I had shaken my head; I couldn’t explain without incurring his further anger. Indeed, I had felt angry with myself for quibbling because I could clearly understand the necessity for Hastings’s removal. (One of the things I had noticed since my arrival in the capital that morning was how many of the Lord Chamberlain’s retainers were thronging the London streets. They constituted a small army and could undoubtedly, if called upon, pose a serious threat to civic stability.) All the same, there seemed little difference to me between condemning a man to the block out of hand and letting him stand trial when the verdict had been prearranged.
‘Roger!’ I realized with a start that the duke had extended his hand and I dropped to one knee to kiss it. It was icy cold in spite of the warmth of the evening. He laughed. ‘You were miles away, my friend.’
I glanced up guiltily and wondered how many other princes of the blood royal would dismiss such negligence with a smile. But his always unexpected sense of humour shone through to lighten what, for me, could have been a very nasty moment.
‘Your Highness, forgive me,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘You must blame my rudeness on lack of sleep. I only arrived in London this morning after a night spent in a very indifferent wayside inn.’
He nodded. ‘I hear from Timothy that you insisted on going to Minster Lovell before coming here. Did your visit offer up any resolution to this mystery?’
‘Not that I’m aware of at the moment, my lord.’ I saw him arch his eyebrows and added, ‘I can never tell what might prove to be useful in time.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He waved me towards a cushioned stool with armrests and resumed his own seat in a carved armchair. ‘I can only ask you to do your best and to do it quickly. However, that’s not the reason I summoned you here.’
At this point, he turned his head and glanced at someone whose presence I had so far failed to notice, and I was somewhat disconcerted to find that the duchess was also in the room.
I had not seen the Her Grace of Gloucester for some time, and then only at a distance when the duke’s sister, Margaret of Burgundy, had visited London two years previously. Like her older sister, Isabel, the long-dead Duchess of Clarence, she was a delicate, almost childlike woman, and I reflected yet again how strange it was that the line of that mighty, vigorous man, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, had run to seed in these two fragile daughters. I had once, more than a decade ago, done the Lady Anne, as she then was, a service, and she smiled at me now in instant recognition.
‘I’m happy to see you again, Master Chapman.’
‘And I you, Your Grace.’ I got clumsily to my feet and made my obeisance.
‘Oh, sit down, man. Sit down.’ Her husband waved an airy hand. ‘We’re not standing on ceremony this evening. This is a meeting strictly off the record. It’s never taken place. You hear me, Roger?’
‘I do, Your Highness,’ I said, wondering what on earth was coming.
There was a protracted pause; so protracted that although it was not my place to do so, I felt obliged to fill it.
‘I trust Prince Edward is well, Your Grace,’ I said to the duchess.
A shadow crossed her face. ‘We think him a little better now that the warmer weather is here, I thank you, Master Chapman. He has had a nasty cough this past winter, as indeed have I, but we look to the pure air of the Yorkshire moors to cure it. He will stay at home for the present.’
‘Sweetheart, the boy’s strong enough if he isn’t coddled into ill health by you and that nurse of his.’ The duke spoke with all the irritation of someone who knows full well that what he is saying is what he wishes to believe and not what he knows to be the truth. He turned towards me and cleared his throat. ‘Roger, when you went to France for me last year, on that. . that mission. When you spoke to. . oh, I forget her name. The Frenchwoman married to the English soldier. .’
‘Mistress Gaunt. Yes, Your Grace?’
The duke was twisting the ruby ring on his right-hand little finger even more rapidly than before, but quite unaware that he was doing so. He went on, ‘She told you the story of my two eldest brothers’ christenings. What. . what did you make of it?’
‘What did I make of it, Your Highness?’
‘Yes, man, make of it?’ Agitation and impatience were blended in equal measure.
‘In what particular, my lord?’ I was confused, groping my way down an as yet blind alley. What was it he wanted me to say? In my experience, the duke rarely showed exasperation with underlings, but I sensed that at this moment he was close to losing his temper.
The duchess took pity on me, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Master Chapman,’ she said in her low, sweet voice, ‘do you believe that the story of those two Rouen christenings — that of the younger child being so much grander and better attended than that of the elder — is proof of my mother-in-law’s ancient claim that the late king was her bastard child by the archer Blaybourne?’
I drew a deep breath. I was on quicksand here and had to tread carefully. I addressed the duke. ‘My lord. .’ I hesitated, then plunged. ‘Yes, I believe that the story does in some measure support the Duchess of York’s claim. But it is not even proof, let alone proof positive. There could be other valid reasons why the lord Edmund’s christening was made so much more of than the lord Edward’s.’
‘Such as?’
I thought quickly. ‘The duchess may have been unwell after the late king’s birth and not in the mood for a great celebration.’
The duke looked sceptical. ‘My mother was never unwell after giving birth to any of us. But let’s presume your theory’s true. Why would she and my father not wait until she was in better health to hold the christening? Edward was the much longed-for son; a healthy boy following the early death of an older brother at Hatfield before my parents left for Normandy. And why was my father always so much fonder of Edmund than of Edward? They went everywhere together — until they died together, at the battle outside Wakefield.’
I grimaced. ‘When Your Grace puts it like that. .’ I glanced imploringly at the duchess.
She did not fail me. ‘I think, sweetheart, that what Master Chapman is saying is that while the story is a very strong indication that you are the rightful king, and have been ever since George was executed, it isn’t sufficient proof in itself. And didn’t you tell me that this woman, this Mistress Gaunt, is dead?’
The duke nodded, his naturally thin lips compressed to an almost invisible thread. ‘She was murdered by a Woodville spy. Isn’t that so, Roger?’
‘Unfortunately yes, my lord.’
‘Further proof, wouldn’t you agree, of the story’s significance?’
For answer, I asked him again, as I had asked him on various occasions the previous year, ‘Is there no possibility of persuading the dowager duchess either to confirm or deny what she said at the time of the late king’s marriage?’
The duke sighed. ‘As I’ve told you before, my mother refuses to discuss the subject. One can see why, of course. For a start, she is a very different woman to the one she was nineteen years ago. She has embraced the religious life and would no longer find it acceptable to be seen as a woman who once cuckolded her husband. And then again, young Edward is her grandson, even though he is half Woodville.’