Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Crown

The friar stepped forward and began to speak. The text for his sermon, he announced, was, ‘Bastard slips shall not take root’.

The crowd gasped and there was a ripple of movement like wind through corn. Someone, a woman, cried out, then there was a profound silence broken only by Ralph Shaa’s throbbing tones.

I forget now all that he said, but I know he reminded us that of the late Duke of York’s four sons, the Duke of Gloucester was the only one who had been born in England and was therefore the most truly English. Next, he lauded Richard’s character and bravery in battle from a tender age. Indeed, it was only last year that he had won back Berwick-on-Tweed from Scotland’s clutches. And for decades, he had tamed the unruly north with his good laws and sense of justice. Was this not a man worthy to be our king? Was Richard of Gloucester not entitled to wear the crown?

Before either of these rhetorical questions could be answered by a crowd now shifting uneasily and murmuring among itself, the friar continued that, by the grace of God, it had recently been discovered that the late King Edward’s marriage to the Lady Elizabeth Grey had been bigamous, the king being at the time solemnly contracted to the Lady Eleanor Butler (who was then still alive) and therefore not free to marry. Consequently, all children of the union were illegitimate and barred from accession to the throne. The Duke of Clarence’s son, the young Earl of Warwick, was similarly barred by reason of his father’s attainder. Ergo, the friar ended triumphantly, the Duke of Gloucester was the rightful king of England!

I don’t know if he expected there to be wild acclamation from his audience, but if so, he was disappointed. Certainly, the nobles raised a cheer — although I thought that some of them, including, surprisingly, the Duke of Buckingham, looked a little sour — but the crowds, once they found that it was the end of the sermon, simply shuffled away for their Sunday dinners. There was a good deal of muttering and low-voiced conversation, but whether people were discussing the momentous news they had just received, or simply debating if it was wise to dish up the remains of Thursday’s pig’s cheek for a second time in three days, no one could be certain. I did, however, get the impression of a sense of relief, as if a boil that had been suppurating had suddenly burst, leaving a wound that might — or might not — heal cleanly.

My lord of Gloucester was preparing to move, the other lords falling back before him as though he were already king — nothing but a matter of time now, of course — and I looked frantically among his retinue for any sign of Timothy Plummer. He wasn’t there, and I turned anxiously to Simon Finglass.

‘Where’s Master Plummer?’

The man spat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Dunno. In view of what we’ve just heard, off on His Grace’s business I should reckon.’

I cursed. ‘I must see him.’

My new friend was unable to help. It was dinner time and he was off to Baynard’s Castle to make sure that he got his fair share. It was as he moved away that I saw Amphillis Hill and the unknown woman deep in conversation beside one of the graves in the churchyard. For a moment or two, knowing now what I did about the former, I could not drag my eyes away from the delicate girlish face and wide, innocent eyes. Was she, could she possibly be, a ruthless killer? I recalled some words of Master Chaucer in one of those amusing tales of his. ‘The smiler with the knife under the cloak.’ Even so. .

I switched my attention to her companion whose features I could not place, and was struck by how many times God had brought this woman to my attention: at Westminster, at the Boar’s Head and now here at St Paul’s. He was trying to tell me something and, as usual, I was too stupid to understand what it was. Worse, it came to me that, so far, I had not really tried to solve the riddle of her identity. I had simply put the problem to one side as something to be thought about later. Now, suddenly, I realized that the answer might well be of the greatest importance.

She was going, moving towards the Lud Gate, saying something over her shoulder to Amphillis who nodded and walked off in the opposite direction without, fortunately, once glancing my way. The crowds had thinned to almost nothing and I was highly visible. I turned quickly to find a place of shelter, tripped and was caught by someone’s steadying hands.

Piers Daubenay and I stared at one another.

‘Roger?’ he queried uncertainly. ‘Wh-where have you been? I haven’t had sight nor sound of you for nearly three days. Not since you left the Boar’s Head.’

He was very pale, and the bruising down the left-hand side of his face, although it was beginning to fade, was still prominent, making him look as if he were wearing a half-mask. I remembered the cockerel’s mask of my assailant and once again knew a niggle of doubt. Whether or not Piers saw it, I don’t know, but he suddenly embraced me, saying with genuine warmth, ‘It’s so good to see you again. But, I repeat, where have you been?’

I didn’t answer, instead asking abruptly, ‘Where’s your aunt?’

‘Rosina?’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t know. Still with Sir Pomfret and Lady Fitzalan I presume. Why?’

Once more, I avoided the question and countered with one of my own. ‘Do you recollect once saying to Master Plummer and me that you reckoned she was a witch? Were you serious?’

He stared at me for a long moment before bursting out laughing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘There’s always been something a bit odd about her. .’ His voice tailed away and the laughter faded. He regarded me doubtfully. ‘What’s wrong, Roger? Something’s happened. What is it? Perhaps I can help with what’s troubling you.’

But I wasn’t really listening; at least only with half an ear. Enlightenment had suddenly dawned, breaking over me in a great, crashing wave. I seized Piers by the shoulders, opening and shutting my mouth like a stranded fish. He stared at me as though I had taken leave of my senses, and who could blame him.

He pushed my hands away and backed against the nearest wall. ‘Roger, what’s the matter? Are you ill? Shall I fetch help? There must be a physician hereabouts.’

‘No, no!’ I managed to get out. ‘I’m quite all right. It’s just. . It’s just that suddenly I know who that woman is, where I’ve seen her before. I know where Gideon is being held! Sweet lord! What a fool I’ve been!’

I dragged Piers with me to Crosby’s Place, but there was no getting in to see the duke. He had other, far more important matters to concern him now than the fate of one young boy. Moreover, the place was crammed as sycophants and time-servers flocked to swear their allegiance to the future king. For who could any longer doubt that it would be Richard III, not Edward V who would go to his coronation in Westminster Abbey before many more weeks had passed?

I was unable to find either William Catesby or Francis Lovell, either of whom might have taken a message for me to His Grace. I didn’t doubt but that they were there somewhere, but all my requests for someone to convey a message to them fell on deaf ears. I was equally frustrated in my attempts to locate Timothy Plummer. No one knew where he was or what he was about, only that he couldn’t be found and that no one could be persuaded to seek him out.

‘Take yourself off, you great oaf,’ one of the stewards snapped. ‘Can’t you see that you and your petty concerns are of no importance here?’

‘This is a child’s life I’m talking about,’ I yelled, losing my temper, but the man had already gone, bustling away through the press of bodies in answer to a summons demanding his immediate attention.