I breathed an inward sigh of relief. The prospect of having to watch others eat whilst suffering the pangs of hunger myself would have been more than I could bear. At least now I knew that I should be comfortably replete and, consequently, alert to those scraps of gossip or information which can often be gleaned where people are gathered together and off their guard. I tried not to dwell on the impossibility of the task I had been set, nor on the vulnerability of any man in the public eye to the poisoned chalice or the assassin’s dagger. I could only do my best and trust the hand of God to guide me.
There were still three other suspects whose acquaintance I had not yet made, all of whom were Squires of the Household, and in order to identify them I had to rely on Matthew Wardroper. For this purpose, we both kept an eye cocked for one another whenever we crossed a courtyard or sped from one chamber to the next, along the passageways or up and down the stairs. The first time we met, after I had been supplied with a suit of livery, he gave way to unseemly mirth.
‘It’s too small for you,’ he hooted. ‘You’re bursting out of that tunic in all directions.’
‘Of course it’s too small,’ I snapped, losing my sense of humour. ‘How many men of my height do you think His Grace employs? But I’ve been promised that a sewing woman from Duchess Cicely’s household will lengthen it and let out the seams. Now, stop that foolish sniggering and tell me what news you have, if any.’
We were standing in the inner courtyard, half concealed by one of the pillars of a colonnade, which supported part of the building’s upper storeys. We drew back a little further into the shadows.
‘None of any moment,’ Matthew sighed, ‘but by a stroke of good fortune, Ralph Boyse, Jocelin d’Hiver, Geoffrey Whitelock and myself are all four on duty tonight at supper. If you can also contrive to be on hand I’ll try to point them out to you. What of your two fellow Yeomen?’
‘Little enough as yet. I know who they are and am ready and willing to believe the worst of Stephen Hudelin. On the other hand, if Humphrey Nanfan were to be proved innocent of the charge of being in my lord of Clarence’s employ I should be happy. I like him. However,’ I added on a grimmer note, ‘my judgement is not always sound. I have in the past liked – and in one case more than liked – those who have turned out to be rogues and villains. Do you have a message for me from Timothy Plummer or Master Arrowsmith?’
The dark eyes darted this way and that, making certain that no one was within earshot.
‘Only that the former was for once mistaken, and the Duke, after great persuasion from my cousin Lionel, has allowed his three other Squires of the Body to be admitted into the secret. They are, apparently, considered to be above suspicion, with the result that His Grace is far more closely guarded than ever before. Master Plummer now considers it possible that, luck being on our side, we can reach the Eve of Saint Hyacinth without harm befalling Duke Richard, even if you are unsuccessful in discovering the would-be assassin.’
‘Which is more than possible,’ I answered gloomily. I knotted my brows. ‘But why, oh why, the Eve of Saint Hyacinth? For by then the Duke will be in France, fighting.’
‘It was only what Master Plummer was told by Thaddeus Morgan,’ Matthew pointed out. ‘A rumour which, perhaps, may have been false. We don’t even know for certain that there is any plot to kill my lord of Gloucester.’
‘Then why was Thaddeus Morgan killed?’ I shook my head. ‘No, no! I think we have to accept the truth of the story.’ I ran one hand despairingly through my hair. ‘If only we could find a motive for someone – anyone! – wanting to murder His Grace! I still refuse to believe that either of his royal brothers would wish him dead for any reason. The Burgundians are our allies. And surely the French would prefer King Edward’s death to that of the Duke of Gloucester. This invasion seems to be purely on his whim.’
Matthew Wardroper heard me out in sympathetic silence, but could offer no solution to the problem beyond observing that the French were unlikely to order the murder of an English monarch for such a cause. ‘For every ruler of this country dreams of winning back the Norman and Angevin lands of his ancestors and no doubt will continue to do so for generations to come. To assassinate King Edward might scotch the snake, but would not kill it, and the French are surely clever enough to know that. But in any case,’ he finished with a shrug, ‘it’s not His Highness’s life that’s threatened.’
Sadly I agreed, and we parted to go about our various duties. ‘I shall look out for you tonight in the great hall,’ I called over my shoulder.
And thus it was, not watching where I was going, that I bumped into a young woman who had just emerged from an archway on my right and who was breathless from hurriedly descending a steep flight of stairs. I turned quickly to apologize and found myself looking down into a pert, rounded face with the complexion of a peach, widely spaced hazel eyes, at present brimming with laughter, and a good-humoured mouth which curled up naturally at the corners. She was small and delicately boned, with little hands and feet, and her features reminded me of someone; someone, moreover, whom I had met not all that long ago.
‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going.’
To my surprise, she continued to clutch at me. ‘The fault was mine,’ she insisted. ‘But please don’t run away, because I think you must be the man I’m looking for. With that height and these clothes, you can only be Roger Chapman, my lord of Gloucester’s new Yeoman of the Chamber.’
I acknowledged the fact cautiously, particularly as I suspected that I was an object of some amusement to her. ‘Who are you and why should anyone give you my description?’ I wanted to know.
‘My name is Amice Gentle, sewing-woman to the Duchess of York, and I was told that your tunic is in need of alteration.’ She gurgled with laughter. ‘And indeed, I can see that it is. I must take some measurements. Come with me to the sewing-room so that I can see more easily what needs to be done.’ And so saying, she turned and whisked away again, up the stairs.
Gentle; Amice Gentle; I said the name over to myself as I followed in her wake. Then, of course, I remembered. She was the daughter of the Southampton butcher and his wife.
The room into which she led me was lit by a generous number of candles, for the daylight, even at the height of summer, was poor, filtering in through three small, unshuttered windows, set only in the outer wall. Five or six other young women, some sitting, some standing, were busy at two long trestle tables which ran the length of the room. Two were working on an elaborate piece of embroidery which, at a cursory glance and judging by the subject matter, I guessed to be an altar cloth. The rest were stitching away at various garments, mending rents, darning holes or resetting hems; the sort of good, plain sewing which is a necessity of every household, however humble, but especially in one as large as Duchess Cicely’s was in those days.