Duchess Anne said bitterly, ‘My mother-in-law is a very obstinate and difficult woman, Master Chapman.’ She coloured and gave a little gasp, realizing the magnitude of her indiscretion.
The duke laughed. ‘Just be thankful, my love,’ he admonished her, ‘that your very unwary opinions were expressed to someone as trustworthy as Roger. But it wouldn’t do to make them generally known.’ He looked across at me. ‘And now, my friend, I am going to be equally indiscreet because I know you can keep your mouth shut. I must tell you that in spite of her steadfast refusal to repeat her words concerning my brother Edward’s bastardy, my mother does consider that. . that I should lay claim to the throne.’
‘My-my lord?’ I felt as if someone had punched me in the guts.
‘Particularly,’ the duke continued as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘in view of Bishop Stillington’s testimony.’
Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells! How that man kept cropping up in the family history of the House of York. His friendship with the late Duke of Clarence had been marked, and his imprisonment in the Tower at the time of Clarence’s downfall and execution — a downfall undoubtedly brought about by the Woodvilles — had suggested some kind of collusion between the two. And a few weeks earlier, during my first journey to London in pursuit of Adela, the bishop had arrived at Reading Abbey, late one night while Jack Nym and I were lodging there, in a flurry of agitation and self-importance. He and his retinue had also been highly visible, riding around the streets of the capital during the days that followed. And now it seemed he possessed knowledge which could bolster my lord Gloucester’s entitlement to the throne. If so, it must be secret knowledge that he had shared with the Duke of Clarence in the past; knowledge that had led to that rash young man’s undoing.
Yet again I hesitated, unsure of what I was supposed to say. But the duke’s expectant look encouraged me to ask the necessary question.
‘What — er — testimony is that, my lord, if I’m not being too presumptuous?’
The duke smiled. ‘It will be common knowledge in a day or two, in any case, but until then, Roger, I trust you to keep silent, at least, to outsiders. My own people know what’s in the wind.’ He glanced at his wife, who nodded her approval, and then went on, ‘Bishop Stillington informs me that the late king’s marriage to the Widow Grey wasn’t legal. Edward had already secretly plighted his troth to, and solemnly promised to marry, the Lady Eleanor Butler, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury. No one knew of this except my brother, the lady herself and Bishop Stillington who conducted the ceremony of betrothal.’
‘And as you must be aware, Master Chapman,’ the duchess put in, ‘a betrothal, in the eyes of the Church is as binding as are the vows of marriage. The children of my late brother-in-law’s so-called marriage are therefore illegitimate, and as my nephew Warwick is barred from the throne by his father’s attainder, my husband is undoubtedly king. I tell him that he must immediately claim what is rightfully his.’
I was more than a little surprised at how forcefully the duchess spoke. She had always struck me as so self-effacing a person as to be almost a cipher, as having no existence beyond her husband’s shadow. I suppose I had failed to realize that under her gentle exterior she was her father’s daughter. During his final years, Warwick had fought and died so that one of his girls might be consort to England’s king, and she could see the present opportunity only as the vindication of all his hopes. And her son — Warwick’s grandson — would one day wear the crown.
I was startled by the duke’s voice cutting across my tumultuous thoughts.
‘Well, Roger, has the cat got your tongue?’
‘Your Grace, I. . I. .’
‘Don’t know what to say, is that it?’ He looked disappointed. ‘I had hoped that your reaction would give me some indication of how the world in general would regard my assumption of the crown.’
‘The country will be safer — ’ again it was the duchess who spoke — ‘with a strong man to rule it than with a young king who will be at the mercy of his squabbling relatives, all vying for power.’
‘I–I suppose so,’ I answered feebly, my head reeling from the impact of the news.
I thought of that angelic-looking, fair-haired, blue-eyed child riding to St Paul’s and also of the way the women in the crowd had drooled over him, their maternal instincts at fever pitch. I wondered how they would accept his being put aside, his being proclaimed a bastard, in favour of a man of whom the Londoners knew so little. And what would happen to him and his brother and numerous sisters once their uncle had usurped the throne? Some detached part of my mind noted with interest my choice of phrase. Did it mean that I didn’t believe Bishop Stillington’s story? That I thought it a fairy tale concocted between him and Duke Richard?
And yet the story had logic to it. Had not King Edward’s marriage to Lady Elizabeth Grey been a secret known only to themselves and the Woodville family for many months? The king’s closest advisers, his own mother, brothers and sisters had been kept in the dark until his betrothal to Bona of Savoy had been arranged and he could no longer conceal the fact. So was it not possible that Edward had gone through an earlier equally secret ceremony with another woman? Except, on that occasion, he had persuaded her into bed without actually having to marry her. But if he had promised marriage, it was true that the Church would regard it in a serious light.
But serious enough to depose a king by declaring him and all his siblings bastards? I wasn’t at all sure about that.
‘Your Highness could refer your argument to an episcopal court,’ I suggested. ‘To Rome, if necessary.’
The duke shook his head. ‘There isn’t time, Roger. This dilemma needs resolving as soon as possible.’ There was a moment’s silence before he added, ‘I must admit your attitude saddens me. I had hoped, knowing what you do, that you would be glad that I can rightfully claim what you surely must feel is really mine.’
‘Your-your Highness,’ I stammered, ‘I’m sorry. It-it’s just that I wasn’t prepared. . It’s been a shock. .’
He got up and I rose with him. He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘No, don’t apologize, my friend. For I count you as my friend, you must know that. We share more than just the same birthday: we share trust, you and I. I shouldn’t have used you like this, as a sounding board, when I haven’t even come to a final decision, myself. Now, sit down again and tell me how your enquiries are progressing. This unfortunate affair must be resolved before. . Well, let’s say as soon as possible. It’s not the sort of cloud I want hanging over me at present. I refer, of course, to the disappearance of Master Fitzalan and the murder of his tutor.’
I resumed my seat. ‘Your Grace, I only arrived in London this morning. I’ve hardly had time-’
‘No, no!’ he interrupted sympathetically. ‘I appreciate that. But the locked room, do you consider that an insurmountable obstacle?’
With a great effort of will, I forced myself to concentrate on the matter now under discussion, attempting desperately to control my whirling thoughts which were everywhere at once, still trying to assimilate the implications and possible consequences of what I had just been told.
‘My lord, unless you believe in the agency of supernatural beings, there has to be a rational explanation. But exactly what that is, I must confess, for the moment eludes me.’ His smile and nod of encouragement began to settle my mind. This was the master and friend I had known for so many years; a man of understanding, intelligence and courtesy. I went on, ‘Sir, do you know the ancient custom of the crown and the bough?’