A Burnable Book

by Bruce Holsinger

  I woke with a start, drenched in fear, my heart fluttering beneath my ribs. No one there. Or was that—? A presence I knew. The smell of my son.

  Simon. There, in the doorway, backing out. ‘I – I am sorry, Father,’ he murmured, seemingly to himself. ‘Forgive me, Father. You must forgive me. So – so sorry—’

  I came fully awake only to see him turn and stumble forward into the gallery. I called after him but his footsteps were already on the back stairs, clomping down to the rear garden. The slam of a door. I threw open the shutters. He was in the priory sideyard, awash with silver beneath a newly cloudless sky, making diagonally for the high street. I called out again but he ignored me. He ran with a limp, a new injury, his hand clutching a dark bundle against his side.

  I lit a candle and walked through the house, sensing his traces in every room. An overturned chair, a table set at an unfamiliar angle against the hall wall.

  I immediately saw why. High on the western face of the hall hung the Gower arms, the colours and crest of my father and his father, embossed on an oaken shield that had once hung in our family seat. The shield had been torn from the wall and now hung by one corner, exposing a small recess gouged from wattle and daub between the timbers. I stood on the table and reached into the hole, feeling only the rough boards on the house’s street side. The hole was just the right size to hide a large purse, a box of gems, perhaps a silver cross.

  Or a book.

  FORTY-FIVE

  New Rents, before Winchester Palace

  The poor of Southwark could smell out a feast from a league’s distance, and here they were, all shapes, sizes, and ages, crowding Eleanor’s way, though also masking her from anyone who might be watching for her. Closest to the palace’s great outer gate stood the usual clutch of old gossips, making a din that competed with the hoarse shouts of the men ranked behind.

  ‘First and third argent? That’s Buckingham, sure.’

  ‘And there’s Warwick’s dragons, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Ah, Lady Anne!’

  Earls and bishops, knights and squires, even the untitled were recognized and named as they rode through the gates and into the palace grounds. Most slowed to hand out coins or purses, some more liberally than others.

  Midway through this procession of gentry there arrived an armed man on horseback whose appearance raised a less welcoming note from the crowd. A knight, Eleanor saw: lean, tall on his horse. She couldn’t see his face from that angle.

  He turned his head. Eleanor gasped. From his lip to the lower part of his chin a wide scar traced a crescent, the only flaw on his ruddy skin. With a thrum of fear, Eleanor recognized him: the man from Gropecunt Lane, the man she felt certain had killed poor James Tewburn. Sir Stephen, the night watchers had called him.

  With her own face hidden, chin at her chest, Eleanor leaned over to the bonneted woman to her left. ‘Who’s that, the knight just there?’

  ‘Sir Stephen Weldon,’ she replied with a look of disgust. ‘Most generous man in England, gifted my purse with an entire farthing last of Wykeham’s feasts. He’d pinch a dead babe’s face for the coin in its eyes.’ Eleanor watched Weldon carefully as he made his way through the guarded gate.

  She looked down the high street, along the market rows, waiting for Gerald and thinking about the meaning of Weldon’s presence at the feast. Eventually, through a gap in the crowd, she spotted the butchers making their way up New Rents. As Gerald had told her, the bishop didn’t like too many fires going at once on the grounds, least when the king was to be present. So twenty lambs and six piglets would be spitted by Wykeham’s cooks in a shallow firepit along Cutter Lane, to be carted to the palace for carving, and now here they were. Ten butchers and apprentices processed with the cooked flesh, guarded by bishop’s men on either side to keep the hands of the poor off the tender meat, which wafted a delicious scent throughout the market. Grimes himself was in the lead, a pompous air about him, full of his own status as the unofficial leader of the guildless Southwark meaters. Eleanor saw the wild look in his eyes as he fingered the two large knives strapped to his side. Gerald walked at the rear of the bunch, loping after the last cart as it drew toward the smaller postern a ways up from the gate.

  Eleanor dashed to the far side of the street past the fishwives’ tables, the custard-mongers and bakers along the drainage. After a careful look in both directions, she stepped forward and grasped Gerald’s arm as Grimes disappeared through the postern.

  Gerald looked at her, surprised. ‘Not a place for you to be, Ed—Eleanor,’ he murmured beneath the market din. ‘Not today, at all rates.’

  ‘Nor you, Gerald,’ she whispered, pressing his arm. ‘It’s all known to the bishop’s men.’

  The third butcher and his apprentice wheeled the second handcart through the postern.

  ‘What’s known?’

  The third cart was stuck, a wheel wedged between two stones. Three of the men worked to free it. ‘Give a hand, Rykener,’ grumbled one of them, seeing Gerald idling with a woman.

  ‘All of it,’ she said. ‘Who, how, when.’

  He looked at her as he backed toward the postern, a shade of doubt in his eyes. She stepped toward him, chin out as she breathed a last warning into his ear. ‘And they’re ready for it, Gerald. You have to get out of this somehow, prophecy and Grimes be damned. Disappear, while you can.’

  ‘What’s the hold-up, boys?’ Grimes, his greasy face reappearing at the postern. His eyes darkened when he saw Eleanor. ‘Get that swervin’ ganymede outta my boy’s way,’ he said to one of the guards. He pulled Gerald inside the walls.

  A guard pushed her roughly from the cart, now freed and rolling forward. The bell of St Mary Overey shuddered above them. The guard started closing the door from within. As she backed away from the postern Eleanor caught a last glimpse of her brother’s face, a wan circle of fear.

  FORTY-SIX

  Winchester Palace

  Luke Hodge had served William Wykeham as chief steward for nearly twenty years, rising to a position of quiet prominence in the official life of Southwark. Our early acquaintance had involved a sensitive matter regarding Hodge’s daughter that had left him breathless with gratitude. Despite the pre-feast frenzy, the bishop’s steward was glad to invite me within the palace’s service gate to observe the final preparations.

  As the first arrivals streamed through the gates the inner gardens and hall were abustle, the large staff garlanding shrubs and trees, setting tables with servingware and glass, arranging chairs. On the lawn a large tent was being raised, and in the hall, where the wide doors sat open to the inner court, I noted tables set up in the northeast corner for games and amusements. On the dais the bishop’s high table beneath the baldachin was arrayed with serving dishes and a ship of salt-pot and cutlery. A dozen ewers stood in a line along the south wall.

  I found an inconspicuous spot by the outer passage to the bishop’s kitchens, massive chambers filled with smoke, yells, the clatter of roasting pans and utensils. A company of butchers arrived with spitted lambs, which they flung on boards and proceeded to carve with a determined energy, flashing knives glistening with grease, competing with the bishop’s own cooks as they loaded the results on to large platters held by the servers. As I watched them at their work I started to notice several of the men trading peculiar looks, as if sharing an unspoken secret among themselves. Others were pale in the face as they carved, and I wondered for a moment if they might be ill. Then one of the butchers, a large, beefy man who seemed to be the leader, started to move among the others, patting their backs, speaking softly into their ears, getting grim nods in return, though one young man, perhaps his apprentice, received a hard smack to the ear, and an order to get to it.

  By bank of a bishop shall butchers abide.

  The line came to me with the force of a hard sneeze. Butchers. A metaphor, I had thought, signifying a clutch of armed men primed to attack the king during the feast. Yet what more efficient, more sinister plan could one ha
tch than to enlist a company of butchers, already armed to the teeth, in the slaying of a royal? The lower trades of Southwark had acted notoriously during the rising, none more so than the butchers. What if the butchers named in the prophecy as Richard’s killers were not soldiers or knights after all but … just butchers?

  I moved quickly out to the kitchen yard, where Hodge stood on a tree stump and addressed a crowd of servants. ‘The hour before the king’s arrival there will be games and amusements in the hall,’ he called out. ‘Beers, wines, bird tarts. Aim here is to refresh the ladies’ cups as often as possible.’

  A few gruff laughs.

  ‘Upon the arrival of His Highness the company will proceed to the gardens. Then Mass for St Dunstan, with the bishop presiding. Craddock, the mass pavilion?’

  A man to the steward’s left visibly winced. ‘Cracked post, sir.’ He held up his axe. ‘But we felled us that small elm before the gates at sunrise—’

  ‘Yes, I heard you at it – as did the lord bishop.’

  ‘Ah!’ the man said to scattered chuckles. ‘So his worship’ll know we got it down, then. Tent’ll be upright sooner than a cock at a maud’s mouth.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. The bishop’s pulpit?’

  ‘Already in place, carted out last night.’

  This went on until the steward had ticked most of the way through his list, then he clapped his hands. ‘A word more.’ Hodge straightened himself, spreading a wise smile to all corners. ‘We are to have an additional guest or twenty at our feast this day. With the bishop’s consent, His Most Indisputably Charming, His Most Esteemed, Generous, and His Most Faultless and Unimpeachable, His Most Excessively Irreproachable Excellency the Duke of Lancaster will be present for the festivities.’

  A low murmur from the servants, some calls of scorn. Wykeham and Lancaster despised each other, a sentiment shared throughout the factions of the two magnates, from the lowliest stableboy to the uppermost baron. The domestic servants gathered here would be especially keen in their bitterness toward Gaunt, whose notorious contempt for the commons flavoured every mention of the duke among the city’s servingmen.

  ‘I’m told that His Highness King Richard wishes to put an end to the enduring hostilities between our households,’ Hodge continued. ‘His esteemed uncle, his most trusted bishop – these men should be allies, not enemies. And for today, at least, they shall.’

  ‘Bah!’ came a call from the crowd’s edges. Hodge shrugged.

  ‘Look to your work. It’s not your pounds paying for the puddings.’

  ‘Just our backs,’ someone muttered.

  Hodge dismissed them all after a few words with the head cook. I followed him into the hall, where he wiped out a silver soup basin as I approached him. ‘Gower!’ he said, looking up. ‘Settling in for a long day?’

  I hesitated. ‘Keep a hard eye on those butchers, Hodge.’

  He looked at me strangely. ‘Why’s that?’

  Challenging me, as if he knew already what to expect. Taken aback, I stumbled a bit, then said, ‘Keep an eye on them, will you?’

  A thin smile. ‘Already am, Gower. Already am.’ He left me there, feeling rather foolish, and only slightly reassured.

  In the lower lawn the accoutrements of the bishop’s Mass had been arranged at the east end of the pavilion. Most notable was Winchester’s moveable pulpit, an ornately crafted thing of polished wood with ivory inlays that had been carted out to elevate the bishop above the congregation for his St Dunstan’s sermon. I stopped in front of it. In addition to Wykeham’s arms, two chevrons sable between three roses gules, the front panel had been carved with the same pearl-and-oyster pattern visible on the stonework above the hall. In palace of prelate with pearls all appointed. I stared at the woodwork. Even here, at the site of the bishop’s holy Mass for St Dunstan, the signs of King Richard’s death.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Pepper Alley, Southwark

  Millicent waited in the noontime shadows not far from the southern end of the bridge. Southwark was too small a town by far, and though she hadn’t swyved on this side of the river in years, there were still men about who knew her face. She edged a slight way down the lane to get a better view up the high street. The alley met the broad thoroughfare at a fork, where a knot of hucksters peddled to passers-by going in both directions.

  She soon spotted a grand company coming smartly up from the Thames, their jennets colourfully flounced for the occasion, the commoners parting at their approach. The younger of them ran alongside the horses, shouting for pennies. There were both lords and ladies but mostly ladies, perhaps twenty of them, veiled and bound for the palace and the Dunstan’s Day feast. As the company passed the mouth of Pepper Alley two of the horses split off, with several guards falling in behind them. The guards wheeled round and allowed the two ladies to proceed up the alley about fifty feet, where they reined in their horses and pulled up their veils.

  The powdered tip of a fine nose, then the face of Katherine Swynford. Millicent had seen this nose only once before, during a mayor’s show on Cat Street when she had stood proudly at Sir Humphrey ap-Roger’s side, her knight pointing out the array of gentry in the crowd, though Millicent would have recognized it anywhere. Swynford wore a dress of silk brocade in white and blue, trimmed in furs of pured miniver dusting her fine neck.

  ‘You’re the prioress’s girl?’ Swynford said, her voice hard. Her companion gazed up at the tenements. The women looked strikingly alike.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ Millicent said.

  ‘My daughter tells me to trust the Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the other lady.

  With a gloved finger, Swynford flicked a fly off her knee. ‘Lancaster won’t do a thing, of course,’ she said to her companion. ‘He doesn’t credit for a minute that Richard would actually fall for this – this prophecy. Believe me, I considered telling him everything. But what would be the point?’ She raised her chin. ‘King Richard. Ugh! Staring off into space, making up little fantasies to amuse himself. As I’ve told John a hundred times, if that brat once gets it into his head that you’re out to depose him, why – that’s the end of the game, and we’re all quartered for our troubles.’

  ‘Surely, though,’ said Millicent, hesitantly, ‘the duke will not suspect your involvement, my lady. Won’t you be handing the cloth off to the Countess of Kent before the feast?’ This had been John Gower’s suggestion, which the prioress had approved during his visit.

  ‘It is more complicated than that, I’m afraid,’ Swynford sighed. ‘I have been asked for a round of Prince of Plums. By the Earl of Oxford himself.’

  At Prince of Plums shall prelate oppose. The first line of the prophecy rang in Millicent’s ears.

  ‘Prince of Plums?’ said Swynford’s companion.

  ‘Cards, Philippa,’ said Swynford. ‘It’s a game of cards.’

  The second woman was Philippa Chaucer, Millicent realized as the prophecy’s words continued to echo in her mind. Swynford’s sister, and the wife of a minor official in customs, though everyone knew the man was a long-time favourite with Gaunt. ‘Why would you possibly front yourself in such a way?’ she asked her sister. ‘And at Oxford’s bidding? What are you thinking, Katherine?’

  ‘He approached me last week, all charm and baby fat. You know how the earl can be.’

  Philippa turned away, her eyes closed.

  ‘Everyone is speaking of this feast as a chance to make peace between Oxford and Lancaster, and Lancaster and the king,’ she said, pleading her case. ‘A moment of reconciliation, as the bishop is casting it, to unite us all before the renewal of the inevitable hostilities with France. Oxford believes the gesture will mean something to Duke John. That showing the duke’s mistress in a favourable light may be met in kind, perhaps with a preferment by King Richard, or, I don’t know—’

  ‘Garter robes?’ said Philippa.

  Swynford ignored the jab. ‘The chancellor has asked me to a
rrange the cards so that the game ends a certain way. In any case, the prioress assures me all is in hand. But if my duke suspects I’m part of this what will he do with me?’

  ‘What Lancaster always does with you,’ said Philippa, with a sad smile. ‘Ignore you during the feast, make you leave by yourself, then order you to his bed once he’s returned to the Savoy. He won’t let a little prophecy get in the way of his prick.’

  ‘This is different, Philippa. If there’s to be an attempt on the king’s life today—’

  ‘Don’t be indecisive, Katherine,’ said Philippa. ‘John is the great lover of your life, you have nothing to fear from him. It’s Oxford who should terrify you.’

  Swynford’s thin brows knit in a deep frown. ‘The earl is the king’s favourite, and the king is the king. I just hope Prioress Isabel hasn’t gone weak in the head.’

  Philippa waved away a fly. Swynford looked down at Millicent, then extended a hand. ‘Give it to me.’

  Millicent handed up the cloth, folded into a neat roll and bound with a thong. As Swynford wordlessly turned her horse the animal’s tail thwacked Millicent’s cheeks. She stepped back right into a stopped gutter. Lifting her shoe out of the muck, she watched as the small company moved back up the alley, the guards falling in before and behind the mounted women. Soon they were gone.

  Until a few weeks ago she would have given a painted fingernail for an audience with Katherine Swynford, even in such a miserable spot as Pepper Alley. Yet now she found herself longing instead for the simplicity of St Leonard’s Bromley, where the food was plain and the dress plainer, the sisters quiet and, for the most part, kind. She shook her head, thinking of Agnes. What is happening to me? she wondered, not for the last time.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Winchester Palace