But I wasn’t prepared to give up that easily. I edged my way between the benches, dodged around kitchen boys who were scurrying from place to place in answer to various imperious summonses, ignored the curses that greeted my enquiry as to whether or not a stranger had recently entered the kitchens, and generally made a nuisance of myself, while all the time my belly rumbled incessantly in response to the wonderful smells emanating from pots and ovens. Finally, one of the spit-turners, friendlier than the rest, indicated a second door at the far end of the vast room and said he’d seen someone go through it minutes before.
‘Not one of us,’ he shouted. ‘Fully dressed.’
I was by now sweating profusely, face, arms, legs, body, my clothes sticking to me like a burr to a sheep’s fleece. I thanked my informant and had just turned with relief to escape from the overwhelming heat when I found my path blocked by the most enormous man it has ever been my misfortune to meet. I’m a big man myself, over six feet tall and not ill proportioned — indeed, I’ve grown used to being described as a well-set-up young fellow — but this man made me feel puny. He was as broad as he was high, and he could top me by half a head, with muscles like young tree trunks all over his body (and as he was naked, I speak with authority). His great torso ran with sweat, gleaming in the light from the fires as he stood with arms akimbo and legs wide apart, glaring at me with small, hostile eyes.
‘Get out of my kitchen!’ he roared.
‘I’m just trying to find-’ I was beginning, but he roared again.
‘Out!’
I adopted a reasonable tone. ‘Now, look here-’
Before I knew what was happening to me, I was lifted bodily off my feet, slung over one mighty shoulder, carried the length of the kitchens, to the cheers of the workers, and literally thrown through the door into the common hall. The giant then returned to his own domain with the satisfied air of a man who had acquitted himself well.
In my absence, the hall had filled up with diners who had come early to supper, as bidden. The men sitting at the corner table were convulsed with laughter, and after the first stunned silence at my unconventional arrival, their mirth was shared by others. As I lay there, wondering if I were still all in one piece, gingerly flexing my limbs to make sure that nothing was broken, the hilarity gradually spread throughout the hall as the story passed from table to table.
There was a rustle of skirts and I glanced up to see Eloise kneeling beside me.
‘Are you all right?’ she enquired anxiously, although I could see that even she was struggling to keep a straight face.
‘Oh, very well, indeed,’ I snapped, having by this time ascertained that nothing was really hurt except my pride. I should have a few ugly bruises in the morning, but that was all. Pettishly refusing her assistance, I struggled to my feet.
‘You met Goliath, then,’ one of the men at the corner table sniggered.
‘As you see! You didn’t think to warn me, I suppose?’
‘Well, Rob there did,’ the same man admitted, ‘but the rest of us thought it would be a lesson to you not to go poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’
I breathed deeply and clenched my fists; at which point, Eloise decided it was the right moment to beat a strategic retreat, so she propelled me firmly towards two empty places at a table much further up the hall. The lackeys had started serving the meal a few minutes earlier, while I had still been lying prostrate on the floor, and my companion and I were only just in time to grab our portions of the inevitable pottage from the common bowl. As it was, we earned ourselves dirty looks from the table’s other occupants, who had obviously been promising themselves second helpings. (Which showed how desperate the poor devils must have been.)
‘What on earth were you doing in the kitchens?’ Eloise wanted to know, once she had blunted the edge of her appetite.
I had already foreseen the question and had been wondering what my answer would be.
‘I. . er. . I was hungry,’ I said. ‘I thought I might pick up some titbits to eat.’ True enough: it had been my original intention.
Eloise appeared unconvinced. More, she looked highly sceptical. I couldn’t blame her. She was an intelligent woman and surely must have begun, by now, to have her suspicions that she was not being told the whole truth about this French mission. Timothy’s reasons for seeing me alone and for my meetings with the duke would surely have a hollow ring to anyone of even average quickness of mind, and Eloise was brighter than that. She chose, however, to accept my explanation, which in itself was worrying.
‘You eat too much, Roger.’ She smiled.
‘Not in this place!’ I retorted feelingly. ‘Nobody could.’
That made her laugh, a peal of mirth that lit up her face and transformed her naturally petulant, slightly sour expression into one of genuine enjoyment. With a blinding flash of revelation, I could see how really pretty she was and was conscious of a sudden stirring in my loins. Dear God! This wouldn’t do! Not when we had to share the same bed for the next goodness knew how many nights. And I had already proved to myself that I couldn’t be trusted with an attractive and determined woman. If Adela ever found out. .! It didn’t bear thinking about. I shuddered. At least I knew now that I must be on my guard every minute of our nights together.
‘Are you cold?’ Eloise asked in surprise.
‘What? Oh, no. Just. . just someone walking over my grave.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she murmured. ‘Ever since I saw The Dance of Death in the cloister at St Paul’s, I’ve been haunted by its images.’ She laid a hand on my arm. ‘Enough! Will you come with me down to the water-stairs this evening, after dark, and watch the guests arrive? I understand they will be coming by river.’
I knew I should refuse. Here was my first opportunity to demonstrate my strength of will.
Of course I said yes.
The lights from the barges coruscated across the water, amber and white and red. Musicians played softly, strains of popular airs wafting gently towards the shore. The moon hung low in the night sky, adding to the fairy-like quality of the scene. The neighbouring wharves and warehouses had melted into the encroaching darkness, so that they were no more than faint stains on an inky cloth.
The Dowager Duchess of York, leaning heavily on an ebony stick, but still straight-backed and magnificent in black velvet trimmed with sable, received her guests accompanied by her younger son, the Duke of Gloucester, impressive in cloth of gold and yellow brocade, with jewels flashing on both breast and fingers, but looking tired and strained, I thought, in the flaring light from a myriad torches. Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, on the other hand appeared relaxed and smiling as he alighted from his barge and knelt to kiss the duchess’s outstretched hand. He had chosen to wear royal purple, a fact that had doubtless not gone unnoticed by his hosts, and could possibly have accounted for the tightening of the muscles around the duke’s thin mouth as he stepped forward, in his turn, to greet the arrivals.
That cocky little bastard Edward Woodville, who was also being honoured for his part in the Scottish expedition, strutted up the water-stairs arrayed, suitably enough, in peacock-blue (or a colour as near as the dyers could make it). He saluted his hostess with a flourish that would not have shamed that showy bird itself, before turning, with ill-concealed condescension, to the duke. He must know, as everyone else did, that each day brought fresh speculation concerning the king’s health. Did he already see himself, as uncle to King Edward V, on an equal footing with Richard of Gloucester?