After which, there was little left to do but to arrange the time and place at which she and I would meet with John Bradshaw in the morning — sunrise in the castle courtyard — before dispersing to amuse ourselves in our separate ways for the rest of the day. Timothy detained me for a moment or two, holding me back as the other two departed in order to make certain that I knew exactly what it was that I had to do once we reached Paris, and that I could still remember, word for word, the questions I must put to Robin Gaunt when, eventually, I found him.
‘If I find him,’ I muttered.
Somewhat to my surprise, Timothy did not argue with this caveat, merely nodding, rather lugubriously, I thought, in agreement.
‘Do your best,’ he urged, patting me on the shoulder.
‘I’ve already assured the duke that I shall do so.’ I hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘Timothy, is this leading where I think it’s leading?’
‘That’s not for you or me to worry about,’ he answered sharply. ‘The likes of us do as we’re told. We decide who we’re for and carry out orders. For my part, I’ve always been the Duke of Gloucester’s man from the very first day I entered his service. There’s an underlying sweetness to his nature that binds men to him — those of us who are privileged to see that side of him, that is. You’ve seen it, I know. You must have. In your way, you’re as devoted to him as I am.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t let it cloud my judgement. There’s a ruthlessness to him, as well. He wouldn’t be a true Plantagenet if there weren’t. He loves the king, but he hates the Woodvilles, all the more because he keeps it hidden for his brother’s sake. But if Edward dies while the Prince of Wales is still a minor-’
‘Shush!’ Timothy hastened to the door, wrenched it open and glanced into the corridor. Satisfied that no one was outside, he closed it again and came back, frowning heavily. ‘For God’s sake, watch your tongue, Roger! It runs away with you sometimes.’
‘When we were on our way to Scotland,’ I persisted, ‘I overheard a very disturbing conversation between the duke and Albany-’
‘I don’t wish to be told,’ Timothy said firmly. ‘It’s time-’
I ignored him. ‘His Highness wanted to know what plans Albany had made concerning his nephews in the event of Albany’s becoming king of Scotland. As it turned out, of course, Albany never did.’
‘I’ve said — ’ Timothy raised his voice, then hastily lowered it again — ‘I’ve said, Roger, that I don’t want to hear this. And you had no business listening in on His Grace’s private conversation. I thought better of you.’
‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ I disclaimed angrily. ‘They thought I was asleep.’
‘Then you should have declared yourself,’ was the sententious reply, ‘as a man of honour would have done.’
Riled, I snapped back, ‘I didn’t know spies were supposed to be men of honour. I thought that the first requirement for a spy was to be a devious little bastard.’
Timothy drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very high, but he could look impressive when he tried, and announced, ‘I think this discussion had better end here before we both say things we shall be sorry for later.’ He held out his hand with great dignity. ‘In case I don’t see you again before tomorrow, let me wish you good luck and good fortune. Take care of yourself, because now that the Woodvilles have got the scent of something being in the wind, even though they have no idea exactly what, there will be danger. Rely on John Bradshaw for assistance and protection. In spite of his recent lapse, he really is a good man.’ Timothy snorted with sudden laughter. ‘And even that lapse has turned out to be for the best. That’s another thing about him. He’s lucky, always has been. And luck is one of the greatest gifts that anyone can have.’
He gripped my hand tighter and then, to my amazement, embraced me. This unlooked-for gesture seemed to embarrass him more than it did me, and he resumed his acerbic tone. ‘Just remember,’ he admonished me as he turned away, ‘don’t leave the castle until tomorrow morning when you’re in disguise. There might still be people looking out for you in connection with Master Culpepper’s murder.’
The weary hours until suppertime stretched before me, arid and empty. I dared not risk another foray into the London streets, especially now that I could be wanted in connection with a second killing. (Just as well Timothy knew nothing about that or I would doubtless have been treated to another homily concerning my unreliability.) My little cell of a room was distinctly uninviting, so there was nothing for it but to wander around Baynard’s Castle, getting in honest folk’s way and irritating them beyond endurance by trying to engage them in idle conversation. When a fifth person — a pretty young girl who was carrying in great swathes of greenery to decorate tonight’s banqueting tables — snubbed me, I gave up and went in the general direction of the kitchens, where surplus food might be picked up in order to assuage the rumblings of my empty belly (although I suspected there was not much allowance made for wastage in Her Grace of York’s frugal budget).
The kitchens, as was usual in most noble households, were situated in the darkest, hottest part of the building, at ground-floor level and occasionally even partially underground. Summer or winter, the heat was always such that many of the cooks and scullions worked stark naked, while others, more sensitive to the danger of exposing themselves fully to hissing fat and scalding water — not to mention the occasional derogatory remarks of their fellow workers — wore loincloths underneath leather aprons.
The common dining hall was very close to this furnace, but the long trestle-boards were at present laid ready for the servants’ own supper and had not yet been appropriated as extra space for laying out the banquet dishes. A few early eaters had gathered at a table in one corner and were making short work of a bowl of pottage and the inevitable hunks of yesterday’s stale bread. I thought I might as well join them, but as I walked the length of the room, I became aware of a flurry of movement. A man — I was sure it was a man — who had been sitting in the shadows ducked down beneath the table and must have crawled on all fours between his companions’ legs to the door leading into the kitchens. Having reached it, he suddenly straightened up and burst through, slamming it shut behind him.
His companions seemed as startled by his conduct as I was and turned grinning faces towards me as I neared the table.
‘What you done to our friend that he doesn’t want to meet you?’ one of them asked.
Another said, ‘He seems shit-scared of you, lad, and no mistake.’
‘Who is he?’ I demanded. ‘What’s his name?’
They all shrugged.
‘Dunno,’ a fat one said. ‘Newcomer. Ain’t seen ’im afore. Probably brought in special for the banquet.’
I wondered who the unknown could possibly be, but a moment’s thought supplied the answer. It had to be the shadowy figure I had seen arriving at the water-stairs the previous night. Somehow or another, he had received word that I had been over to Southwark, making enquiries, a fact that in itself must have suggested to him that I had seen something that had aroused my suspicions. The last thing he would wish to do would be to meet me face to face.
‘What does this man look like?’ I asked.
‘Dunno.’
‘Didn’t really take much notice of him.’
‘Just a fellow.’
‘Didn’t say much. Quiet type.’
I thanked them sarcastically for their help and opened the door into the kitchens.
‘Shouldn’t go in there just now,’ one of the men advised. ‘Not when they’re so busy. You might meet-’
But here the others all hushed him or shouted him down. That should have been a warning to me, but I was too intent on pursuing my quarry to take any notice, and plunged through, straight into Hell.
That was what it felt like, anyway.
There were at least three spits turning over enormous fires — three suckling pigs roasting on one, two haunches of venison on another and a whole ox on the largest. A swan had just been removed from one of the many ovens and was being carried across to a side table, where three men stood beside a great pile of the creature’s feathers, ready to replace its plumage, beak and eyes. At another bench, fish were being cleaned and gutted, while one of the pastry cooks was having a fit of hysterics because two of his pies had been knocked to the floor by a passing scullion. The whole place was a seething, chaotic mass of people, all of them screaming instructions and shouting orders amidst clouds of steam from boiling cauldrons and hissing vats of oil. I soon realized that there was very little hope, if any, of locating anyone who had run in there to hide.