The Dance of Death (30 page)

‘Perhaps,' he admitted. Then the grin broadened. ‘To be honest, the pantomime between you and Mistress Marthe here was too good to interrupt.' He went on, ‘Mistress Eloise came looking for you to bear her company to see the Armigers, wherever it is they're staying. Seems they've turned up again, along with that silly fellow with the blue feather in his hat. They must've made pretty good time from Calais to be so hot on our heels.'

I regarded him affectionately. ‘Do you know,' I asked, ‘that you've just said more in the last minute than you've uttered in a whole week?' I dropped a hand on his shoulder and pressed it.

He let go of the handle of the spit, rose from his stool, shrugging off my hand as he did so, and turned towards me, his face suffused with anger. ‘Don't you treat me to any of your patronizing airs and graces, Roger. Just leave me alone!'

This abrupt change of mood from the old Philip to the new was shocking. I felt as though he had dealt me a physical blow, and I heard Marthe making tut-tutting noises under her breath. She looked distressed, and although she had not understood what we were saying, Philip's sudden descent into fury was painfully apparent. She glanced questioningly at me, obviously wondering what I had said to bring about such a transformation.

When I had brought my breathing and my temper under control, I said coldly, ‘I'm going out and I need you to accompany me. John Bradshaw's orders. Get your cloak on while I fetch mine.'

‘No,' Philip answered truculently. ‘I ain't coming. Bradshaw's given me no such order.'

The door into the yard opened and closed.

‘Who's taking my name in vain?' John demanded.

I explained the situation and he raised his eyebrows.

‘You're going out now? I thought we'd agreed . . .' He paused, grimacing. ‘Oh well, if Mistress Eloise has gone a-visiting, perhaps you should take advantage of her absence.' He looked at Philip and his features hardened. ‘You'll do as you're bid,' he instructed harshly. ‘Get your cloak on and make no more bones about it.' He turned back to me as, to my amazement and without further demur, Philip shuffled over to where his cloak hung on a nail beside the kitchen door and put it on. ‘Be careful, Roger,' John urged. ‘Keep with Philip at all times. And Jules will be free today. If you decide you want his company, you'll most probably find him in Le Coq d'Or in the Rue de la Juiverie. That's the road that joins the Petit Pont on the south bank to the Pont Notre-Dame on t'other. It's his usual drinking den.'

I thanked him and returned to the parlour to collect my own cloak from where I had carelessly thrown it over the back of a chair, and to retrieve my hat from where I had dropped it, even more carelessly, on the floor. (Anyone could tell that I was unused to smart clothes.) By the time I was ready, having had to search around for the latter before spotting it under the table, Philip was waiting for me outside the street door, looking cold and disgruntled.

The November afternoon was well advanced, and, above us, the sky was dull and overcast. A chilly wind was blowing off the Seine, whistling between the canyons of the houses and bringing with it the smell of rotting fish and the faint tang of the sea that is reminiscent of all cities built on great rivers. It reminded me poignantly of my adopted town of Bristol and for a moment I was dumb with homesickness.

I took a deep breath. ‘Which way?' I asked Philip.

He shrugged, indicating that he either didn't know or was bent on being obstructive. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and steered him in a westerly direction, having recollected that Eloise and I had returned to the Île de la Cité by the Pont Notre-Dame earlier in the day and must have crossed the Rue de la Juiverie to get to the square in front of the cathedral. The streets were still crowded, the noise still deafening, and I pulled Philip into the shelter of a doorway, where I could make myself heard.
A couple of disease-ridden beggars reluctantly made way for us and rattled their tins, abusing us roundly when we ignored them. (I presume it was abuse. They certainly didn't sound as if they were giving us the time of day.)

‘Now listen to me, Philip,' I said, ‘and listen carefully. I'm going to have to trust you. And I do trust you. You may be behaving like a right little shit-house at the moment, but I've known you for years and we've been good friends in the past, so I'm going to tell you what I've even kept secret from John.'

‘I don't want to know,' he shouted, and clapped both his hands over his ears.

‘I don't care what you want,' I snarled back. ‘You're damned well going to listen!' Seizing his wrists, I forced down his arms. He struggled to free himself.

The beggars, seeing only what they thought to be a servant defying his master, whooped and cheered and banged with their collecting cups against the wall of the house where we were all sheltering. I heard one of them mutter, ‘
Anglais! Anglais!
' followed by some imprecation, while the other fanned out his fingers behind his back in the semblance of a tail. (It crossed my mind, fleetingly, that for the English and French it would be almost impossible to live without one another. Who else would the denizens of both countries find to revile, despise and ridicule so virulently except the pestilential rapscallions on the opposite side of the Channel?)

Keeping Philip's arms pinioned to his sides, I said through clenched teeth, ‘You're going to hear what I have to say whether you like it or not.'

The fight suddenly seemed to go out of him and his thin, emaciated body went limp, but I knew him for a cunning little rogue and kept a firm grip on him while I outlined, briefly, the gist of my mission for the Duke of Gloucester. When I had finished, he appeared genuinely shocked, releasing himself gently from my grasp but making no further effort to escape it.

He let out a long, low whistle and murmured, ‘Hell's teeth!' For the first time since we renewed our acquaintance, someone else's predicament had caught his attention and evoked his sympathy. He lowered his voice, even though the two beggars, disappointed of the expected brawl, had now moved on. ‘So that's the way the wind's blowing, is it? This is dangerous stuff, Roger.'

‘You don't need to tell me that,' I responded feelingly. ‘If the Woodvilles should get an inkling of it, I'd be a dead man long before I could report back to the duke. That's why it was thought best to keep it a secret even from John.'

‘And now you've told me.' Philip sounded bitter and I realized guiltily that by doing so, I had possibly endangered his life as well as my own.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘But you must see for yourself that I'm in desperate need of some help. Finding a former English soldier who, after forty years, most likely speaks French like a native, in a city the size of Paris is a near-impossible task. Added to which, there's no positive evidence that this Robin Gaunt lives here at all.'

‘Oh, that sort of thing's only to be expected,' my companion snorted savagely. ‘Our lords and masters issue their orders, no matter how impossible they may be, and we poor underlings are expected to carry them out. And woe betide us if we fail!'

‘I don't think the duke would—' I was beginning, but Philip interrupted me.

‘Princes, nobles, officers, gentlemen, they're all the bloody same if you ask me! I never met one who was any different. But all this jabbering ain't going t' solve your problem.' He chewed a dirty fingernail. When I would have spoken, he raised an equally grimy finger and wagged it under my nose. ‘Bide quiet a minute, can't you, and let me think. Mind you,' he went on, ‘after what you just told me, I'm buggered if I can think proper. You're dabbling your fingers in treason here, Roger. And so's Prince Richard.'

‘Depends if it is treason,' I argued. ‘Depends on what I find out.' I glanced over my shoulder, then whispered, ‘Maybe His Grace is already the rightful king. Maybe he has been since the execution of Clarence. And maybe Brother George was rightfully king before him, and that's why he had to be got rid of.'

Philip clapped one of his hands over my mouth; it smelled of smoke and garlic. ‘Will you keep your great gob shut? Just to please me!' He started chewing his nail again, nodding his head up and down and staring vacantly into the distance before suddenly coming to a conclusion. ‘Best thing you can do—'

‘We can do,' I corrected him.

He ignored me. ‘Best thing you can do,' he continued, ‘is to enquire around the inns and taverns if anyone knows of an elderly Englishman married to a French wife. An old soldier, someone who might once have been part of the occupying forces forty years ago.' He stopped, giving vent to a rusty, reluctant chuckle. ‘O' course, you could just ask if anyone knows a man called – what was it? – Robin Gaunt.'

It was so good to hear him laugh again that, for a moment, I joined in his merriment, but other considerations soon had a sobering effect. ‘It sounds like excellent sense, Philip, except that it overlooks one thing: I can't speak French. And neither can you.'

His face fell; then he rallied. ‘It's surprising how much you can make yourself understood if you try hard enough. Just keep repeating the name Robin Gaunt and tell 'em he's English,
Anglais
.
Femme française
. Do you know them? If so – by some miracle – where do they live? Keep saying things long enough and loud enough and something'll get through to somebody. Provided, of course, there's someone somewhere who knows something. Which I very much doubt.'

‘No, wait!' I said. ‘We've forgotten Jules. John told us where to find him. Le Coq d'Or in the Rue de la Jui— something or other. Anyway, the street that runs from a bridge on the south bank to the Pont Notre-Dame. I know where that is. Eloise and I crossed it earlier today. We'll go and find him.'

Philip's mouth set in familiarly stubborn lines. ‘No,' he said.

‘What do you mean, no?'

‘I'm not dragging Jules into this.'

‘Why not? John told me—'

‘I don't trust him. That's why not.'

I was astonished at Philip's vehemence. ‘Why don't you trust him?'

He hesitated for a moment or two, searching for an answer. Finally, he came up with, ‘He's a Frenchie, ain't he? That's reason enough.'

‘Not in this case,' I argued. ‘It was John's suggestion, and he said Jules wouldn't be interested in anything I might be up to. And, indeed, why should he be? All we need is for him to ask a few questions for us. If by any chance he should evince any curiosity, we're just trying to find an old friend who might have settled in Paris. Surely that should satisfy him.'

‘No,' Philip repeated even more forcefully than before. ‘If you want to ask Jules for help, you'll go on your own. Try and force me to go with you and I'll kick up such a rumpus that you'll have half of Paris crowding round. I mean it, Roger. We do this alone or not at all.'

I was puzzled as well as annoyed. ‘You can hardly know Jules,' I said. ‘He's obviously one of John's French agents, but you can have seen very little of him, I should have thought. Why do you mistrust him so?'

Philip avoided my gaze, or, at least, it seemed to me that he did. I convinced myself that I was mistaken.

‘I've told you,' Philip muttered sulkily. ‘He's a Frenchie and I wouldn't trust a single one of 'em with my name and direction, let alone a secret of this magnitude.'

‘But he won't—'

Philip rounded on me furiously. ‘Look, Roger,' he hissed, seizing my arm and digging his nails in so violently that I could feel them even through the material of my sleeve, ‘I ain't coming with you if you confide in that there Jules and that's my last word. So it's him or me. Take your pick.'

I finally accepted that he was serious. There would be no changing his mind and I had to choose between one and the other. The sensible choice was Jules, who could speak a little English as well as fluent French, whereas Philip's knowledge of the latter was non-existent, like mine. So why was I hesitating? But I knew Philip of old; we had been friends for years, and some of his distrust of the Frenchman had begun to convey itself to me. I knew it was foolish to let myself be influenced, particularly when Philip's attitude seemed to have nothing to give it substance, but there might be some reason behind it that he wasn't telling me. In the end, the devil I knew was better than the one I didn't.

‘All right,' I agreed. ‘We won't bother Jules. We'll leave him to enjoy his ale in peace.'

Eighteen

Of course it was inevitable that, entering the Rue de la Juiverie from a side alley, we should find ourselves almost directly opposite Le Coq d'Or at the precise moment Jules was leaving the inn. Moreover, he was not alone. John Bradshaw was with him, glancing up and down the street as though expecting momentarily to see someone he knew.

Philip hauled me back into the shadows of the overhanging houses and the noisome filth of the little lane, where a dead dog was rotting alongside a sheep's head – both crawling with maggots – and piles of other decaying rubbish that did not bear too close an inspection.

‘Jules,' he hissed.

‘I know. I saw him,' I answered irritably. ‘And John's with him. He'll have warned Jules to look out for us, so we might as well—'

Philip shook his head. ‘I told you, I don't trust him. Just wait here a moment, quiet, like, until they're gone.'

I sighed. ‘And if they decide to come this way? We shall look a right pair of fools skulking around in this cesspit.'

‘Well, they ain't coming this way,' Philip said. ‘Look!' The two men had indeed turned towards the south bank and the Petit Pont. Philip grabbed my arm. ‘Quick!' he grunted and dragged me across the street, bumping into several irate citizens and narrowly missing being run down by a couple of carts, into Le Coq d'Or. ‘Last place they'll think o' looking for us, for a while at least.'