I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so. If that was the case, why bother to snatch a lad who seems to have been so well guarded? Why go to the length of murdering one of those guardians in order to lay hands on him?’ I sipped my ale thoughtfully. ‘Which forces me to the conclusion that there’s something special about Gideon Fitzalan that I’m missing. I shall have to talk to members of his family again to discover if any one of them can shed light on the riddle.’
‘I told you, only Sir Pomfret and his lady remain here, and you said you had no wish to disturb them. And I think you’re quite right,’ Piers added sententiously. ‘As bereaved parents, they ought to command your compassion.’
I gave him a look that should have withered him on the spot had he not been occupied with waving to someone in a twopenny rowing boat going upstream.
‘In that case,’ I said, scrambling to my feet, ‘I must pay a visit to Crosby’s Place and speak to Gideon’s uncles. But first, I’ll have another word with Dame Copley.’
However, when I tried to run the nurse to earth, I was informed that she was still in attendance on Lady Fitzalan and had moved permanently into the rooms put at Sir Pomfret’s disposal by Duchess Cicely. I discovered this to be only too correct. The chamber she had previously occupied, close to the landing-stage, was bare of any trace of her. All that remained was the furniture normally to be found there.
This was not quite true, however. On top of the clothes-chest, someone had placed a small stone pitcher of birch twigs, wilting now in the midsummer heat, the leaves turning brown as the water dried up, depriving them of nourishment. I stood staring for a minute or two before opening my pouch and taking out the little twig I had picked up in the upstairs passageway a few days earlier. I recollected similar birch twigs worn by the seamstress Maria Johnson and by Julian Makepeace’s Naomi; adornments, according to the latter, closely associated with the rites of Midsummer Eve. I recalled, also, Julian’s distaste for a festival founded, so he claimed, on the blood sacrifices of the old religion that had preceded Christianity in this island. And suddenly, I was back amongst the stone henges of Avebury, thinking about the ancient legend of the Daughters of Albion, of Wayland the Smith, and of the white horse carved into the hillside at Uffington. .
‘What are you doing in here?’ demanded Piers’s voice. ‘I thought you’d gone to find old mother Copley.’
‘She’s not here any more. She’s with Lady Fitzalan.’
‘I could have told you that if you’d asked me.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
‘You went off so suddenly I didn’t have time to mention it. Besides, I thought you must have known.’
‘I don’t see why you should have thought that,’ I snapped tetchily, then changed the subject as I realized that this exchange of words was descending to the level of a childish quarrel. I nodded towards the pot of birch twigs. ‘Do you know what the association of birch is with Midsummer Eve?’
‘The crown and the bough?’ Piers shrugged. ‘Not really. Only that its leaves and branches are used to crown the Midsummer Eve queens. I believe the tree has an association with virginity or some such nonsense.’
‘Virginity?’
‘Nowadays.’ Another shrug. ‘I think that in the past it may have been more to do with celibacy. I believe it was an emblem for women who wanted to live a chaste life but had been forced into marriage by their families.’
‘Like St Etheldreda you mean?’
Piers turned his head sharply to look at me. ‘Yes. You know about her? She’s not one of the more celebrated saints.’
‘You forget that I was once a novice. Brother Hilarion, our Novice Master, made certain that his charges were well versed in the lives of all the saints. But,’ I went on, ‘I might say the same about you. You also seem familiar with Etheldreda’s life.’
‘Oh. . well, there’s nothing remarkable in that,’ he said, stumbling a little over his words. ‘I learned about her from Mother Copley. The lady’s a favourite of hers.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘For any particular reason?’
Piers looked uncomfortable. ‘As to that — I suppose there’s no harm in my telling you: it’s not exactly a secret, though Rosina doesn’t talk about it very much — she was married once, forced into it against her will by her father when she was very young. She felt she’d had the call to become a nun, but the old bully wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh. . fortunately, the husband died after a year or two. Her father died, too, so she was finally free to do as she pleased.’
‘But she didn’t become a nun?’
‘You’re mighty curious about Mother Copley all of a sudden,’ Piers objected. ‘Why?’
‘Curiosity’s my business,’ I answered mildly. ‘If I don’t ask questions, I don’t learn anything. And if I don’t learn anything, how am I to find answers to these mysteries that God keeps sending to plague my life?’
‘I suppose there is that,’ Piers admitted grudgingly. ‘No, Rosina didn’t pursue her vocation after all. Don’t ask me why not. I’ve never enquired and she’s never told me. Some noblewoman took her on as nurse to her children and that’s what she’s done ever since, in one household or another. I suppose she’ll soon be looking for a new employer now that Master Gideon is. .’ He broke off as though uncertain what to say, then finished lamely, ‘Now that Master Gideon is growing up.’
‘Or dead? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’ I accused him. ‘Not if I can help it, lad!’
‘You don’t think he’s dead?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know any more than you do. But I think it possible that he may not be — yet! He was taken for a purpose, that’s obvious. But what? And why him? I have a feeling that if only I could answer the second question, it would shed light on the first. I was hoping Dame Copley might be able to help me.’
Piers pursed his lips. ‘Let me see what I can do. As a member of the household, I can slip in and out of Sir Pomfret’s and Lady Fitzalan’s chambers without occasioning remark. Maybe I can approach Rosina without disturbing anyone else or intruding on parental grief. Wait here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
So I sat down on the edge of the bed while Piers sped off on his mission. I can’t say that I had much hope of his succeeding, but I felt it was worth allowing him to try. I was sure that Rosina Copley didn’t like me very much; indeed, that she had little time for any of my sex, a feeling amply borne out by Piers’s account of her history. I was as certain as I could be that she would refuse to speak to me, taking refuge behind Lady Fitzalan’s skirts.
I was wrong, however. I don’t know how long it was before Piers made his reappearance, but it was sooner than I expected.
‘She’ll speak to you,’ he said, ‘although she insists it’s a waste of effort. I told her why you wanted to see her — it seemed best — and she’s positive that she knows nothing that could be of any use to you. However, if you wait in the little ante-room of the Fitzalan chambers, she’ll come out to you, but you’ll have to be brief. She doesn’t want to leave Lady Fitzalan alone for long. Can you remember the way?’
‘You’re not coming?’
Piers shook his head. ‘There’s no point. I’ve other things to do. Besides, it must be nearly supper time.’
I cursed myself for having forgotten this vital fact — I must have swallowed so much dust in the course of the day’s explorations that it had blunted my normally keen appetite — and decided to keep my interview with the nurse as short as possible. Like herself, I suspected that it would prove to be a fruitless waste of time.
But when I presented myself at the suite of chambers put at the Fitzalan’s disposal, to my astonishment I found the ante-room occupied not by Rosina Copley, but by Lady Fitzalan, seated on a small, uncomfortable-looking chair that was the major item of the room’s sparse furnishings. Her red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks told their own tale, as did the whiteness of her knuckles as she gripped the arms of the chair, but she otherwise had her emotions under control. She looked up and gave me a hostile glance as I entered.