‘How should I know?’
He snorted. ‘You know everything.’ Our food and ale arrived, and for a minute or so there was silence while we both fell to with a will and stuffed our mouths full of bacon and oatcakes. After a while, however, our appetites blunted, Jack returned to the attack. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me?’
In the face of his persistence, I gave in and repeated Bishop Stillington’s story of the late King Edward’s contract with Lady Eleanor Butler, at which he had presided, and his contention that the king’s subsequent marriage was therefore invalid.
‘Which makes all the children of the union bastards,’ I added.
I was interested to know what Jack’s reaction would be. It wasn’t long in coming.
‘Sounds like a Friday tale to me. What’s your opinion?’
I hesitated a second or so, then shook my head. ‘No. I think it’s most likely true.’ Jack looked sceptical and I hurried on, ‘For a start, it’s exactly the same tactics King Edward employed to get his way with the present queen dowager; secret ceremony, secret vows. And in addition, the panic-stricken behaviour of the whole Woodville family since the late king’s death makes me more or less certain that they knew what was coming. I tell you, Jack, that the Duke of Gloucester has been in jeopardy of his life from the moment his brother drew his last breath.’
Jack considered this while he chewed on a piece of bacon.
‘Now that I might grant you,’ he said at last ‘By all accounts there’s never been any love lost between him and Queen Elizabeth’s family. But that don’t make it right for him to depose his nephew and seize the crown for himself, that’s what I say.’
The trouble was that it was going to be what a lot of people said unless the duke made public his other belief; the belief that King Edward himself had been a bastard, the progeny of his mother’s long-ago affair with one of her Rouen archers, named Blaybourne. But that wasn’t my secret to reveal to anyone unless and until my lord of Gloucester did so himself.
‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ I said lamely.
‘We’re all entitled to that,’ was the cheerful response as Jack called for more ale. ‘Well, now that we’ve met up, Roger, lad, we might as well make a night of it and I’ll tell you all the news from home.’
So much for my decision to go to Crosby’s Place that evening to speak to Godfrey and Lewis Fitzalan! The visit would now have to wait until the following morning. By the time Jack and I eventually parted company, he to his bed in Blossom’s Inn, I to return to mine at Baynard’s Castle, we were both pleasantly drunk. I don’t say we were legless, far from it, but we were most definitely friends with all the world. I had learned that my family were missing me, but getting along without me, thanks to my wife’s excellent management and good sense. I wasn’t quite so happy with the news that Richard Manifold had been seen in Small Street on more than one occasion, but, I told myself stoutly, I could trust Adela. (The sheriff’s officer was a former admirer of hers from bygone days, but it was me she had chosen to marry.) My former mother-in-law from my first marriage, Margaret Walker, was also busy doing what she did best; keeping an eye on, and poking her nose into, everything that was going on in Bristol, ably abetted by her two faithful henchwomen, Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins. So nothing much had changed, except for the state of nervous apprehension that seemed to have the city in thrall. Jack didn’t put it quite like that, but I knew what he meant. It was the same sense of unease that I was encountering everywhere in London.
The streets were quieter now. It was beginning to get dark, the sun disappearing behind clouds streaked with amethyst and gold, long streamers of red and orange fading to a weak and watery rose. The curfew bell had sounded half an hour since and the great gates were shut, but people still moved about within the walls as freely as in the daytime. The ancient Norman imperative of ‘couvre feu!’ no longer meant that people had to stay indoors, provided that they made no attempt to leave the city.
It was growing dusk when I arrived at Baynard’s Castle, but once again, I had no difficulty in being passed by the sentries. One of them even gave me a courteous, ‘goodnight’. The other winked knowingly and made the universal gesture to indicate that I had been out with a woman, guffawing heartily when I shook my head. As I made my way indoors and started to mount the stairs to my room, I reflected that such growing familiarity could only mean I had been here too long. I was becoming a recognizable part of the place. It was high time I solved this mystery and went home to my family. The trouble was, of course, that I was still not a whit the wiser as to Gideon Fitzalan’s whereabouts or why he had been taken than I had been when I arrived. I had learned something, but not enough.
There was still a certain amount of noise, the subdued hum of conversation from behind closed doors or from the bowels of the castle, where some unfortunates continued hard at work, stoking the great furnaces, setting the dough to rise for tomorrow’s bread or fetching and carrying at their masters’ beck and call. But in general, the staircases that led to my room were silent and deserted. I passed a couple of weary-looking pages earlier on, nearer ground level, but as I rose higher, I saw no one. Once or twice, I heard a voice in the distance, otherwise I seemed to have that part of the castle to myself. .
I don’t know what suddenly alerted me to danger, some sixth animal sense, perhaps, that never leaves us. Suffice it to say that I was within sight of the door of my room when the hairs on the nape of my neck began to lift and a shiver ran the length of my spine. I swung round just in time to see the cloaked and hooded figure emerging from the shadows at the top of that particular flight of stairs and coming straight for me, one arm raised. And I caught the glint of metal. . Whoever it was had a knife and was intent on plunging it between my shoulder blades.
I didn’t wait to exchange pleasantries. I grabbed the upraised arm with my left hand whilst hitting out with my right fist. It was not as much of a blow as I could have wished, but I had been taken by surprise and had been unable to put my full strength behind it. It was nevertheless of sufficient force to make my assailant drop the knife and to cause the hood to fall back from his head. To my disgust, however, he was wearing one of those animal masks used in plays and mummings, a cockerel’s head with feathers sticking out at the side, but before I could make a grab at it, he had wrenched his wrist out of my hold and was running down the stairs as though the Devil himself were at his heels. The knife lay where he had dropped it on the ground.
Of course I ran after him, but by the time I reached the bottom of the second flight, he was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, he had given me the slip, but I was in no mood to pursue him further. The ale that I had drunk with Jack was making my head swim and my limbs feel like lead. Only fear and shock had caused me to act with the promptitude that I had done, and now the immediate danger was past I could no longer force myself to that extra effort. All I wanted was to lie down and sleep. I would consider the situation in the morning. I climbed back to my room, bolted the door and fell on my bed fully clothed. In spite of everything, within two minutes I was asleep.
It was the first rays of morning sun, filtering between the slats of my shutters, that woke me.
My throat felt parched and my tongue seemed several sizes too large for my mouth. My breath smelled foul, my good clothes were horribly creased, and for several moments I had difficulty in remembering where I was. But gradually recognition returned. The events of the previous evening came flooding back and caused me to sit up in a hurry. This was a mistake. I groaned and clutched my head, feeling awful and convinced that I was about to throw up at any moment. After a while, however, the nausea passed and I was able to stagger to the window where I threw open the shutters and stuck my head outside. A few bracing gulps of air — one could hardly call it fresh on this particular stretch of the Thames — were enough to bring me completely to my senses.