So I told her, not about Bess, of course, but all the rest and warned her to be on her guard for a day or two, in case anyone thought she might be hiding me. She cursed herself roundly for confiding in Audrey Owlgrave and then cursed Audrey with a variety of colourful oaths, some of which were new even to me. Finally, she gave me a hug, a smacking kiss on one cheek and begged me to be careful.
I promised, adding, ‘Beware of Mistress Owlgrave, Bertha. I don’t think she’s ready to return to the Sisterhood quite yet, but it may be only a matter of time.’
An expression flitted across Bertha’s face that I had never seen before and she gave a little, secret smile.
‘Don’ you worry any more about ’er, my dear,’ she said. ‘I knows ’ow t’ deal with ’er. Where you goin’ now? Not back t’ Baynard’s Castle, I ’ope.’
I shook my head. ‘Not for the moment. I’m going first to Crosby’s Place to try to see the duke.’
‘Don’ forget it’s Sunday,’ she reminded me. ‘’E’ll no doubt be getting ready fer church.’
I had completely forgotten it was Sunday! So much had happened that the days of the week were getting muddled up in my mind
‘Then I must find Timothy Plummer,’ I said.
‘You any nearer discoverin’ where the boy is?’ Bertha asked, and yet again I shook my head.
‘No, but I’m hoping God will guide me.’ I gave her back hug for hug and told her once more to take care. And once more she gave me that secretive smile and said not to bother my head about it.
An hour or so later, having crossed the river and with the church bells clamouring in my ears, I strode up Bishop’s Gate Street Within and forced my way into Crosby’s Place. But neither the duke nor Timothy nor anyone of note was to be found.
‘Everyone’s gone to Paul’s Cross,’ a page informed me. ‘His Grace of Buckingham as well. A great procession it was, right through the city.’
‘Paul’s Cross? Why?’ I demanded.
The lad shrugged. ‘Someone said it’s because the mayor’s brother, Friar Shaa, is preaching a very important sermon there this morning.’
More than that he didn’t seem to know.
I swore silently. I had no option, however, but to follow.
NINETEEN
The crowds gathered in the vicinity of Paul’s Cross were so dense, it was almost impossible to get closer than halfway along West Cheap, and I doubt if I should have got much further had not my elbow been suddenly grasped.
‘Tryin’ to get to the Cross, are you?’ enquired a solicitous voice, and I glanced round to see a small, sandy-haired figure, wearing the Gloucester livery, standing just behind me. ‘Simon Finglass,’ the man reminded me. ‘Met you with Timothy Plummer some days back. Day of the arrests at the Tower.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Do you know what Friar Shaa’s sermon is about?’
My companion shrugged. ‘Something’s in the wind. Don’t know quite what. But it’s important. The duke’s there an’ most o’ the lords with him.’ He looked up into my face. ‘Want to get nearer, do you? Then follow me.’ He tapped the man ahead of us on the shoulder and shouted, ‘Make way for the Lord Protector’s messenger!’
I must confess I wasn’t expecting much result from this, but his livery acted like a charm and the crowds parted before us like the Red Sea before the Israelites. In a surprisingly short space of time, I found myself at the very front of the press, somewhat to one side, it’s true, but within sight and hearing of the tall, ascetic figure of the mayor’s brother in his flowing Franciscan habit. Immediately in front of him were ranged my lord of Gloucester, the Duke of Buckingham, the Archbishop of Canterbury and what I guessed to be more than half the nobility, both lay and clerical.
All around me, I could feel the tense expectancy of the mob. At last, something was about to happen. The quivering uncertainty of the past weeks since King Edward’s death was about to be resolved. Anticipation hung in the air like a tangible force, but whether the resolution would be what people wanted was another matter.
The friar stepped forward and began to speak. The text for his sermon, he announced, was, ‘Bastard slips shall not take root’.
The crowd gasped and there was a ripple of movement like wind through corn. Someone, a woman, cried out, then there was a profound silence broken only by Ralph Shaa’s throbbing tones.
I forget now all that he said, but I know he reminded us that of the late Duke of York’s four sons, the Duke of Gloucester was the only one who had been born in England and was therefore the most truly English. Next, he lauded Richard’s character and bravery in battle from a tender age. Indeed, it was only last year that he had won back Berwick-on-Tweed from Scotland’s clutches. And for decades, he had tamed the unruly north with his good laws and sense of justice. Was this not a man worthy to be our king? Was Richard of Gloucester not entitled to wear the crown?
Before either of these rhetorical questions could be answered by a crowd now shifting uneasily and murmuring among itself, the friar continued that, by the grace of God, it had recently been discovered that the late King Edward’s marriage to the Lady Elizabeth Grey had been bigamous, the king being at the time solemnly contracted to the Lady Eleanor Butler (who was then still alive) and therefore not free to marry. Consequently, all children of the union were illegitimate and barred from accession to the throne. The Duke of Clarence’s son, the young Earl of Warwick, was similarly barred by reason of his father’s attainder. Ergo, the friar ended triumphantly, the Duke of Gloucester was the rightful king of England!
I don’t know if he expected there to be wild acclamation from his audience, but if so, he was disappointed. Certainly, the nobles raised a cheer — although I thought that some of them, including, surprisingly, the Duke of Buckingham, looked a little sour — but the crowds, once they found that it was the end of the sermon, simply shuffled away for their Sunday dinners. There was a good deal of muttering and low-voiced conversation, but whether people were discussing the momentous news they had just received, or simply debating if it was wise to dish up the remains of Thursday’s pig’s cheek for a second time in three days, no one could be certain. I did, however, get the impression of a sense of relief, as if a boil that had been suppurating had suddenly burst, leaving a wound that might — or might not — heal cleanly.
My lord of Gloucester was preparing to move, the other lords falling back before him as though he were already king — nothing but a matter of time now, of course — and I looked frantically among his retinue for any sign of Timothy Plummer. He wasn’t there, and I turned anxiously to Simon Finglass.
‘Where’s Master Plummer?’
The man spat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Dunno. In view of what we’ve just heard, off on His Grace’s business I should reckon.’
I cursed. ‘I must see him.’
My new friend was unable to help. It was dinner time and he was off to Baynard’s Castle to make sure that he got his fair share. It was as he moved away that I saw Amphillis Hill and the unknown woman deep in conversation beside one of the graves in the churchyard. For a moment or two, knowing now what I did about the former, I could not drag my eyes away from the delicate girlish face and wide, innocent eyes. Was she, could she possibly be, a ruthless killer? I recalled some words of Master Chaucer in one of those amusing tales of his. ‘The smiler with the knife under the cloak.’ Even so. .
I switched my attention to her companion whose features I could not place, and was struck by how many times God had brought this woman to my attention: at Westminster, at the Boar’s Head and now here at St Paul’s. He was trying to tell me something and, as usual, I was too stupid to understand what it was. Worse, it came to me that, so far, I had not really tried to solve the riddle of her identity. I had simply put the problem to one side as something to be thought about later. Now, suddenly, I realized that the answer might well be of the greatest importance.