The Dance of Death (3 page)

I finally found my voice. ‘Oh, no!' I exclaimed savagely. ‘Oh, no! There is nothing on earth will persuade me to go to France – indeed, to go anywhere – with her!'

The spymaster's mouth set in a grim line. He had evidently done with trying to cajole me. When he spoke, it was with the voice of authority, reinforced by royal command. ‘You've no choice, Roger. I thought I'd made that perfectly clear. Mistress Gray is your travelling companion whether you like it or not. If you refuse, I shall have no alternative but to place you under arrest.'

‘That bitch tried to murder me!' I shouted. ‘You know damn well she did! And you expect me to go jaunting through France with her?'

That did, at last, wipe the smile from Eloise Gray's face. She managed to look both offended and horrified at once.

‘Roger!' she protested. ‘You don't really believe, surely, that I would have harmed you?'

‘You gave a very good imitation of being prepared to cut my heart out,' I yelled, and was conscious that my teeth were drawn back over my lips in a wolfish grimace. I was disgusted to feel my heart pounding like that of a woman.

Eloise took a step towards me and I moved even further away until I fetched up against the wall, my hands, cold and sweating, pressed against the stones.

She sighed. ‘This is ridiculous. How can I convince you that I intended you no hurt? If Master Plummer here had not arrived in time, I would have found some other way to save you. I promise! It was never my intention to allow that murdering band to carry out their fell design.'

I looked at Timothy. ‘Is she telling the truth?'

I could see by the expression on his face, fleeting though it was, that he was considering whether or not to lie. In the end, however, he decided on the truth as being the wiser course.

‘I don't know,' he admitted. ‘I wasn't in league with Mistress Gray, if that's what you're asking. But I know of no reason to disbelieve her.' All the same, there was a shifty gleam in his eye.

‘When I left Scotland,' I pointed out, ‘she was under arrest with the others on a charge of sorcery. I assumed that she'd gone to the flames by now.'

For a moment, my blunt speaking brought Eloise up short and she blenched. She made a sign, but, watching her closely, I would have been willing to swear that it was not of the Cross. Some pagan symbol, perhaps? Timothy seemed to notice nothing: his eyes were fixed on me. I met the lady's limpid gaze and decided that I might have been mistaken. Surely such a beautiful face could never be a mask for evil: she must have been led astray by her erstwhile companions. And although I was not altogether convinced by this theory, common sense and fairness told me that it could indeed be true. I relaxed a little and Timothy, quick to observe it, permitted himself a brief smile.

‘The fact is, Roger, that during my questioning of Mistress Gray, I discovered that she would be of greater use to us alive than dead.'

‘Us?'

‘To His Highness the King, and therefore, of course, to me. The first news of Hubert Pole's death, and the early rumours of a possible
rapprochement
between King Louis and Duke Maximilian reached me while we were still in Edinburgh.'

‘I see . . . And where does His Grace the Duke of Gloucester figure in all this?'

I saw alarm flicker in the spymaster's eyes as he said hurriedly, ‘No, no! This mission is for the king. It has nothing to do with Duke Richard. If you thought I said to the contrary, you must have misunderstood me.'

I knew, and he knew, that there had been no mistake. I was to have an audience with the duke that very evening. What I hadn't realized until that moment was that it was to be a secret from my travelling companion. Why? Was it that Timothy really didn't trust her, or was it that this special errand I was being saddled with was so dangerous that the fewer people who knew about it, the better? My uneasiness and sense of foreboding increased and I cast around frantically in my mind, searching for some way that I could escape. What was to stop me from simply leaving Baynard's Castle and London this very afternoon and melting into the countryside, making my way home to Bristol by all the byways and unfrequented roads that I knew so well as a pedlar? Nothing was the answer, except that I would be pursued, or, most likely, I would arrive home to find myself being arrested on my doorstep and hauled off to prison in front of my wife and children. There was absolutely no possibility of being allowed to flout the might of authority.

I shrugged and eased myself away from the wall, walking back to the table, where I refilled my mazer with wine and sat down, stretching out my long legs so that neither Timothy nor Eloise Gray could pull up a seat too close to me. Not, I think, that Timothy would have tried. He knew, even if the lady did not, that I was in such a cold fury that he would do well to keep his distance until my anger had abated somewhat.

Instead, he addressed himself to the task of placating me. He invited Eloise to take his vacated seat and fetched himself a joint-stool from beside the empty fireplace, sitting down somewhere between us. Then he poured wine for the two of them, casting me a reproachful look for my lack of manners.

‘Mistress Gray's mother,' he announced, ‘was French. Eloise speaks the language fluently.'

Well, I supposed that explained some part of her usefulness, although not all by any means. Timothy must have at his disposal a number of people fluent in the French tongue who could just as easily have been despatched on this foray across the Channel. So I waited expectantly, at the same time being careful not to display the slightest sign of interest. I studied the scuffed toes of my boots, waggling my feet up and down.

‘Oh, stop sulking, you great oaf!' the spymaster roared, his patience snapping.

Both Mistress Gray and I jumped, and I turned my head to stare at him. He had gone quite red in the face and looked ready to murder me. Something about his appearance forcefully, and unreasonably, struck me as funny and I began to laugh. After a moment's hesitation, Eloise joined in, although I could tell that she was unsure exactly what I found so amusing. For his part, Timothy was so relieved that the atmosphere had lightened he forgot to take umbrage and beamed at the pair of us, rather like a parent whose children had suddenly decided to be good.

‘That's better,' he said approvingly, ‘so I'll continue. As I was saying, Roger, Mistress Gray speaks French as a native, learned at her mother's knee. In addition, she has family connections in Flanders.' He paused, obviously to give added weight to what was to follow. I waited expectantly, but unfortunately, when the information came, it meant nothing to me. ‘One of her distant cousins,' Timothy continued impressively, ‘is Olivier le Daim.'

I raised my eyebrows politely and waited some more.

‘Olivier le Daim!' Timothy repeated impatiently.

It was Eloise who came to my rescue. She gave a tiny gurgle of laughter, no doubt at my bewildered expression, and said, ‘I don't suppose Master Chapman has ever heard of him, sir. Outside of France – indeed, beyond French court circles – he would be very little known.' She smiled at me, deliberately setting out to charm. ‘This cousin of my mother's – cousin in the third or fourth degree, I forget which, but distant – was a barber by trade, and eventually – don't ask me how or when – became barber to King Louis. King Louis, however, found that Olivier had other talents, such as successfully organizing the royal baggage wagons when the court moved from one place to the next. No easy task, I imagine. So my cousin was promoted and put in charge of all the king's journeyings around the kingdom. In short, he has become a great favourite and close confidant of His Highness. A few years ago, he was sent as royal envoy to the Flemings of Ghent, and nowadays entertains visiting dignitaries to Plessis whom the king cannot be bothered to see for himself. From being a mere barber, he is now a great man.'

I snorted. ‘He wants to watch his back, then. Nobodies who become kings' favourites are usually hated and very often pay for it with their lives. We had a good example of that in Scotland only a few months ago, as you know as well as I. When King Louis dies, your precious cousin could find himself dancing on air at the end of a rope.' (Prophetic words, as it turned out the following year, but that has nothing to do with the present story.) ‘Anyway,' I went on, ‘what has Master le Daim got to do with this mission to France that you and I are undertaking?'

‘I've had word,' said Timothy, ‘from Lord Dynham, the deputy governor of Calais, that Monsieur le Daim will be in Paris very shortly – probably sometime next week – on a mission for King Louis to the city goldsmiths. If Mistress Gray can introduce herself to him as a kinswoman, she may be able to find out King Louis's intentions with regard to Burgundy and the English marriage between the dauphin and the Princess Elizabeth, straight, as it were, from the horse's mouth.'

‘And are you sure that Lord Dynham's information is reliable?'

Timothy got to his feet. ‘It usually is. A great many people pass through Calais on their way home from the Continent, and, unlike most rolling stones, they gather moss. Calais is a hotbed of gossip, not all of it idle. Now!' He smiled paternally at Eloise Gray and myself, looking so pleased with himself and so condescending that the toe of my boot itched to make contact with his backside. ‘I shall leave you two to get better acquainted in your new roles as husband and wife. Take a walk. Visit the shops. But, Roger, remember, I need you back here at Baynard's Castle by suppertime. My lord of Gloucester,' he explained glibly to Eloise, ‘wishes to thank Roger personally for accompanying the Duke of Albany to Scotland.' Whether or not she believed this, there was no means of knowing: the elfin face gave nothing away. Timothy went on, ‘Tomorrow, Roger, you must be fitted for some new clothes.' At my indignant protest, he eyed me up and down and responded sharply, ‘You can't go to France posing as a prosperous haberdasher looking like that. And you will need extra baggage and some samples of cloth to give credence to your story.'

‘And what is my story?' I demanded belligerently. ‘Until this moment I wasn't even aware of my new calling.'

He patted my shoulder. ‘Everything will finally be decided upon in the morning. You will both please meet me here, in this same chamber, immediately after dinner, when the details of your journey and of your . . . er . . . “marriage” will be agreed between us. The tailor will also be present to measure you, Roger, for those clothes I spoke of.'

A moment later, he was gone, whisking himself out of the room before I could raise further objections or subject him to any more of my ill humour.

‘Coward!' I shouted, but the door had already closed behind him and I found myself addressing solid oak.

I turned back to my companion, eyeing her askance.

She laughed. ‘You needn't worry, Master Chapman. I don't require your escort around London. I have sufficient knowledge of the streets to be able to take care of myself. I was here with my lord of Albany two years ago.'

‘Just as well.' I glowered as she rose to her feet and prepared to depart. But nevertheless she intrigued me, and I detained her by the simple expedient of asking another question. ‘Your mother may be French, but I'd swear there's Scottish blood in you somewhere. Your father?'

She sat down again. ‘Yes. Maman was French,' she agreed. ‘She died five years ago. Both my parents are dead, and you're right – my father was indeed Scottish. He was a member of King Louis's Scots Guards and died fighting for him, when I was four years old, at the battle of Montlhéry.'

‘Montlhéry?' I queried, coaxing my tongue around the name, not without some difficulty.

‘Oh, you probably wouldn't have heard of it,' she said. ‘It was a battle fought against the king's own subjects, who wanted to depose him in favour of his brother Charles.' She added scornfully, ‘They called themselves the League of the Public Weal,' and spat on the floor in a most unladylike fashion. ‘Common good? They had no thought of the common good! It was pure ambition and greed. I know! My mother told me all about it when I was old enough to understand. Burgundy was one of them. The late duke, Charles of Charolais, as he still was then, fought on behalf of his father, Duke Philip.' She leaned towards me, suddenly deadly serious, her great violet-blue eyes burning with righteous wrath. ‘Do you know that after he became king – that was the year I was born – Louis bought back Picardy and the Somme towns from Burgundy for four hundred thousand crowns? But then Duke Philip regretted the deal and decided he wanted them back again.'

‘Don't tell me,' I interrupted, ‘I can guess what's coming. Philip wanted them back
and
to hang on to the money as well. Am I right?'

She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Of course you are. So he formed this league with all the other malcontents – the dukes of Brittany, Berry, Anjou, Calabria, Bourbon and I don't know how many others – all pretending that they were acting in the public interest and that it would be better for the country if they put Charles instead of Louis on the throne.'

‘And did Louis win at . . . at this place you mentioned?'

‘Montlhéry? Sadly not. My father died in vain.' Then her little face brightened, losing its bitter look. ‘But King Louis got the better of them all in the end, not by force of arms, but by cunning and sheer strength of will.'

I chewed my thumbnail thoughtfully. ‘And now it would seem that he intends to bring Burgundy to heel by marrying his son to Maximilian's daughter.'

‘We don't know that for certain,' she said quickly. ‘That's what we're going to France to find out.'