‘And a very good job you done of it, too, my old sweetheart,’ endorsed Ned Chorley. ‘’E’s a credit to you, and that’s the truth.’
‘When did you decide on the mummers’ life?’ I asked.
The old man shrugged. ‘Some twenty years back, maybe. Times were hard. The nobles were still fighting each other. Sometimes we had one king, sometimes another. A man didn’t know where he was. We’ — he jerked his head at Tabitha — ‘were living near Romsey at the time trying to keep body and soul together, selling a few vegetables, taking in washing. And then this troupe o’mummers arrived and every single one o’them died of the plague. Terrible summer for plague, it were.’ Tabitha nodded gravely. ‘So there was their stuff all left with no one to claim it, lying rotting in a field. I says to Tabitha, why not? Shall we try our luck? May make a better living at it than what we’re doing now. She said yes and we’ve been on the road ever since. Young Toby then were only two. He ain’t ever known any other way o’life.’
‘You can read?’ I asked.
‘Grandmother can,’ Tobias answered, spearing a slice of goat’s milk cheese on the end of his knife. ‘She teaches the rest of us our parts. Tried to learn me my letters once,’ he added cheerfully, ‘but I ain’t got no head for words. Not written down, that is. I’m all right at reciting.’
They went on talking for quite a while after that, answering the children’s eager questions as to how certain stunts and tricks were done, while I poured more ale for us all and watched with anxious eyes as the level in the barrel slowly dropped. And it was about that time that I began to reflect that there was a gap, quite a big one, in both Tabitha Warrener’s and Ned Chorley’s life histories that they hadn’t told us about. And neither had mentioned how the latter came to be so maimed, even though he obviously had difficulty using a knife with his right hand. He had seen me looking curiously at him, too, but had offered no explanation.
Not, of course, that it was any of my business. And to be fair, I’d noticed how they all stared curiously around them, obviously wondering how a mere pedlar — for I had told them that much — could afford such a house. So, in the hope of encouraging equal frankness, I briefly recounted how I and my family came to be living in Small Street and the service I had rendered Cicely Ford which had provoked this generous return.
‘You’m clever with your brain, then,’ Ned Chorley remarked admiringly. ‘Can read and write.’
I have no idea what made Adela say what she did next, for she is normally as reticent concerning my achievements as she is about her own.
‘Oh, he’s clever all right.’ She smiled proudly at me. ‘He’s done favours for a lot of people, including our present king. Indeed, he was given a place at the coronation and at the feast afterwards as a reward for his services.’
I’m not sure that any of them really believed her, but they had the good manners to pretend that they did and exclaimed suitably. But the conversation then naturally drifted to the dramatic events of the past year and to the fact that this same time last December no one would have believed that King Edward would be dead by now.
‘And if we had believed it,’ Tabitha said, ‘no one would’ve thought to see the old king’s brother wearing the crown instead of his little son.’
Ned Chorley then proved himself to be a man after my own heart. ‘Well, a good job Richard o’Gloucester did take the crown,’ he said positively. ‘We didn’t want no Woodville brat on the throne and all his family ruling the roost. Like cocks on a dunghill, they’d have been. And a very good king King Richard’s proving to be.’
‘I dunno about that,’ Arthur Monkton demurred. ‘What about this here story that he’s had the boy king and his brother killed?’
Before I could say anything, the old man spluttered, ‘You don’ want t’believe shit like that, lad. That’s a lot o’moonshine, that is.’
‘Then why don’t he produce the boys and say, “Look! Here they are, so stop yer chattering!”?’ demanded the other man.
I waited with bated breath to hear what Ned Chorley’s answer would be, for the question was still troubling me.
‘Strategy!’ he exclaimed scathingly. ‘Strategy, son! Something what you young fellows knows nothing about. He’s a good soldier is our present king. Fighting in the field, he were, long before he were our Toby’s age.’
‘What strategy?’ Monkton scoffed.
Ned stabbed at him across the table with the point of his knife. ‘There’s been one rising already on behalf o’them boys, and if King Richard produces them and says, “Look, here they are!” like what you want him to do, there’ll be another. So, he don’t say nothing.’
‘But if the king says nothing,’ Tobias objected, ‘all them lords as don’t like him and think he ain’t entitled to the throne, they’ll just go and join that there Henry Tudor.’
‘No, they won’t!’ Ned thumped the table in his excitement. ‘’Cos they won’t be certain, neither, that the boys are dead.’ He glanced triumphantly around him. ‘That’s the beauty of it. That’s what I mean by strategy! King Richard’s a soldier to his fingertips. He knows how to keep the enemy guessing. They’m paralysed now, not sure which way to jump. That’s what your true strategist does. He keeps everyone guessing.’
I had to restrain myself from getting up and hugging him. All the same: ‘Where do you think the children are then, Master Chorley?’ I asked, refilling his beaker with a generous measure of ale.
‘Still in the Tower?’ Adela wanted to know.
‘Nah!’ Ned took a drink, then chewed a split fingernail. ‘I reckon as he’s had them moved secretly up to Yorkshire, to one of them big strongholds of his. Middleham. Sheriff Hutton, maybe. Travelling under cover of darkness — and at this time o’year there’s plenty of that — they could be there before anyone got wind o’the move.’
‘And what happens when they grow up?’ Tabitha asked in her practical way. ‘The elder’s twelve already. Nearly a man. They won’t be content to remain in the shadows.’
Ned snorted. ‘King Richard will’ve established himself by then. Everyone’ll know what a good king he is. They won’t want no other.’
Tabitha shook her head. ‘I don’t believe that. Oh, not that he won’t be a good king! He were a good soldier and strategist, as you said. No need to get up in yer high ropes, Ned. But if Saint Peter himself were king, he’d make enemies of someone. There’s always some malcontents wanting a change, no matter how sweet you try to keep them. That there Duke o’Buckingham’s a case in point. And the boys’ whereabouts aren’t going to remain a secret for ever.’
Ned looked irritated, but he knew she was right. ‘That’s for the future,’ he said, brushing her objection aside. ‘He can’t be expected to think of everything right now. He’ll take it one step at a time. What d’you think, Master Chapman? If what your dame says is true, you know His Highness a deal better than the rest of us.’
‘I think you’re probably correct,’ I agreed. ‘In some ways, the king’s a very trusting man. Lets his heart rule his head more than he should. Loyauté me lie is his watchword as well as his motto, which is why I suspect that Buckingham’s betrayal must have hit him hard.’
‘Oh, well, maybe it’ll serve as a warning to him,’ Tabitha said, pushing back her stool and getting to her feet. ‘That were a tasty meal, Mistress Chapman. All the same, we can’t impose on your hospitality any longer. Toby, come upstairs with me and see how Dorcas is going on.’