‘Kitchen,’ he said briefly.
I repeated my request, but only succeeded in goading him to a frenzy.
‘Kitchen,’ he roared again.
‘I’m not here to sell anything,’ I answered quietly. ‘I wish to speak to Master Tuffnel about the mummers to whom he gives shelter every winter.’
‘Oh, them!’ The steward spoke scornfully. ‘Bunch of rogues! I don’t know why the master puts up with them.’ He flushed slightly, aware of having spoken out of turn, and to an inferior. He drew a deep breath preparatory to ordering me once more round to the kitchens.
He was forestalled by a shout of, ‘Oswald!’ An elderly gentleman in a furred cloak, and leaning heavily on an ivory-headed cane, was making his precarious way towards us. The steward started forward.
‘Master, you shouldn’t be out of doors in this weather. You might slip and break a leg. I can deal with this impudent fellow.’
The newcomer paid him no attention, instead looking steadily at me. ‘If you’re Roger the Chapman,’ he said, ‘as I presume you are by your pack, I’ve been expecting you. Give me your arm and we’ll go inside. Oswald,’ he addressed the steward once again, ‘have wine and biscuits sent to the little solar and then see to it that I’m not interrupted.’
So it was that, some ten or so minutes later, I had shed my pack and cloak and was gradually thawing out my grateful body in front of a roaring fire, while my host busied himself with piling yet more logs on the blaze.
‘Warmer now?’ he asked me. ‘You must have had a cold journey.’
I nodded, holding my hands to the flames, but I was not inclined to waste any time on small talk. ‘How do you know my name and why have you been expecting me?’ I demanded. ‘Where are Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley? I need to speak to them.’
Master Tuffnel seated himself in a chair opposite mine, on the other side of the hearth. I could see now that, as I had expected, he was an old man, probably in his seventies like Sir George Marvell and Alderman Trefusis.
‘One thing at a time, young man,’ he said with his pleasant smile. ‘I know your name because Tabitha told me about you. She also said that she would be very surprised if you failed to come after her and Ned. And, finally, you cannot speak to them because she, Ned and the others have gone.’
‘Gone?’ I jerked forward in my chair. ‘Where?’
‘To France.’
‘France?’ I stared at him stupidly.
‘To France,’ he repeated with emphasis.
‘When?’
‘Over a week ago. In fact, shortly after they arrived here. They set off for Southampton two days later and, as I’ve heard no more of them, I can only presume that they found a ship’s captain willing and able to take them and their gear. There are always a few willing to brave the winter storms in the Channel if, of course, they are offered sufficient money. And I understand that Ned and Tabitha did very well in Bristol.’
‘When … When will they be back?’ I wanted to know.
Master Tuffnel shook his head. ‘I fear they won’t be coming back. They intend to make their home in France. Both Ned and Tabitha spent so many years in that country that they can speak the language after a fashion. Well enough, at any rate, to make themselves understood. Tobias, Dorcas and her brother, Arthur, will learn it gradually. You need not be afraid for them.’
‘Afraid for them!’ I was on my feet, shaking with rage. ‘Afraid for those murdering ruffians! Do you know that they have brutally killed three men, one of them an entirely innocent young lad, as well as trying three times to murder me? Do you know this? Have they told you?’
At this moment, a serving-man appeared with a tray on which reposed a jug of wine and various plates of small cakes and biscuits. He looked aghast at me towering over his master, my features undoubtedly contorted with the anger I was feeling. I must have looked a menacing figure.
‘Are — are you all right, master?’ he stammered, setting down the tray. ‘Shall I call the other servants?’
Cyprian Tuffnel waved him away with an airy gesture of one hand. ‘No, my dear fellow, no! I’m sure I’m perfectly safe with Master Chapman.’
The man went with lagging steps, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. I sat down again in order to reassure him, but once the door had closed, I returned to the attack.
‘These people are murderers, sir,’ I said, slapping the arms of my chair and breathing hard. ‘They deserve no man’s goodwill, and certainly not mine.’
‘I understand your feelings, believe me,’ he said gently, ‘and I sympathize with them.’ He rose and poured out two glasses of wine, one of which he handed to me before resuming his seat. ‘But war, Master Chapman, is a brutal business and those of us who have been soldiers, particularly foot soldiers in the ranks, people like Ned and Tabitha, hold life cheaper than most others.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Ned, yes. But that doesn’t apply to Tabitha.’
‘Most certainly it does.’ He sighed. ‘So many people think, mistakenly, that that French girl, the one they burned as a witch at Rouen, was the only woman ever to enlist as a soldier, masquerading in men’s clothing. There are dozens of them, I can assure you, in every army of every country throughout Europe. And those that do take up the calling make excellent soldiers. They are far more ruthless than men.’
I was amazed. The idea of women as fighters, braving dangers, brandishing and using weapons, accustoming themselves to the horrors and gory sights and sounds of battle, had never occurred to me.
‘And Mistress Warrener was such a woman?’ I asked, still struggling to come to terms with the idea. ‘A soldier?’
Master Tuffnel smiled gently. ‘Tabitha was one of the very best. Not only was she extremely courageous, but she was also a good captain. She cherished the men under her command; looked after them like a mother. She might have them flogged or their ears lopped for disobedience — indeed, I’ve seen her hang a man herself from the bough of a tree for whatever crime he had committed — but woe betide anyone else who laid a finger on them. And the offence she found the most unforgivable was cowardice, betrayal of one’s fellows.’
There was silence for a moment or two, the crackling of the logs on the hearth the only sound in the room, while I marshalled my thoughts and a pattern of events became clearer to me. I remembered Cyprian Marvell’s nocturnal visitor and his stubborn refusal to reveal what the man had wanted. He had not denied that it was one of the mummers nor that he had paid him money, but no more. Family honour was at stake. I raised my eyes to Master Tuffnel’s.
‘Am I to assume that Sir George Marvell stood accused of cowardice and betrayal?’ I asked at length. ‘And also Robert Trefusis?’
My host shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, never to their faces. Never officially. They remained heroes in the eyes of the world. Only those of us who were there knew the truth, and that included Tabitha and Ned Chorley.’
‘Who were where?’ I asked.
‘At the siege of Dieppe.’
‘Dieppe?’
‘Yes. Why? You sound as though the name means something to you.’
It did. Of course it did. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Alderman Trefusis had uttered the word ‘Dee’ as he lay dying. But not the name ‘Dee’, nor even the first syllable of the name ‘Deakin’, but the beginning of the word ‘Dieppe’. The word carved so savagely into Sir George’s chest was not ‘DIE’, but again the start of that same place name. My theory that the murderers had been interrupted had been correct: the letters ‘PPE’ should have completed their handiwork.
I looked up to find Master Tuffnel frowning at me in a puzzled fashion. Before he could say anything, however, I leant forward, my elbows on my knees, and said urgently, ‘Tell me about the siege of Dieppe.’
Old soldiers love telling tales of past glories, or even, as in this case, past defeats. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and took a gulp of wine to ease his throat.
‘It was forty years ago this August just gone,’ he said. ‘The year of Our Lord One Thousand, Four Hundred and Forty-three. I know that for a certainty because I had just celebrated my thirty-second birthday. The town had been snatched from us in a daring raid some years before. I forget exactly when. In any case, it doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say that in the November prior to my account an English army under the command of the great Talbot of Shrewsbury, including among its officers myself and two of my closest comrades, Robert Trefusis and George Marvell, was at last sent to lay siege to Dieppe and win it back again. This host also counted Tabitha Warrener and Ned Chorley among its ranks. Ned was an archer.