The Midsummer Crown (31 page)

I turned again to Mistress Owlgrave. ‘Do you think,' I asked in a voice that quavered a little, ‘that young Gideon Fitzalan has been taken for . . .' I could not bring myself to say the words and finished lamely, ‘. . . for a particular purpose?'

There was a moment's hesitation before Audrey nodded. ‘I should think it possible, yes.'

‘But why him in particular? His captors were prepared to murder his tutor in order to secure his person.'

‘That I don't know, but I feel there must be a reason. Victims are rarely selected at random.'

‘But where could they be holding him? It's not in the chamber below St Etheldreda's crypt.' And suddenly, as I uttered the words, I knew what had been different about that chamber when I had seen it the day before. The statue of the saint had been removed from the church and brought down to stand on a natural ledge of rock running almost the length of one wall of the underground room. Why? Did it have any significance? I put the question to Mistress Owlgrave.

‘Not that I know of,' she answered quietly. ‘Nor, I'm afraid, can I suggest any place where the boy might be held. You've searched Baynard's Castle?'

‘As much as it's possible to do so. A friend helped me, but we found nothing. However, that's not to say he isn't there somewhere. A place like that has a score of hidden corners where anything or anyone could be concealed.' I climbed somewhat groggily to my feet. ‘I must go back at once and inform Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan of my suspicions.'

I experienced a strong sense of revulsion. If what I now suspected were indeed the truth, what an evil woman the nurse truly was! What an accomplished liar, with her protestations of grief, her sympathy and endless tears for her mistress's loss, her lamentations over Gregory Machin's death!

Audrey Owlgrave, who had also risen, put a steadying hand on my arm. ‘You mustn't do that,' she said quickly. ‘That would be dangerous.'

I stared blankly at her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Sir Pomfret would be bound to question this Dame Copley immediately. Moreover, he would take the tale to Lord Lovell or even possibly to His Grace of Gloucester himself, since you tell me of his interest in the matter.'

‘So?'

She gave my arm an impatient shake. ‘Don't you see? Dame Copley would deny all complicity in the abduction. So would this Mistress Hill you mention. Where's your proof? You have none. Only suspicions based on what I've told you. And don't expect me to come forward to back you up. In Southwark, most of us steer clear of any contact with Authority. Finally, I warn you that you would never see the Fitzalan boy alive again, nor ever find out what had become of him. He would be killed at once and his body disposed of.'

I looked at her despairingly. ‘What am I to do, then?'

Audrey grimaced. ‘As far as I can see, your only hope is to trace the boy's whereabouts and rescue him before any harm befalls him. It's a slim chance, a very slim chance I agree. But take it from me, you have no other choice.'

While she was speaking, her features had grown blurred, as though a hand had smudged them, and her voice had grown fainter. Suddenly my legs collapsed beneath me, so that I found myself once again sitting on the floor. I heard Bertha curse, and the next moment two pairs of female hands were pushing my head down between my knees. Gradually, the yellow mist that had been clouding my vision dispersed and I began to feel a little better. Cautiously, I lifted my head.

‘What . . . what happened?'

‘You was nigh on swoonin' that's what 'appened,' Bertha said severely. ‘You'm not well, which ain't surprisin' after all you'm bin through. That were a nasty blow to the back o' your 'ead, not to mention nearly drownin'. Before you do anythin' else me lad, you needs rest.'

‘I don't have time,' I protested.

Mistress Owlgrave added her voice to the argument. ‘That's foolish, talk,' she reproved me. ‘If you don't give your body time to recover, you won't be fit enough to do anything at all. Besides, I would advise you to lie low for the remainder of today and tomorrow for another reason. Let your attacker – or attackers – think, for a while at least, that they've succeeded in their object; that they've successfully disposed of you. It might make them less careful in laying their plans which inevitably will be for Monday, Midsummer Eve. And the shock of seeing you when you do eventually turn up, may disrupt those plans even further.'

There was a great deal of sense in what she said, and I couldn't deny that the thought of sleeping solidly in a comfortable bed for several hours was most attractive. But where could I go? Baynard's Castle was out of the question. Even the sentries would recognize me there, and the news of my return would circulate within minutes. On the other hand, the thought of another prolonged stay in Bertha's hut, with nothing but the floor for a bed, was an uninviting prospect.

I became aware of the women's voices.

‘A room at the Rattlebones,' Audrey Owlgrave was saying. ‘Does he have money?'

‘Enough.' Bertha answered shortly. Then she added, ‘Ye're right. 'E'll be safe there. No questions asked and none answered if anyone comes pokin' around. Which ain't likely. But still, you never knows. If ye're goin' 'ome now, I'll come with you and make arrangements with the landlord. 'E knows me.'

‘He knows me equally well,' Audrey said a little stiffly. She glanced down at me, where I still sat ignominiously on the floor. ‘However, I suppose Master Chapman is your responsibility. I'll wish you good-day then, Bertha.'

She made for the door, while Bertha assisted me as best she could to rise. As I felt the stool wobble insecurely beneath me, Mistress Owlgrave paused, then turned and came back into the hut.

‘These Fitzalans,' she said thoughtfully. ‘From something Bertha mentioned when she was telling me your story, I gather that there seem to be a lot of them. Brothers, uncles. All men, in fact. Can you tell me exactly how many? Start with the missing boy. Would you be able to name his brothers?'

‘Is it important?' My head was splitting and growing worse in the heat from Bertha's fire.

My interrogator nodded. ‘I think it might be. But if it's a feat beyond your powers, don't fret yourself. Perhaps it doesn't matter.' And once again, she turned to go.

‘No, wait.' I smiled weakly. ‘If there's one gift God gave me above all others, it's a good memory. Gideon, I think, has six brothers. I've met two of them, Bevis and Blaise, and heard the other four mentioned.' I wiped the sweat from my brow with my sleeve. ‘Let me see . . . Thomas . . . Maurice . . . and Henry, is it? No, Henry's one of the uncles. Thomas, Maurice . . . Peter. Yes, Peter! And . . . and Cornelius,' I finished triumphantly.

Mistress Owlgrave gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘And the father and uncles?'

‘Sir Pomfret is his sire.' I chewed on a fingernail, while Bertha, her mission to the Rattlebones temporarily forgotten, regarded us both, saucer-eyed. ‘Then there are the twins, Lewis and Godfrey and . . . and . . .' Suddenly my dream came back to me. I could hear the Duchess of York's voice ringing clearly in my ears. I finished with perfect confidence, ‘And Warren, Henry, Raisley, George.'

Audrey Owlgrave stared at me long and hard. ‘You're sure of this?'

‘Yes. Perfectly sure. I tell you, my memory—'

She interrupted ruthlessly. ‘And this Sir Pomfret, the father, do you happen to know if he is the youngest of his brothers?'

‘I believe so.' I was still baffled.

‘Ah! Then the mystery is solved.' Audrey flung out her hands. ‘Gideon Fitzalan is that comparatively rare being, the seventh son of a seventh son. A child possessed of special powers, and therefore . . .'

‘And therefore what?'

The fire suddenly hissed and spat, making me jump. I felt ill again. The hut was starting to spin once more and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I was conscious of something evil reaching for me out of a darkness that threatened to engulf my very soul. I was terrified as I had never been terrified before.

‘'Ere, drink this.'

I realized that Bertha had an arm about my shoulders, pressing me to her unsavoury bosom, while with her right hand she was attempting to force a fiery-tasting liquid down my throat. I recognized the taste and I hated it. It was some disgusting stuff that the Scots drank. The Water of Life they call it (they would!), but it had never done anything for me but make me sick. Spluttering, I pushed the leather bottle away from my lips.

‘Where's . . . where's Mistress Owlgrave?' I asked unsteadily, freeing myself from Bertha's determined embrace.

‘Gone 'ome.' Bertha stoppered the mouth of the bottle with a grimy rag. ‘Don' you like this? Sometimes, when boats do come down from Scotland, the sailors'll part with a drop or two if I speaks 'em fair.' She smacked her lips. ‘It makes you forget yer troubles. Well, I'm off now to the Rattlebones. You just sit there quiet, my lad, until I gets back.' She shook her fist at me. ‘I've taken some money out yer purse, enough t' pay yer shot fer a night. But you'd best leave the rest with me until you goes back over the river. The Bones ain't no place to be carrying money on you.'

With that, she disappeared out of the door, leaving me, my head still swimming, to think over what Audrey Owlgrave had told me. I knew now that whatever I was up against was entirely evil and that both Dame Copley and Amphillis Hill were probably mixed up in it; also, quite possibly – indeed, more than likely – the nurse's sister, Etheldreda Simpkins. I also knew that Gideon Fitzalan was in mortal danger and that I had to find him. But where he was, or how to start looking for him, I had no idea. I was so tired that my mind refused to function. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Bertha came back almost before I realized she had gone, helping me up off the stool and pulling my clothes into shape.

‘I've fixed you a room,' she said. ‘Small back one, out the way o' pryin' eyes. But the bed's comfortable. You c'n 'ave yer meals there, too if you wants to.' She seemed pleased with herself, as well she might be. ‘Ain't cost you much, either.' She winked lasciviously. ‘Landlord owes me a favour.'

I preferred not to dwell too much on the implications of this remark and followed her meekly out of the hut and across the quay. I guessed it was probably getting close to dinner time, but for once the thought of food made me feel queasy, and the smell of cooking that emanated from many of the houses as we passed turned my stomach.

I knew the Rattlebones by sight but had never been inside. To my relief, it seemed a lot more salubrious within than it looked without, and the landlord himself, a jolly-faced, curly-haired fellow, wore a fresh shirt and apron. Also his nails were reasonably clean. Nevertheless, there was a furtive atmosphere about the place. I doubted if anyone who was not a friend of, or at least known to, mine host would penetrate very far beyond the door and not meet opposition of some sort or another. Happily, he was obviously on good terms with Bertha.

More money – my money – changed hands and Bertha clapped me on the arm.

‘I've paid fer two nights, so's you c'n stay till Sunday if you wishes. Otherwise you knows where I be. Come 'n get yer stuff –' she nudged me meaningfully – ‘before you leaves.' And then she was gone.

The landlord led me up two flights of stairs to a small chamber at the back of the house. It was not home from home, but there was a bed that looked inviting and proved to have a goose feather mattress and down-filled pillows. So I pulled off my boots, flung my hat on the floor, shut my eyes against the whirling ceiling and was soundly and deeply asleep in less than two minutes.

EIGHTEEN

I awoke with a great start and sat up abruptly, unable for the moment to get my bearings.

I had been dreaming, not for the first time during this past week, of Eloise Gray. It had been an unusually vivid dream, but on this occasion she had been dressed as a boy, the guise in which I had originally known her. The clothes had not deceived me and I had been fully aware of her sex, in spite of the fact that I had addressed her on several occasions as ‘Davy'.

The dream faded as I stared about me, tense and anxious, trying to remember where I was, then slowly relaxing as the evnts of the past two days began to take shape in my mind. I was in a small, back chamber of the Rattlebones tavern, in Southwark, and I had been asleep since early that same morning.

I reckoned it was now late afternoon or early evening. There was a subtle difference in the light filtering between the cracks of the closed shutters, and a different rhythm to the sounds that ascended from the bowels of the inn. Moreover, I was feeling ravenous, hardly surprising as I must have slept throughout dinner and, possibly, even supper time – although in such a place food was probably to be had at any hour of the day or night.

Carefully, I swung my legs to the floor and stood up, flexing my arms. There was still some stiffness in my limbs and the various bruises decorating my person protested slightly, reminding me that my body had been seriously knocked about during my passage down the drain into the Thames. But the dizziness and nausea had passed, leaving me feeling considerably fitter than I had done, despite the dull ache that still nagged at the back of my head. Whoever had dealt me the blow, had used a force that had surely been intended to kill, or at least to render me unconscious long enough for the river to complete the job.

Which brought me to the question of who my assailant had been. Now that I knew about the Sisterhood, the so-called Daughters of Albion, and now that Rosina Copley was most likely one of them, it could have been her or indeed any of her three companions from the Boar's Head. The four women had left the inn well in advance of me. They had failed to notice my presence, and so my sudden intrusion into the underground chamber of St Etheldreda's Church must have come as a nasty shock for whoever was down there making preparations for . . . For what? My mind balked at the answer and I found that I was shivering violently.