I sighed. She was right, of course. There was nothing here to declare positively that Edward of Rouen was the son of a common archer and not the proud Plantagenet he claimed to be. And if Duchess Cicely still refused to confirm that long-gone accusation. .
Mistress Gaunt broke in on my thoughts with the self-same query. ‘What does my lady of York herself say? She is the only one who knows the truth.’
I finished the last mouthful of wine and rose to my feet. ‘She says nothing, nor will she, I think, however much she secretly believes Duke Richard to be the rightful king.’
My companion gave a little cry. ‘You think she really thinks that?’
It was my turn to shrug. ‘Frankly, mistress, I don’t know what anyone’s thoughts on the subject really are. The only thing I’m sure of is that this was an abortive errand from the beginning, and unlikely to produce any positive evidence one way or another. The duchess. .’
Mistress Gaunt was not listening. She had gone over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, letting in the cold November air as she leaned out over the sill, glancing up and down the alleyway outside.
‘What is it?’ I asked sharply.
She withdrew her head, looking sheepish. ‘It’s nothing. I was convinced I heard somebody outside, that is all, but there’s no one there.’
‘The street’s full of people and wagons and animals,’ I said, impatience colouring my tone. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll come back again this evening, mistress, and speak to your husband. At what hour do you expect him home?’
‘Probably to supper,’ she replied, but absentmindedly, as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘there was that extremely odd business of the christenings. I don’t think I’ve ever seriously considered it before, but now. . Yes, looking back, it does seem odd.’
‘What business of the christenings?’ I demanded eagerly.
She motioned me to sit down again and reseated herself on the stool opposite, where she appeared to drop into a reverie.
‘Well?’ The sound of my voice made her jump. ‘What about the christening?’
‘Christenings,’ she corrected me. ‘The lord Edward’s and his brother’s, the lord Edmund’s, two years later.’
The lord Edmund? I cudgelled my brains, then recollected vaguely that there had been another brother between King Edward and the Duke of Clarence: Edmund, later Earl of Rutland.
‘Go on,’ I urged.
Mistress Gaunt poured us both more wine and took several sips before continuing. ‘Lord Edward’s christening — remember he was the eldest son, the first-born male — was a very muted affair. No great fuss was made, no great throng of guests assembled, and it took place in a small, private chapel in Rouen Castle. But Lord Edmund’s christening was magnificent. The ceremony was held in Rouen Cathedral — jewels, velvets, both English and French dignitaries present. Above all, the Duke and Duchess of York had managed to persuade the Rouen Cathedral Chapter to grant the supreme honour of allowing them to use the font in which Duke Rollo of Normandy had been baptized into Christianity, and which, ever since, had been kept covered as a mark of respect. It was an unheard-of concession. We were all amazed. You would have thought,’ she added reflectively, ‘that Edmund, not Edward, was his father’s heir.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘Why has that never struck me until now? And I was present, on both occasions.’
I was trembling with excitement. ‘And it was Edmund of Rutland who was killed alongside the duke twenty-odd years ago, at Wakefield — which might mean nothing, or it might mean a preference by the Duke of York for his seemingly second son.’
My companion brought me down to earth. ‘It’s still not proof,’ she pointed out.
‘Not solid proof,’ I admitted. ‘But it means something, surely.’
‘Perhaps. Yes, I think it is. . suggestive.’
‘Oh, more than that,’ I insisted.
She laughed and said in her astonishingly good English, ‘I’m certain even the most inexperienced lawyer could find you a dozen good reasons why my lord of York preferred the company of his second son to that of his first-born. Fathers and eldest sons do not always see eye to eye.’
‘Maybe not, when they’re older. But I doubt discrimination starts in the cradle, as it seems to have done in this case.’
Nevertheless, as I made my way back to the Rue de la Barillerie through Paris’s crowded streets, I reflected that Mistress Gaunt was right: her account of the two very different christenings, a pointer though it might be to the true state of affairs, was not the sort of solid proof that my lord of Gloucester could adduce to bolster his claim to the throne (if, of course, that was indeed his aim). I would return this evening, after supper, and talk to Robin Gaunt himself in the hope that he might be able to help me further, but I very much doubted his ability to do so. It was all too long ago. Duchess Cicely was the only one now who knew the truth, and she seemed reluctant to speak.
As I forged a path down the busy Rue Saint-Denis, I got the oddest impression, every now and then, of the same figure weaving in and out of the throng of people and traffic just ahead of me — a faintly familiar figure but one that never paused long enough to be immediately identifiable. I quickened my pace, but the press was too great and I never managed to catch up with my elusive quarry. In the end, I decided I was imagining things.
I reached our lodgings in time for dinner and one of Marthe’s delicious rabbit stews, but too late to accompany Eloise to the Hôtel Saint-Pol, where amidst royal splendour, Olivier le Daim was staying. According to John Bradshaw, word had been received from Jules, just after I had left that morning, of Monsieur le Daim’s sudden arrival in Paris very late the previous evening, but with the additional information that his stay would be brief and that he would probably be quitting the city by tonight. It was therefore imperative that Eloise present herself at once, and upon discovering my absence, she had been forced to go alone. Whether or not she would get to see her cousin was another matter altogether, but she had to try.
‘She’s furious,’ John warned me with a rueful grin. ‘I suppose you’ve been out and about on business of your own, but of course I couldn’t say so to the lady.’ He grinned. ‘I’d watch your back if I were you, or you may find yourself with a knife between the shoulder blades.’
I discovered that he wasn’t exaggerating Eloise’s anger. I was in our bedchamber when, sometime during the afternoon, she returned. I heard her run upstairs and she burst through the door like a small whirlwind. Without even bothering to take off her cloak, she launched herself at me, fists hammering my chest, eyes flashing, feet kicking at my shins.
‘Where have you been?’ she shouted. ‘Where were you? Sneaking off like that just when I needed you.’
I caught both her wrists and gripped them cruelly, making her gasp with pain. ‘Be quiet, you termagant!’ I yelled back. ‘Can’t you get it through your stupid little head that I am not your husband? That it’s only a game we’re playing! I’m sure you didn’t need my help with your own cousin. You only had to flutter those eyelashes of yours and pout your lips to get past any number of his servants. So? Did you get to see him? Did you find out what the king wants to know?’
For answer, she wrenched her wrists free of my slackened grasp and clawed at my face. Or would have done, had I given her the chance. Instead, I caught her in a crushing embrace, savagely stopping her mouth with my own. I could smell the scent of her hair, feel the softness of her skin. My senses swam. For a moment or two, she fought me like a wild cat, but then, suddenly, surrendered. Her arms encircled my neck and she was returning my kisses with fervour.
I suppose what happened next was inevitable, and had been so for the past two weeks, ever since we were forced into playing this ridiculous charade of being man and wife. Well, at the time it seemed inevitable. That’s my only defence.