The Hour of the Fox, page 22
‘A handful of aldermen.’
‘Richard Whittington?’
‘Not that I know of. When he heard them he was standing by with a white face and stroking his cat, saying nothing.’
The Master makes no comment but turns back to his desk.
The lord Despenser turns up with the lady who was here before, who turns out to be his wife, Constance. She has the misfortune to be sister to the duke of Aumerle. They are the children of the useless duke of York who was probably not useless at all but simply playing for time to help his nephew Bolingbroke mass his forces to march against the king at Flint.
Adam says I am a cynic. I prefer to think I’m a realist. I have observed men. This is how they are. This is what they do. All false-seeming.
Brother Chandler, Rodric, as bad as anyone.
Walden, the ex-archbishop of Canterbury, is here. When he addresses the Master he is blank with shock. ‘He has pushed me out of my pulpit!’
‘What?’
‘Arundel. He’s pushed me out!’
‘How?’
‘He just marched in with a couple of armed men and told me to get out because he was archbishop and now he was back!’
‘Didn’t you protest?’
‘With a sword at my throat?’
‘What about the congregation?’
‘They couldn’t believe their ears. “We won’t accept him,” they cried. When he waved his arms about and told them the Pope had given him dispensation to return they noticed his armed men and meekly dropped to their knees.’
‘And had he? The Pope, I mean, re-installed him?’
‘Not at all. It was another flat lie. He appointed me. The Holy Father must be out of patience with us English, fighting among ourselves like savages, but what can he do from Rome?’
‘He could excommunicate the lot of them, Arundel and every last one of his followers.’
‘He doesn’t seem to have thought of that.’
‘He won’t, as long as he’s getting his taxes from us. He won’t want to do anything.’ Walden is quite beside himself with self-recrimination. ‘I know I should have stood up to him. I should have. But I don’t like violence. The Lord exhorts us to be peace-loving men.’ He spreads his arms, gentle, and helpless, and lost.
It does not end there, for how can it? The next thing to happen is when a courier from Venice arrives post-haste with messages for the Lombard moneylenders. I am in the marketplace and hear the news as it flashes from one stall to another.
Sir Thomas Mowbray, lately exiled, is dead!
‘That ends that,’ observes Adam when I tell them about it back at the house. ‘Now we’ll never know the truth about who murdered Gloucester.’
‘Actions speak louder than words. They can betray the truth more clearly by what they do than by a denial shouted from the rooftops.’ Despite his words the Master looks shaken to have his fears confirmed.
I remember the conversation at the meeting of the alchemists in what seems like another era when that old fellow kept saying he would not want to be in Mowbray’s shoes. He was convinced that Bolingbroke would silence him. Now he is silenced. With Bolingbroke innocently in England. Just as his father had been far away when Prince Lionel died unexpectedly in Milan at the palace of the duke and set Gaunt a step closer to the throne.
‘How is he said to have met his death?’ I ask.
Both men stare at me.
‘Plague,’ they say.
I remember the name Galeazzo, the king of poisons, but say nothing.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Chandler tried to get inside as instructed to see the Welshman and once he knew for sure that King Richard was in the Tower and not down in Westminster he redoubled his efforts.
A mob, whipped up to a storm of hatred by the followers of the red rose, seemed to reign down there. They had rampaged through the palace, so the story went, demanding the instant death of the king and his ministers. It was nonsense. The taxes the aldermen encouraged them to object to were only imposed on those who could pay, the idle barons mostly, so it was no skin off their noses, they didn’t earn enough to pay taxes, but they must’ve been paid to create mayhem by their masters so that is what they did.
Lancaster, meanwhile, had taken himself off to the safety of one of his castles.
When he reached the Tower a crowd stood as usual round the gatehouse like dumb oxen. What were they waiting for? They must have known they would not be allowed in anywhere near the royal prison. Military men came and went without hindrance on production of their dockets. The turncoat aldermen also were let through.
Chandler informed the captain of the guard that he had a prisoner to interrogate but when he told him who it was the fellow said he had been let go. ‘Freed a few nights ago, brother. Did nobody tell you?’
He knew he was lying. It was a different captain to the usual one. A Lancastrian. He wondered what had happened to the old bard. It didn’t bear thinking about. He wondered whether he managed to remain serene until the end.
As he walked away he decided he would go down into Petty Wales to see if he could hear word of what had happened. He felt responsible. How could he not be? He had done little to try to get him out when he might have had a chance. He hoped there had been no reprisals against him when rumours of the Welsh bands and their attempted rescue of the king became known.
SEVENTY-NINE
Thomas Despenser is back. He brings with him an esquire of the earl of Salisbury, the latter being imprisoned in the Tower with the king.
He strides back and forth, declaiming, ‘There is no way they can make his theft of the crown legitimate? Is there? Is there? Tell me what it is, if so. There is no way, not without lying through their arses.’
The Master is going through all the copies of his work, listing them while Adam writes down everything he has and he says, ‘We’ll finish searching through to find anything Arundel might find unorthodox later on.’
Adam gives him a look. ‘Shall I burn the lot then, Geoffrey?’
Despenser laughs. ‘Humour at a time like this?’
The Master shakes his head. He points to it, bald as it is, and says, ‘Look, Adam, I still have it firm on my shoulders. I’d rather like to keep it this way.’
‘So would I, my own I mean.’
‘My scrivener, at his most lugubrious,’ the Master explains to Despenser. I ask Adam how to spell it.
Despenser says he is going back to the Tower to see what’s new and leaves straightaway saying, ‘There is no legitimate cause to make him abdicate. You can’t just rid yourself of an anointed king because you don’t like his fiscal policies. Trade is at its most buoyant. It has never been so good now those incessant wars with the French are over. How does Harry Bolingbroke imagine he can improve things? Is he going to start shitting gold from his benighted arse?’
His esquire gives me a rueful grin as he follows him out.
I feel flattered that he noticed me. My face is still a mess. Every time I eat or drink my lips split open where that bully-boy cuffed me and I get blood in my food. I suppose it does no harm to drink your own blood. The thought of it makes me imagine the heads on London Bridge again. They soak them in cumin but the crows still peck out the eyes. It’s like being inside a nightmare every time you venture within sight.
I get ready to go to market again. As soon as I’m out in the street I notice a strange atmosphere, a violent, uncertain, feverishness that makes me pull my straw hat down and keep my eyes on the ground in front of me. There is hardly anybody around.
When I reach the corner of Cheap I’m shocked to find the market almost empty too. A few stalls in the process of being dismantled remain but of produce or anyone attempting to sell anything there’s not a sign apart from a fishmonger with a couple of what look like day-old herring on his counter.
‘What’s up?’ I ask.
‘No trade. Gates blocked. Nobody can get in or out.’
By chance I glance across to where I usually buy our cheese and there’s Izzie just coming out from behind a trestle that a couple of young fellows are heaving onto the back of a cart. ‘What’s this?’ I ask when I go over.
When she sees me she is plainly worried. ‘What are you doing here, lovey?’
‘Hoping to make a few purchases for the Master but I see I’m too late.’
‘We’re out of here as soon as we can,’ Izzie replies. ‘There’s been trouble. I’m not staying to have my stock stolen from under my nose. I thought Swynford’s men were bad enough but this lot are far worse. Annie has already left. As soon as we’ve got this stuff on board we’re off.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back home to Kent. I’m staying there until it blows over.’ She gives me a sharp glance. ‘What’s the matter with your face?’
‘A guard lining the route gave me a swipe across the mouth because I shouted, “Long live King Richard.”’
‘There you are then. That sums it up. Best get out if you can. Go home.’
‘I can’t go home.’ It suddenly hits me. ‘I haven’t got a home. My only refuge is with the Master.’
‘I’ll take you with us if you like?’
‘I can’t go. I’m bound by a legal contract.’
‘Legal?’ She spits. ‘That’s what I think to their legal. Have you heard what they’re planning now?’
I shake my head.
‘Only to make it illegal for the king to rule in his own realm.’
‘They can’t do that.’ For once she must have it wrong.
‘You mark my words. They’ll tie him up all ways in their law clerk’s jargon and he won’t get out. Now he’s in the Tower that’s where he’ll stay. That Arundel is still thundering worse than ever. Between the two of them, the duke and the archbishop, they’re tying everybody in a stranglehold. Mayor Barantyn has simply rolled over and accepted it. Good job he’ll soon be out, unless we get somebody worse if they fix the vote. Soon the realm will be ruined worse than ever it was when the king was supposed to be making such a mess of things. Legal, they say – when there’s nobody left to protect ordinary peaceful citizens going about their business? What’s legal about that?’
‘We heard gangs shouting last night. A constable of the Watch banged on the door and warned the Master to stay indoors.’
‘You keep out of it right now. If you’re not coming with us you best get off back home quick and don’t come abroad again without an armed man or two beside you. I’m warning you, lovey. It’s not safe and it’s going to get worse.’
The couple of young men helping Izzie have tied down the trestle and the awning onto the cart with ropes while we’ve been talking and look impatient to be off. ‘My sons,’ Izzie tells me.
One of them is sitting on the cart holding the reins and he turns to haul his mother on board as the other one jumps onto the tailgate and their pony begins to walk on.
I go with them as far as the bridge where I leave them with tears in my eyes. I might never see them again. Life seems to be nothing but farewells. I shout after them and wave my arms. I can’t help noticing the severed head newly put up.
Apart from a few cowled figures muttering prayers a small crowd stands below it in silence. It has been sent from Bristol in a white basket. It is Sir Richard Scrope. Or was.
I do as Izzie recommends and start back to the safety of the house through the hostile quiet of the usually noisy thoroughfare. Then I suddenly remember the name Beata and stop short, but it’s too late now. Izzie and her boys are out of sight.
Before I get to the door Brother Chandler, appearing from thin air, steps into my path.
EIGHTY
Chandler was surprised to find Mattie suddenly appear before him. She stepped away from him with a little cry.
‘What are you doing out?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you know it’s not safe?’
‘What are the sheriffs and their constables doing?’
‘Nothing by the look of it. Is the Master at home?’
‘I hope so.’ She gave a little flounce. ‘He won’t see you. He’s busy.’
He asked, ‘What have you done to your mouth?’
‘Nothing. It was one of the Lancaster men-at-arms lining the route who did it.’
‘I have something that might heal it more quickly and leave you with no scar.’
She glared at him as if suspecting a trick.
He said, ‘I’ll go to my lodgings and get it.’
‘I can’t pay you.’
‘I expect no payment.’
‘Is it your act of compassion for the day?’
‘Put it like that if you wish.’
EIGHTY-ONE
I stand as if transfixed until he reaches the turn in the road and disappears towards Aldgate then I hurry into the house to warn Adam that Brother Chandler intends to call and he goes to warn the Master. Next I see them passing the door, backwards and forwards, with bundles of documents in their hands.
By the time the spy is knocking on the door the writing desk is almost empty except for one half-finished piece the Master is making up while Adam writes it down. They stop in mid-sentence.
‘Welcome, Brother Chandler,’ I say, drawing open the door with a great flourish.
He ignores me and goes in to see the Master and when I follow I’m in time to see his glance sweep the chamber as if looking for something.
Adam glances up from his writing. ‘Are we to stop here where the cook is in mid-sentence, master?’
‘I’ll remember how it goes on, Adam. Make another copy thus far, will you?’
He turns to the friar. ‘How are the streets now? Still in turmoil?’
‘For some. They seem to leave the ecclesiastics alone, however.’ He glances at me. ‘Your maidservant was in the street when I noticed she had a wound which I may be able to heal. If you’ll permit me?’
The Master turns to me. ‘It would be best to have it put right, Mattie.’ To Chandler he says, ‘Go through, brother. You’ll need water, I expect.’
We troop through to where Cook is slopping things around and Chandler asks for a vessel of clean water with which to bathe my mouth. Cook says, ‘Better in the yard and take it straight from the well.’
We share a well with a dozen or so others but it is quiet here in the sunlight. Everyone seems to be busy indoors. Chandler – Rodric – has a clean cloth in his scrip and after hauling up the wooden bucket dips it into the crystal water. I flinch as he tends the broken skin.
‘Such a pretty mouth,’ he murmurs. ‘Shame to have it disfigured. This may sting a little but it will be worth it when you’re restored to your former beauty.’
I know he’s mocking me. Beauty? I give a quick dart of my eyes to gauge his expression and he touches my eye-beam with his own as the ancients describe it and our glances mesh and stay like that, knotted, his dabbing halted while his hand hovers just above my mouth. I feel my soul drawn from me. I close my eyes. I cannot bear that look.
His damp cloth comes down again as gentle as before and then, my eyes still tight shut, I feel the coolness of a salve of some sweet-smelling sort and the little sting as it touches the wound and then a warmth that takes away the pain I had almost forgotten about.
‘Brave child,’ he murmurs and now I know he’s mocking me.
I give a long-suffering sigh and step back as soon as he finishes. ‘Thank you, brother. I hope this helps you satisfy your confessor and mitigates your penance.’
He is rinsing the cloth in the bucket then throws the used water onto the ground where it dries in an instant in the hot sun. He gives that slanted look I’m beginning to know and his lips reveal his teeth as he tries to dazzle me with a smile before saying, ‘You’re a wicked girl, for sure, and I think it’s you who might need a confessor.’
‘Perhaps you’ll do me the honour?’ I say with a look meant to show I think he’s far beneath honour and he says, ‘I would not welcome sleepless nights pondering a suitable penance for you and sadly St Serapion does not allow me to hear confession either so I am saved a double travail. You’ll need a priest for that.’ He gives me a sudden sharp look and asks, ‘Do you need a priest?’
‘Of course not!’ I’m incensed. ‘Don’t you imagine I made my Easter confession as I should?’
‘I’m sure, Matilda, you do everything … as you should.’ He turns to go then suddenly swings back. ‘How old are you, Matilda?’
‘I’m nearly nineteen.’
‘How nearly?’
‘In about four or five months’ time.’
‘In other words you’re eighteen and a half. Probably even a little less?’
I feel affronted. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-nine. In your terms I’m nearly thirty.’
‘When was your birthday?’
‘Last week.’
I blurt, ‘Twenty-nine isn’t old.’
He gives that dazzling smile again. ‘Who said it was?’
I am dismissed. He is so final. I go back indoors with the cloth to my mouth mumbling my thanks.
EIGHTY-TWO
The Master tried to offer him money but he refused.
‘It was but a slight thing, mayhap enough to help the child.’ He was dismissive. She was too provocative. At least he had had another look inside the house. There was nothing to see. He didn’t doubt that they had put away anything that Archbishop Arundel might find offensive.
He went back to the Tower. Contacts in Petty Wales had refused to tell him anything. It could have been they did not know the bard was imprisoned there at all or they did not wish to incriminate themselves by appearing to be in the know and thereby lay themselves open to further questioning.
This time it was a different captain at the gatehouse and when he showed him Swynford’s badge without telling him more he let him through at once. The usual crowd were standing around outside and gave him a good glare as he went through into the bailey.
Again the scavenger birds were circling overhead. Again the rough louts in the guard room. Again the echoing corridor with its sickly smell of blood and filth.
