‘I–I-forgive me,’ I stammered. ‘I was expecting to see Dame Copley.’
‘I know you were.’ The tone was curt. ‘I’ve sent her out to get some air. Since this terrible business happened, she’s hardly slept, poor soul. I’ve sent her to visit her sister, in Dowgate.’
‘Her-her sister? In Dowgate?’
The lady raised haughty eyebrows. ‘Why should you find that strange?’
‘I thought. . that is, I presumed that Dame Copley came from Yorkshire, like. . like the rest of you.’
The eyebrows went up even further. ‘Sir Pomfret and his brothers certainly hail from Yorkshire. The family is an old established one there, and has been ever since the Conquest. But I am a Godwin and was born and bred on my father’s estate near Chichester, where at least three of my sons were also born, including Gideon.’ She added, unbending a little, ‘He was a seven months’ child and took us all by surprise. The services of Rosina Copley were recommended to me by a friend, my former nurse having unfortunately died.’ She stopped short, as though feeling that such explanations were more than my due.
‘Dame Copley is also, then, a native of Chichester?’
‘No,’ was the terse reply. ‘She was born here, in London. You seem surprised.’
‘It’s just that I thought she. . that she spoke in the north country way.’
Lady Fitzalan gave a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, we all pick it up in time. It’s insidious.’
She spoke with that slight contempt of the southerner for the barbarous north. I hoped she never employed such a tone with my lord of Gloucester. He was a northerner to his backbone and loved every last blade of grass of its wild and rolling hills and dales.
It had come as a shock to me — although I wasn’t quite sure why — to discover that Rosina Copley was a Londoner and had family, a sister at least, in the capital. I tried to marshal my thoughts.
‘My lady,’ I said at last, ‘the reason I sought this interview with Dame Copley was to ask her if she had any idea — any idea at all — why your son has been abducted.’
‘Yes, I know. I walked in while that nephew of hers was explaining why you wished to see her, and-’
I interrupted ruthlessly. ‘Piers Daubenay is Dame Copley’s nephew?’
Once more the eyebrows came into play. ‘You didn’t know?’ She shrugged. ‘Oh well, why should you? The tie of affection between them doesn’t appear to be great.’ Lady Fitzalan took a deep breath. ‘As I was saying, I thought Rosina seemed a little overwrought at the prospect of being questioned by you. She-she blames herself beyond all reason for Gideon’s — ’ her voice became suspended for a moment on a sob, but then she continued valiantly — ‘for Gideon’s disappearance. And she knows no reason, any more than I do, than anyone does, why he has been abducted. We naturally thought, Sir Pomfret and I, when we first heard the dreadful news, that we should soon receive a demand for money for his safe return. Such things. . such things are common.’ She was becoming upset again. I could hear the hysteria behind her words, saw her eyes suddenly fill with tears. ‘But, as you know, no demand of that sort has been made.’ Her voice rose sharply and she pressed her hands together. ‘Where is he? Where is he? What’s become of my baby?’
I was growing nervous. The last thing I wanted was a hysterical woman on my hands, or for a furious Sir Pomfret to burst in, accusing me of being the cause of his wife’s distress. I edged towards the door, but on the threshold I paused.
‘My lady,’ I urged, ‘you’re sure that you can think of no reason why Gideon should have been taken in this way? Is there anything in his history that might set him apart from your other children? From any child?’
She shook her head, no longer able to speak coherently, and I realized that to a woman of her temperament, the effort needed to indulge in any sort of rational conversation had been immense. I thanked her and hurriedly took my leave.
I went down to the servants’ hall where supper was almost over. Only a few people remained, most having finished their meal some time ago, and now sat over their pots of small beer, idly chatting. There was no sign of Piers.
I toyed with the idea of going in search of him, but then decided that what I had to say could wait. It was more important that I go to Crosby’s Place to talk to Godfrey and Lewis Fitzalan. I would set out as soon as I had eaten.
But the thought of a bowl of leftovers was not attractive. I had money. I would treat myself and eat at one of the many inns with which the city abounded. But first I must clean myself up. I climbed the tortuous flights of stairs to my room where I poured the contents of a pitcher of water into a basin, washed and changed into one of my decent suits of clothes.
Refreshed, I was ready to set out.
FOURTEEN
Where I should eat my supper was a problem, not because of a lack of inns and alehouses, but because London boasted too many of them. Of the former, to name but a few, I could have my pick of The Bull and The King’s Head in Fish Street, The Paul’s Cross in Crooked Lane, The Boar’s Head and The Greyhound in East Cheap, or The Saracen’s Head near the Ald Gate, while the less salubrious drinking-dens, tucked away in side streets and alleyways were too numerous to identify. In the end, I decided on the inn known familiarly as Blossom’s, just off West Cheap; the inn of St Lawrence the Deacon, the painting of the saint’s head being surrounded by a garland of flowers, hence the nickname.
My reason for choosing Blossom’s was simple. It was the unloading point for carters, particularly those from the West Country. There, they dropped off their goods to await collection by the purchasers and refreshed themselves in the ale room until the arrival of these gentlemen and the receipt of their money. It was just possible, I told myself, but without much hope, that I might encounter someone I knew who could give me news of my family.
Imagine my joy and utter astonishment, therefore, when the first person I laid eyes on as I entered the inn courtyard was my old friend, Jack Nym.
‘Jack!’ I exclaimed in disbelief, clapping him heavily on one shoulder. ‘You here again? What is it this time? Not more Bristol red cloth for the coronation?’
He jumped violently and spun round, fists bunched. ‘Gawd!’ he muttered feelingly when he realized who it was. ‘Don’t do that, Roger. I nearly died o’ fright.’ He eyed me satirically. ‘Still here, are you, shirking your responsibilities an’ leaving that poor wife o’ yours to cope on her own as best she can.’
Annoyed, I clipped him around the ear. ‘I’m not here by my own choice, Jack! I’m here because I was sent for by the Lord Protector. Adela knows that, if you don’t.’
Jack propelled me towards the open door of the ale room. ‘Come on, I want my supper. The lord who?’
We found seats at a table occupied by only three other men, immersed in their own conversation.
‘The Lord. . the Duke of Gloucester,’ I answered irritably. ‘And I’m not shirking my responsibilities. I didn’t ask to be here.’
‘All right! All right! Keep your codpiece on! I was only teasing. You shouldn’t have startled me like that. Stupid thing to do.’ He suspended the recriminations while we ordered supper — bacon collops, sizzling hot and fried to a turn, fresh oatcakes, dripping with butter and a large beaker of ale apiece — before continuing, ‘Yes, since you ask, it is another load of Bristol red cloth I’ve just delivered for use at the coronation. But the point is, Roger — ’ and he swivelled round on the bench so that he could see me more clearly — ‘whose coronation? The young king’s or. . or someone else’s?’
I grimaced. ‘So the rumours have reached Bristol already, have they?’
‘Already?’ Jack was scathing. ‘Rumours were rife long before I left. Bristol’s not the back of beyond, lad! Second city in the kingdom! Besides, anyone who’s been within ten miles o’ Wells this past month or more, will tell you that the place is buzzing with all sorts of tales. It seems as if Bishop Stillington’s hurried departure for London almost as soon as the old king was dead set tongues wagging with a vengeance. Apparently, there have always been whispers around the town that His Grace knew something he shouldn’t. So what’s the story?’