Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

‘I don’t see that,’ I argued, the wine making me bold. ‘She has only to say, “No, I was so angry at the time that I made it up. Of course it isn’t true.”’

Duke Richard set down his half-empty goblet. ‘But how would I know if she is telling the truth now?’ he asked quietly. ‘As I’ve said, nearly two decades have gone by. Circumstances have altered. And remember, she didn’t implement her threat eighteen years ago when her rage was white-hot.’

The fire leaped and crackled. I leaned even closer, resting my elbows on my knees. ‘But what if, my lord, when you ask her, your lady mother admits that what she avowed back then was in fact true? You would have your answer.’ And I should be spared a fool’s errand to France, I thought.

The duke gave a short laugh as though he knew what I was thinking. ‘To set your mind at rest, Roger, I have come as close as a dutiful son dare to begging her for confirmation of her words.’

‘And Her Grace has denied them?’

He sighed. ‘If only she had. No, my mother remains evasive, easily turning aside a question that is not quite a question and which she is confident I shall never ask openly or force her to answer unequivocally.’ He smiled conspiratorially, inviting me to share his exasperation. ‘You know how women enjoy mystifying us men, not wishing to say yea or nay but not wanting to let us off the hook that easily, either. They like to keep us in suspense. It makes them more interesting.’ He added hastily, ‘I mean no disrespect to my mother. I owe her a son’s love and obedience, which she will always have until the day she dies. It’s just that she’s. . a woman!’

From all this, I gathered that the duke had not asked the duchess for a direct answer to a direct question, that he might have tried to prise the truth out of her by indirect ones and that Duchess Cicely was saying nothing one way or another. But what did strike me most forcibly, although it was more by the tone of his voice than by what he had actually said, was that Duke Richard desperately wanted his mother’s eighteen-year-old accusation to be true. Why?

The reason, I supposed, was obvious: if his beloved brother really was no son of the late Duke of York, but the bastard of an archer, then he, Richard of Gloucester, was rightful heir to the throne of England and not the half-Woodville brat at present called the Prince of Wales. (Indeed, he was already the rightful king.) He had to know the truth: rumours and suspicion were no good to him. But how was he to discover it after forty years if the one person who knew the answer refused to reveal it?

I wondered how long Timothy Plummer had been in the duke’s confidence. Long enough, obviously, for his agents to have tracked down a man who had served under the Duke of York’s command in France all those years previously and who, moreover, had a wife who had been one of the duchess’s tiring-women in Rouen, where King Edward had been conceived and born.

But ‘tracked down’ was hardly the term to use. This useless bunch of so-called spies had merely heard of a man who had once lived in Paris and were unable to say if he were living there still. Nor could they describe him, apart from the fact that he was English and his dame French. At least I had a name, Robin Gaunt, although, heaven knew, he might well have changed it to something more Gallic in the intervening forty years.

I must have been looking grim, for the duke suddenly leaned over and seized one of my hands between both of his.

‘Roger, forgive me for asking you to do this. I’m perfectly well aware that you haven’t yet been home to your wife and children. Believe me when I say that neither they nor you will suffer financial hardship in your absence. But you realize how delicate a matter this is and there is no one else that I can trust with it.’

‘Timothy Plummer?’ I suggested drily.

He shook his head. ‘He can’t be spared: I need him on other work. And you are completely unknown in France. You can travel as Mistress Gray’s husband and it will be the perfect disguise.’

‘And yet she’s to be kept in the dark regarding my mission. Without her to speak French and translate for me, I’m likely to prove a broken reed, and so I warn Your Highness. And how I’m to escape from her for maybe hours at a time, and without arousing her suspicions, I’m not sure.’ I added daringly, ‘Perhaps, my lord, you have a suggestion?’

The duke smiled and gave me the same answer as Timothy Plummer: ‘You’ll manage.’

I sighed, keeping my temper. ‘I can only hope,’ I retorted acidly, ‘that the confidence you and your spymaster profess to have in me is not misplaced. I give Your Highness due warning that, in this instance, I may fail you.’

He released my hand and rose to his feet. I followed suit. ‘I refuse even to contemplate your failure. You will find this Robin Gaunt for me and find out what he knows.’

‘And if I do but he knows nothing, my lord? What then?’

He shrugged, the gesture showing up the slight unevenness of his shoulders, caused by the overuse of his sword arm from a very early age. ‘Let’s not anticipate defeat,’ he said. ‘Godspeed, Roger. I shall hope to see you the week after next when you return.’ He must have noticed my dismayed expression, because he laughed. ‘Don’t worry. If you haven’t returned by the time I leave for the North, make your report to Master Plummer and he will send an express messenger to Middleham.’ He rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. ‘And now I must dismiss you. I have to dress for this banquet.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘Truth to tell, I feel a fraud. You and I both know how little credit can be attributed to me for what is being hailed as a great victory over the Scots. We got Berwick back and a part of the Princess Cicely’s dowry, but we failed completely to put Albany on the Scottish throne. There was no great battle. The old enemy was not defeated.’

‘None of that was your fault, my lord,’ I protested. ‘The Scots lords were ready with their own plan long before we crossed the border.’

‘You think so? You think it was planned?’

‘Possibly. They’re a crafty nation. Your Grace has no cause to demean what you achieved. As you say, Berwick is English again and with luck will remain so.’ I began to sidle towards the door. ‘Her Grace of Gloucester and Prince Edward are both in good health?’

A shadow crossed the thin, careworn face. ‘As well as they ever are, I thank you. I know I should bring them south for the winter months, but. .’ He trailed off and shrugged again.

Once more, I was briefly conscious of the disproportion of his shoulders, but then the illusion of lopsidedness was gone. He rang a small silver hand-bell that was on the tray with the flask and goblets and, to my astonishment, stepped forward and embraced me.

‘You’ve been a good friend and servant to me, Roger, over the years and I wouldn’t have you think that I’m ungrateful. Don’t let this mission to France worry you. If things should go wrong — which I by no means expect — I shan’t let them hail you off to the gallows.’

Which was very pretty talking, I thought to myself, provided the duke didn’t first find himself dead by poisoning or a mysterious accident. Or if I didn’t. Because if the queen’s family did happen to get even the merest whisper of what I was about, I’d be far more likely to end up in some Parisian alley with a dagger in my back than find myself arraigned for treason. That would mean a trial with witnesses and evidence, and the Woodvilles wouldn’t want that: it would bring everything into the open. Secrecy and no questions raised in people’s minds were the better option. I recalled the Duke of Clarence’s obscure death in the Tower — drowned, the rumour had it, in a butt of malmsey wine. He had had a trial of sorts — I had been present at it, amongst the spectators — but it had amounted to little more than a shouting match between him and his elder brother. And it had ended abruptly with nothing really resolved: no explanation of why the king, after years of enduring brother George’s vagaries and betrayals, had suddenly decided to be rid of him. Had Clarence also been digging around in this particular bed of worms? Had it occurred to him that if their mother’s story were indeed true, and Edward were really a bastard, then he was the rightful king? Loyalty to his brother wouldn’t have stayed his hand, as it stayed Prince Richard’s. .