I turned to face him. ‘This is it.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll remember.’ He hesitated, then said with more warmth than he had displayed so far, ‘If you wish to come down to the common hall later on, you’ll likely find some games of chance being played — fivestones, three men’s morris, hazard, that sort of thing — among those of us not on duty. A few will even wager on the outcome of a game of chess. You’ll come to the chapel for prayers, of course, when the bell rings.’
‘I’m in no mood for playing games,’ I said abruptly, then added, to show I meant no ill will, ‘I’ve had bad news today. I’d rather be alone.’
‘In that case — ’ the man stepped back a pace — ‘I’ll see you get your all-night and leave you to your own company.’ And he made off down the stairs.
I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, a straw-filled mattress placed on a stone ledge and covered with three rough grey blankets. The pillow, however, was stuffed with feathers, and a linen sheet had been interposed between blankets and mattress. I supposed I was lucky — I was being afforded special treatment — but it was nothing like the comfort I enjoyed at home, where I ought to be, and my grievance returned in full force. My grief for Jeanne Lamprey and Reynold Makepeace also surfaced again and I found tears welling up and running down my cheeks before I could check them. Moreover, the stuffiness of the little room was beginning to make my senses swim. I almost decided to visit the common hall and distract myself with some cheerful company, but somehow could not bring myself to do so.
The opening of the door heralded the arrival of my all-night, a ewer of wine, a mazer, a large hunk of bread and a leather bottle that proved to contain water. The young boy who brought the tray drew my attention to it. ‘I put it on meself,’ he confided. ‘Gets ’ot up ’ere, it does. These rooms are like a bake’ouse oven, I’ll tell you. An’ wine don’t allus quench yer thirst.’
I thanked him with real gratitude. He gave me a sympathetic wink and withdrew. I moved the tray and its burden from the end of the bed, where the boy had placed it, to a shelf just inside the door. This, together with a wooden armchair, that looked as if it had seen better days and had been dragged in to give the room some semblance of added comfort (a forlorn hope!) comprised the rest of the furnishings. Luxury was not for menials, I reflected bitterly, recalling the richness of the ducal apartment and also what travelling with the Duke of Albany had meant over the past few months.
It was too early to sleep properly, so I stretched out on the bed and tried to doze, but the castle was still too alive, echoing to the sounds of distant laughter and raised voices. I sat up again and swung my legs to the floor, my feet tapping a tattoo against the cold stone. Now, suddenly, I felt fidgety, bored and bad-tempered all at the same time. I knew that if I just sat and thought, grief and longing for home would engulf me once more and that desperation might make me do something extremely foolish, such as rushing headlong to the duke and telling him to find someone else to do his bidding.
I stood up and reached for the bottle of water, removing the stopper and swallowing half the contents at one go. Then I sat down again and drank the rest slowly, savouring the clear, refreshing taste of the Paddington springs, whence it came, piped into the city’s conduits. I felt a little better and was once more toying with the idea of descending to the common hall when I remembered Timothy’s suggestion that I commit the duke’s instructions to memory before disposing of them. I took the paper from my pouch, then got up and lit the candle, which was on the shelf beside a tinder box, dragged the chair into its circle of light and settled down to read and reread the neat, meticulous writing of John Kendal, Prince Richard’s secretary, until I could recite every word without once referring to the text. When I had done this three times in a row, and then done it a fourth and fifth time, just to be certain, I held the paper to the candle-flame and watched it burn to ashes, which I scrunched beneath my heel as they floated to the ground.
I decided I deserved a reward and, raising my arm, lifted down the mazer without getting to my feet. But when, lazily, I attempted to do the same with the ewer, I only succeeded in hitting it off the tray. It fell with a crash of metal against stone, the lid flying open and the wine spilling across the floor in dark red rivulets, making little islands and peninsulas on the flags. Cursing myself for a fool, and a clumsy fool at that, I picked up the jug to see if any wine was left, but all my shaking produced only the merest dribble in the bottom of the cup. Disgustedly, I replaced everything on the shelf and retired to the bed, leaving the puddle of wine to dry overnight or seep away between the pavers.
I realized that the castle was quiet at last, only the shouts of the watchmen punctuating the silence. It had taken me longer than I thought to learn by heart the list of questions that I must eventually put to Robin Gaunt if ever I managed to find him. Perhaps this Humphrey Culpepper would be able to provide me with some valuable information, but I very much doubted it. It was all too long ago: forty years.
I stood up, stretched and undressed, pulling off my boots and then stripping slowly, feeling the cold night air from the slit of a window on my bare skin. I threw my clothes on to the chair in an untidy heap, opened the door briefly while I peed into the corridor, then, suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, climbed into bed and fell immediately asleep.
In my dream, both Jeanne Lamprey and Reynold Makepeace were seated in my kitchen at home, assuring me that they were not, after all, dead and that I did not have to go to France. It was all just a silly joke perpetrated by my family. Adela and the children, who had not been present a moment ago, were now seated on the other side of the table, nodding and doubled up with laughter, pointing their fingers and shouting, ‘April fool!’ I kept trying to tell them that it wasn’t spring but autumn, but no one would listen to me. A strange man then appeared, saying that he was Robin Gaunt, all the time dodging behind the others so that I was unable to see his face. I yelled at him to stand still, but he only laughed and kept on moving.
Suddenly, I was wide awake, staring into the darkness and conscious of another presence in the room. I raised myself on one elbow, still trying to free my mind from the cobwebs of sleep.
‘Who. .? What. .?’ I muttered, my voice thick in my throat.
There was a violent imprecation, then a sudden rush of movement and the opening of the door, letting in a draught of stale air from the passageway. I struggled out of bed, the cold of the flagstones striking up through the soles of my feet and shocking me into wakefulness. But I was too late to catch a glimpse of the intruder. The flickering torches in the wall sconces illuminated the corridor, to right and left, silent and empty. The only noise came from the adjacent male dormitory, a faint cacophony of snores and groans that disturbed the men’s sleep. Cursing, I stepped back inside my narrow cell, pulling the door shut behind me.
I lit the candle and looked around. My clothes, which had been thrown across the chair, now lay in a heap on the floor, and on top of the pile was my pouch. This had been freed from my belt and was open, the flap bent back to give a groping hand better access, and my breeches, shirt and jerkin had been turned carefully inside out as if to ensure that they contained no concealed pockets. Someone, I reflected grimly, had been searching for the Duke of Gloucester’s instructions, and but for my boredom of the previous evening, they would have been found. Thankfully, I blessed Timothy Plummer’s foresight.
Something moved near my foot, and such was my state of nerves that I jumped nearly out of my skin. I spun round and lowered the candlestick nearer the floor just in time to see a mouse scrabbling wildly to find its feet, its little claws scraping the stones. It was acting as if it were drunk, its whiskers all wet, and I suddenly realized the reason. It must have been licking up some of the spilled wine and was now paying the penalty for its greed. But even as I watched, it staggered, fell over, twitched violently for a second or two, then lay still. My heart pounding uncomfortably, I crouched down and prodded it with my finger. There was no response. It was dead.