Alice, keeping her gaze on Joliffe, said, “I know, Nicholas. This may not be wise, but I somewhat think I’d be a full fool not to attempt it. So, Master Noreys, where to begin? We agree it’s possible that someone has ordered these murders to conceal Suffolk’s and Somerset’s treason. We presume this someone to be Somerset. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“My suspicion follows that, seeking to protect himself, he wants to break any link between him and Suffolk in the matter, because to satisfy all the angers at Normandy’s loss, someone is going to have to pay the price of it. My lord husband is already well-hated and well-dead. Let a charge of treason be brought against him now and what defense is likely to be any good? And if he is found guilty of treason, then his title, properties, and all will be forfeited to the crown. My son will be left with nothing. Neither title nor inheritance nor future.”
Frevisse forebore to point out that the considerable inheritance that Alice had had from her father would not be forfeit for Suffolk’s treason. Young John would be left with far more than “nothing.” He would have wealth and his life and not the burden of the dukedom. But for Alice the loss of the latter seemed to be the heavy weight in the balance. Or maybe it was from the taint to his blood and name she wanted to save her son, and with no answer to make to that, Frevisse protested instead, “How can Somerset hope to separate himself that far from it? People have to see they were hand-in-glove together in everything.”
Joliffe drew himself very straight, threw out his chest, changed something in how he stood, and suddenly seemed a much larger man, full of lordly authority as he declaimed, hands spread in entreaty for other men to see reason, “I sent to my lord of Suffolk for aid. I begged him to send men, to send anything but paper answers. My pleas, my lords, went unanswered. What little came, came too late. I swear I did what I could with what nothing Suffolk saw fit to give me …”
“Yes, yes,” Frevisse broke in. “I can see Somerset would play it that way. But would men be fool enough to believe it?”
“The better question,” Alice said, “is would anyone be fool enough not to at least pretend to believe it, if Somerset comes back into the king’s favor? Once Somerset has the king’s favor, who’s to move against him? Not his fellow lords. They’ve all failed to take full hold over King Henry while Somerset is gone. They won’t take it once Somerset is fully back. Nor is there much likelihood of a Parliament being called any time soon, for the Commons to set on Somerset the way they did on Suffolk, not while there’s this ongoing seethe of rebellions to distract them. Once Somerset is firmly back into the royal household, there’s no one going to have power enough to challenge him.”
“There’s my lord of York,” Joliffe said.
“Who is in Ireland and not likely allowed to return any time soon,” Alice said. “Especially if Somerset takes Suffolk’s place with the king.”
Joliffe started to answer that, but Vaughn said first, “My lady, are you seriously thinking to ally with York? If he brings down Somerset for this treason, whatever he uses to do it could be used against young John as well, as Suffolk’s heir. Unless we know for certain he’s our enemy, we may do better to hope Somerset stays untouched.”
“We could hope that,” Alice granted. “But unless we find some other reason than Normandy why someone has killed Hampden and Squyers and, yes, Matthew Gough— and find out that someone is other than Somerset, then it’s against Somerset I want to be protected. Besides that,” she said and sounded suddenly very like her father the times Frevisse had seen him set himself against something that could mean deep trouble, “Somerset should be stopped for more reasons than my own. He’s as corrupt and ill-able to govern as my lord husband was. They should neither of them have ever been let near power. So, Master Noreys, if we work together in this matter of murders and all, destroying Somerset and maybe even setting York into the place he should have near the king, will my help suffice to earn York’s help in keeping my son’s inheritance safe from any attainder for treason against his father?”
Joliffe hesitated before saying carefully, “I cannot give my lord of York’s word for anything. You know that. But I will swear that I believe whole-heartedly he’ll play you fair in this as far as lies within his power.”
“More than that would be unfair to ask of you,” Alice said. “Especially when, from all I know, I would trust York to do right long before I’d ever trust Somerset.”
“Towards that trust, my lady, have you considered the use of an alliance of marriage between your son and one of York’s daughters?”
“You’re a marriage broker as well as a spy, Master Noreys?” Alice snapped.
“Rather than either, my lady, a purveyor of facts and pointer-out of possibilities. Among the nobility, York is isolated save for a few relatives-by-marriage. An alliance with you would lessen that isolation. He’s of royal blood. Your grandchildren by one of his daughters would have that same royal blood, and who knows what might come of that. There would be benefits on both sides.”
“You’re right,” Alice said, “that such a marriage would indeed sweeten our—alliance, if it comes to that. And after all, with God all things are possible.”
That had been her father’s way of ending talk when he wanted to be done with something, and Joliffe took it as such, saying with a slight bow, “My lady.”
“The more immediate question,” she went on, “is What is to be done with you while I consider all of this? Because my mind is not yet made up.”
Joliffe bowed low with a courtier’s excessive flourish. “All that I ask is that you let me live, that I may serve you, most gracious lady.”
“We had already determined on leaving you your life, Master Noreys,” she said so haughtily that both Frevisse and Joliffe had to look at her to see by her slight smile that she was deliberately matching his courtier’s flowered words with her own. “I mean what’s to be done with you for the present. We need to determine what to do next and I can’t talk with you more just now, nor do I think it wise to have you become widely known in my household. Neither do I want to lock you away again. It would seem …” The slight smile returned. “… discourteous.”
Joliffe silently bowed his appreciation of that.
She looked at Vaughn. “Nicholas, could you keep him company through the day in the upper parlor? No one should come that way if I don’t.”
Vaughn bowed. “My lady.”
“Share what you both know about this business. See what happens when you think together on it.”
Joliffe and Vaughn both bowed to that, but Frevisse saw them afterward trade mutually wary glances that made her want to say, “And play nice together.” But she did not, and Alice dismissed them with a small gesture, and with another slight bow they both withdrew by the small chamber’s rear door, the way they had come.
With them gone, Alice ceased to stand so straightly, went toward the window as if suddenly needing to sit but saying as she went, “The upper parlor is where I would withdraw when the house was too full of Suffolk’s business and too many people. There’s a back way to the kitchen yard from there, for Nicholas to fetch them food and drink. They’ll do well enough.”
“If they don’t let their dislike of each other take over,” Frevisse said, following her.
“Nicholas won’t. He knows his duty.”
And Frevisse would have to trust Joliffe knew and would hold to his own. It was what his duty was that worried her, because it surely had not started out to be making alliance between Alice and York, and she asked, “Will you truly consider a marriage between John and one of York’s daughters?”
Lowering herself to one of the cushioned seats as if far older than she was, Alice said, “It would be good sense.” She folded her hands into her lap. “Save that John is already married to Margaret Beaufort. The duke of Somerset’s niece.”
Frevisse felt her mouth fall open and only with difficulty closed it again, too taken aback for words. Beyond doubt reading her startled face arigh
t, Alice went on, “The girl came into Suffolk’s ward after her father’s death. Somerset grabbed the title that should have come with her, but she has properties enough to make her worthwhile.”
“Properties and royal blood,” Frevisse said, sitting down across from her.
“And most especially her royal blood. Suffolk never lost sight of that for a moment.” Because just as York was, the duke of Somerset was cousin to the king. The difference was Somerset’s royal blood came from the adulterous coupling of the duke of Lancaster—a younger son of King Edward HI—and his mistress several generations back. Lancaster had eventually married the woman and had their offspring legitimated, and through the years they and their children had risen to dukedoms and a bishopric and places very near the king—and none nearer than Somerset.
“Suffolk had the marriage done very quietly last winter,” Alice said, as if glad to say it aloud. “Secretly. On the chance things might go to the bad. Which they did.”
“John is too young to have made the marriage completely sure,” Frevisse said. Far too young to have consummated it.
“So is she. Nor are they ever likely to. I suspect that Somerset will do what he can to have the marriage annulled and get her into his own hands, to his own use. After all, the king has two half-brothers available for marriage.”
Frevisse startled. She knew those two children. Edmund and Jasper. Or had known them when they were small boys. But, yes, they were young men by now and, yes, she could see how Somerset would like to place himself more closely to the king by marrying his niece to one of them.
“Not that I much mind the thought of having her off my hands,” Alice said. “I like young Meg Beaufort very little.”
“Alice!”
“Well, I don’t. It’s why I left her at Ewelme. She’s lovely to the eye, is little Meg—she hates being called Meg, so I’m afraid I do it. She’s all large eyes and sweet-shaped face, but even at seven years old she’s pie-faced with piety. Walks around with her prayer book clasped to her breast and her eyes raised to heaven.” Alice mimicked a child’s voice simpering, ” ‘I’d be Christ’s bride if I could, but God has willed otherwise for me.’” Alice returned to her own voice to say disgustedly, “When she says ‘Christ’s bride’, what she sees is herself sitting in glory on a throne beside him, draped in cloth of gold. She wouldn’t last a month in nunnery life. I do not like her, nor do I like Somerset, or his wife, or his miserable sons. He’s welcome to her! I just want to be left alone for awhile!”
She made a small, angry, almost flailing movement with both hands, then clamped them together, shoved them down onto her lap, and said, looking straight at Frevisse, “There’s something else.”
Frevisse’s momentary urge to comfort her was instantly quelled. Warily she asked, “What?”
“Remember I told you I was afraid of something else but wouldn’t say more?”
“I remember.”
“Through the last weeks before Suffolk left, he was in a seethe of anger. He kept saying he’d been betrayed. That he’d been betrayed and someone would pay along with him if things went any worse for him.”
“He had to mean the duke of Somerset,” Frevisse said.
“How had Somerset betrayed him? Everything in Normandy was going and has gone as they planned.”
“So far as we know,” Frevisse said quickly. “You and I, we truly know very little.” And that little had come only by chance.
“But what if there were others in it with them? We don’t know for certain there weren’t. And if there were others, what do they know? What if they have proofs they could use against John, to his loss?”
Strongly, to convince herself as well as Alice, Frevisse said, “If there is someone else, they can do nothing without betraying themselves. Alice, Suffolk was likely talking out of his fear and anger, and there’s no one.”
“Mayhap.” Despite her voice stayed steady, Alice’s hands had begun to twist together in her lap. “But what if he wasn’t? And there’s this. Frevisse, he was going into exile in Prance. Knowing all he knew and angry as he was, what if he decided to tell everything to the French? How better to assure his welcome than to tell King Charles everything he knew? About the war, about King Henry, about …”
“Alice, he would never have been that great a fool!”
“Oh, yes, he could have been,” Alice said with a deeper and darker bitterness than she had yet betrayed. “Believe me. He very well could have been. And whoever else was with him in losing Normandy …”
“If there was anyone else in it besides Somerset,” Frevisse said.
“… had to be afraid he might truly do it, meaning I have to fear that someone while having no thought of who they are.”
“If there’s anyone at all,” Frevisse persisted.
“Why is Burgate missing instead of simply dead like Hampden and Squyers? Why did he go missing weeks before anyone moved against them?” Alice was speaking more rapidly, as if having the words out might stop them hurting her. “The thing is, after Suffolk’s … death, when some of our people came back and Burgate didn’t and I asked if anyone knew where he was … Remember, I told of that?”
“I remember. You said no one knew where he’d gone.”
“They didn’t, no. But two of them offered that he’d been much with Suffolk just at the end, the day before they’d sailed. That Suffolk and Burgate had been away in another room, writing things.”
“The letter to John.”
“He had that nearly done before he left here,” Alice said with cold scorn at Suffolk. “He showed it to me.”
“You didn’t go with him to the coast?”
“We parted here. There was nothing more to be said between us.”
Alice’s coldness ended any more questions that way, and Frevisse tried, “Other letters then.”
“If so, they were never sent. There were no messengers. I asked that.”
“What you fear is that Suffolk was writing out—or was saying for Burgate to write out—his accusation against whomever he meant when he said he’d been betrayed. And you’re afraid that Burgate has this accusation with him, wherever he is.”
“That. Yes,” Alice said. “Or maybe nothing was written at all- If I could find him and he would tell me that, it would be something. As it is, the not knowing is torture in its own right.”
Slowly, Frevisse went on, seeing it more clearly as she said it and watching Alice while she did. “But anything Suffolk may have written in accusation of someone else would suffice to condemn him, too. Why would he do something so foolish as put in writing what would surely destroy him along with anyone he accused?”
“He surely only meant it to be used if he was destroyed.”
“Even if it could ruin John along with them?”
“To Suffolk’s way of seeing the world, if he was ruined, then all was ruined,” Alice said with raw bitterness. “For him, if he was dead, what was left alive that mattered? Now he’s dead and Burgate is missing and my fear has to be there is an accusation and it will come to the wrong people. And there are so many wrong people,” she said, her bitterness laced with despair.
Frevisse tried, “But Suffolk didn’t know he was going to be killed. Even if he wanted to have everything written down, why trust any man to know it? Why trust this secretary?”
“Oh, Burgate.” Alice flicked one hand, dismissing him. “He’s been Suffolk’s man since he was a boy. In truth, they were boys together. He was the son of Suffolk’s father’s head clerk and followed his father’s way. He probably knows more of Suffolk’s secrets than Suffolk’s confessor does.” Her voice darkened again. “But if there is something and Burgate has it, where is he? Or where is it? If our enemies have it, why haven’t they used it? If he doesn’t have it, and they don’t, who does?”
“If this Burgate were dead, you’d have heard.”
“Would I? He could be dead and no one know except whoever killed him. Or look how I’d not heard Somerset was returned to Engla
nd. How much else is there I’ve not heard?” She sounded both grim and desperate now, her hands again clamped together in her lap. “I’m tainted by Suffolk’s taint. I’m losing—or have maybe lost—my place at court and near the queen, and without that there’ll be no one between me and all the enemies Suffolk made for us.” She turned toward Frevisse. Her eyes were huge with staring into her fears, and with barely held desperation she said, “Everything is coming to nothing and I don’t know how to stop it!”
“You’ve not come to ‘nothing’ yet,” Frevisse said sharply, in ruthless comfort. “Your place in the world is maybe lessened, but so far you still have your wealth and your wits. Unless you let your fears tear you apart, you’re not helpless. You’ve still time to work against whatever you’re afraid may come.”
Alice straightened as if from a slap. Momentarily her face tightened with anger; but then it cleared, and she said almost calmly, “There you’re right. I’ll be defeated when I’m defeated and not before. So, do I tell this Joliffe of yours about this possible written accusation or not? How far do we trust him? Always remembering that you like him and that may undermine your judgment of him.”
“You trusted him yourself three years ago.”
“Three years,” Alice said, as if it were three lifetimes ago. “I’ve learned a great deal more about distrust since then, with everything that’s gone so far astray from where I thought it would.”
“Life has that way of going astray from where we thought it would,” Frevisse said dryly.
“Has yours?” Alice asked in sudden sideways thought. “You wanted a nun’s life and you have it. Aren’t you happy in your nunnery?”
“I’m not in my nunnery,” Frevisse snapped, hearing too late the betraying anger in her voice even as Alice said back with matching sharpness, “I’m sorry. I’ve told you I’m sorry-It was wrong of me to …”
“No,” Frevisse said with quick contrition. “The wrong is mine, to grudge you my help because I’m …” She caught on the word, then brought herself to finish, “… because I’m afraid, too. For you and John both.”
16 The Traitor's Tale Page 13