There was no response. There never was, but sometimes I could swear that I could hear God laughing; a faint, far off chuckling like the gentle tapping of rain against the windows on a summer’s night. I sighed and turned to face Adela, resting my chin on top of her head. I could smell the faint scent of the rose petals she had added to the water when she washed her hair. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to London, quite apart from this mystery that had been tossed into my lap. There had been something in the general atmosphere of the city during the recent weeks that I had spent there, but what exactly that something was would be difficult to say. Grief, of course, for the death of a king whom the Londoners had particularly loved; a free and easy, open-hearted, generous ruler; a man who loved life and all its pleasures just as they did; someone who ate, drank and made merry just as they did; who lusted after women just as they did; a monarch of flesh and blood (especially flesh). Now, there was uncertainty, as there always must be with a minor on the throne, a young boy totally unknown to them, who had lived since childhood at Ludlow, on the distant Welsh marches. And who would he favour? His father’s one remaining brother, the Duke of Gloucester, who was equally a stranger to the capital and the south of England generally, preferring to live secluded on his northern estates? Or his mother’s kinfolk, renowned for their grasping ways and insatiable greed for self-advancement? If I had been forced to wager money on it, I would have backed the Woodvilles without a second’s hesitation.
And there were so many stories to the Queen Dowager’s discredit and to that of her family. I had probably heard more of these rumours and tales than my fellow commoners because of the strange circumstances which had drawn me, mostly against my will, into the inner circle of the royal family and nobility. I was prepared to accept that some of the indictments might be untrue or exaggerated, but there were a couple of highly disgraceful episodes which were given universal credence.
Shortly after the late king’s marriage, Thomas FitzGerald, Earl of Desmond, by all accounts a handsome, brave, cultivated and convivial man, had come from Ireland for the new queen’s coronation. Immensely popular at the English court, he had struck up a lasting friendship with the young Duke of Gloucester, but he had proved to be a man too honest for his own good. When, during a hunting trip, King Edward had asked his opinion of the new queen, Desmond had replied that while he admired Elizabeth’s beauty and virtue, he considered the king would have done better to make a foreign alliance. Edward accepted the answer in the spirit in which it was made, but the queen and her family were not so easily satisfied. Two years later, when the hated John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, (nicknamed the Butcher of England) was appointed Deputy Lieutenant of Ireland, he helped the Woodvilles to their revenge. Not only was Desmond beheaded on a trumped-up charge of treason, but two of his small sons were also cruelly murdered.
The second episode had been the arrest of Sir Thomas Cook, also on a charge of treason, because the Woodville matriarch, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, widow of Henry V’s brother, John, Duke of Bedford, had coveted Sir Thomas’s tapestries depicting the Siege of Jerusalem. The knight had been thrown into prison and his London house ransacked. When he had been brought before Chief Justice Markham, a man famed for his honesty, the jury had been directed to bring in a verdict of misprision of treason only. The queen’s late father, the first Earl Rivers, had succeeded in having Markham driven from office and thrown Cook into the King’s Bench prison where he had exacted the enormous fine of eight thousand pounds. Not content with this, his daughter had resurrected from the statute books the archaic and lapsed right of ‘queen’s gold’, by which she had been able to claim one hundred marks for every thousand pounds of the fine. Sir Thomas was ruined.
I had heard these two stories more than once and from more than one person, and four times out of five their truth had been attested to from the personal knowledge of the speaker. Moreover, they had chimed with what I, myself, had seen and heard of the Woodvilles, and I had never felt the least inclination to disbelieve them. They had simply strengthened my loyalty to the Duke of Gloucester. But during the past few weeks, I had been uneasily conscious of a growing fear that Prince Richard’s desire for revenge — for Desmond, for Sir Thomas Cook and others like him, above all for Clarence — might be escalating out of proportion, especially when it was coupled with the secret belief that his mother’s long-ago admission of Edward’s bastardy was really true.
The future seemed suddenly insecure, like looking through a glass darkly. I found myself praying that my lord would do nothing rash or foolish, but without any real conviction that my prayer would be answered. I continued to stare at the ceiling, at the shifting patterns made by the moonlight, until, without my knowing it, I fell deeply and dreamlessly asleep.
My first sight of Minster Lovell was about midday, two days later.
Timothy had not exaggerated the speed of our journey, nor its hardships, with changes of horses that left time for nothing more than a stoup of ale drunk standing up, meals of little more than bread and cheese bolted down at wayside hostelries and, on the Tuesday night, a few hours’ sleep snatched at an inn whose only lasting impression on me was the countless number of fleabites which reddened my skin and made me itch for long hours afterwards.
The house lies in a hollow, standing on the banks of the River Windrush, the high ground to the north rising towards Wychwood Forest and to the south towards the main Gloucester to Oxford track. It is built — family and servants’ quarters and domestic buildings — four-square around an inner courtyard, and, when I first saw it, was only some thirty-five years old. Consequently, it is a house whose function is simply for living in and makes no pretence at defensibility except for some ornamental machicolations on the south-west tower.
We approached it from the east late on Wednesday, across a small stone bridge spanning the river, and looked down on walls glowing saffron and honey in the afternoon light, scythed through with long amethyst shadows that inched slowly forward across the courtyard. The indignant yelping of dogs greeted us as we rode under the gateway arch, nodded through by a porter who immediately recognized Timothy’s blue and murrey livery and the White Boar crest as belonging to the mighty Duke of Gloucester. He even gave me a curt nod as I was looking more respectable than usual, Timothy having insisted that I wore one of the two decent outfits loaned to me for my journey to Paris the preceding year and, to the spymaster’s eternal disgust, subsequently presented to me by the duke as a reward for my services. As a result, I was, much against my will, decked out in brown hose and yellow tunic, a velvet hat sporting a fake jewel on its upturned brim, and with a good camlet cloak strapped to my saddlebag.
‘I’m not jaunting about the countryside with you looking like a scarecrow,’ Timothy had informed me on Monday night. ‘So put on one of those expensive tunics my lord’s exchequer could ill-afford to give you, a decent shirt and your best boots and, for once, try to look like a gentleman.’
‘Expensive my arse!’ had been my ungentlemanly response, but I had complied, nevertheless. I could see no point in making the journey even more uncomfortable than it already promised to be by quarrelling with my companion.
Dogs, three or four greyhounds and a couple of mastiffs, were by now circling us, their barking and growling causing the horses to sidle and shift uneasily, but whereas Timothy was well in command of his mount, I was unsure of my ability to control mine. Fortunately, before this was put to the test, a man strolled out of a nearby doorway and called them to heel.