‘Come back early in the morning,’ I said, ‘and we’ll go to see Duchess Margaret’s entry into the city together.’
‘I may. I may not,’ was his lofty parting shot.
But I knew that he would.
I slept badly. I was lonely. Not for the first time in my life, my own company proved to be no satisfaction. I missed Adela. I missed the children. I even missed Adam. I wondered if I were sickening for something.
I awoke, bad-tempered and unrefreshed, to an inn and a city already humming with life and the anticipation of pageantry and spectacle. And by the time I had finished a breakfast of oatcakes and honey, cold boiled mutton and a mazer of ale I, too, was beginning to relish the prospect of seeing a bedecked and bedizened London, ready to welcome home one of its own. Margaret of York had been young, pretty and popular when she had left for Burgundy twelve years earlier. She might now be older, staider, wiser, even plainer, but she would receive the same rapturous applause.
‘The procession’ll be coming through the Ald Gate,’ Bertram informed me, arriving just as I was finishing my meal. ‘Cornhill, the Poultry, Stocks Market, past the Grocers’ and Mercers’ Halls, where the Duchess will be greeted by some of the Guildsmen, then along West Cheap – more greetings, and probably gifts from the goldsmiths: they’re an ingratiating lot – St Paul’s, the Lud Gate and along the Strand to Westminster, where the King and all the royal family will be waiting to greet her. Not the Prince of Wales, of course. He lives at Ludlow.’ Master Serifaber wrinkled his nose in indignation ‘You’ve had boiled mutton!’ he accused me. ‘Not fair! All I had was a pickled herring.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, that sounds like the kind of breakfast I remember at Baynard’s Castle. The Duchess of York isn’t the most generous of providers, if I remember rightly.’
My companion poured the remainder of the ale from the jug into my mazer, and drank. ‘Duchess Cicely’, he said feelingly, ‘expects everyone to lead the same sort of ascetic, religious life as she does at Berkhamsted. I’m glad I don’t belong to her household. Thank heaven Duke Richard is more liberal in his ideas. That’s one thing to be said for living in Yorkshire: plenty of good food.’
He sniffed again, piteously, so I ordered him a plate of boiled mutton and some oatcakes. When, finally, he could make himself understood once more, he enquired, ‘Where do you want to watch the procession? West Cheap or Westminster? Duke Richard, Duchess Anne, Duchess Cicely and all their followers – hundreds of ’em: I couldn’t be bothered to count – rode to Westminster very early this morning, so Fleet Street and the Strand should have cleared a bit by now.’
‘I’ll abide by your decision, lad. Whichever you recommend.’
‘Well …’ Bertram ran his tongue around his teeth, making sure that he had found every last scrap of meat. ‘Westminster will be just about as crowded as West Cheap, but with my livery I can probably find us both a place among my lord’s retainers.’ He patted his chest importantly.
‘Then Westminster let it be.’ I got to my feet. ‘At the same time, we can go over the ground again that Fulk Quantrell must have covered the night he was killed. Now, if you’ve finished trying to scrape the bottom out of that plate, we’ll make a start.’
But I had been foolishly optimistic in imagining that our walk to Westminster would provide us with an opportunity to discover any more concerning the Burgundian’s death. The whole journey, beginning in Bucklersbury, on through West Cheap and continuing beyond the Lud Gate, was a nightmare of people pressing in on us from every side. On at least three occasions the crowds were so thick that we were unable to move for several minutes. The first time, it was even difficult to breathe.
It was a pickpocket’s dream of paradise and I congratulated myself that I had the bulk of my money in a pouch strapped around my waist under my shirt and breeches. Mind you, it was a grave disadvantage when what few loose coins I had had been filched and I wanted to buy a meat pie or a jellied eel from a street vendor. These persistent gentlemen (and – women) were as numerous as their criminal associates, and indeed, quite often they worked together, the vendor distracting the customer’s attention while the thief relieved him of his purse. However, either my commanding height and size or the Duke of Gloucester’s blue and murrey livery, worn by Bertram, or perhaps both, gave us a freer passage through the throng than we might have otherwise expected.
In West Cheap, two arches of marguerites, each beaten gold flower-head trembling on its fine wire stalk, had been raised. A choir of ‘angels’ – local boys, reluctantly recruited, whose mothers humiliated them by constantly shouting advice and instructions from the crowd – waited to greet the illustrious guest. A little further on, the more professional choristers of St Paul’s jostled for position, each one hoping, I presumed, that the beauty of his singing might recommend him to the Duchess and earn him a place at the Burgundian court. The Lud Gate was decorated with shields of stiffened paper displaying the red cross of Saint George and the white rose of York. People were dressed in their Sunday clothes, and everywhere there was a general atmosphere of carnival and holiday.
Bertram and I were not the only two making for Westminster, in the belief that it offered a better vantage point for viewing the Duchess than the overcrowded roadway of West Cheap. The thoroughfare out of London was packed with citizens sweating in a burst of sudden warmth. Typically, May had decided to stop imitating January and was pretending to be July instead; in short, the weather was showing all the usual vagaries of an English spring.
As we walked, or rather pushed our way, along Fleet Street, I glanced in the direction of Faitour Lane, but there was, of course, nothing to be seen. The beggars congregated in the alley’s mouth were rattling their tin cups, baring their sores and trusting that a suitable display of enthusiasm for the Londoners’ princess would loosen their fellow citizens’ purse strings.
We at last managed to move on into the Strand. The going was easier here, where the road was wider and the smell of the open countryside counteracted the stench of the city. The gardens of the great houses on either side were also beginning to bloom in earnest, and the faint breeze blowing inland off the river brought a hint of summer trailing in its wake.
Bertram indicated the three smaller dwellings to our left, just beyond the Fleet Sreet bridge. ‘I was right. The middle one does belong to Godfrey and Judith St Clair. I asked Master Plummer last night. The one on its left, as we face them, is Master Joliffe’s house.’
‘And to its right?’
My companion shook his head. ‘I didn’t ask, and Master Plummer didn’t say. No one of importance, I daresay. At least, nothing to do with the murder.’
I stared long and curiously at Godfrey St Clair’s house, being roundly cursed by the people whose progress I was impeding, but there was no sign of life. Master, wife and servants were all abroad, waiting for the Duchess’s arrival. And at that moment, the faint and distant sound of cheering suggested that she had at last made an appearance at the Ald Gate.
‘We’d better hurry,’ Bertram urged, tugging at my elbow.
Quite a few people now stayed where they were, lining both sides of the Strand, but we battled on to Westminster.