After that, I dozed fitfully until, as I say, I awoke in the stifling dark but with the knowledge that daybreak was not far off, even if the first rays of light had not yet crested the rooftops. I decided I might as well get up, knowing that it would take me longer than usual to dress myself in my unaccustomed finery. I had swung my legs to the floor before I realized that my bruises from yesterday’s encounter with the Goliath of the castle kitchens had developed and stiffened nicely overnight. Riding a horse was going to be even more of a trial than usual.
By the time I was decked out in tight brown hose and green tunic over one of the cambric shirts, struggling with laces, points and buttons, I was in no very pleasant frame of mind. I stuck the hat on my head, draped the cloak over one arm, tucked my travelling chest under the other and descended to the common hall, where we had been promised an early breakfast. No one else was about yet, so I left the chest on a bench and made my way out to the courtyard for a breath of fresh air in order to clear away the cobwebs of the night.
Somewhat to my surprise, John Bradshaw was before me, just dismounting from one of three horses already saddled and bridled, two of which were in the charge of a young groom and were presumably intended for Eloise and me. (Indeed, on closer inspection, I could see that one of the saddles was a lady’s.) The spy’s ruddy complexion was even ruddier in the light from the wall cressets, which had not yet been doused.
He nodded to me. ‘You’ve taken my instructions to be up early to heart, Roger. That’s good. I like a man who can get up in the mornings.’
I didn’t contradict him, merely indicating his horse and remarking, ‘You’re no slugabed yourself. Out and about at this time of day?’
He grinned. ‘As you see. I thought I’d best ride across to Southwark, to the White Hart, as soon as curfew was lifted, to make certain that our friend Lamprey would be ready and waiting when we got there.’
‘A wise precaution,’ I agreed. ‘Or that he was there at all, I suppose. A man in his frame of mind might easily have absconded.’
John Bradshaw shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’ll do that now. A week, a month ago maybe. But a man can’t grieve for ever, however great the loss.’ He threw his reins to the groom with instructions to see that all three animals were fed and watered and ready for the road as soon as we and, of course, the lady had breakfasted. ‘Is your box down here?’ he added to me. When I said that I had left it in the common hall, he told the poor lad to fetch it and make sure that the contents were transferred to the saddlebags. ‘Mistress Gray can do her own,’ he chuckled. ‘I daresay there are things she won’t want pawed about by a stable boy.’
The groom looked offended at this lowly description, but contented himself with sniffing loudly and asking, ‘And yours. . my lord?’
The sarcasm was lost on John Bradshaw, who gave no sign of noticing it. ‘Already done,’ he answered briefly, before turning aside and taking my arm. ‘Let’s see if Goliath and his men can produce anything more sustaining than cold porridge and small beer.’
Eloise had still not put in an appearance and we had the common hall to ourselves, choosing a table as near to the kitchens as possible so that we benefited from the heat on this raw late October morning. John Bradshaw’s name seemed, after all, to carry some weight because we got porridge and oatmeal cakes, both piping-hot. Even the ale had been warmed.
My companion lowered his voice, leaning confidentially across the table towards me. ‘I’ve told Lamprey as much as he needs to know about this mission, but not a word more. Well, come to that, I don’t know everything myself. That’s your privilege.’ Was there a sour note in there somewhere? I didn’t think so. John Bradshaw was too professional a man to harbour petty jealousies, a fact he confirmed almost straight away. ‘And a good thing, too. In my experience, a secret shared with even one person is no longer a secret. Shared with more than one, you might as well shout it from the housetops. My job is to see that Mistress Gray is kept occupied enough to allow you time to do whatever it is you have to do.’
‘And Philip’s?’ I asked.
‘To see to the horses and generally do what he’s told,’ was the uncompromising answer.
I was just wondering if now was the moment to take John Bradshaw into my confidence and unburden myself of all the various secrets I was harbouring when we were joined by Eloise, ready for travelling in a green woollen gown trimmed with squirrel skin, and carrying a thick, hooded cloak of grey camlet, together with a squirrel-skin muff. Her hair, growing a little longer each day, was caught up in its usual silver net.
As soon as she saw me, she gave a peal of laughter. ‘You have your hat on backwards, Roger. The brooch should go at the front.’
John Bradshaw, joining in the merriment, made room for her beside him on the bench. His grey eyes signalled appreciation of her appearance as he shouted for a server to bring the lady’s breakfast. Meanwhile, I bad-temperedly snatched off my hat and put it on again the right way round.
‘Much better,’ Eloise approved. ‘I must say you look very well and nearly worthy of being my husband.’ I could tell that she wasn’t going to forgive me very easily for last night, and that mockery and jibes were to be the order of the day.
As she reached for the beaker of ale that John Bradshaw had poured for her, I noticed a fine gold ring on her wedding finger and, leaning forward, caught her left hand in mine. I grimaced. ‘An expensive piece,’ I remarked. ‘Do you get to keep it when this little charade is finished?’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s mine.’ She smiled. ‘I bought it yesterday in Cheapside.’ She lifted her hand closer to my face. ‘You see, it’s really a loving-ring with hearts engraved round the outside. I thought I’d use it instead of the cheap-looking thing Master Plummer gave me to wear. You are meant to be a prosperous haberdasher, after all. And I, presumably, am the love of your life.’
Again the little pinprick of mockery, but this time I barely noticed it. I was too busy wondering where she got her money from. She had two good woollen gowns to my knowledge, and quite likely a third, and now she had bought herself a gold ring. This sudden affluence was troubling. Could it mean that she was in fact not a French but a Woodville spy and in receipt of payment from them?
As if reading my thoughts, her smile deepened and grew more enigmatic. Then she withdrew her gaze from mine and ignored me for the rest of the time it took her to eat her breakfast, deliberately setting out to charm John Bradshaw. In this, she succeeded so well that she did not even have to ask him to carry her travelling chest out to the waiting horses; he had it under his arm before she had risen from the table. He then delicately withdrew, taking the interested young groom with him, while she transferred her belongings to her saddlebags, but he was instantly at hand to assist her to mount. While I hoisted myself stiffly on to the back of my own animal, he adjured us both to wrap our cloaks well around us as it was a chilly morning, with more than a nip of the coming winter in the air. He himself had a thick, serviceable frieze cloak to cover his servant’s garb and a plain peaked hat to keep off the worst of the weather.
And so, finally, we were ready, setting forward just as a pale sun was doing its best to gild the rooftops, riding the length of Thames Street, past the steelyard, where the Hanseatic merchants were, by the sound of things, already hard at work, into the Ropery and, eventually, crossing London Bridge into Southwark.
The first leg of our journey had begun.
I don’t know why I felt surprised to see Philip waiting for us in the courtyard of the White Hart Inn. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I suppose, I hadn’t quite believed in his existence in this ridiculous, dreamlike situation that I found myself a part of. But there he was, as large — or, in his case, as small — as life, standing unhappily beside a brown cob and with a hangdog expression on his narrow features. His old sparkle and zest for life were completely missing, his shoulders slumped, his thin lips unsmiling. His hair was sparser and greyer than when I had last seen him, but that, at least, was not surprising: by my calculations he had to be nearing fifty, or maybe even past it. I don’t think he knew himself exactly how old he was. His pock-marked, weather-beaten face, too, was greyer, the healthy tan that contentment and Jeanne’s good food had given it dulled with hopelessness and grief.