Death and the Chapman

by Kate Sedley

  ‘Ah!’ Thomas smiled understandingly. ‘Of course! In that case, we shall excuse you, shan’t we, Abel?’

  His partner grinned, with some derision. I felt uncomfortable. Abel had never made me as welcome as Thomas, but then, why should he? Marjorie Dyer was not his friend. But my thoughts shied away from that name. When all was revealed about the Crossed Hands inn, Thomas Prynne might be in for an unpleasant shock.

  I got up from the table, put on my rough frieze cloak, which I had taken out of my pack before supper, and once again picked up my stick.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘With all our hearts.’ Thomas held out his hand. ‘We shall both wait for your return with bated breath.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I don’t know exactly when I realized I was being followed. I had not hurried, going at an easy loping stride, because I had no wish to arrive at Baynard’s Castle flustered and out of breath. I should need to keep my wits about me, be calm and authoritative, if I was to stand any chance of seeing the Duke. As I made my way along Thames Street, still crowded at this time of the afternoon, I prayed that he would not be from home.

  It was in the vicinity of the Bridge, where Fish Street runs northward towards East Cheap and the Bishop’s Gate, that I happened to glance behind me. It was chance that I did so: a shout or a noise of some kind had attracted my attention, but before I could locate its source or satisfy my curiosity, I was aware of a slight, hooded figure moving swiftly through the crowds in my wake. Even then, I should have taken no notice of it but for the fact that, as soon as I turned my head, the cloaked figure dodged hurriedly between two stalls and disappeared from view.

  The person had been half-walking, half-running at such a rate and with such purpose that this sudden vanishing act intrigued me. Moreover, there was something familiar about the figure; the movement, the flow of the long cloak, the hood pulled well forward, concealing the face. Then it came to me. It was the man, or woman, I had seen in the early hours of this morning, hurrying up Crooked Lane and entering the Crossed Hands inn.

  I continued on my way in the same steady fashion for several minutes, before turning my head for the second time. The cloaked figure was still there and had gained on me, so that I could now see skirts beneath the hem of the cloak. A woman, then! But who? The answer sprang to mind almost at once. Matilda Ford, Marjorie Dyer’s cousin. My presence at the Crossed Hands inn must, after all, have been noticed. Either that, or the chambermaid had mentioned our meeting to Martin Trollope. He, suspicious, had set Matilda to watch the Baptist’s Head, and when informed that I had set out again, had instructed her to follow. I was some way ahead by that time, and she had been forced to hurry in order to catch me up.

  When I glanced back at her again, she immediately slowed her pace, pausing to inspect the remaining wares displayed on a butcher’s slab. I saw the man speak to her, but she shook her head and moved on slowly. I resumed my walking, but a few seconds later looked over my shoulder a third time, to find that she had nearly caught up with me. We had passed the entrance to London Bridge, and the crowds here were thinning as people finished their day’s marketing and began making their way home for the night. One or two shopkeepers were starting to carry their goods inside, although most continued to shout their wares, still hoping to attract last-minute custom.

  I continued on my way, debating with myself how best to deal with the situation. Should I simply carry on as though unaware of her presence? Or should I turn and confront her? But how would she respond to my challenge? And what did Martin Trollope hope to gain by having a woman follow me? She could do me no harm… I cursed myself for a slow-witted fool. Matilda Ford did not need to harm me. As soon as she saw where I was going, she would return hot-foot to the Crossed Hands inn and Lady Anne would at once be spirited away. The only thing I could do was to give her the slip.

  But how? The towers of Baynard Castle were already looming ahead of me. If I didn’t act quickly, Matilda would guess my destination and return at once to inform Martin Trollope… A woman in a striped hood loomed out of the shadows, and a hand caressed my shoulder.

  ‘Looking for someone, my pretty ducks?’

  I have been called many names in my time, some apt and well-deserved, others less so. But ‘pretty ducks’ is, perhaps, the least fitting of them all to describe my bulk and height. Nevertheless, the woman was a godsend. (And after all, if God used the Magdalene for his purposes, why not other whores? I asked myself.) I slipped one arm around her waist and was pleasantly surprised to find that she smelled quite clean.

  ‘Where… Where do you – er – work?’

  She laughed at that and jerked her head in the direction of a narrow alley. ‘Old Mother Bindloss’s, in Pudding Street. Come on. It’s just along ’ere.’

  Resisting the temptation to see if Matilda Ford was watching, I allowed myself to be led into the alley. The stench of putrefaction met my nostrils, and I noticed that the drain running down the middle of the street was full to overflowing, a dead cat and several dead rats among the rotting food and human excrement. London streets in general are not very clean, but this was particularly noisome. My companion stopped halfway along at one of the houses and rapped on the door.

  A grid in the top of the door was opened and a voice inquired: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Susan,’ the girl answered in a sibilant whisper. ‘I’ve got a customer.’

  I could no longer resist looking back along the street, and was just in time to note Matilda Ford disappearing quickly round the corner. She had evidently been watching to see where I went. I trusted that she was now satisfied and had not divined my real intentions.

  The door was opened and I stepped inside, prompted by a push from Susan. A guttering candle illuminated a narrow passageway and a flight of stairs, on which were seated a number of girls in various states of undress.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ one of them exclaimed, craning her neck eagerly over the heads of the others. ‘Where did you find him? Hey, sweetheart! When you’ve finished with Susan, I’m willin’! I’m sure a big boy like you has more than one fuck in ’im!’

  There was a ragged cheer from the other women and, to my horror, I found myself blushing. Fortunately, it was too dark for them to see. I turned to my companion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, fumbling in the purse at my belt and producing a silver penny, ‘but I don’t want your… your services.’ Susan stared at me, uncomprehending. ‘Look,’ I went on quickly, pressing the coin into her hand, ‘I’m willing to pay for your time and trouble. But the truth is, I only came in here to shake off the woman who was following me.’ I added lamely: ‘I’m afraid I can’t explain more than that.’

  ‘Your wife, is it?’ asked the girl who had spoken first. ‘And you’re sloping off to meet another woman?’

  There was a sympathetic murmur from the others. Even Susan, who had been looking deeply affronted, smiled and patted my shoulder.

  ‘’Ere you are, sweet’eart, you keep your money. And if your ladylove don’t want you after all, come back ’ere and we’ll entertain you.’

  There were cries of agreement all round as I opened the door and slipped once more into the street. Thanking my unwitting saviour with a blushing kiss on the cheek, I made my way back again towards the river. I did not hear her close the door behind me and suspected that she was watching my progress, regretting having let me go so easily. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that I was right. Susan was still standing in the open doorway…

  It was at that moment, while my attention was distracted, that I felt, rather than saw, the sudden flurry of movement ahead of me. I jerked my head round only just in time to ward off the blow. Matilda Ford, arm raised, had emerged from one of the doorways, where she had been hiding, and was coming at me with a knife.

  * * *

  Instinctively, I grasped my stick in both hands and managed, but only just, to parry the blow. She was momentarily thrown off balance, but recovered quickly
and came at me again, as agile as a cat. The upraised blade of the long, sharp knife, which I had seen her using to skin rabbits in the Crossed Hands kitchen, glittered evilly in the darkness of the alley. Again, I parried its downward thrust, but in trying to side-step and avoid her next onslaught, I slipped on a piece of offal and went sprawling to the ground. Frantically, I struggled to regain my feet, but she was too swift for me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her moving in for the kill. The hood had fallen back from her face and I could see it plainly, the lips drawn back from the broken teeth, the eyes glittering hatefully, the nostrils flared, as though scenting blood. I had never before come across so evil a woman. And it looked as though it would be my first and last encounter. With a grunt of desperation, I rolled to one side, trying to avoid the knife.

  I had no real hope of doing so. Almost in a dream, I watched the flash of its downward arc… Nothing happened. After what seemed an eternity, but was in fact only a few brief seconds, I opened my eyes; eyes which, like most people, I had shut in the face of certain death. I was suddenly conscious of a babel of female voices; shouts and imprecations, oaths and swear words which I had never heard before in my life. As I scrambled to my feet, I saw Matilda Ford struggling in the clutches of a group of whores, led by Susan, who, by dint of biting her wrist, had forced Matilda to drop the knife. As I stooped to retrieve it, there was the sound of rending cloth, and, a moment later the noise of running feet told me that my would-be murderess had escaped, leaving only her torn cloak behind.

  ‘Let her go!’ I said quickly. ‘And thank you all for saving my life.’

  ‘Cor!’ one of the girls exclaimed, her naked breasts heaving with exertion. ‘What a virago! Whatever made you marry her?’

  I had temporarily forgotten my claim that I was being followed by my wife, but seized thankfully on the explanation. I must get to Baynard’s Castle as swiftly now as possible. I had no wish to institute a hue and cry.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ I shrugged. ‘People change. And I dare say I’ve given her cause to be bitter. I must be on my way now. My – er – my mistress will be wondering what’s become of me. Thank you all again.’

  I was sped on my way amid a chorus of ribald comments, most innocuous of which was: ‘Give ’er one for me!’ At the entrance to the alley, I paused to look carefully left and right, making sure that there was no sign of Matilda Ford, before turning to give my rescuers a farewell wave. Then, somewhat shaken, but still purposeful, I began walking rapidly in the direction of Baynard’s Castle.

  * * *

  The sentries on the gate refused to let me pass. They were agreed that both my lord of Gloucester and Duchess Cicely were within, but it was more than their jobs were worth to admit a stranger so near to curfew. This was the time of day the Duke relaxed and entertained his guests. It was also the hour, when staying with his mother, which he devoted to his children, Lady Katherine and the little Lord John.

  ‘If you’ve got a request,’ one sentry told me roughly, ‘come back tomorrow. My lord’s holding a Court of Petition in the morning.’

  ‘It’s not a request,’ I answered impatiently. ‘At least, tell the Duke I’m here! The matter is urgent.’

  Both men burst out laughing. ‘And who do you think you are, my jumped-up cocky?’ the taller one asked, while the shorter said menacingly: ‘We don’t let any poor bastard in off the street who’s deluded enough to think he has something of importance to say to His Grace. Besides, for all we know, you might have a knife hidden under that cloak.’

  I held my cloak open so that they could see I was innocent of weapons – only to remember too late that when I had picked up Matilda Ford’s knife, I had stuck it in my belt for safe-keeping. At the sight of it, unsheathed, both sentries seized me and dragged me inside.

  Well, at least I was in, but not quite in the manner I had foreseen. Vociferously, I protested my good intentions, trying to drown my captors’ shouts for assistance. I wondered how on earth I was going to convince them that I was not a would-be assassin. I sent up a desperate prayer for help. Surely God could not desert me now.

  He didn’t. The first man to arrive on the scene in answer to the sentries’ summons, was the man I had rescued from the over-zealous pieman.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked indignantly. ‘This noise can be heard in His Grace’s private apartments. I hope there’s a good explanation…’ His voice tailed off as he recognized me. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  The shorter sentry, who had just been about to brand me as a suspected criminal, hesitated. ‘Do you know him?’ he asked my little man.

  ‘We have a brief acquaintance,’ my friend was beginning, but I interrupted him urgently.

  ‘I have to see the Duke. At once! I think I’ve found Lady Anne Neville.’

  To say his mouth fell open would not be too much of an exaggeration. His lower jaw almost touched his collar. ‘You’re sure of this?’ he demanded sharply.

  It was my turn to hesitate. If I told the truth and admitted that I had not seen the lady face to face, I might again be suspected of bad intentions. Besides, in my own mind, I was completely certain. So I took a deep breath and said: ‘Yes. I know where the Lady Anne is hidden.’

  The little man turned to the sentries. ‘Let him go,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll vouch for him.’ And to me, he added: ‘Come this way!’

  The sentries reluctantly stood aside, having relieved me of both my stick and the knife. They were still unconvinced and deeply suspicious. I gave them what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and followed my guide across the outer courtyard and through a door to the inner, which housed the bakehouse, laundry and kitchens. The wall torches, high up in their iron sconces, had already been lit, flaring against the old stones with a noise like torn parchment. In this courtyard there was far more hustle and bustle; a constant whirl of activity and chatter, without which the great and the mighty seem unable to live. Men and boys in the livery of the Duke of Gloucester scurried self-importantly about, without ever, or so it appeared to my jaundiced eyes, actually achieving anything.

  I was led up a narrow stone staircase, along an equally narrow passage, up another twisting stair, all the time having to flatten myself against the wall as people forced their way past me. My little friend was growing impatient at the delay, and finally cried out: ‘Holla! Holla! Make room! Make room! We are about the Lord Richard’s business!’ I can’t say it had an instantaneous effect, but our progress did speed up a little. Finally we reached an archway shrouded by a leather curtain, which when pulled back, revealed an ante-chamber. Into this, I was ceremoniously ushered. I had a feeling that the little man was enjoying his moment of glory.

  A young man, seated behind a table and busy with important-looking documents, raised his head inquiringly as we entered. My friend hissed in my ear: ‘John Kendal, His Grace’s secretary.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Timothy Plummer?’ John Kendal asked. ‘And who’s this you have with you?’

  ‘His name’s Roger Chapman and he has very important news for the Duke.’

  The secretary’s eyebrows rose in patent disbelief and he looked me up and down. I returned his gaze as steadily as I could in the face of such unnerving scrutiny. But he evidently liked what he saw, because he smiled suddenly and nodded.

  ‘What might this news be, Roger Chapman? And I warn you, it will have to be very important indeed for His Grace to see you at this hour. It is the time of day he spends with his mother and children.’

  ‘He’ll see me all right,’ I answered boldly. ‘I think I know the whereabouts of Lady Anne Neville.’

  * * *

  The room into which I was shown was not a large one, but it was luxurious. A fire of scented pine logs burned on the hearth, and the rushes on the floor were mixed with an abundance of dried flowers. There were at least three armchairs, their backs delicately carved with patterns of birds and intertwined leaves, and four or five joint stools. A low table against one wall supporte
d a silver ewer and goblets of fine Venetian glass, which winked and glowed in the firelight. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting the fight of Hercules with Nereus, first as a stag, then as bird, dog, snake and, finally, as a man. A myriad wax candles – or so it seemed to my dazzled eyes – hung in a copper chandelier from the ceiling.

  Two children, a girl and a slightly younger boy, were playing on a rug – something I had never seen before – in front of the fire, and I knew they must be the Duke’s two bastards. Seated in one of the armchairs, also close to the hearth, was a formidable-looking woman with strongly marked features. This, without doubt, was the Duchess of York, mother of the King and the Dukes of Gloucester and Clarence, sister of the late Earl of Warwick, and mother-in-law of the Duke of Burgundy. And, if all stories were true, an extremely redoubtable lady.

  Duke Richard himself was on his feet as I entered. He was wearing a long, loose robe of dark red, sable-trimmed velvet, with black satin slippers heavily embroidered in gold thread. He was obviously resting after the cares of the day, and had it been for any other reason, I should have felt guilty at disturbing him. His thin face was sallow in the flickering candlelight, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, as though he had been sleeping badly. I learned later that the Countess of Desmond had once described him as the handsomest man in London, after his brother Edward. He certainly did not look it that night, but he was a man whose physical appearance was very much dependent on his state of health and the peace, or otherwise, of his state of mind.

  He had been informed by John Kendal of the reason for my visit, and I could sense the tension in that slender body as I approached and made my obeisance. He held out a hand, prismatic with rings, for me to kiss.

  ‘I understand,’ he said in a voice which was slightly breathless, ‘that you have some idea where my cousin, the Lady Anne Neville, might be. If that is so, tell me at once. But first, tell me how you knew that she was missing.’