I sat down again on the edge of the bed and considered what had happened. Someone had tried to kill me. The question was who and why? Strictly speaking, of course, that was two questions, but I felt they were really one. Discover who and I might know why. Discover why and I might know who. It did suggest to me, however, that perhaps I knew more than I thought I did, but the idea did little to cheer me, because for the life of me I had no notion what it was that I knew. There was one thing, though. Whoever had attacked me was going to have a very nasty bruise on his face. Those masks were flimsy, made of little more than stiffened paper and paint, not sufficient protection against the sort of punch that I had landed.
After a while, feeling a little more like my old self, I slid off the bed and reached up to the shelf just inside the door where the candle and tinderbox were kept. Here I had placed the weapon my assailant had dropped before he fled, but close examination of it in daylight revealed nothing more than had the darkness of the night before. It was an ordinary black-handled, long-bladed knife of the sort to be found in any kitchen. No doubt there were scores of them in Baynard’s Castle; far too many, at any rate, for it to be noticed if one went missing. Frustrated, I replaced it on the shelf.
I stripped to hose and a shirt and descended to the courtyard to take my turn at the pumps, before proceeding to one of the sculleries to collect a jug of hot shaving water. Returning to my room — by which time, of course, the water was rapidly cooling — I scraped the stubble from my chin with a knife that was badly in need of sharpening, cleaned my teeth after a fashion, combed my hair and struggled into my other suit of decent clothes before going in search of breakfast.
I looked for Piers amongst those already gnawing away on yesterday’s stale oatmeal biscuits and grumbling about the thinness of the gruel, but there was no sign of him. I wanted his opinion on the events of last night, but although I hung around for as long as I could, I eventually had to cede my place at one of the tables to the importuning of latecomers, the hall being by now packed to capacity. I did ask a number of people if they knew of his whereabouts, but his name was unknown to most of them. The one or two that did recognize it merely shrugged, saying they hadn’t seen him; and remembering Piers’s dislike of sleeping anywhere near his fellow men, this was hardly surprising. Foiled, I at last set out for Crosby’s Place to fulfil my mission of the previous evening; to speak to Godfrey and Lewis Fitzalan.
This was easier said than done. Crosby’s Place was a hive of activity, busier than I, at least, had ever known it.
Even as I approached the main gate, I was thrust unceremoniously back against the wall by a man-at-arms in the Gloucester livery, to allow a horseman, similarly attired, to gallop off in the opposite direction. I recognized him — the horseman, that is — as Sir Richard Ratcliffe, one of my lord Gloucester’s innermost circle of friends, a Yorkshire man to his fingertips and therefore trusted by the duke.
The next obstacle to be surmounted was the gatekeeper who eyed me suspiciously and refused to accept the statement of my business as a reason to let me pass.
‘Where’s your authority? How do I know you’re who you say you are? You might be any pisspot trying to get in. And who are these men you say you want to see? I don’t know of any Fitzwhatsits. Mind you,’ he added fair-mindedly, ‘that don’t mean they ain’t here. Never seen such a crowd in all me born days. The comings, the goings, the to-ings and froings, it’s driving me mad, I can tell you. So you just hop it, my lad, and come back again when you’ve a warrant.’
‘Look-’ I was beginning angrily when, by the greatest of good fortune, Timothy Plummer bustled up to the gate to enquire if Sir Richard Ratcliffe had already left. Upon being told that he had, the spymaster swore fluently and turned to go back the way he had come, whereupon I shouted as loudly as I could in order to attract his attention.
He stopped in mid-stride and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Roger? What are you doing here?’
I explained that I wanted to speak to Godfrey and Lewis Fitzalan. ‘But this fool — ’ I indicated the gatekeeper — ‘won’t let me in.’
The man began to defend his actions with a wealth of angry gesticulation, but Timothy cut him short.
‘That’s all right. I can vouch for this man.’ He motioned me inside and led me in the direction of the house, sending a harassed pageboy to discover the twins’ whereabouts and to bring them to me as soon as possible.
‘And don’t take “no” for an answer,’ was his parting shot as the boy scuttled away. ‘Tell ’em Master Chapman’s here on the duke’s business.’ He waved me to a cushioned window seat in one of the ante-rooms, then sank down wearily beside me. ‘I don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels, Roger. I don’t think any of us do. So much is happening all at once.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper, even though there was no one to overhear us. ‘Hastings will be executed tomorrow, Friday. Oh, don’t look so disapproving: he’s been given a fair trial and a chance to speak in his own defence. But he admits there was a plot to overthrow the Protector. Jane Shore will have to do penance for her part in the proceedings. But that’s about it. In my opinion — and in the opinion of a lot of other people, I might tell you — the duke’s been far too lenient with the other conspirators.’
‘Oh?’ I said curiously. ‘In what way? What’s happened to them?’
‘Nothing. Well, not much. Archbishop Rotheram’s been imprisoned, but it’s my guess that he won’t be incarcerated for long. The duke has too much respect for the Church. That bastard Stanley has been handed over to his wife, who’s to stand surety for his future good behaviour-’
‘But she’s Henry Tudor’s mother!’ I objected incredulously.
Timothy nodded grimly ‘Quite so. But that’s Duke Richard all over. As ruthless as an avenging angel one minute and soft as duck down the next, completely oblivious to his own self-interest. He hasn’t even ordered the execution of that snake-in-the-grass, John Morton, simply given him into the safe keeping of the Duke of Buckingham, who’s packed him off to his castle at Brecknock. That’s in Wales,’ he added condescendingly.
‘I know where fucking Brecknock is,’ I snapped, but hurried on before a wrangle could develop. ‘Is the duke mad, allowing those three to walk free like this? Perhaps not free, but compared with his old comrade-in-arms, Hastings, as good as.’
‘I’ve told you, he ain’t predictable.’ Timothy lowered his voice even further, although the room was still empty. ‘While you were waiting at the gate, did you see a man ride out of here?’
‘Yes. Sir Richard Ratcliffe. Why?’
‘He’s bound for the north with orders for Rivers, Grey and Vaughan to be tried and executed. They’re all to be taken to Pontefract to be beheaded.’
There was a protracted silence. Then I asked again, ‘Why? Surely they present no further threat to His Highness? That plot failed with the upset at Northampton. Their teeth have been drawn.’
My companion drew a deep breath. His voice now was the merest whisper. ‘Myself, I think it’s revenge for Clarence’s death. My lord has always been convinced that the Woodvilles persuaded the late king to sign the death warrant; that without their intervention, Edward would have pardoned his brother. And this revelation of Bishop Stillington has confirmed his conviction. I tell you, Roger, Duke Richard is a wonderful master and the most faithful of friends, but my advice is, whatever you do, don’t make an enemy of him. He can be a dangerous man.’