Of course I did. I couldn’t live in a weaving community without knowing the vital importance of Burgundy to the English cloth trade. It was one of our biggest markets.
‘Then it’s war,’ I said slowly, twisting my cup between my fingers. ‘This time, we shall really go to war with France.’
Timothy Plummer shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple, my friend. You’ve forgotten the pension King Louis pays King Edward.’ My companion lowered his voice and took a careful look around to ensure that no one was listening. ‘Fifty thousand crowns a year isn’t lightly to be tossed aside by a man who has to support a greedy wife and her equally rapacious family.’
‘So … what’s the answer?’
‘A strong husband for Mary of Burgundy; someone who will devote himself to her interests and halt King Louis in his tracks. And that’s chiefly what’s worrying Duke Richard.’
‘In heaven’s name, why?’
Timothy bent his head closer to mine, and his voice sank almost to a whisper. ‘Think, man, think! The Duke of Clarence is now a widower. He’s Dowager Duchess Margaret’s favourite brother. You’ve only to note how his retainers and followers are already puffing themselves up with a new-found importance to guess what’s in Prince George’s mind.’
‘But … would it be such a bad thing if my lord of Clarence married the Duchess Mary? It would keep Burgundy firmly yoked to England, and surely that’s in His Highness’s interest. In all our interests!’
Timothy grunted and signed to a passing pot-boy to refill our cups, waiting until this was done before replying.
‘Oh, yes! It’s what every cloth merchant in the country wants, I’ve no doubt, as well as more money for his goods; something he’s not likely to get if King Louis controls the Burgundian exchequer. The Guilds are always sending deputations to London as it is, to demand that a better price be negotiated for their wares. And, I might add, none are so vociferous as the weavers and fullers and tenters from your part of the world. I had to accompany Duke Richard to London last October, and there was a company of men from Bristol there then, pestering everyone concerned, including the King, with their extortionate demands.’
‘Well, there you are then! If the Duke of Clarence were to marry his stepniece…’
‘Christ’s nightshirt!’ Timothy interrupted in exasperation. ‘Do you really think that the King or any of the Woodvilles would entertain the idea, even for an instant? Do you imagine they’d want Clarence at large in Europe, the possessor of its most s-splendid coronet?’ In his excitement, Timothy was beginning to stutter, his voice rising in despair at my lack of political nous. In spite of the noise all around us, he was attracting attention and heads were starting to turn. With a visible effort, he took himself in hand.
‘Just consider,’ he went on more quietly, ‘that it’s only a little over six years since George of Clarence was at the French court, an ally of King Louis; since he and his father-in-law, Warwick, returned to England to depose King Edward and restore King Henry to the throne; and something less than six years since he again turned his coat to fight alongside his brothers here, at Tewkesbury. The Woodvilles loathe and detest him. He was in Warwick’s camp when the late Earl ordered the execution of the Queen’s father and her brother, John. They’ll neither forget nor forgive. And as for the King, however many times he may have forgiven Duke George, he’ll never trust him again.’
‘But,’ I persisted, unable to let the argument rest, ‘suppose the Duke of Clarence offers for Mary of Burgundy and is accepted. What could King Edward or the Queen’s family do to prevent the marriage?’
Timothy drained his cup and sucked his teeth. ‘They’d probably have to use armed force, for it’s certain Duke George would never heed any injunction laid on him forbidding the match. It’s what’s worrying Duke Richard, but he puts his faith in the fact that Duchess Mary, from all that he knows and has seen of her, seems to be an extremely practical and level-headed young woman. He says that if she chooses anyone but the Hapsburg, he’ll be very surprised. She needs a great prince to defend her and her duchy against King Louis, not someone who’s concerned only with his own interests, and who’ll bring her nothing but trouble.’ There was a moment’s silence before Timothy added ruefully, ‘But of course, Duke George won’t see it that way.’
‘But if the lady refuses him, there’s an end to the matter, surely?’
Timothy shook his head. ‘Not if he sees her rejection as the result of the evil machinations of the King and the Woodvilles — as he almost certainly will, my master reckons. Duke Richard is fearful that Brother George will do something even more stupid and rash than usual.’
I shrugged, suddenly weary of the subject. A man who could seriously consider taking a second wife almost before the first was decently interred in her vault, did not merit a great deal of thought in my estimation. And most people were agreed that it was only a matter of time before the King’s patience with the Duke of Clarence eventually ran out. The quarrels of Princes did not really concern me, but the consequences to the country’s cloth trade, should France overrun Burgundy, did. Many livelihoods, including perhaps my mother-in-law’s, could be affected if that happened. My own feeling was that England should immediately go to the Duchess Mary’s defence; but I could understand that King Edward would be reluctant to oppose King Louis too openly because of that annual pension of fifty thousand crowns.
My worries, however, did not prevent me from sleeping like a log, although Timothy complained the next morning that my tossings and turnings had kept him awake half the night. I retaliated with allegations about his snoring. Nevertheless we parted after breakfast with expressions of mutual goodwill, he to wait upon the Lord John and I to see if I could find a carter travelling in the direction of Bristol. I was lucky enough to discover one carrying a load of sea-coal as far as Gloucester, and before the winter sun had risen very high in the heavens, Adela Juett, a sleepy Nicholas and I were perched up on the seat beside the driver.
* * *
We reached Bristol at last somewhere towards the end of the month, the final thirty or so miles of our journey having been hampered by worsening weather and a lamentable dearth of wagons going in our direction. It was almost dusk on a bitter winter’s afternoon as we approached the Frome Gate, and the Porter was just getting ready to close it for the night. I shouted to him to wait and, hoisting Nicholas higher on my shoulder, started to run, urging Adela to do the same. Instead, she slowed to a halt, clutching my arm.
Angrily, I freed myself. ‘Come along!’ I protested.
She stumbled in pursuit, making a second attempt to detain me.
‘Didn’t you hear it?’ she panted. ‘There was a cry, as though someone were in distress.’
‘I heard nothing,’ I answered impatiently.
We had, by this time, reached the gate, which the Porter was grudgingly holding open for us.
‘You’re cutting it fine,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m waiting to get away home to my wife.’
I was about to offer our apologies when Adela cut in, asking the same question as before.
‘Didn’t you hear it?’ She turned to the Porter. ‘Did you hear a cry as though someone were in distress? I feel certain it came from one of those houses over there.’ And she waved a hand in the direction of Lewin’s Mead.
The Porter shrugged. ‘Probably some drunk. Or some goodman beating his wife. Or some wife taking a broomstick to her husband. It’s always happening round here.’
‘But you heard nothing?’
‘Not a thing.’ The Porter was running out of patience. ‘How could I be expected to, with your husband shouting at me at the top of his voice?’
Adela was momentarily diverted from her purpose. ‘He’s … he’s not…’
Taking advantage of her confusion, I put my free hand under her elbow and steered her forward, wishing the Porter a firm goodnight. As we started to cross the Frome Bridge, I heard, behind us, the bolts of the gate being rammed into their sockets.