The Dance of Death (34 page)

Mistress Gaunt sat staring at me without speaking for at least half a minute while she bit at a rough piece of skin around her left thumbnail. Finally, with a shake of her head, she said, ‘You might be right, but then again, you might not. If your king Edward had been late arriving, then who is to say that he was not conceived before his father left on campaign? I agree that his likeness to Archer Blaybourne is a point in favour of whatever it is you and your duke are trying to prove –' she was an intelligent woman: she knew exactly what we were trying to prove – ‘but many children do not necessarily resemble their parents. In some cases that I know of, there is a great disparity of feature. King Edward may well look like his mother.'

I sighed. She was right, of course. There was nothing here to declare positively that Edward of Rouen was the son of a common archer and not the proud Plantagenet he claimed to be. And if Duchess Cicely still refused to confirm that long-gone accusation . . .

Mistress Gaunt broke in on my thoughts with the self-same query. ‘What does my lady of York herself say? She is the only one who knows the truth.'

I finished the last mouthful of wine and rose to my feet. ‘She says nothing, nor will she, I think, however much she secretly believes Duke Richard to be the rightful king.'

My companion gave a little cry. ‘You think she really thinks that?'

It was my turn to shrug. ‘Frankly, mistress, I don't know what anyone's thoughts on the subject really are. The only thing I'm sure of is that this was an abortive errand from the beginning, and unlikely to produce any positive evidence one way or another. The duchess . . .'

Mistress Gaunt was not listening. She had gone over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, letting in the cold November air as she leaned out over the sill, glancing up and down the alleyway outside.

‘What is it?' I asked sharply.

She withdrew her head, looking sheepish. ‘It's nothing. I was convinced I heard somebody outside, that is all, but there's no one there.'

‘The street's full of people and wagons and animals,' I said, impatience colouring my tone. ‘If you don't mind, I'll come back again this evening, mistress, and speak to your husband. At what hour do you expect him home?'

‘Probably to supper,' she replied, but absentmindedly, as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘Of course,' she went on, ‘there was that extremely odd business of the christenings. I don't think I've ever seriously considered it before, but now . . . Yes, looking back, it does seem odd.'

‘What business of the christenings?' I demanded eagerly.

She motioned me to sit down again and reseated herself on the stool opposite, where she appeared to drop into a reverie.

‘Well?' The sound of my voice made her jump. ‘What about the christening?'

‘Christenings,' she corrected me. ‘The lord Edward's and his brother's, the lord Edmund's, two years later.'

The lord Edmund? I cudgelled my brains, then recollected vaguely that there had been another brother between King Edward and the Duke of Clarence: Edmund, later Earl of Rutland.

‘Go on,' I urged.

Mistress Gaunt poured us both more wine and took several sips before continuing. ‘Lord Edward's christening – remember he was the eldest son, the first-born male – was a very muted affair. No great fuss was made, no great throng of guests assembled, and it took place in a small, private chapel in Rouen Castle. But Lord Edmund's christening was magnificent. The ceremony was held in Rouen Cathedral – jewels, velvets, both English and French dignitaries present. Above all, the Duke and Duchess of York had managed to persuade the Rouen Cathedral Chapter to grant the supreme honour of allowing them to use the font in which Duke Rollo of Normandy had been baptized into Christianity, and which, ever since, had been kept covered as a mark of respect. It was an unheard-of concession. We were all amazed. You would have thought,' she added reflectively, ‘that Edmund, not Edward, was his father's heir.' She shook her head ruefully. ‘Why has that never struck me until now? And I was present, on both occasions.'

I was trembling with excitement. ‘And it was Edmund of Rutland who was killed alongside the duke twenty-odd years ago, at Wakefield – which might mean nothing, or it might mean a preference by the Duke of York for his seemingly second son.'

My companion brought me down to earth. ‘It's still not proof,' she pointed out.

‘Not solid proof,' I admitted. ‘But it means something, surely.'

‘Perhaps. Yes, I think it is . . . suggestive.'

‘Oh, more than that,' I insisted.

She laughed and said in her astonishingly good English, ‘I'm certain even the most inexperienced lawyer could find you a dozen good reasons why my lord of York preferred the company of his second son to that of his first-born. Fathers and eldest sons do not always see eye to eye.'

‘Maybe not, when they're older. But I doubt discrimination starts in the cradle, as it seems to have done in this case.'

Nevertheless, as I made my way back to the Rue de la Barillerie through Paris's crowded streets, I reflected that Mistress Gaunt was right: her account of the two very different christenings, a pointer though it might be to the true state of affairs, was not the sort of solid proof that my lord of Gloucester could adduce to bolster his claim to the throne (if, of course, that was indeed his aim). I would return this evening, after supper, and talk to Robin Gaunt himself in the hope that he might be able to help me further, but I very much doubted his ability to do so. It was all too long ago. Duchess Cicely was the only one now who knew the truth, and she seemed reluctant to speak.

As I forged a path down the busy Rue Saint-Denis, I got the oddest impression, every now and then, of the same figure weaving in and out of the throng of people and traffic just ahead of me – a faintly familiar figure but one that never paused long enough to be immediately identifiable. I quickened my pace, but the press was too great and I never managed to catch up with my elusive quarry. In the end, I decided I was imagining things.

I reached our lodgings in time for dinner and one of Marthe's delicious rabbit stews, but too late to accompany Eloise to the Hôtel Saint-Pol, where amidst royal splendour, Olivier le Daim was staying. According to John Bradshaw, word had been received from Jules, just after I had left that morning, of Monsieur le Daim's sudden arrival in Paris very late the previous evening, but with the additional information that his stay would be brief and that he would probably be quitting the city by tonight. It was therefore imperative that Eloise present herself at once, and upon discovering my absence, she had been forced to go alone. Whether or not she would get to see her cousin was another matter altogether, but she had to try.

‘She's furious,' John warned me with a rueful grin. ‘I suppose you've been out and about on business of your own, but of course I couldn't say so to the lady.' He grinned. ‘I'd watch your back if I were you, or you may find yourself with a knife between the shoulder blades.'

I discovered that he wasn't exaggerating Eloise's anger. I was in our bedchamber when, sometime during the afternoon, she returned. I heard her run upstairs and she burst through the door like a small whirlwind. Without even bothering to take off her cloak, she launched herself at me, fists hammering my chest, eyes flashing, feet kicking at my shins.

‘Where have you been?' she shouted. ‘Where were you? Sneaking off like that just when I needed you.'

I caught both her wrists and gripped them cruelly, making her gasp with pain. ‘Be quiet, you termagant!' I yelled back. ‘Can't you get it through your stupid little head that I am not your husband? That it's only a game we're playing! I'm sure you didn't need my help with your own cousin. You only had to flutter those eyelashes of yours and pout your lips to get past any number of his servants. So? Did you get to see him? Did you find out what the king wants to know?'

For answer, she wrenched her wrists free of my slackened grasp and clawed at my face. Or would have done, had I given her the chance. Instead, I caught her in a crushing embrace, savagely stopping her mouth with my own. I could smell the scent of her hair, feel the softness of her skin. My senses swam. For a moment or two, she fought me like a wild cat, but then, suddenly, surrendered. Her arms encircled my neck and she was returning my kisses with fervour.

I suppose what happened next was inevitable, and had been so for the past two weeks, ever since we were forced into playing this ridiculous charade of being man and wife. Well, at the time it seemed inevitable. That's my only defence.

I'm not proud of myself. I'm a married man. I knew I was laying up months, if not years, of regret and guilt, but at the time it seemed worth it.

But then, it always does. Doesn't it?

Twenty

Eloise and I descended to the parlour for dinner, both trying to appear composed and as innocent as if we had been discussing the weather, but I saw John Bradshaw glance at us and then glance again, a longer, more searching look that eventually produced a small, knowing, half-embarrassed smile. His eyes slid away from us as he turned to study the fire burning merrily on the hearth, and he stooped, holding out his hands to the blaze.

Marthe bustled in with the pot of stew, which she placed on the table, made certain we had everything we needed, then trotted out again. There was no sign of Philip, although I heard his voice upraised in the kitchen saying a few words in what even I could tell was execrable French, and which Marthe had evidently been teaching him. I was thankful to be spared his beady gaze. He was always more astute than people gave him credit for, and would have interpreted in a minute Eloise's suppressed air of triumph and my own faintly guilty look.

John took his seat and helped himself to a generous serving of stew before addressing the lady. ‘So, mistress, you managed to see your cousin, or so you implied when you first came in. Since when, you seem to have been busy upstairs – as you ladies so often are.' He concentrated on the spoonful of pottage he was conveying to his mouth, refusing resolutely to look at either of us. He went on, ‘Did you learn anything from Maître le Daim? Anything of what King Edward wants to know?'

‘Oh, it wasn't difficult to gain access to him,' was the airy response. ‘He recalled my mother and we talked a little of family matters. But after that, I asked him openly – simply as a woman who takes an intelligent interest in affairs of state – if the rumours that King Louis is to make peace with Burgundy and marry the dauphin to Maximilian's daughter are true.'

‘And what was his reply?'

Eloise laughed. ‘He seemed astonished that I didn't already know the answers, as I had so recently been in England. He thought it must be common knowledge there by now that a treaty is to be signed between France and Burgundy at Arras, at the end of next month. The marriage of the dauphin to Margaret of Burgundy will be arranged at the same time, and a part of her marriage portion will include the county of Artois.'

John Bradshaw drew a deep breath and laid down his spoon, staring before him, lost in thought. I could guess what those thoughts must be, but I waited for him to voice them. ‘So that's the end of King Edward's pension from Louis,' he said at last. He added even more slowly and with conviction, ‘It will kill him. That and the humiliation of his eldest daughter.'

‘Oh, come!' I expostulated. ‘It surely can't be as bad as that. It is humiliating, I agree, and the loss of the money is bound to be a blow to him, but as for killing him, that, surely, is overstating the matter.'

John raised his sombre eyes to mine and looked at me directly. ‘I don't think you appreciate just how ill the king really is,' he said. ‘He's lived life to the full and now his health is fragile. And he was relying on a marriage alliance between England and France to secure the money King Louis has paid him, ever since Picquigny, for the rest of his life. My guess is that we shall see King Edward the Fifth on the throne before a twelvemonth has passed.'

Was it my imagination or did his gaze intensify as he stared at me? Had he suspected, or even guessed, what my secret mission might be? I lowered my eyes quickly to my plate and concentrated on eating.

‘But he's a child,' I heard Eloise say. ‘A child ruler is never good for a country.'

‘The Prince of Wales is twelve,' John Bradshaw reproved her. ‘On the brink of manhood. And he has powerful uncles.'

So he did, but which uncles, I wondered, was John referring to? The prince had only one on the spear side of his family, but at least three on the distaff. And Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, had been head of the prince's household, at Ludlow, for many years now. His influence with young Edward must be predominant.

Eloise's voice interrupted my wandering thoughts. ‘I told Olivier that I'm in Paris with my husband. He'd like to meet you, Roger, but as he must leave again not later than tonight, I promised I would take you to the Hôtel Saint-Pol after supper.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm sorry,' I said abruptly. ‘I can't come.'

I saw John look hard at me, and this time I met his gaze unflinchingly. He gave an almost imperceptible nod to show he understood.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it. Eloise tried her damndest to make me change my mind. She cajoled, she persuaded, she sulked, she even swore in a most unladylike fashion, and when I finally said that thank God I was not really her husband, she indulged in a minor bout of hysterics that only abated when she saw that I remained entirely unmoved by it. In fact, what had happened between us before dinner might never have been. Our former barbed relationship had been resumed, at least by me, and I think the realization that nothing had changed shocked her. I don't know what she had expected, and at that moment, I didn't care. I had other things to think about.