I slipped quietly down the stairs, passed once again within an inch of Martin Trollope’s back, grabbed my pack and stick and was out into Crooked Lane without giving myself time to think of the danger. Then, my heart thudding against my ribs, I made my way thankfully to the safety of the Baptist’s Head to consult Thomas Prynne.
‘You’re sure of the facts, lad? Absolutely certain?’
I didn’t blame Thomas Prynne or Abel Sampson for not entirely believing me. I found the situation difficult to believe myself, so I had not overstretched their credulity by repeating my other suspicions regarding Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. I knew now what I was going to do about that, but there was the rescue of Lady Anne to be accomplished first.
There were still a few hours left before curfew. The early October day had latterly been a fine one and no obscuring clouds added to the encroaching darkness. I had eaten hurriedly at the kitchen table while telling my story to my two hosts, and regretting, busy as my mind was with other things, that I could not do more justice to Thomas’s cooking. Beneath their initial reluctance to accept my story, I could sense interest and excitement at such events happening in their neighbourhood. There was an air of tension in the kitchen.
‘Where will I find the Duke of Gloucester?’ I asked them.
Abel glanced at Thomas and raised his eyebrows. ‘I believe that when in London he lodges with his mother, the Duchess of York, at Baynard’s Castle.’
Thomas nodded in agreement.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked him.
‘Not far from the Steelyard, fronting on to the river. It belonged once to the Black Friars and that part of the city still bears their name.’
‘I think I’ve seen it,’ I said. ‘A great house with battlements and towers.’
Once again Thomas nodded, but he was beginning to look apprehensive. ‘You’re sure you know what you’re doing, lad? The Duke won’t thank you if you lead him on a wild goose chase. You’re positive that the Lady Anne Neville is missing?’
‘I had the story from one of the Duke’s own servants. I explained that to you just now.’
I must have sounded as impatient as I felt, because Abel said sharply: ‘There’s no need to lose your temper. Thomas is only trying to stop you making a fool of yourself. According to your story, you haven’t actually seen this woman who’s supposed to be hidden at the Crossed Hands inn.’
I swallowed my irritation, realizing that both he and his partner were only preaching caution for my own good. ‘ I’m sorry,’ I said contritely, ‘but I’m as certain as I can be that she’s the Lady Anne, and if I don’t go to my lord of Gloucester with my information, such as it is, I feel I should be failing in my duty.’ Although why I should feel a greater sense of duty towards one royal brother than the other was something I could not explain, even to myself. Perhaps it was to do with being born on the same day; or with the immediate sense of affection which the young Duke had inspired in me the previous morning, when I had watched him ride past St Paul’s. And then, everyone spoke well of the King’s youngest brother, while few had a good word to say for my lord of Clarence. But whatever the reason, my loyalty to, and my sense of affinity with, Richard of Gloucester began in that moment and has never since been eroded. (I think I may have said something similar elsewhere in this narrative. If so, forgive me, but that man has been the lodestar of my life.)
‘Well, if you must go, you must, I suppose,’ Thomas said, getting to his feet and disappearing from the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a mazer brimming over with a pungent liquid. ‘Some of our very best ale,’ he told me, setting the mazer down on the table. ‘It’s going to be a chilly evening. You’ll need something to keep out the cold.’
‘And to give you courage,’ Abel Sampson added drily. I reached out greedily for the mazer, then abruptly withdrew my hand. I remembered last night and the way I had been unable to hold my wine. The last thing I wanted was to present myself at Baynard’s Castle even slightly drunk, and even if the ale proved to be less potent than the inn’s Bordeaux, I was still unwilling to take the risk.
‘What’s wrong?’ Thomas asked, offended. ‘I told you, that ale’s our very best.’
‘I’m not doubting your word for an instant.’ My tone was placatory. ‘It’s just that I’d rather keep a clear head! ‘
‘Ah!’ Thomas smiled understandingly. ‘Of course! In that case, we shall excuse you, shan’t we, Abel?’
His partner grinned, with some derision. I felt uncomfortable. Abel had never made me as welcome as Thomas, but then, why should he? Marjorie Dyer was not his friend. But my thoughts shied away from that name. When all was revealed about the Crossed Hands inn, Thomas Prynne might be in for an unpleasant shock.
I got up from the table, put on my rough frieze cloak, which I had taken out of my pack before supper, and once again picked up my stick.
‘Wish me luck,’ I said, smiling.
‘With all our hearts.’ Thomas held out his hand. ‘We shall both wait for your return with bated breath.’
Chapter 17
I don’t know exactly when I realized I was being followed. I had not hurried, going at an easy loping stride, because I had no wish to arrive at Baynard’s Castle flustered and out of breath. I should need to keep my wits about me, be calm and authoritative, if I was to stand any chance of seeing the Duke. As I made my way along Thames Street, still crowded at this time of the afternoon, I prayed that he would not be from home.
It was in the vicinity of the Bridge, where Fish Street runs northward towards East Cheap and the Bishop’s Gate, that I happened to glance behind me. It was chance that I did so: a shout or a noise of some kind had attracted my attention, but before I could locate its source or satisfy my curiosity, I was aware of a slight, hooded figure moving swiftly through the crowds in my wake. Even then, I should have taken no notice of it but for the fact that, as soon as I turned my head, the cloaked figure dodged hurriedly between two stalls and disappeared from view.
The person had been half-walking, half-running at such a rate and with such purpose that this sudden vanishing act intrigued me. Moreover, there was something familiar about the figure; the movement, the flow of the long cloak, the hood pulled well forward, concealing the face. Then it came to me. It was the man, or woman, I had seen in the early hours of this morning, hurrying up Crooked Lane and entering the Crossed Hands inn.
I continued on my way in the same steady fashion for several minutes, before turning my head for the second time. The cloaked figure was still there and had gained on me, so that I could now see skirts beneath the hem of the cloak. A woman, then! But who? The answer sprang to mind almost at once. Matilda Ford, Marjorie Dyer’s cousin. My presence at the Crossed Hands inn must, after all, have been noticed. Either that, or the chambermaid had mentioned our meeting to Martin Trollope. He, suspicious, had set Matilda to watch the Baptist’s Head, and when informed that I had set out again, had instructed her to follow. I was some way ahead by that time, and she had been forced to hurry in order to catch me up.
When I glanced back at her again, she immediately slowed her pace, pausing to inspect the remaining wares displayed on a butcher’s slab. I saw the man speak to her, but she shook her head and moved on slowly. I resumed my walking, but a few seconds later looked over my shoulder a third time, to find that she had nearly caught up with me. We had passed the entrance to London Bridge, and the crowds here were thinning as people finished their day’s marketing and began making their way home for the night. One or two shopkeepers were starting to carry their goods inside, although most continued to shout their wares, still hoping to attract last-minute custom.