‘Tuesday,’ she said, then burst into tears. ‘We thought you were going to die.’ She smothered my face in watery kisses.
‘Tuesday?’ I demanded incredulously. ‘Are you telling me I’ve been ill for six days?’
She nodded, lying down again and pressing her head into my shoulder. ‘We’ve all been so worried. Poor Father Berowne has called nearly every day. Apparently you had both been drinking his elderflower wine just before you returned here, and he’s desperately afraid that it might have been the cause. Although he himself has suffered no ill effects, he fears he might have made it too strong for someone not accustomed to it.’
‘Nonsense!’ I declared. ‘It was the rotten ale at the Voyager.’ And I told her what I had done and also what I had discovered the preceding Wednesday afternoon. I was amazed at how much the telling took the virtue out of me and how tired I felt afterwards. I was as weak as a kitten.
‘Better now?’ enquired a voice in my left ear, and there was Adam peering at me over the edge of the mattress. He climbed the small flight of steps at the side of the bed and, ignoring his mother’s remonstrations, wriggled in beside me. He stroked my face. ‘You’re better,’ he assured me firmly.
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ I put an arm around him.
He eyed me, solemn as a little owl. ‘“Sweetheart” is for girls,’ he said sternly. I apologized, but noted that he didn’t seem to mind being cuddled.
A moment or two later, having been woken by the sound of our voices, Elizabeth and Nicholas bounced into the room. (Adela had obviously not thought it worthwhile to keep the intervening door locked during my indisposition.) They were delighted that I was my normal self again, and were the first of a stream of visitors who arrived at my bedside throughout the day with their congratulations on my recovery. I was desperate for sleep, but everyone wanted to talk. Clemency and Celia were anxious to share their fear that this might have been another attempt on a family member’s life and refused to be altogether convinced by my argument that I could hardly be counted as a Godslove or be reassured that I was correct about the cause of my sickness. Sybilla also paid me a visit, but was less interested in my condition than in describing her own recent sufferings which, according to her, had been many and varied. Next, the housekeeper made a brief appearance to inform me that whatever I fancied to tempt my appetite would be prepared by her own fair hands (the kitchen maids being a couple of fools who could be trusted with only the most basic of recipes). And both the priest and doctor called, the former still anxious for confirmation that I held his elderflower wine in no way to blame for what had happened, the latter ostensibly to see how his patient fared, but in reality, I suspected, to catch a glimpse of Celia and snatch a clandestine word with her if at all possible. By the time Oswald returned from Westminster and the law courts in the late afternoon, I was feeling like one of my daughter’s rag dolls after Hercules had given it a mauling.
At least with Oswald I was able have a rational conversation and glean whatever news there was to be had from the outside world.
‘Has the duke arrived yet?’ My companion shook his head. ‘Is there any word of him? Or from him?’
Oswald pursed his lips. ‘The rumour in the city — and it’s a pretty strong one — is that His Grace will reach Northampton sometime today, where he is due to meet up with the royal party travelling across country from the Welsh border.’ He stroked his chin. ‘What is certain is that a few days ago, Sir Richard Grey left the capital for Wales with a train of some thousands strong to join his uncle and half-brother before they set out on their journey.’
‘Why? Surely the king and Earl Rivers have enough men stationed at Ludlow to supply a sufficient retinue for the purpose of a peaceful entry into London?’
The lawyer chewed a thumbnail. ‘One would have thought so. But it would seem the queen and members of the Woodville family think otherwise.’
I detected the note of unease in his voice. ‘What do you believe is the reason?’
Oswald laughed and got up from the bed, where he had been sitting. ‘Oh, I try not to have opinions. Well, my dear fellow, your first week with us has been unfortunate. I suppose you had no time, in the few hours before you were struck down, to discover anything of significance? No, obviously not. But I hope this unhappy episode hasn’t changed your mind about helping us. Not for my sake, you understand. But it would bring a certain measure of peace of mind to my sisters. For my own part, I still remain somewhat unconvinced by this theory of a mysterious enemy waiting to strike us all down.’ He smiled in his irritatingly superior way. ‘And now I’ll leave you to get some rest. I’m sure you need it.’
He was right, and I slept, on and off, for the remainder of the day and all of the night. But my powers of recuperation have always been remarkable, thanks in the main to my generally good health and the strength of my body. By the following evening, the last day of April, I was almost myself again and left our bedchamber to join the family for supper.
It was a splendid meal of mutton stewed in red wine vinegar flavoured with cinnamon and saffron, chopped parsley and onions, and followed by a curd tart with cream. It was all washed down with a pale amber-coloured wine whose name I refused to ask for fear of displaying my total ignorance, but whose soft, warm glow spread throughout my body and completed my recovery. When I finally laid down my spoon and drained my cup, I felt ready for anything.
I turned to Oswald, cutting across some desultory small talk between the three sisters (Sybilla was now well enough to leave her sickbed) and said abruptly, ‘Before I was taken ill, Adela was telling me about a man who wishes to buy this house from you; a man who, for some reason, feels he has a right to it. Jollifant? Was that the name?’
The lawyer laughed dismissively. ‘Oh, Adrian Jollifant! Yes, there is such a man. This house belonged to his father — or grandfather, I forget which — many years ago, but the family were forced to sell it. (We bought it, I think, from the man who bought it from them.) Now that the Jollifants are prospering again, Adrian wants it back and seems to think that I am under some obligation to oblige him. He is, of course, a fool with no knowledge of the law. But if, my dear Roger, you’re thinking that he is behind these attacks on us — if deliberate attacks they really are — forget him. I told you, the man’s a fool and has neither the wits nor the strength of purpose to sustain such a campaign.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like to see and speak with him,’ I said. I could not share Oswald’s slightly contemptuous view of humanity, nor believe, as he so patently did, that the world was peopled entirely by idiots. ‘If you know where he lives, I should be grateful if you could put me in the way of meeting him.’
‘Nothing easier,’ Oswald replied with a shrug. ‘Adrian Jollifant has a silversmith’s shop in Cheapside, close to St Paul’s. If you care to accompany me tomorrow morning on my way to Chancery Lane, I’ll point it out to you.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘I’m certain Clemency won’t mind if you borrow her horse, Old Diggory. He’s a quiet enough animal and won’t play you any tricks.’
How Oswald had divined my uneasiness around horses I had no means of knowing, unless Adela had been revealing family secrets during my illness. But somehow I didn’t think she would. I decided that my host’s intuition, based on powers of observation, was greater than I had given him credit for.
‘Thank you. I should be grateful if you would do that,’ I answered politely.
He nodded and rose from the table. ‘Now, if you will all excuse me, I have some work to do; case notes to look over. I shall see you then, Roger, at breakfast. I like to leave the house as soon as it’s light.’
In the event, it was a good hour after sun-up before we passed through the Bishop’s Gate. For this, the May Day crowds streaming out into the countryside to bring in branches of may and to dance barefoot through the grass were largely to blame. Strangers, even those on horseback, had to be stopped and kissed and garlanded with daisy chains before being allowed to go any further. The recent gloom following King Edward’s death seemed to have vanished with the official arrival of spring. Oswald and I, he on his showy grey mare and I on Clemency’s quiet Old Diggory, finally forced our way into the city against the outgoing tide of merrymakers, only to find ourselves, at the bottom of Bishop’s Gate Street, caught up in another crowd making its way to Cornhill to dance round the maypole, which had been set up overnight. By the time we reached the Great Conduit, I was unsurprised to find my companion growing tetchy and ready to curse anyone who crossed his path.