do if he stayed, he decided to accompany us. Besides which, he was anxious to discover if Gideon Fitzalan had been found.

For my own part, I could not help wondering at the intensity of his mourning for Eleanor Blancheflower's death. True, it had been unusually gruesome, but I could not rid myself of the suspicion that there was more to it than that. Had they, at some time, been lovers? She, I judged, was somewhere nearer forty than thirty, while he was a mere stripling. But that meant nothing. I had known many a lad attracted by older women, and many a woman, especially if she were married to an older man, excited by youth and fresh looks. And maybe his earlier remarks about her age had been an attempt to mislead us concerning his true feelings for her. Well, I didn't suppose he would tell me if I asked him. And it was not my place to intrude.

We spent Thursday night at a small hostelry bordering the London road, Piers, true to his boast, refusing to share a bed with Timothy and me, preferring a stable loft where he could cry himself to sleep in private. His eyes were still swollen with weeping when we set off the following morning at cock-crow. Timothy reminded us both that it was Friday the thirteenth and begged us, although not himself superstitious, to be extra careful.

We reached London without mishap, riding through a busy and overcrowded Westminster and along an even busier Strand, entering by the Lud Gate a little before noon, not having stopped, to my great annoyance, for dinner. I was still sulking about this as we came within sight of St Paul's. But suddenly all other considerations were put to flight. People were running through the streets waving their arms and shouting, ‘Treason! Treason at the Tower! High treason!'

SIX

Timothy, Piers and I reined in our horses and pulled them into the side of the road. I looked questioningly at the spymaster.

He shook his head, indicating that he was as much at a loss as I was. Then he leant from the saddle and grabbed a blue-capped apprentice who was shouting as loudly as anyone, ‘Treason! High treason!'

‘What's happening?' he demanded. ‘What treason?'

The lad regarded him vacantly for a moment or two before shrugging his narrow shoulders.

‘Lord, I don't know, master. But everyone's saying it. I just joined in.'

Timothy pushed him away with a snort of disgust and raised himself in his stirrups, peering over the heads of the people around us, obviously hoping for the sight of someone he knew. The little crowd had greatly increased even in the short time that we had been there, shop-owners and householders pouring out of doors, attracted by the rumpus and anxious to discover what was going on. Everyone milled around aimlessly, begging enlightenment of his neighbours, but getting no satisfaction and growing more frustrated and alarmed by the second.

Suddenly, Timothy's gaze sharpened and homed in on a small, sandy-haired man struggling through the crowd from the direction of Cheapside. He was wearing the Duke of Gloucester's livery.

‘Simon! Simon Finglass!' Timothy bellowed in a stentorian voice which I hardly recognized as his; indeed, until that moment, I would have thought him incapable of making so much noise.

In spite of the hubbub, it was loud enough to attract the other man's attention. He lifted his head and stood on tiptoe, trying to locate the source of the summons. After a while he spotted Timothy's frantically waving arm and fought his way through the mob to our side. A little breathlessly he gripped the horse's reins to steady himself and looked up enquiringly into Timothy's face.

‘What's happening?' the spymaster reiterated. ‘Treason at the Tower? What are these fools talking about?'

‘You're back, are you?' The sandy head nodded approval. ‘Good thing. If half what's being rumoured is true, I guess you'll be needed at the Tower. Where've you been?'

‘On the duke's business,' Timothy snapped, ‘and none of yours! Just answer my question, will you? What is this all about?'

Simon Finglass shrugged. ‘Don't know for certain,' he admitted. ‘Only know what they're saying.'

He paused, sucking his teeth. Timothy turned purple in the face and, to save him an apoplexy, I leant forward, gently stroking my restless mount between the ears, and asked, ‘What is it “they” are saying?'

The cacophony around us was now deafening and, once again, as just a few weeks previously, I sensed the near-hysteria of the crowd, a product of that febrile atmosphere which had lain like a pall over the city ever since King Edward died. I dismounted, indicating that Timothy and Piers should do the same, and led the way into the comparative peace and quiet of St Paul's churchyard. Here, at least, we could hear ourselves speak.

Timothy addressed himself to his acquaintance. ‘Simon, what is going on? Tell us, man, for God's sake!'

The man screwed up his small russet apple of a face in an apologetic grin. ‘I don't know for certain. I was at Baynard's Castle collecting some of the duke's gear he'd left behind when he moved to Crosby's Place. I knew there was an important meeting at the Tower this morning – the duke, the Lord Chamberlain, the Archbishop of York and some others – but what it was about I knew no more than the next poor sod who ain't privy to the councils of the high and mighty.'

‘For Christ's sweet sake, get on with it!' Timothy groaned.

Master Finglass looked hurt. ‘I am! I am! Well, I'm minding my own business down in the main courtyard, packing the duke's stuff into a couple of saddlebags, when two of our fellows come bursting in from the Thames Street gate, looking like they've seen a bloody ghost. The Archbishop, the Bishop of Ely, and some lord or other have all been arrested on a charge of high treason. And also . . .' He paused momentarily for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘And also arrested is the Lord Chamberlain. Same charge! Treason!'

‘Ah! At last!' Timothy let out a grunt of satisfaction and nodded at me. ‘We've seen that coming.'

Simon Finglass gripped the spymaster's wrist. ‘Wait! That's not all they're saying. They're saying that Lord Hastings is dead. That he was rushed to Tower Green and beheaded there and then by one of the executioners who'd been brought to the Tower, special-like, for that purpose. That the chamberlain was barely given time to be shrived and that they didn't even use the proper block. They used a piece of timber that was lying around after some recent building repairs.'

There was dreadful silence. Timothy, Piers and I stood as though struck dumb. I was conscious of the drumming of my heart, of a deep sense of foreboding and of the high, shrill singing of a bird in a tree behind me. Finally, after what seemed an age, Timothy cleared his throat and at the second attempt said, ‘His Grace of Gloucester wouldn't do that. He wouldn't condemn a man to death without trial. It's illegal. It's against the laws of Magna Carta. Even the king himself couldn't do it, and my lord is only Protector.' He suddenly gained in confidence and his voice became stronger. ‘There must be some mistake. You must have misheard, Simon.'

The other shook his head. ‘I didn't mishear nothing. Nor did anybody else. 'Cause we were all saying the same as you. As how it was against the law. As how the duke, who's a stickler for doing things right, wouldn't go against his conscience by executing a man without trial.'

Timothy chewed his lower lip. ‘What do you think, Roger?'

It demonstrated the extent of his perturbation that he should ask for my opinion. In normal circumstances, his own was all that counted with him.

I hesitated before answering. The truth was that I didn't really know what to think. On one hand, the man whose birthday I shared, whom I had known and deeply admired for the past twelve years, who was renowned everywhere for his sense of fair play, would surely never have permitted, let alone ordered, such a travesty of justice; but on the other hand, ever since the previous year's expedition to Scotland, I had been conscious of a growing ruthlessness beneath the cultured and civilized front which the duke presented to the world.

He had cause, heaven knew, for being embittered. Richard of Gloucester had a strong, puritanical streak in his nature and he had been forced to stand by and watch his adored elder brother, the magnificent, golden warrior of his youth, transformed into a man devoted to hedonism, his health slowly but surely destroyed by the pleasures of the flesh. The chief companions of the king's overeating, drinking and whoring had been his best friend, William Hastings, and his two stepsons and their uncles, members of the queen's hated Woodville family, all of whom the duke held responsible for the death of his other brother, George of Clarence. Yet even so . . .

‘There must be some mistake,' I replied at last. ‘A rumour that's been taken as fact.'

Timothy grunted, presumably in agreement, but said nothing, an omission that made me uneasy. I was about to press him for his own thoughts on the matter when there was a sudden shifting of the crowd as people began invading the churchyard, stampeding towards St Paul's Cross in the north-east corner.

‘There's a herald coming,' Simon Finglass announced, and made off after the rest.

Timothy, Piers and I remounted, giving us a distinct advantage over our fellows, and simply turned our horses to face the right direction. Sure enough, a herald in the royal livery appeared, preceded by a trumpeter whose piercing blasts on his instrument commanded not just silence from the crowd, but threatened to waken the dead all around us and raise them from their graves. But they had the necessary effect. The people fell silent.

‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!' The herald eyed us all severely to make certain that he had our attention before proceeding to unscroll and read from the parchment in his hand. It seemed that during a meeting of the Privy Council that morning, the Duke of Gloucester had suddenly turned on Lord Hastings, Lord Stanley – Henry Tudor's stepfather – the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely and accused them of plotting his own and the Duke of Buckingham's deaths with the intention of then taking control of the king. The plot also involved the queen dowager, at present in sanctuary, with Mistress Shore, the late king's mistress, acting as go-between. All the accused – Queen Elizabeth, of course, excepted – were now in custody. There was no need for alarm. Everything was under control. People were to return to work and proceed with their daily tasks.

And that was all. The herald and trumpeter departed. Timothy heaved a sigh of relief and turned to me.

‘No mention of any out-of-hand executions,' he said. ‘There will be some, no doubt of that. But all legal and above board.'

I nodded, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from my mind. If Hastings and the other conspirators got what was coming to them that was only a fitting punishment for their crime. But it would be by due process of law and that was what mattered.

‘What do we do now?' I asked as the crowds, somewhat disappointed at this tame ending to all the excitement, began to disperse.

‘I must get to the Tower as fast as possible. I may be needed.' Timothy's little air of self-importance made me struggle to suppress a grin. ‘In any case,' he went on, ‘I must report your safe arrival to the duke. You and Piers had better go straight to Baynard's Castle and see if there's any news concerning Master Fitzalan. If not, Roger, you'd best begin your enquiries right away.'

I said nothing. He could take my silence for acquiescence if he liked. But I intended to procure myself some refreshment first. Like the rest of my countrymen, I believed in a sufficient amount of rest and recreation.

The main courtyard of the castle was thronged with guests and servants alike, all avidly discussing the reports from the Tower. I guessed that Gideon Fitzalan's disappearance and the murder of Gregory Machin had been superseded as the general topic of concern and conversation.