Kate Sedley - Wheel of Fate

‘Stay there!’ I whispered to Hercules as I tiptoed towards the door at the far end of the dormitory.

Of course he came too, snuffling with delight at the prospect of a midnight excursion. There was nothing to be gained by arguing with him.

I made my way to the abbey’s west gatehouse, with its adjoining chapel, where I judged most of the noise was coming from. And, indeed, I was not mistaken, the courtyard being overpoweringly full of horses and riders, the former breathing gustily through distended nostrils, their flanks heaving and sweating. Torches flared as monks ran from the abbey, calling to the grooms to rouse themselves and come at once to tend my lord bishop’s cavalcade. Light flickered on the azure and silver threads of the saltire cross of St Andrew, emblazoned on saddles and cloaks, and I realized with a jolt of surprise that I recognized the central figure of the party as Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells. My lord was not dressed so magnificently as usual, the splendid silks and velvets that he normally wore being replaced by the coarse black frieze of mourning. Members of his entourage, too, were all similarly attired.

The abbot appeared, looking flustered, his eyes blinking owl-like in the sudden blaze of light, the creases of sleep still wrinkling his cheeks.

‘Your Grace! My lord bishop!’ he exclaimed, hurrying to where Stillington was just dismounting, assisted by John Gunthorpe, his dean.

Stillington nodded, saying jovially, ‘My lord Abbot, I trust you can offer me a bed for the night?’ Having received the abbot’s (probably mendacious) assurance that his own couch would be given up to the distinguished guest with the utmost pleasure, the bishop asked abruptly, ‘What is your latest information from London? Has my lord Gloucester arrived there yet?’

‘No, nor will he for some days, or so I understand.’ The abbot dodged out of the path of the scurrying grooms as they led away their charges towards the stables. ‘I sent one of the lay brothers to Windsor last week to discover what he could and he returned only this afternoon. But come in, my lord. You’ll be in need of refreshment.’

The bishop, however, was more interested in such news as the abbot could give him.

‘And what did this man of yours find out? When is Gloucester expected? And what of the. . king?’

The abbot seemed not to notice Stillington’s slight hesitation before the word ‘king’, but I did, as I sheltered in the lee of the church, holding an indignant Hercules firmly in my arms (the only way to prevent him from attacking the episcopal party). I edged forward a little as the two men, now arm in arm, began moving in the direction of the abbot’s lodging.

The latter’s voice, high-pitched and clear, carried easily on the still night air.

‘My man spoke to Lord Hastings, after the late king’s funeral, and my lord says that His Highness and Lord Rivers will not leave Ludlow before this coming Thursday at the earliest, and that my lord Gloucester has arranged to rendezvous with them at Northampton in a week’s time so that he and the king may enter London together. Of course, whether or not matters will fall out as planned, who can tell? But it’s certain that Lord Hastings is most anxious to see my lord Gloucester in London as things go from bad to worse there, with the queen’s family having it all their own way. .’

The voices gradually faded and died, the courtyard slowly emptied until nothing could be heard but the harsh cry of a nightjar in one of the neighbouring trees. I set Hercules down again and made my thoughtful way back to the dormitory, followed by a reluctant dog who thought poorly of my decision to return to bed so soon and after such tame sport. He had not even been allowed to bite a fat monk’s leg.

All the same, he settled down again surprisingly quickly, curling up in his former position at the foot of the palliasse without disturbing Elizabeth, who seemed not to have stirred since I left her. I removed my boots and slithered down beside her, at the same time casting a leery eye at Jack. But he was snoring away, dead to the world, his mouth wide open and spittle dribbling on to the straw-filled pillow beneath his head. An unlovely sight, in comparison with which my daughter’s deep, sweet breathing made a heart-stopping contrast. I bent over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. She murmured in her sleep, but did not wake.

I, on the other hand, lay stretched out on my back, staring into the darkness, unable to sleep, remembering. .

Remembering that five years ago, although he had been released after a comparatively short spell, Robert Stillington had been incarcerated in the Tower at the same time that the late Duke of Clarence had been tried and condemned to death. Remembering, two years further back, how the couple, bishop and duke, had walked and talked together at Farleigh Castle in Somerset, heads inclined towards one another, voices low, for all the world like two conspirators. Remembering the well-known story that when, nineteen years ago, the late king had finally disclosed his hitherto secret marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, Cicely Neville, Dowager Duchess of York, had offered to declare her eldest son a bastard, the son of one of her Rouen bodyguard of archers, conceived while her husband was absent, fighting the French. Remembering, above all, my own secret mission to France the previous year, in an attempt to contact, on the Duke of Gloucester’s behalf, another member of the Rouen garrison who might possibly be able to confirm the truth of a tale which Duchess Cicely had since refused to repeat. I had never managed to speak to Robin Gaunt, but his wife, a Frenchwoman, had told me of the odd affair of the two christenings.

She had recalled that Edward, the first surviving son and his father’s heir, had been christened very quietly in a small chamber in Rouen Castle with little pomp and less ceremony, whereas the second son, Edmund, had received a lavish christening in Rouen Cathedral, attended by French and English dignitaries with no expense spared. The Rouen Cathedral Chapter had even been persuaded to allow the ducal couple to use the font in which Rollo, the first Viking Duke of Normandy, had himself been baptised, and which had been kept covered ever since as a mark of respect. Moreover, Edmund, later Earl of Rutland, had gone everywhere with his father, finally dying beside him at the bloody battle of Wakefield. Not incontrovertible evidence that the duchess had been speaking the truth, but. . But what? A straw in the wind?

Remembering. . But at this point I must finally have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew was Jack shaking me by the shoulder and urging me to ‘shift my arse’.

‘We’ve still got nigh on forty miles to go, Roger, and I must deliver this cloth by Thursday at the latest or Their Worships may cancel the order, and I don’t fancy humping it all the way back to Bristol at my own expense. So, come on, my lad! Rouse Elizabeth and let’s get breakfast.’

Grumbling, I did as I was bid.

And less than an hour later, we were on the road.

We made good enough time to reach London by Wednesday, April the twenty-third, St George’s Day. But there were none of the usual mummings and play-acting to celebrate England’s national saint, only sober suits and long faces and a general air of unease over all. We had stopped first at Westminster to get some breakfast, having spent the previous night in a barn, but even in that notoriously lax city, the pimps and thieves and pickpockets, with which the place abounded, seemed more subdued and less busy than normal, the shopkeepers and stall-holders less inclined to harass you into buying their goods with threats of bodily harm. This might in part have been due to the fact that the streets were crammed with Woodville retainers, all either going to, or coming from, the palace where the queen — the dowager queen now — was in residence with her children, the young Duke of York and his sisters. But it was also due to a sombre atmosphere that hung over everything, like a pall.