The Duke had paused, looking deep into her eyes, then, with a sigh, he had leaned forward and kissed his mother on the forehead. ‘Very well. If I find Anne safe and well, I’ll lay no charges.’ He had added with a wry smile: ‘I’m fond of George, too, damn him!’
And so, when we finally arrived at the Crossed Hands inn, after a ride in which I rode pillion behind my little friend rescued from the pieman, there had been no arrests, no violence, only a polite, but deadly quiet request to be conducted to the Lady Anne Neville. I had expected bluster and denials from Martin Trollope, but he must have seen from the Duke’s eyes that the game was up, because my lord was conducted upstairs at once. No one was witness to his reunion with his cousin, or heard what they said to one another, but when the Duke finally brought her down to the courtyard, her eyes shone like stars. I don’t think, either before or since, I have ever seen two people more in love than Richard of Gloucester and Lady Anne Neville.
After a few scathing words for Martin Trollope, and some words for me which I have already related, the Duke and his lady had departed for St Martin-le-Grand, but some of his men had been left behind. It was the one condition I had daringly laid down, before telling His Grace my story, that the inn premises should be thoroughly searched, particularly the cellars. I had been hoping to discover evidence of murder and robbery, and I think the Duke had been hoping so, too, because then he could have brought charges against Martin Trollope on counts not involving his brother. But there was no evidence to find, and my accusations had brought strenuous denials from the landlord. He denied with equal vigour sending Matilda Ford after me this evening to kill me, and protested that he had been unaware either of my suspicions or my intentions. And, as I said, I found myself believing his story.
So where did that leave my quest for the truth concerning Clement Weaver? No doubt God still wished me to continue, but I was suddenly too tired to care. I felt I had done enough; and perhaps, after all, in finding the Lady Anne and restoring her to the man she loved I had fulfilled God’s purpose. Maybe Clement Weaver and Sir Richard Mallory had been merely the means to an end, and I had mistaken God’s real intention. Yes; that was it. I had achieved what I had been sent to London to do and now I could move on.
I had a sudden yearning for the countryside; for the forests and moorland, the scattered villages and hamlets, the walled towns islanded in seas of green. I wanted to hear the lapping of streams over pebbles, smell the acrid scent of distant bonfires, see the swirling morning mists. I had enjoyed London, but I had had enough of it. I was ready to move on.
‘I shall be leaving in the morning,’ I said, raising my eyes from their contemplation of the flames and smiling at Thomas Prynne. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but after tonight I shan’t be troubling you again.’
‘No trouble, no trouble at all!‘ he exclaimed a shade too heartily, and I realized that he was probably relieved. He and Abel did too little business at the Baptist’s Head to offer free lodgings for any length of time. It was only my acquaintance with Marjorie Dyer which had made him feel obliged to take me in … The name of Marjorie Dyer brought me up short as I remembered her connection with Matilda Ford and the Crossed Hands inn. I felt the stirrings of unease again, as though God were reminding me that I had not accomplished all my mission. There was something I still had not discovered about that place, I was sure of it.
‘Anything wrong, lad?’ Thomas Prynne inquired, evidently noting some change in my expression.
‘No, no,’ I lied hurriedly, ‘nothing at all. And now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go to bed. I shall sleep like the dead tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.’
Thomas nodded and got up to light my candle. ‘We shall see you in the morning, then, at breakfast, to say our farewells.’
‘Er — Yes. Yes. Good night, Master Parsons.’
‘We shan’t meet again, then,’ he said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand.
‘No … No, I don’t suppose so.’
I caught an exchange of glances between Thomas and Abel, and realized that my hesitations had revealed my wavering purpose. They had been hoping to get rid of me; now, they could sense that I was on the verge of changing my mind. Thomas sought to help me change it back again.
He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘As it’s your last night with us, you shall have the very best room. A fitting end to an eventful sojourn in London. What do you say, Abel? As Master Farmer still hasn’t turned up, let our chapman friend have his bed.’
‘By all means!‘ Abel agreed, giving me a friendly smile.
‘A man who has rendered service to the Duke of Gloucester deserves only the finest this inn can offer. Furthermore, Roger shall be treated like an honoured guest. Half a loaf of white bread and a jug of our best wine for his all-night.‘
‘Of course!‘ Thomas was beaming. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? And one of us will lend you a night-shirt. Unless your pack includes such an item?’
I shook my head ruefully. ‘When would I use it?’
‘True! True!’ Abel said, laughing. ‘Bring your candle and let me conduct you to bed. For one night, at least, you can sleep like a prince. That mattress is the best in London.’
I took this with the proverbial pinch of salt, as no doubt I was meant to, and followed Abel upstairs to the room I had noted early that morning. Abel set the candle down on top of the oak cupboard, beside the one already there in the pewter holder. The halo of light illuminated the huge four- poster bed with its tester and curtains of rubbed red velvet, and was reflected in the polished metal of the mirror. The clothes-chest was now shut and I could see that its heavy lid was intricately carved with a pattern of intertwined roses. The scent of lavender and spices, however, still lingered on the air.
As I set down my pack and stick, which I had brought up with me, Thomas came in carrying a tray bearing the promised all-night, and with a night-shirt draped over one arm. ‘Here we are, then, lad,’ he said, depositing the first on top of the cupboard and tossing the other on to the bed. ‘Sleep well. We’ll see you in the morning.’
I thanked them both, at the same time wondering how I was going to break it to them tomorrow that I had changed my mind and intended to stay a while longer in London. Perhaps I could find other lodgings, but the prospect daunted me. Besides, I wanted to be near the Crossed Hands inn. I started to undo the laces of my tunic, wondering what had become of Matilda Ford, but I was really too weary to care. I was paying the price for the excitement of the past few hours and the exertions of the day. My whole body ached and my mind felt clogged with dreams. I looked forward to undressing; to ridding myself of the clothes I had worn for so many days; to putting on the soft, white night-shirt and tumbling into bed; to consuming my all-night at leisure before finally closing my eyes.
But it was not to be. I allowed myself to drop back against the goose-feather pillows for a moment, my tunic still half unlaced, and I must straightway have fallen asleep. Almost at once, I was in the middle of a strange, wild dream. I was in Pudding Street, outside the whorehouse, and the cloaked figure was advancing on me, knife upraised, but I could neither move or speak. Susan and the other prostitutes were there behind me, but they were laughing and jeering, doing nothing to help. I heard one of them say: ‘The man’s a fool, a common chapman!‘ and another one answered: ‘What can you expect?’ My assailant was nearly upon me now, and the hood fell back from the livid face. The foxy-coloured hair and pale blue eyes were Matilda Ford’s, but while I watched, petrified, she seemed to grow and the features became those of Abel Sampson. ‘We’ve been expecting you! Expecting you!’ he whispered, his voice gradually fading away…
The scene changed abruptly, as happens in dreams. I was no longer outside Mother Bindloss’s, but sitting with Robert, Lady Mallory’s steward, in his room next to the buttery in Tuffnel Manor. ‘His passion was wine,’ Robert was saying, over and over again. ‘His passion was wine.’