‘Well, he ain’t,’ John Bradshaw replied positively. ‘He hasn’t got the brains for it, for one thing. For another, he’s no interest in anything at present. He’s a lost soul. His wife — woman a lot younger’n him — died in childbirth a few months back, and the little ’un was stillborn. Half mad with grief he is. Used to keep an old clothes stall in Leadenhall Market. He’s abandoned it. Abandoned everything. Just roaming the streets with the beggars. Used up all his money on drink. Fell in with him last night in the White Hart, one of the waterfront taverns, sobered him up and heard his story. He doesn’t know anything but that I’m accompanying a Master and Mistress Chapman to France and that we need another man to help with the horses and baggage. He’ll meet us tomorrow morning at the White Hart in Southwark. His name,’ Bradshaw added, ‘is Philip Lamprey.’
But I had already guessed that.
Eight
I had known it, of course, from almost the first sentence of John Bradshaw’s description. There couldn’t possibly be two men in London who had once been soldiers, kept an old-clothes stall in Leadenhall Market and recently lost wife and child.
‘That’s all very well, Jack,’ Timothy was beginning, when I interrupted him, addressing myself to the other man.
‘I’m afraid Philip will have to know a bit more than you’ve told him, Master Bradshaw. He’s not only a very old friend of mine, but he also knows my wife. He’ll realize at once that Mistress Gray’s an impostor.’
There was a moment’s complete silence before Timothy swung slowly round to face me. ‘You’re acquainted with this man?’ he asked incredulously, but not without a certain amount of relief.
‘Been friends for years.’ I nodded. ‘As a matter of fact, I went to visit him the day before yesterday. That was when I found his cottage empty — abandoned — and a neighbour told me what had happened to Jeanne and the baby. She told me, too, that Philip was dumb with grief and had disappeared some weeks later. If you want me to vouch for his character, I’ll willingly do so. Everything Master Bradshaw has said about him is true. Philip would have neither the inclination nor the nous to be a spy. He’s never had any particular loyalty to anyone but himself and Jeanne.’
Timothy heaved what sounded like a thankful sigh. ‘Then that’s what I shall tell the duke — that this man, Philip. . Philip. .’
‘Lamprey,’ John Bradshaw and I supplied in unison.
‘Like the fish,’ I added, then puckered my brow. ‘Didn’t one of our kings die of a surfeit of-?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Timothy cut in testily. ‘No need to show off just because the Glastonbury monks gave you an education. As I was saying, I shall tell Duke Richard that I have hired this man on the recommendation of both yourself and Jack here and that you can each vouch for his integrity.’
‘What you mean,’ John Bradshaw growled, ‘is that if anything should go wrong — which it won’t — Master Chapman and I will take the blame, while your reputation will still be as pure as the driven snow.’
‘Well, that it won’t be,’ Timothy snapped. ‘The duke will be angry enough that I’ve hired an extra man for this journey and not discussed it with him first. Particularly as it means we shall have to let this Lamprey into our confidence a little way. But just remember, the pair of you, that Lamprey knows only that Mistress Gray goes to see her cousin Maître le Daim to discover King Louis’s intentions towards Burgundy. And don’t you,’ he hissed, turning to John Bradshaw and pointing an accusatory finger, ‘ever, ever take it upon yourself again to do anything like this without my knowledge. Because if you do, master spy though you may be, you will leave His Grace of Gloucester’s service just as fast as I can kick you downstairs.’
‘Not very fast, then,’ the other man retaliated, his pleasant features flushing a dull red. But I could guess from his defiant attitude that he knew he had overstepped the mark and that Timothy’s anger was justified. He was about to add something else when Timothy waved him to silence with an abrupt motion of one hand.
‘Mistress Gray,’ he mouthed, although I had heard nothing.
But sure enough, a moment later the latch lifted and Eloise came in, smiling her prettiest smile; not, I was certain, for my benefit — she had long given up trying to impress me — but for Master Bradshaw’s.
Timothy at once put her in the picture regarding the new addition to our party, a fact that she accepted with the least possible show of interest. She was far more concerned with examining my new clothes, turning over the set that was folded up on the table and opening the travelling chest to look at the rest.
‘Oh, Roger,’ she gurgled, ‘what peacock’s feathers! It will almost be a pleasure to be seen with you. What are you wearing tomorrow? I see, the brown hose and green tunic, and of course the cloak and hat, which are also brown. Here! Let me recommend the yellow with all that mud colour. It will cheer it up and make a splash of brightness on what seems set to be another dull day.’
She removed the yellow tunic from the chest, but I firmly replaced it. ‘I shall decide what to wear,’ I said pettishly. ‘You are not my wife.’
‘No, but she has to pretend to be,’ Timothy put in, ‘and the sooner you begin practising your roles, the better it will be. Do as Mistress Gray — no, as Mistress Chapman — tells you, Roger.’
John Bradshaw gave a throaty chuckle. ‘And you’d both better stop calling me Master Bradshaw. Remember I’m your servant. Jack’s the name. Start using it now so you’ll be used to it before we get on the road.’
‘Very well. . Jack!’ Eloise simpered nauseatingly. (I found it nauseating, at any rate, although John Bradshaw seemed to find nothing objectionable in it.) She looked at me. ‘By the way, I’ve been informed that supper will be early this evening. The kitcheners, cooks and scullions want everyone out of the common hall by the hour of five at the very latest. They need to use it as an extension to the kitchens. It seems Her Grace of York and the Duke of Gloucester are entertaining Earl Rivers at a banquet tonight in acknowledgement of his recent good work in Scotland, before he returns to the Prince of Wales’s household at Ludlow tomorrow.’
I grimaced and avoided catching Timothy’s eye. Personally, I rather liked the queen’s elder brother, Anthony. From the little I had seen of him, he appeared a great deal less self-important than the other Woodvilles I had encountered. By contrast, his younger brother, Edward, who had accompanied him on the Scottish expedition this past summer, was a bumptious, self-opinionated egotist who considered that life could bestow no greater honour than being a Woodville on the one hand and a scion of the House of Luxembourg on the other. (Jacquetta of Luxembourg had married the then Sir Richard Woodville after the death of her first husband — Henry V’s brother, John, Duke of Bedford — and borne him a large family.) I could not imagine, however, that my lord of Gloucester was looking forward to this evening with anything but dismay, considering his dislike of all his Woodville in-laws in general and the nature of the mission I was to undertake for him in France in particular. But I made no comment, merely nodding to signify that I had got the message.
Timothy then proceeded to instruct me in all the things I should be interested in as a prosperous haberdasher: cloth, lace, necklaces, combs, pins, brushes, gloves and so forth. Pretty much like being a chapman, really (which, I suppose, was why Timothy, no fool, had chosen the occupation for me), but conducting business from a nice warm stall or shop, instead of roaming the countryside in all winds and weathers. After that, he gave Eloise and me a little homily about not forgetting to behave as man and wife in public, while, at the same time, exhorting me to recollect that I was a happily married man in private.
‘I’ve no intention of forgetting,’ I answered austerely. Eloise simply smiled and cast down her eyes.