The Dance of Death (33 page)

I nodded. ‘Agreed.'

He seemed relieved and accompanied me upstairs, climbing to his tiny attic bedchamber above ours in better spirits than he had been in for days. I even heard him whistling to himself as he proceeded on up the next flight of stairs.

But my own sleep was disturbed by odd dreams. Over and over again I was standing in the parlour of the house in the Rue de la Tissanderie and Jane Armiger was saying, ‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?' Several times I awoke and dozed off, only to return to the same dream each time.

I awoke in the chill first light of dawn to the drumming of rain against the shutters. The only other sound in the room was Eloise's steady, rhythmic breathing as she lay beside me, her fair curls fanned out across the pillow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, I raised myself to a sitting position and drew back the bed-curtains a trifle to allow in a little more air before giving my full attention to my dream. It was telling me something, I knew that. But what?

‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?'

Robin. In this case short for Robert, but also interchangeable with it, another version of the same name. The man, mentioned to us by the landlord of the seedy tavern near the Porte Saint-Honoré, was known as Robert of Ghent and seemed, from what we could gather, to be roughly the right age (the landlord had indicated grey hair). But he was a Fleming.

Or was he?

That, now I came to consider it dispassionately, was my own assumption. My heart began to beat a little faster and my palms to sweat with excitement. But why would he be called Robert of Ghent if he were not Flemish? I could understand the change from the Anglo-Saxon Robin to the more Gallicized Robert, but why choose de Ghent as a surname? Then, suddenly, enlightenment burst upon me like the sun breaking through clouds on an overcast day. John, that doughty son of King Edward III and brother of the Black Prince, had, I was sure, been born in Ghent, but the name had been Anglicized to Gaunt.

I found I was holding my breath and let it out in a great gasping sigh. Was I on to something? Had Philip's instinct – that this man could be the one we were after – been right all along? I had always known him for a shrewd little monkey, so why had I not listened to him, respected his hunch more readily than I had? Because I was a conceited fool who thought he knew better, but in truth couldn't see beyond the end of his nose, that was why. And I had been blinded by the conviction that I had been given an impossible task that could never be fulfilled. I told myself severely not to get over-optimistic, that I could still be wrong, but I swung my legs out of bed and tiptoed down through the silent house to the kitchen, where Philip slept beside the dead embers of the fire.

He was alone, Marthe occupying the second attic bedchamber at the very top of the house. I knelt down and roused him, pouring my theory into his ears before he was even properly awake, so that he blinked stupidly at me and I had to repeat myself over again. And again. Finally, however, I made him understand, but to my surprise, he seemed more concerned with disproving my reasoning than applauding it.

‘It was yourself,' I pointed out indignantly, ‘who suggested from the start that this Robert of Ghent might be the man we were looking for. Why the change of heart?'

He shrugged. ‘I've changed my mind.'

‘Obviously,' I snapped, getting to my feet. ‘Nevertheless, it's a lead I intend to follow up.'

‘Then you'll go alone,' he said, lying down and turning on his side, pulling the grey blanket up over his head to cover it. ‘I've had enough of this nonsense. You're right when you say it's a bloody impossible task. Forget it, Roger. Go home and tell the duke it can't be done, tracing a man you've never seen – and nobody else knows anything about – after forty bloody years.'

I stared down in bewilderment at his rigid form, defiant beneath its covering. I couldn't work out what had happened to bring about this uncompromising attitude, a reversion to the man he had been until a few days ago, when the old friendship seemed to have been restored between us. What had I said? What had I done?

‘John says you're to come with me.' I was horrified to hear the words come out as a sort of childish whine.

‘Fuck John!'

I turned on my heel and left him.

I found the tavern again, not without some difficulty, but not nearly as much as I had expected. My sense of direction stood me in good stead, and I remembered a ruined, ivy-covered gateway in the old wall of Philip Augustus not far from the Louvre Palace – no longer lived in by the kings of France and used mainly as a prison – which was only a street or two from the inn I was seeking. The anticipated hostile silence greeted my entrance, all the more disconcerting because of the previous noise and bustle, but fortunately the landlord recognized me and, if not actually brimming over with goodwill, at least greeted me with a certain courtesy and a warning glance at his regular customers that said he wanted no trouble. Nevertheless, I could still feel the threat of cold steel between my shoulder blades.

I managed at length to make myself understood by dint of repeating ‘Robert de Ghent' a number of times and drawing a crude picture of a house in the dust and spilled wine on one of the table tops. With comprehension came a greater friendliness, and because I was unable to follow the instructions given to me, one of the men sitting nearby slid off his bench, grabbed me by the elbow and jerked his head as indication that I should go with him.

He led me to an alleyway about three streets distant and, with another jerk of his head, pointed to a house about halfway along on the left-hand side. Then he walked away without once looking back. I approached the door indicated and raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.

I had told no one where I was going. I had breakfasted more or less in silence with John and Eloise, then, in the little bustle that always succeeds a meal, had grabbed my cloak and hat and slipped away into the rainy early morning streets. Now, I wondered if it had been wise to be so secretive, even if it had meant avoiding Eloise's catechism as to where I was going and what I was doing. I reassured myself with the thought that should anything happen to delay my return, Philip, at least, would know my destination and be able to lead John to the inn.

I glanced up and down the narrow street, which was beginning to stir into after-breakfast life, with smoke issuing from chimneys, shutters being cautiously opened against the raw November air, a cart rumbling past and goodwives emerging here and there from their doorways to sweep yesterday's dust into the alleyway and dispose of their refuse in the central drain. All very much, I reflected, as it would have been in England. There was nothing to be afraid of.

I watched the cart out of sight around the bend at the top of the street, then knocked loudly and firmly on the door. As I waited for an answer to my summons, I was aware, out of the corner of one eye, of movement to the right of me. I turned my head to look, but the alleyway on that side was empty, no sign of life anywhere. As I stared, puzzled, I noticed a slightly darker shadow within a shadow thrown by the upper storey of one of the houses. Was I being followed? Had someone tailed me from the Rue de la Barillerie? It seemed unlikely. Who would have been watching our house so early in the morning? Nevertheless, I felt I should investigate. But at that moment, the door in front of me opened and a woman's voice spoke to me in French.

I turned quickly to see an elderly woman, a few untidy strands of grey hair escaping from her spotless coif, regarding me enquiringly. Her features were of the plump sort that keeps wrinkles at bay, even in the late fifties or early sixties, which I judged her to be – indeed, which I knew she must be if she were the wife of Robin Gaunt – and her figure was as rotund as her face. For a moment there was silence between us; then I decided that the direct approach was the only one to use.

‘Mistress Gaunt?' I said in English.

She looked thoroughly startled, as if both the name and the language had awakened long-forgotten memories.

‘Who are you?' she asked, perfectly correctly but with a heavy French accent. All the same, her words were as good as an admission that I had come to the right house.

‘I should like to speak to your husband,' I said confidently. ‘Your husband, Robin Gaunt.'

‘My husband is Robert de Ghent,' she answered, the suspicion in her eyes deepening to fear, and made to shut the door.

I hastily put a foot in the gap to prevent it closing. ‘There's nothing to be afraid of,' I assured her with my most winning smile. ‘I've been sent by His Grace the Duke of Gloucester, who merely wants some information about . . . about . . . well, about what may or may not have happened in Rouen forty years or so ago.'

The faded blue eyes widened in astonishment. ‘In Rouen? Forty years ago?'

‘Look,' I said, ‘may I come in and speak to Master Gaunt? There's nothing to fear.' I held my cloak wide. ‘I'm not armed, as you can see.'

‘My husband's not here. He's gone to visit a friend and won't be back until late tonight. You had better come again later.' Again she did not deny that Robin Gaunt and Robert de Ghent were one and the same person. And she continued to speak English.

I swore silently at this piece of ill luck. By coming so early in the day, I had made certain of finding the old man at home. It meant I had had a wasted trip and entailed a second visit tonight or tomorrow.

But I wondered suddenly if it need, after all, be a wasted visit. ‘Can I talk to you, mistress?' I asked, bringing all the old persuasive charm to bear.

‘Me?' The woman was plainly astounded. ‘What would I know about men's affairs?'

‘This is women's affairs, as well. You, I believe, were a member of the Duchess of York's household in Rouen. That's how you met your husband.'

She stared at me for a few moments longer before stepping back and holding the door open. ‘Come in,' she invited.

Hardly believing my luck, I followed her into a room where a fire burned on the open hearth and a rich aroma of savoury pottage made my mouth water. The furniture was sparse, but well made and some of it, I suspected, hand-carved. Several brightly coloured cushions and a blue-and-yellow woven cloth on the table saved the place from complete austerity, but there was not a lot in the way of creature comforts. Time had evidently not dealt too kindly with an Englishman abroad.

Mistress Gaunt, as I named her to myself, waved me to a stool by the fire while she took another opposite, where she could stir the stew every now and again. She looked at me, raising her eyebrows. ‘Now, then! What is this about? Who are you, and how did you find us?'

So I told her the whole story and my own reluctant part in it while she listened attentively, only stopping me when my English became too rapid for her to follow with ease. For the most part, she seemed to have little difficulty in understanding me, and when at last I had finished my tale, I congratulated her on her mastery of the language.

She laughed. ‘You don't marry an Englishman,' she answered drily, ‘and expect him to speak your tongue. It takes years before he'll even try.' She took a deep breath. ‘Now, let me see if I have these facts correctly. This is about the rumour that one of the duchess's bodyguard of archers was her lover during the time that the Duke of York was away fighting around Pontoise.'

I nodded eagerly. She rose and fetched two wooden beakers from a cupboard and filled them from a jug of that rough red wine the natives seemed to thrive on. Personally, I found it too strong for my taste, but I made my usual pretence of enjoying it. When I had taken a couple of mouthfuls, I asked, ‘How long was the Pontoise campaign?'

Mistress Gaunt pursed her lips and considered her answer carefully. ‘Six or seven weeks, perhaps. I think it was late August by the time the duke and his troops returned to Rouen.'

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. ‘And during that time, was there any talk of the Duchess Cicely taking a lover from amongst her guard of archers?'

My companion shrugged and answered much as Jane Armiger had done in response to the same query. ‘There were always rumours. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.'

‘Did she have a roving eye? Did she like men? Was she a faithful wife?'

‘If she wasn't, she was very discreet.' There was a note of asperity in Mistress Gaunt's voice and she showed a heightened colour.

‘This archer,' I pursued relentlessly, ‘this Blackburn or Blaybourne or whatever he was called, was he handsome do you remember?'

There was a longish pause before Mistress Gaunt said, somewhat reluctantly, ‘Yes. Very handsome.' There was something in her tone that made me think that she had fancied this ‘very handsome' man herself.

‘What was he like to look at?' I asked quickly before the little spurt of jealousy (if it was that) had time to fade. ‘Tall and fair? Short and stout?'

‘Short and stout?' She laughed dismissively. ‘I've told you, he was handsome. Over six feet in his stockinged feet and so blond his hair was flaxen in the sunlight.'

I drew a sharp breath. She might have been describing King Edward in his golden youth, ‘the handsomest prince in Europe'.

‘Not like the Duke of York, then,' I suggested. ‘I've always heard that he was short and dark, rather like the Duke of Gloucester.'

She eyed me narrowly. ‘What are you saying? Do you think . . .?'

‘What do you think?' I countered. ‘King Edward's birthday is at the end of April. If he was not born prematurely and you count back nine months, that would mean conception was the end of July, when, according to you, the Duke of York was away fighting at Pontoise.'