I recognized the man immediately. It was Ralph Boyse.
Once again, as four nights earlier at the Saracen’s Head, I lay wakeful and restless on my pallet, while all around me my fellows snored and muttered in their sleep.
Vainly I tried to interpret what I had seen that evening. Ralph must have been a witness to the meeting between his betrothed and Lionel Arrowsmith, yet far from being consumed by jealous rage and rushing headlong to separate them, he had seemingly been content to do nothing. But why? And had he happened upon them by chance, or had he suspected that he was being betrayed and set himself to spy on Berys? Furthermore, if I were right and she really had observed him, what would she do now? Would she seek him out and try to excuse herself? Make up some story about being sorry for Lionel in his present injured state? (But no man would be foolish enough to believe such a blatant lie! No, no! She could, and probably would, do better than that. In my experience women are cleverer at deception than men.) Maybe Berys had seen nothing, only sensed that she and her lover were being watched, in which case she would most likely hope for the best, eventually convincing herself that she had imagined the whole. As for Ralph, it could well be more satisfying to dream up some deep-laid plan of revenge rather than to take instant action. I must try to warn Lionel, put him on his guard, and persuade Timothy to knock some sense into his head about Berys Hogan. Tomorrow, I reflected, tossing and turning, might well prove to be an interesting day, provided I could stay awake long enough to play my part.
I resolutely closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, with such success that the next thing to wake me was the head Yeoman of the Chamber beating loudly with his staff of office against the wooden door and shouting, ‘Every man rise! Every man rise! Daybreak! Daybreak!’ And indeed he was right. Dawn was already filtering through the narrow, unshuttered slits of windows.
All around me, fellow Yeomen pulled themselves reluctantly to their feet, stretching their arms until the bones cracked, or rubbing the sleep from their still half-closed eyes. There was much cursing as we groped around in the semi-darkness for boots and shirts and tunics, coaxing into them limbs which felt as though they were made of lead. As always, there were arguments as to which garment belonged to which man, and accusations of taking one another’s property, but in the end it all got sorted out with surprising amity and we were ready to face a new day. But as we waited in line to use the castle privies, then descended to one of the inner courtyards to douse our heads beneath the pumps and hack the night’s growth of beard from our chins as best we could with icy water, I was recalling a dream which I must have had just before waking, and which still clung about me with the persistence of a cobweb.
I had been standing in the woodland clearing north of Chilworth Manor, experiencing yet again that all-pervasive sense of evil, when Timothy Plummer had suddenly appeared, walking towards me through the trees.
‘Is the word “demon” or “demesne”?’ he had asked me angrily. ‘It’s important for His Grace’s sake that I should know.’
‘Neither,’ I had answered confidently. ‘It’s …’ But there the dream had ended abruptly.
It was in vain that I racked my brains for the missing word. Deep inside me I must know exactly what it was that I had overheard, but it had eluded me sleeping as it now eluded me waking, no matter how hard I tried to conjure it up.
The great hall of Baynard’s Castle was awash with light, every torch and cresset lit, the candelabra of latten tin, suspended from the central rafter, ablaze with burning candles of scented wax. During the course of a long day the floor had been thoroughly swept and garnished with fresh rushes and armfuls of flowers, which had been scattered across the flagstones. The kitchens had been a hive of activity from early morning, and the smell of cooking meats, turning slowly on their spits, had been making everyone’s mouth water uncontrollably. Tapestries had been brought to line the walls, their glowing colours adding an unaccustomed warmth to the normally sombre stone, and the tables, spread with fresh linen, groaned beneath the weight of gold and silver dishes.
The Duke and his mother, the former magnificently attired in crimson velvet and cloth of gold, the latter resplendent in black silk damask, the senior officers of their respective households grouped about them, waited on the steps of the inner courtyard to receive their guests, who were then conducted by the steward to their places within the hall. From my position next to Stephen Hudelin, wedged against one of the sideboards which was loaded with different wines and cold side-dishes, I was able to observe their various entrances, and smiled secretly to myself at the jostling for precedence and the arguments with the steward over seating arrangements which went on. Every man present wished to stress his own importance, and every wife was insistent that he should do so.
Most of these early arrivals were, to me, just faces to which I could put no names. One set of features, however – swarthy skin, a high, arched nose, eyes like glossy chestnuts and a bush of curling black beard split by a wide and toothy grin – attracted me enough to ask Stephen Hudelin to whom they belonged. And that was the first time I ever heard of Edward Brampton. Born Duarte Brandao, a Portuguese Jew, he had come to England to make his fortune, converted to Christianity, lived for a while in the House of the Convertites in the Strand and had chosen the baptismal name of Edward in honour of the King, who had stood godfather to him at his christening. He was still, at this time, plain Master Brampton, for his knighthood would not be conferred on him until many years later by Duke Richard, after the Duke himself had become king. But, although I did not know it then, our paths were destined to cross in the future because of our mutual devotion to the House of York and in particular because of our undying love for one man.
That man, a-shimmer in crimson and gold, was now, to the braying of trumpets, leading in his most important guests. Duchess Cicely was escorted by her daughter, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s husband, the Duke of Suffolk, a surly, brutish man who, oddly enough, was great-grandson, through his mother’s line, of the gentle, humorous poet Geoffrey Chaucer. Next came a clutch of Woodvilles, led by Anthony, Earl Rivers, eldest of the Queen’s twelve brothers and sisters. I had heard him spoken of as a very learned man, who was so deeply religious that he constantly wore a penitent’s hair shirt beneath his gorgeous robes; a man neither so grasping nor so greedy as his numerous siblings. Indeed, there was a kindness about the mouth and in the eyes which was absent in the rest of his family. He displayed, also, an air of patient resignation, which made me suspect that he would accept without demur whatever life brought him, be it for good or ill; not, by my reckoning, a man who would seek to interfere with the workings of that fickle damsel, Fate, by trying to usurp her function. Perhaps I leapt too rapidly to conclusions, but in my experience a lot may be gleaned from first impressions, and nothing I ever heard or knew of Anthony Woodville in later years caused me to revise that original opinion of him. I made up my mind there and then that no danger threatened the Duke from that quarter, although what his brothers and sisters were capable of I was far less certain.
Chief among the magnificent throng who entered the hall just before King Edward and his consort was George of Clarence. He was unaccompanied by his wife, having left the sickly Duchess Isabel at home in Somerset. I had never seen the Duke before and studied the big, florid, handsome face with interest. Deep lines of discontent grooved the corners of his eyes and there was a sulky pout to his mouth which spoke of bitterness and disillusion. A fine tracery of small red veins marred the once youthful smoothness of his cheeks and his laughter was over-loud and over-hearty, his general demeanour being that of a man who felt that life had not dealt fairly by him. His dislike of the Woodvilles was poorly concealed and as the evening wore on, and he sank deeper in his cups, it grew yet more glaringly obvious; but it was a dislike just as patently returned.