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The Burgundian's Tale

Severn House Publishers Limited

It had not been a good year.

To begin with, I was neither as skilled nor as careful a lover as I had thought myself, with the result that, in the late summer of 1479, Adela found herself pregnant yet again. But although this proved a source of worry to us both, and the cause of constant reproaches from my former mother-in-law and Adela's cousin, Margaret Walker, we were all three plunged into mourning when, the following April, the child died within four days of her birth.

Adela's grief, however, went deeper than mine. She already had two sons: five-year-old Nicholas by her first husband, Owen Juett, and almost-two-year-old Adam by me. Our family's only girl, Elizabeth, also five, was my child by my first wife, Lillis Walker. Adela would have liked a daughter of her own. So she unreservedly mourned the lost child, while my misery was secretly tempered by feelings of relief that, for the present at any rate, there was no sixth mouth to feed or back to clothe. But I was unable to hide my emotions well enough to deceive Adela, and as spring once more blossomed into early summer, the atmosphere between us grew increasingly strained.

To make matters worse, as a cold and rainy April turned into an even wetter, chillier May, Margaret Walker caught a rheum that settled on her chest. She needed careful nursing, and my wife repaid her cousin's many past kindnesses by moving her from her cottage in Redcliffe into our house in Small Street, putting her to bed in Elizabeth's chamber and shifting my daughter and a spare mattress into our room to sleep alongside us (arrangements which, however unavoidable, were not conducive to marital harmony). By mid-May, the relationship between my wife and myself was at breaking point, and I decided it was high time I took to the road again instead of peddling my wares in and around Bristol, as I had been doing now for over a year.

I informed Adela of my decision and waited for her protests. Instead, she greeted it with such obvious relief that I realized our marriage was in a more parlous state than I had imagined. Time, indeed, for me to be on my travels! The only decision left to be made was in which direction to go.

But I need not have bothered my head on the subject. As so often in the past, fate was ready and waiting to take a hand in my affairs.

I was busy in the kitchen, restocking my pack and making room for a spare shirt and pair of hose, while Adela brushed my jerkin clean of dirt and dog hairs and my children screamed and charged around the house, completely indifferent to my imminent departure.

'You'll have to take Hercules with you,' my wife declared, turning her attention to my mud-caked boots. 'I can't cope with him and that cur of Margaret's. They hate one another.'

'Hardly surprising.' I rushed to the defence of my canine friend. 'This is Hercules's house.' I stared with dislike at the little black-and-white dog adopted by Margaret Walker when it had been abandoned by its former mistress, and which, for some unknown and utterly ridiculous reason, she had christened Cherub. A less cherubic-natured hound it would have been difficult to find. 'If I take Hercules with me, in a week or two, when I return, that dog will have usurped his place.'

'He'll be company for you,' Adela argued, scraping the last of the dried mud from the soles of my boots and starting to polish them with a piece of soft rag. 'Now, who can that be?' she added irritably as someone banged loudly on the outer door.

She went to answer the summons and returned a few moments later looking worried and followed by a sergeant-at-arms from the castle.

He saluted me and asked, 'Roger the Chapman?'

'I'm Roger Chapman, yes.' I eyed the man warily. 'Who wants to know?'

'Your presence is required up at the castle, Master Chapman.' He smiled in what I suppose was meant to be a reassuring way, but one which was rendered sinister by several broken and blackened front teeth. Hercules gave a threatening growl.

'That doesn't answer my question,' I snapped. 'Who requires my presence and why?'

For a moment, the sergeant-at-arms looked as though he might not pander to my curiosity; then he shrugged.

'The King's nephew, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln,' was the astonishing reply.

'John de – Who? – What?' I stuttered.

The man repeated the message, adding, 'And also Master Timothy Plummer, Spymaster-General to the Duke of Gloucester and formerly to His Grace the King.'

Timothy! Things began to make a little more sense, although not much. I remembered uneasily that, the previous summer, I had thwarted certain of the spy's deep-laid plans. But that could have nothing to do with this particular summons, surely? I sighed. There was only one way to find out.

'Very well,' I said. 'Shall we get this over with?'

I kissed Adela and squeezed her hand. 'I'll be back. And soon.'

'I certainly hope so.' She looked pointedly at the sergeant. 'You've done nothing wrong.'

But the expression on the rugged, weather-beaten countenance remained noncommital.

The early-morning streets were as crowded and noisy as ever, the muck-rakers getting in everyone's way as they tried to clear the central drains of yesterday's filth and debris – a thankless task, as people were refilling them as fast as they were emptied. Several friends and acquaintances hailed me, staring with interest at my companion, but I made no attempt to enlighten them as to what was going on. How could I? I didn't know myself.

We crossed the bridge leading to the Barbican Gate and entered the outer ward of Bristol Castle. This presented a livelier scene than usual – a number of supercilious young men, in a livery with which I was unfamiliar, either lounging around sneering at the locals and the building's sorry state of disrepair, or being very busy about nothing in particular. The sergeant-at-arms forced a path between them with a ruthlessness that gladdened my heart, and led me to a chamber on the ground floor of the great keep.

It was a cold, damp little room which would also have been airless but for the fact that there was a crack in one of the inner walls that I could have put my fist through. The floor oozed water from an overflowing sink-hole in one corner, and there was a general smell of decay and corruption. Days when the Bristol dungeons had housed such eminent prisoners as King Stephen and the elder Hugh le Despenser, favourite of the second Edward, had long gone, and the City Fathers were reluctant to spend money (which could be put to far better use feathering their own nests) on the unnecessary upkeep of the castle.

The room's only furniture consisted of a table, at present bearing a flagon and a couple of mazers, and two stools, on one of which, facing the door, sat Timothy Plummer. He rose as I entered and held out his hand.

'Roger, my friend! It's good to see you again.'

I was immediately suspicious. Somebody once said that he feared the Greeks, even when they came offering gifts. I knew what he meant. I particularly feared Timothy Plummer when he was at his most civil and urbane. He waved me to the other stool and poured us both some wine – the best Rhenish, he assured me, rightly confident that I wouldn't challenge him. Whatever it was, it was wine such as I hadn't tasted in years (if ever) and far beyond my pocket. I grew even more uneasy.

'All right, Timothy,' I said, 'what do you want?'

He smiled. 'Blunt as ever! But I suppose it saves time. Just a little favour for Duke Richard, that's all.'

'I see ... And what exactly does this little favour entail?'

He took a sip of wine and smiled again. 'A visit to London. Nothing that will test your powers of deduction too heavily.'

'Oh, no,' I said firmly. 'I'm not planning on going to London just at present, not even to please Duke Richard, dearly as I love the man.' I wanted to get right away from the hustle and bustle of city life: I had promised myself long spring days of quiet and solitude, watching the rosy-fingered dawn come up over the distant hills, walking knee-high through the early-morning mist and listening to lark song.

Timothy seemed worryingly unperturbed by my adamant refusal.

'A pity,' he remarked cheerfully, pouring me more wine. 'But I'm afraid, Roger old friend, that you have no choice. My Lord of Gloucester has requested your services and I don't intend he should be disappointed. We leave Bristol this afternoon, so you'd better go home and pack anything you might need. A horse will be provided for you – at His Grace's expense, of course.'

'And how,' I enquired coldly, 'do you intend forcing me go with you if I refuse?'

He pushed aside his own mazer and settled forward on his stool, arms folded in front of him on the table.

'There's the little matter of your treasonable activities last summer,' he pointed out, 'helping an enemy of King Edward to escape my clutches. Oh, I know the proof is a bit thin, but I could make things very unpleasant for you, Roger, if I put my mind to it. For you and your family. If I made a few enquiries in Marsh Street among your Irish friends, for instance, I feel sure I could gather enough evidence to substantiate a case against you. At the time, I turned a blind eye to what you did because I couldn't see there was anything to gain by charging you. Besides, I like you. We've been friends for years, and you've rendered Duke Richard good service. I'd hate to see you die a traitor's death. Agonizingly protracted and very messy. So, you see, I feel sure you'll be sensible and do as I ask. Or rather, as Duke Richard asks.'

I stared at the spy, so angry with both myself and him that I was temporarily struck dumb. In a futile gesture, I sent my mazer spinning, watching his look of horror as the precious Rhenish spilled across the table top and smiling as he was forced to leap to his feet to avoid being drenched with the stuff.

'You – you – you fool!' he bellowed. 'Wasting decent wine!'

I don't know what might have happened next had the door not opened just at that moment, and a small, self-important page announced, 'The Earl of Lincoln.'

I judged the King's nephew to be about seventeen or eighteen years of age, a very handsome lad of great grace and charm. He must have sensed the tension in the atmosphere, but he ignored it, as he did the spilled wine, smiling gaily at Timothy and clapping me on the shoulder in the friendliest manner possible.

'So! You must be the famous chapman of whom my Uncle Gloucester speaks with such admiration and fondness. Our worthy spymaster has told you, I suppose, that we need you in London to help solve a crime. I've ridden with him from the capital to add my entreaties to his request and also – I must be honest – because I was curious to meet you.' He grinned broadly, joyously. 'And now I have.'

'Your – Your Highness is very kind,' I stammered. 'But I can hardly believe the King's nephew would be eager to meet a common p-pedlar.'

He gave a great roar of laughter at that and once again smote me on the shoulder.

'Good God, man, if we're to talk of being common, there's plenty of plebeian blood on the spear side of my family.' (His father was the Duke of Suffolk, his mother the King's sister, Elizabeth.) 'Why, the founder of our family's fortunes, William de la Pole, was a moneylender from Hull, in Yorkshire. My great-great-grandfather, Geoffrey Chaucer, was the son of a London wine merchant – and if you've ever read any of those tales of his about pilgrims riding to Canterbury, you'll know that he had a truly bawdy sense of humour. His wife, my great-great-grandmother Chaucer, was the daughter of a Picardy herald, one Payne de Roet.' He broke off, aware, perhaps, that he might have denied his royal blood a trifle too enthusiastically. 'Of course,' he added with a self-conscious laugh, 'on my mother's side, the Plantagenets can claim descent from both Alfred the Great and from Charlemagne.'

I gave a brief bow. 'Which proves my point.'

'No, no! Timothy, you've explained our dilemma to Master Chapman?'

The spy had regained his composure. 'Not yet, Your Highness. Roger hasn't long arrived. But he has expressed his willingness to accompany us back to London and to give us the benefit of his extraordinary talent.'

'Splendid!' The earl beamed at us both and I was afraid for a moment that he was going to thump my shoulder for a third time. (I could feel the bruise forming already.) Fortunately, he restrained himself. 'You can explain everything to him during dinner. I've promised to dine with the Constable, and places have been reserved for the pair of you at one of the lower tables.'

'Unnecessary, My Lord,' Timothy answered suavely. 'Roger has invited me to eat with him and his family, but we shall be ready to leave with you and your cavalcade at noon.'

I choked, but no one seemed to notice.

'Good! Good! You'll have more privacy.' Lincoln swung on his heel while his page scrambled to open the door. 'Master Chapman, many thanks. My Uncle Gloucester is looking forward, I know, to meeting you again.'

Adela was relieved to get me back safe and sound, but unhappy at seeing my companion, whom she rightly regarded as trouble.

She and I held conference in the kitchen, while the two elder children entertained Timothy in the parlour, where he proved himself surprisingly adept at playing fivestones, a game at which Elizabeth and Nicholas normally excelled.

'I was going on my travels, anyway,' I argued. 'I might just as well go to London as elsewhere.'

'But you won't be earning any money,' my practically minded wife pointed out. 'And working for the Duke has often proved hazardous. If anything happened, how should I manage without you? I think you should refuse.'

'I can't,' I said and explained why.

Adela was horrified. 'Timothy wouldn't do that to you! He's your friend.'

I shook my head. 'He's a servant of the state first and my friend a very poor second. Don't underestimate him, sweetheart. He's a ruthless man. He couldn't do his job properly if he weren't. I've no choice but to go with him. And it's my own foolish fault that I'm in that position. However, I shall take my pack with me. It's often proved useful for getting my foot inside a stranger's door, and I might make some money as well. Now, shall we eat? It must be nearly ten o'clock.'

At Adela's suggestion, Timothy and I ate alone in the parlour, free from interruption by our three young limbs of Satan and from the querulous demands of the stick-thumping patient upstairs. Using the top of an old leather-bound chest we had recently acquired as a table, we made short work of my wife's meat pasties and gravy, cinnamon tarts and stewed pippins, all washed down with good, strong ale. Rubbing his belly with satisfaction, Timothy was moved to remark that such a meal was enough to make a man think of settling down and getting married himself. But a few seconds later, the sound of Adam throwing one of his tantrums in the kitchen made the spy hurriedly change his mind.

'So?' I asked. 'What's this all about?'

Timothy drank the last of his ale. 'A simple enough case, really. Simple, that is, to a man of your deductive powers.' He noticed my expression and laughed. 'All right! All right! I won't insult you with too much flattery.' Without being invited, he removed himself from his stool to the room's one armchair and leaned back with a sigh of repletion.

'Go on,' I said, valiantly suppressing my annoyance. 'For a start, what's Duke Richard doing in London? I understood he rarely leaves Yorkshire nowadays, his dislike of the Queen and her family being so intense.'

Timothy settled himself more comfortably, belched loudly and nodded. 'That's true, but in a few days' time, the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy is to pay a visit to the the land of her birth and the whole family – or as many members of it as can be assembled – have been summoned to London to do her honour. The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester's presence has been particularly requested by the King.' Timothy grimaced. 'Easy to guess why, of course. George of Clarence was always Duchess Margaret's favourite sibling. Her first meeting with the Woodvilles and brother Edward since George's death is likely to be awkward, to say the least. Duke Richard, who not only had no hand in that death, but protested vehemently against his brother's attainder and execution, will be the buffer, the pourer of oil on troubled waters, the mediator between the English and Burgundian courts. Young Lincoln and his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, will be three others. Also Duchess Cicely has already left Berkhamsted and taken up residence in Baynard's Castle, where the Dowager Duchess Margaret and some of her retinue will be housed. The two women will no doubt have a lot to say to one another in private concerning the Queen and her numerous kinfolk, but the King can depend on his mother to ensure that all her children behave themselves with dignity and propriety in public.'

I interrupted. 'Is this a state visit on behalf of the Dowager Duchess's stepdaughter? Or just a family reunion?'

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Excerpted from The Burgundian's Tale by Kate Sedley. Copyright © 2005 Kate Sedley. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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