I grinned at Matthew. ‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ I recommended. ‘He’s tired from constant vigilance; worn down by the continued uncertainty of what’s going to happen next.’
Matthew nodded gravely. ‘If only we knew the reason for this devilish plot.’ He sighed. And when I failed to agree, he looked at me narrowly. ‘Do you and Master Plummer know something you haven’t yet told me?’
‘I believe Master Plummer to be as much in the dark as ever,’ I answered slowly. ‘As for myself… well… As I’ve already told you, a glimmer of light is beginning to be visible through the murk.’
‘And you’re still not going to tell me what that glimmer is?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet. Until my ideas are more fully formed I shall say nothing to anyone. I’m as chary as any other man about making a fool of myself.’
Matthew stared at me sullenly for a moment, then his features broke into a good-natured grin. ‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘I’d be the same.’
I had frequently noticed in him this ability to throw off bad temper, like a snake sloughing its skin; one moment he was a man, with all a man’s anger and resentments, the next the happy-go-lucky schoolboy without a care in the world. It was an endearing trait, and one that contributed to his popularity amongst his fellows.
The next two days were quiet. The heat continued, but a thin, grey pall of cloud drifted in from the sea, obscuring the sun. A brooding silence hung over the town and a kind of apathy gripped men’s spirits, making everyone listless and irritable. Now and then tempers flared, resulting in a little blood-letting with bouts of fisticuffs and sword-fights, but none of them lasted long. The protagonists were too indifferent to the outcome. It was as if, after all the months of preparation, of raising and equipping the greatest invasion force ever to leave England’s shores, enthusiasm for the war had drained away as soon as the troops set foot in Calais. But I was convinced that the general malaise started at the very top with the King. His barely concealed inertia infected everyone.
Yet this loss of interest on His Highness’s part was extremely curious for, as everyone kept saying, it was King Edward who had made the decision to go to war with the old enemy across the Channel, who had persuaded Parliament to make him large grants of money for the purpose, who had indefatigably travelled the country, cajoling and bullying his wealthier subjects into contributing substantially to the cause. Almost single-handedly he had fanned the spark of Agincourt fever still burning in every Englishman’s heart, until it once more became a steady flame. So why, now, did he loiter in his stronghold of Calais, apparently content to wait upon the tardy arrival of his brother-in-law before making any move against the French?
But I was not the only one who found the King’s motives hard to fathom. My lord of Gloucester was growing ever more impatient and critical of his eldest brother day by day.
‘I must speak to my lord,’ I said to John Kendall, Duke Richard’s secretary.
He eyed me severely. ‘Chapman, you grow too bold. I suppose we all know by now that you are not really employed by His Grace as a Yeoman of the Chamber, but neither have I received any intimation from the Duke that you enjoy special privileges. I will inform him that you crave the indulgence of an audience, but you will have to wait until I send you word.’
‘It’s urgent,’ I protested.
Again he merely shook his head. ‘I have told you that I will let you know. But I warn you, even if he agrees to see you it will not be today. Nor, probably, tomorrow. The Duke of Burgundy arrives in Calais this morning.’
And with that I had to be content: I could see that John Kendall would not be moved. I went to find Timothy, only to be asked snappishly why I was not at my customary post of duty amongst His Grace’s guards.
‘The Duke of Burgundy’s advance runners arrived not half an hour since, to announce that he himself will be here by noon.’
I had discovered Timothy in the ground-floor counting-house, a room which had been temporarily converted into a dormitory for some dozen of Duke Richard’s personal retainers, Master Plummer and myself amongst them. By a lucky chance he was alone, an unusual circumstance with so many of us constantly coming and going. Quickly I closed the door.
‘In heaven’s name, what are you doing?’ Timothy paused in the act of pulling on his best azure-and-murrey tunic, kicking his second-best one under his pallet bed. ‘We must be ready to accompany the Duke as soon as he leaves the house.’
‘Listen,’ I said urgently. ‘I have an idea as to what might lie behind this plot to kill Duke Richard.’ I had his attention now and proceeded, ‘I may be wrong. I have as yet no proof of any kind, although if I’m correct in my thinking it can’t be too long now before it’s confirmed by events.’
‘For God’s sake, chapman, come to the point!’ Timothy was rigid with impatience. ‘What do you think you know?’
The door burst open behind me and we both jumped. To my relief it was Matthew Wardroper, but his message was that the Duke was about to join his brothers in the marketplace.
Timothy swore. ‘We daren’t stop now, chapman. There’s a tavern just around the corner, tucked away in a small courtyard. Do you know it?’ I nodded. ‘Then meet me there this evening, after supper.’
Matthew asked sharply, ‘What’s going on? Has something happened?’
Timothy straightened his tunic. ‘Roger thinks he knows what lies behind this plot against Duke Richard.’
Matthew exclaimed excitedly, clutching my arm, and I hastened to assure him that I had as yet no grounds for my suspicions and that only time would tell if I were right.
‘In which case young Matt had best come to the alehouse too,’ Timothy said, pushing past me to the door. ‘Two opinions will be better than one, I reckon. Now for God’s sake let us be going and, as always, stay as close to the Duke as you both dare.’
Duke Charles of Burgundy, known as ‘the Bold’ to his friends and as ‘the Rash’ to almost everyone else, was a long-faced, haughty-looking man, dressed all in black, the Order of the Golden Fleece gleaming at his throat and his horse’s harness hung with dozens of silver bells which jangled loudly each time that the unfortunate animal moved. He had one child, a daughter Mary, the progeny of his first wife, and seven years of marriage to our own Plantagenet princess had failed to produce any more; a constant source of barrack-room jokes among the Burgundian soldiery, or so Jocelin d’Hiver had told Matthew.
When Duke Charles rode regally into the market square at Calais I was standing some few paces behind Duke Richard, my eyes constantly flicking from one person to another in the crowd, on the watch for any untoward movement which might herald another attempt upon his life. I was therefore unaware for several minutes of the buzz of consternation which had arisen amongst the onlookers, or the signs of a heated altercation between the Duke and his brothers-in-law. When at last I did realize what was happening I hissed, ‘What’s going on?’ at one of my neighbours.
I recognized from his livery that he served under the captaincy of Louis de Bretaylle, one of the King’s most trusted and highly thought-of lieutenants.
‘Good God, man!’ he exclaimed, laughing. ‘Where are your eyes? Burgundy’s brought no army with him; no men other than those few at his back. Our lords are furious, as well they might be.’
But when I glanced towards the knot of royal brothers it seemed to me that only the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence were at all perturbed by the circumstance of their brother-in-law’s dereliction. King Edward appeared to accept with equanimity the fact that, as it afterwards transpired, Charles of Burgundy, having abandoned the siege of Neuss, was off, for reasons known only to himself, to invade the dukedom of Lorraine. In a hard, grating voice, which I could hear from where I stood, he was haranguing King Edward and his brothers, but as he spoke in French I was unable to understand what was being said. Later, when the greetings and ceremonies, much muted in their tone, were over, and the lords had gone off to King Edward’s lodgings for a council of war, I asked Matthew Wardroper for a translation.