The Dance of Death (31 page)

And so we started on a long round of the Paris inns, ale houses and drinking dens, trudging from the Île de la Cité to La Ville and back again, then across to the Université, where we accidentally entered a whorehouse and were set upon by one of the ugliest madames I had ever seen, determined that her girls should avail themselves of our services on what was obviously a slack afternoon. The discovery that we were English added to our charms for once, the ladies being intrigued by the prospect of men with tails, and we only made our escape by the skin of our teeth and a swift backhander to the madame to call off her bevy of beauties.

‘That's it,' I said to Philip, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. ‘That's enough for one day. And where has it got us? We've nearly been raped by a bunch of harpies and we're no nearer tracking down this Robin Gaunt than when we started. And I don't suppose we ever shall be.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' Philip murmured, stroking his chin. In spite of himself, he had become interested in the quest and, despite his total lack of French, had managed to make himself understood far better than I had. He had a way of ingratiating himself with people that gained their confidence, while years of coping and haggling with foreigners in Leadenhall Market had taught him a sign language that seemed to be universally recognized, interspersed as it was with certain mongrel words that bridged the gap between different tongues. He went on, ‘That ale house out towards the Porte Saint-Honour, beyond the old Loover Palace, or whatever they call it – it ain't a Christian language, that's for sure: you can't get your bloody tongue around it – the landlord there mentioned a Robert of Ghent. Seemed to think he might be the man you're looking for.'

‘Ghent's in the Low Countries,' I snapped.

My feet were hurting and I was feeling miserable and depressed. It occurred to me that, within the course of an afternoon, Philip and I had changed places. Now I was the one who was gloomy and pessimistic, while Philip appeared to have overcome his lingering grief, for the time being at least, in the interest of the chase. I recalled the inn he had mentioned, an uninviting place near the Porte Saint-Honoré, dark, dingy, lit only by rushlights and smelling of human sweat and ordure, where strangers were stared at with even more suspicion than was normal in such places. Hostility emanated from every corner and I had felt my scalp tingle with fear, warning me of danger. To my utter astonishment, Philip had seemed thoroughly at ease, but then I remembered that he had grown up in the Southwark stews. This ale house, as he had rightly called it – it was impossible to dignify it with the name of tavern – was home from home to him. The regular customers accepted him instinctively as one of themselves, regardless of the fact that he was English, while I was tolerated simply because I was his companion.

An added bonus had been that the landlord, a hulking fellow with a broken nose and a fiery birthmark that covered practically the whole of one side of his face, spoke a little English, enough at any rate to make communication somewhat less of a hit-and-miss affair than it had been in previous taverns we had visited. Philip's enquiries, while we drank a rough red wine that depressed my spirits rather than elevated them, elicited the fact that this Robert of Ghent lived somewhere in the warren of streets near the pig market, with its infamous cauldron. But by that time, with the Université still to investigate, I had declined being drawn into a fool's errand and refused point-blank Philip's suggestion that we search him out and at least establish that he was not the man we were looking for.

‘These fools wouldn't know the difference between an Englishman and a Fleming,' I grumbled, rubbing the aching backs of my legs with both hands. ‘And the sooner we get out of this place, the happier I shall be.'

‘Please yourself.' Philip had shrugged. ‘You're probably right.'

But now, leaning against the wall of the brothel while we caught our breath, he seemed to think we might have made a mistake by not pursuing the matter. ‘It is the only lead we've got,' he pointed out.

‘So far,' I agreed. ‘But not much of one. We'll have to start again on Monday.'

‘We?'

‘So John says, and he's in charge. Until this Olivier le Daim makes his appearance, Jules will be otherwise engaged. Now, remember, Philip, I haven't told you what it is I'm doing for Duke Richard here in Paris. John doesn't know and he doesn't want to know, but he'd be upset and more than a little angry if he thought I'd confided in you. And, for the sweet Virgin's sake, not a word to anyone else. You can imagine that if the queen's family got wind of this, they'd go straight to the king and heaven alone knows what would happen to us all, including the duke. I'm willing to wager my last groat that Clarence knew about the bastardy story, and look what happened to him.'

Philip regarded me malevolently, and when he spoke, his tone was bitter. ‘You don't need to remind me to keep me bone-box shut, thank you very much. I know what sort of bloody risk we're running.'

‘Good,' I said. ‘Now let's go back to the Rue de la Barillerie. ‘I've had enough for one day. And the episode in this place –' I jerked a thumb over my shoulder – ‘was the final straw.'

The following day, Sunday, was quiet. Everyone seemed out of sorts and disinclined for conversation. We all seemed to be nursing a private grievance, not openly stated, but nonetheless potent for all that. From the few words he did let fall, it was obvious that John was angry I had flouted his suggestion that I take Jules with me while I could, particularly as he had taken the trouble to visit the Coq d'Or to apprise the latter of my imminent arrival.

‘You and Philip were so long farting around before you left the house I was able to slip out ahead of you in order to warn Jules you were coming. And then you didn't show up.'

I apologized and made some feeble excuse, which he accepted grudgingly, but remained taciturn for the rest of the day.

Philip kept out of my way, whether deliberately or by chance I couldn't determine, but he remained in the kitchen with Marthe, doing odd jobs for her and easing the burden of looking after four people single-handed. Or, at least, so Eloise informed me, having had some conversation with the housekeeper when she visited the kitchen after breakfast.

As for Eloise herself, she was as generally uncommunicative as the others, and for this a blazing quarrel the previous night was responsible. She had been short with me all evening and, when we finally retired to our bedchamber, had reproached me in no uncertain terms for not accompanying her to the Rue de la Tissanderie.

‘Jane and Master Armiger thought it most strange that I should go alone, and so, I'm sure, did Will Lackpenny.'

Tired, worried, depressed, I had rounded on her with a viciousness I regretted almost at once. Seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her violently, I hissed, ‘For Jesu's sake, get it into your stupid little head that I am not really your husband, and stop treating me as though you were my wife! This is a game we're playing, and what's more, I'll tell you this: if we were man and wife and you spoke to me like that, I'd take my belt to you and leather you senseless.' And with that, I had flung her away from me so that she went sprawling across the bed.

She lay perfectly still for a moment, and, to my horror, I saw that she was crying silently, the tears streaming down her face. I was immediately contrite, appalled by my behaviour, and had sat down beside her, trying to soothe her, trying to explain that I hadn't meant a word I'd said. I had expected recriminations, even a hail of blows, but had been unprepared for the quiet dignity with which she had repelled my efforts at reconciliation and finished preparing for bed. It had made me feel an even bigger bully boy than I did already, and although I recognized that this was her intention, I nevertheless knew that the way I had behaved would take a lot of forgiving.

So the morning's coldness was hardly a surprise and I made no attempt at atonement. I reasoned the less said, the better, and that her own sense of justice would eventually lead her to realize that, however badly I might have acted, she herself had not been blameless. Her tirade against me had been both undeserved and foolish.

We went to Mass, to Tierce, having risen far too late for Prime, and I left the choice of the Île de la Cité's twenty-one churches to her. She decided eventually upon Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs, with its lovely slender spire, and stood beside me, eyes downcast, like a sweet and dutiful wife. As we left, she tucked a hand into the crook of my elbow and gave my arm a squeeze. If not entirely forgiven, I was not the pariah I had been an hour or so before.

‘Let's go for a walk,' she said, but still quiet and inclined to be sombre. In much the same spirit I agreed.

So we strolled around the Île, saying little but with a growing sense of harmony, from the groves of the Jardins Royals in the west, by way of the cloisters and galleries behind the cathedral of Notre-Dame and the Bishop's Palace to the tangle of wasteland in the east, with its view of the neighbouring islands of Notre-Dame and the Île aux Vaches. I remarked again on the splendid flagging of the streets with their furrows for the horses' hooves and was intrigued by the little twisting turret staircases and the conical roofs of the houses. From one of the tarred booths of the Palus Market, already open for Sunday trade, I bought Eloise a green ribbon to match her green dress. And finally, in the shadow of the nearby Sainte-Chapelle, we stopped and faced one another, holding hands.

‘Tell me I'm forgiven,' I said. ‘My behaviour was abominable.'

‘No, I was the one to blame,' she answered gently. ‘Mine was the original fault. I must have sounded like a shrew, and without reason. I'm sorry.'

I smiled at her. ‘Then we'll forgive one another, and I'll go with you to see Jane and Robert Armiger after we've eaten.'

I didn't add that I had an ulterior motive in wanting to speak to Jane Armiger again. It seemed wiser not to.

And so, after dinner – a meal that Eloise and I ate together in the parlour, neither John Bradshaw nor Philip putting in an appearance – we crossed back to La Ville and made our way to the Rue de la Tissanderie, to a house only a few doors distant from the great main thoroughfare of the Rue Saint-Martin.

We were fortunate in finding the Armigers in sole possession, Jane's French kinfolk having, so we were told, gone to visit yet another relative who was ailing and had sent that morning, demanding their immediate assistance.

‘Tante Louise is rather demanding,' Jane said, obviously feeling the need to excuse her relations' absence.

‘A miserable, exigent old harridan,' Robert snorted in his usual forthright fashion. ‘But I don't suppose Master and Mistress Chapman are worried whether your cousins are here or not, my dear.'

He was right, of course, but his brutal way of expressing himself only upset his wife further. Her eyes were constantly full of unshed tears, which she surreptitiously wiped away before they could provoke another outburst from her husband. I saw Eloise compress her lips and guessed that she was, most unwisely, on the verge of giving Master Armiger a piece of her mind, but the arrival of Will Lackpenny averted what might have turned into an unpleasant situation.

It struck me that Robert was not as happy to see his fellow traveller as he had once been, and I wondered if his suspicions were at last aroused or if he had simply tired of Will's company. But the visit could not have served my purpose better because Eloise, in a spirit of sheer mischief, immediately set out to monopolize Will's attention, preventing him from getting close to Jane and bombarding him with a series of questions that he was too polite too ignore.

I seized my opportunity and drew my stool nearer to where Mistress Armiger was sitting, a little removed from the rest of us, by the window. After ascertaining that there was no more news of her brother, and sympathetically patting her hand when she showed signs of breaking down, I asked swiftly, ‘What exactly did you mean, that morning in Calais, when you said, “Yes”?' She stared at me uncomprehendingly, and I went on, ‘I'd asked you if your grandmother – the French one, the seamstress – had ever mentioned any scandal regarding the Duchess of York and one of her bodyguard of archers. You didn't answer at once, but just as I was leaving, you said, “Yes.” Do you remember?' She gave me a watery smile and nodded. ‘You haven't mentioned my enquiry to anyone else, have you? Your husband or . . . or Master Lackpenny?'

‘No.' She added apologetically, ‘I haven't really thought about it since,' and gave a little sob. ‘There . . . there have been . . .'

‘Other things on your mind. Of course. I understand that. And I don't want you to say anything to either of them. To anyone at all. I ought not to have asked you what I did. But . . . well . . . as I did, what made you say, “Yes”?'

‘Because I did once overhear my grandmother tell my mother that there had been some scandal concerning the duchess and an archer while she was in Rouen.'

I was glad to note that she had lowered her voice almost to a whisper and I couldn't resist glancing over my shoulder. Eloise still held Will Lackpenny in thrall, while Robert Armiger was looking at them both, distinctly bored.

‘Did your grandmother happen to mention the name of the archer concerned?'

Jane Armiger shook her head. ‘No. I think, from what I can recollect, that she didn't know much. There had been some talk among the women, but that was all. In fact, young as I was, I can clearly recall her saying that the duchess was far too proud a woman to take a common archer to her bed. She didn't believe it, she said.' Jane nodded again. ‘Yes, I can remember her saying that.'