One of my faults — one of my many, should I say? — is that I can never forbear airing my knowledge (when I have any to air, that is). It was the same now. Although I knew full well that we were on perilously forbidden ground, I couldn’t help saying, ‘Beneath the Tor is supposed to be the home of Gwyn-ap-Nud, son of Nud, the Wind God, and lord of the Wild Hunt. Also occasionally known as Avallach, the Fisher King.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Look, such talk is not only dangerous but foolish, so just let’s …’
‘Have you ever been there?’ Donald interrupted ruthlessly.
‘Or your mother, perhaps?’ Davey added. ‘Has she? In the old times it would have been the goddess of the lake who ruled. It would be her handmaidens, even today, who have the power which is handed down from generation to generation to enter the Otherworld.’
‘This is becoming nonsensical,’ I snarled. ‘My mother died many years ago, but in any case, I never asked her such a foolish question. Mind you,’ I couldn’t restrain myself from adding, ‘there is a legend that a holy man, named Collen, once found his way inside the hill, guided by a beautiful girl.’
‘Like Thomas the Rhymer,’ Davey said eagerly, and the others nodded, even James Petrie, who had so far contributed nothing except a puzzled frown as he tried to follow a conversation that was largely unintelligible to him. But he obviously recognized the name of this Thomas the Rhymer. He said something in rapid Scots to the other three.
I asked, ‘Who’s Thomas the Rhymer?’ and then immediately regretted the question. I was only prolonging a discussion that would be better terminated as soon as possible. Indeed, I half rose to my feet, preparatory to lifting one leg over the bench, but curiosity got the better of me and I sat down again.
Davey slid me a sidelong glance of triumph. ‘In Scotland, the Eildon Hills are said to conceal the entrance to the Otherworld. Thomas was led inside by the Queen of Elfland, herself. The Otherworld, unlike our Christian one, acknowledges women to be the equal of men and accords them equal importance.’
‘Why was he called the Rhymer?’ I asked rather stupidly.
Murdo gave a superior smile, while Donald looked down his nose. Davey gave a little crow of laughter.
‘Because he made rhymes, of course,’ he said. ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
This time I did get up and stepped over the bench. The crowd in the kitchen was beginning to thin out as servants and retainers finished eating and went in search of their masters. The noise had decreased accordingly: kitcheners and scullions were busy removing empty bowls and dishes, sweeping the remains of broken meats and bread into their aprons, stretching across the shoulders of those diners still seated.
‘You and your companions would do well to watch your tongues, Master Davey,’ I told him. ‘They’ll wag once too often.’ With this parting dart, I was about to stride away when I recollected my unanswered question. ‘Who has been talking to you about me?’
Murdo chuckled deep in his throat. ‘An old friend of yours. My lord of Gloucester’s Spymaster General. One, Timothy Plummer.’
I was astonished. I hadn’t clapped eyes on Timothy since we parted company in London after he had handed me over to Albany.
‘I didn’t know he was travelling with the duke,’ I said.
Donald gave a short laugh as he, too, finally stood up, yawning and rubbing his belly.
‘I don’t suppose we know half the people who are travelling in Gloucester’s train, what with the chaplains, the doctors, the musicians, the lawyers … You’d be lucky to catch a glimpse of your little friend.’
‘How did you, then?’
‘Quite by chance, I overheard him talking to my lord.’
‘Albany? But why were they discussing me?’
‘How in Hades should I know? Should I go barging in demanding information of my betters? All I know is that I came upon them talking together just before my lord went into the council chamber. I couldn’t help hearing something of what Master Plummer was saying, although I didn’t know who he was then. My lord informed me of his identity.’
‘And what exactly was Timothy Plummer saying about me?’ I enquired indignantly.
Donald shrugged. ‘Simply that; that you had once been intended for the church and had entered the monastery at Glastonbury. I think it must have been in response to some information my lord was seeking. But what, I have no idea.’
‘Then I shall ask him.’
In the event, however, I held my tongue, at least for the time being. The council of war had plainly rattled Albany and he was in the foulest mood I had ever seen him in. I saw the two squires exchange white-eyed glances and, together with the page, they made themselves scarce, giving their master a wide berth and leaving me to bear the brunt of his ill-temper. I was uncertain what had caused it, but from various remarks he let drop, and from the way he proceeded to vilify some of the other council members, I came to the conclusion that there were those who regarded the attempt to replace King James with his brother on the Scottish throne as a grave mistake; a stumbling block to any negotiations to regain the Princess Cicely’s dowry and to win back Berwick.
‘They’re fools!’ Albany stormed, pacing up and down his chamber. ‘The only way the English will get back either is by making me king. I’ve already sworn fealty to Edward.’
‘Berwick is already under siege,’ I dared to point out. ‘It might yet be won back by force.’
‘It’s been under siege for months,’ sneered Albany. ‘Why can’t the idiots see that I’m their only hope.’
‘Duke Richard …’ I began.
Albany swung round to face me.
‘Duke Richard will do what he considers most advantageous for this country,’ he snapped, adding, ‘I don’t trust that man.’
I was genuinely shocked, so much so that I was moved to expostulate.
‘His Grace of Gloucester is considered a man of the greatest probity,’ I said, and I could hear the anger trembling in my voice. I took a deep breath and continued more moderately, ‘He is a very religious man. His word is considered his bond. His loyalty to King Edward has been the cornerstone of his life, unlike his brother, the late Duke of Clarence.’
I was suddenly aware of Albany’s ironic glance, and recollected that I had heard him described on more than one occasion as a ‘Scottish Clarence’. He had undoubtedly heard the phrase, too, and I waited for the vials of his wrath to break over my head. But one thing I have to say in Albany’s favour; he had a sense of humour and was never so set up in self-conceit that he couldn’t take a joke at his own expense. He laughed and shrugged.
‘All that may be true,’ he admitted. ‘In fact, it is true. Loyaute me lie is Gloucester’s motto. But I have often thought him a man who has carefully weighed up the alternatives in life, and then acted in what he considers to be his best self-interest. But also,’ Albany added thoughtfully, ‘I think him a man who could lose that self-control if ever he allowed his emotions to get the better of him. He hates the Queen and all her family with a depth of loathing that has bitten deep into his soul, but, for his brother’s sake, he suppresses it so rigorously that he is almost unaware of it. One day, maybe, it will take him by surprise. That’s why I say I don’t trust him. Any man who exerts such command over his feelings won’t let himself acknowledge just what his real feelings are. Such men, in my estimation, are dangerous.’
‘Your Grace seems to know a great deal about my lord Gloucester,’ I sneered, forgetting my place in my anger. ‘I wouldn’t have thought him a man to take anyone so far into his confidence.’ I didn’t add, ‘especially you,’ but it was implicit in my tone.
Albany’s eyes flashed dangerously. He had been sitting on the bed, but now he slid off and came to stand close to me. He was nearly as tall as I was and could look at me face to face.
‘Be careful, Roger,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s true that I owe you something for your help three years ago. It’s also true that I need your help now. But don’t think that entitles you to speak to me as you please. Remember, I am a future king.’