Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

‘Who. .? What. .?’ I muttered, my voice thick in my throat.

There was a violent imprecation, then a sudden rush of movement and the opening of the door, letting in a draught of stale air from the passageway. I struggled out of bed, the cold of the flagstones striking up through the soles of my feet and shocking me into wakefulness. But I was too late to catch a glimpse of the intruder. The flickering torches in the wall sconces illuminated the corridor, to right and left, silent and empty. The only noise came from the adjacent male dormitory, a faint cacophony of snores and groans that disturbed the men’s sleep. Cursing, I stepped back inside my narrow cell, pulling the door shut behind me.

I lit the candle and looked around. My clothes, which had been thrown across the chair, now lay in a heap on the floor, and on top of the pile was my pouch. This had been freed from my belt and was open, the flap bent back to give a groping hand better access, and my breeches, shirt and jerkin had been turned carefully inside out as if to ensure that they contained no concealed pockets. Someone, I reflected grimly, had been searching for the Duke of Gloucester’s instructions, and but for my boredom of the previous evening, they would have been found. Thankfully, I blessed Timothy Plummer’s foresight.

Something moved near my foot, and such was my state of nerves that I jumped nearly out of my skin. I spun round and lowered the candlestick nearer the floor just in time to see a mouse scrabbling wildly to find its feet, its little claws scraping the stones. It was acting as if it were drunk, its whiskers all wet, and I suddenly realized the reason. It must have been licking up some of the spilled wine and was now paying the penalty for its greed. But even as I watched, it staggered, fell over, twitched violently for a second or two, then lay still. My heart pounding uncomfortably, I crouched down and prodded it with my finger. There was no response. It was dead.

I reached out a finger and dipped it in a half-dried puddle of the ruby liquid, then cautiously raised it to my lips. There was a slightly strange taste to it, but that, of course, could be nothing more than the taint of damp and mildew from the flagstones. It wasn’t in itself proof that the wine had been drugged, but the evidence of the mouse seemed to point that way. If a strong soporific had been used, it might well have proved too much for a little rodent. I ruled out poison. That would have been stupid, indicating at once that there were others anxious to learn of the duke’s intentions, others who suspected that my and Mistress Gray’s journey to France was a cloak for another, more secret mission. But thanks to my clumsiness, I had failed to drink the wine and so been alerted to possible danger. Nor were the unknown ‘they’ any the wiser.

I picked up my clothes, laid them on the chair again and got back into bed, shivering with cold. If I caught an ague on top of everything else, I should have a few harsh words to say to Timothy Plummer. On reflection, I would have more than a few harsh words to say to him in the morning. I lay for a while, straining my ears, but I doubted anyone would risk a return visit, especially as whoever it was had probably satisfied himself that what he was looking for was no longer among my possessions.

But why did I naturally assume that my visitor had been a man? It might equally as well have been a woman. I had been too drugged with sleep to have any clear idea of the intruder’s sex, yet a certain sense of bulk persuaded me that the presence had been male. But who? Who, apart from Timothy and the duke, knew of my secret instructions, and, above all, who could possibly have been aware that I was carrying them in my pouch?

I had a sudden picture of myself the previous evening with the duke. I was saying something, something about ‘when I read what you had written’, and tapping my belt. . And the servant, who had entered unobserved by me, was there, pouring the wine, the same servant who had insisted on accompanying me to my room so that he might know where I was housed. .

A Woodville agent? He had to be! I could at least provide Timothy with a description, although I doubted that morning would still find the man in the castle. He would slip out at first light to report his failure to his superiors, and if he had any sense, he wouldn’t come back. On the other hand, he might underrate my intelligence. Plenty of people had done that before now. To their cost.

Eventually, I drifted into an uneasy sleep, a tangle of nightmarish dreams that again featured Reynold Makepeace and Jeanne Lamprey and a whole host of grinning skeletons who were dancing round and round me in a ring.

I awoke the following morning with a crick in my neck and feeling far from refreshed. By the time I had finished dressing, I was in a foul temper, angry with all the world and ready to take offence if someone so much as looked at me the wrong way. Sensing my mood, I was given a wide berth at breakfast by the duchess’s servants, so I seized the opportunity to look around at the neighbouring tables to see if I could spot the wine-server of the previous evening, but there was no one resembling him that I could make out — at least, not enough to say positively, ‘That is the man.’ My guess was probably correct: he had already left the castle.

A page came to tell me that Timothy wanted to see me as soon as I had finished eating. ‘The same room as yesterday, overlooking the water-stairs.’ The boy nodded towards my plate, indicating the half-eaten oatcake. ‘Don’t you want that?’

I shook my head and he leaned over and grabbed it, cramming it into his mouth all in one go.

‘Don’t they feed you in this place?’ I asked. ‘It’s as dry as last week’s bread.’

He grimaced. ‘Her Grace doesn’t believe in too much indulgence of the flesh.’

Not now, I thought, not now she’s an old woman, but in the past. . that might well have been a different story.

I found the spymaster waiting for me, impatiently pacing up and down the room. He rounded on me as I entered. ‘Where have you been?’

‘At breakfast,’ I snapped. ‘And pretty poor victuals they were, too. That’s beside the point. I overslept, but there was a reason for it.’

‘It had better be a good one.’

‘Oh, it is,’ I said, seating myself on one of the stools. ‘The best.’ And I told him what had happened.

Timothy cursed softly under his breath. ‘Would you recognize this server again?’

I pursed my lips. ‘I might, although there was nothing outstanding about him. Couldn’t you ask the duke? His Grace might know who he is.’

My companion snorted derisively. ‘I don’t suppose the duke even glanced at the man’s face, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know his name. He doesn’t recognize half his own servants, let alone his mother’s. But why do you think this fellow suspected you?’

I explained and received a tongue-lashing for my pains.

‘You must be more careful,’ Timothy ended, but then sat down beside me and patted my arm, probably being able to tell from my expression that I was in a right royal rage. ‘However, I suppose it wasn’t really your fault,’ he added placatingly. ‘And at least it’s put us on our guard. We know now that the Woodvilles have got wind of something, but thanks to the fact that you had already committed the paper’s contents to memory and then destroyed it, they still don’t know what it is we’re after.’

I was in no mood to be buttered up and asked abruptly, ‘Where do I find this Humphrey Culpepper, then? Stinking Lane, did you say?’

Timothy nodded. ‘It’s off the Shambles. The first turning after Pentecost Lane as you come from West Cheap.’

‘Which house?’

‘The third one on the left.’