Kate Sedley: The Dance of Death

‘Look,’ Timothy said, taking advantage of my enforced silence, ‘you may not believe me, but I’m genuinely sorry about this. If it were up to me, you’d be on your way home tomorrow with the money in your purse that you’ve been promised. Well, that at least will be paid to you, and you certainly won’t lose by this present mission. And what you have to do is quite simple and straightforward.’

I snorted derisively and was about to express my scepticism out loud when a thought struck me. Of course! The whole thing was ludicrous. I once more leaned across the table and gripped my companion’s wrist.

‘You do realize, don’t you, that I can’t speak French?’ I gave a great shout of laughter. ‘I’m not going to be any good to you if I can’t speak the language, am I? Have you considered that?’

Timothy looked uncomfortable, but not, as I naturally assumed, because he had overlooked an obvious fact. ‘You won’t have to speak French,’ he said, avoiding my eyes.

‘Won’t have to speak French?’ I repeated. ‘Then whatever good am I going to be to you? And, furthermore, with my height, fair hair and blue eyes I’m simply going to shriek, “Englishman” at everyone I meet. Dangerous in itself. You know how our neighbours across the water love us! Like a rat loves poison.’

Timothy cleared his throat and squirmed a bit on his stool. He also looked embarrassed. I wondered what was coming.

‘As a matter of fact, none of that will matter. You’re travelling as an Englishman and using your own name.’

I stared at him blankly for a moment or two before eventually finding my tongue. ‘In God’s name, what use is that going to be to you?’

He chewed his thumbnail before answering. ‘The truth is, Roger. .’ Again he hesitated.

‘I should be grateful for the truth,’ I snapped.

‘The truth is — ’ Timothy took a deep breath, like a man plunging into a tub of cold water — ‘the truth is, you’re accompanying someone else who can speak French. A lady. You will pose as her husband, her English husband.’

‘What?!’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

‘Your job — ’ now that the murder was out, Timothy was gaining in confidence — ‘is to look after her and see to her needs as if she were indeed your wife.’

Slowly I rose to my feet. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Oh, yes! Those are the orders, Roger, and there’s no gainsaying them. And if you’re thinking about Mistress Chapman, there’s no reason why she should ever know. She isn’t even aware of your present whereabouts. You could still be making your way back from Scotland. You’ve dropped out of sight and out of time as far as she’s concerned. With regard to the lady you’re taking to France,’ he hurried on, not giving me a chance to speak, ‘as her supposed husband, you’ll have, of course, to share a bedchamber with her wherever you stop for the night. Possibly the same bed. Well, yes, definitely the same bed if you are both to avoid suspicion. But what happens. . What I mean is. .’ His tongue seemed to tie itself in knots and he eventually fell silent, drumming his fingers on the table top.

‘Nothing is going to happen,’ I answered quietly but firmly, ‘because I’m not going. The king can find someone else to play out this little charade.’

Timothy sucked his teeth as if considering the matter, then sadly (the hypocrite!) shook his head. ‘No. His Highness has commanded your services and will accept no one else’s. I apologize again, old friend, but there is nothing I can do.’

‘Stop calling me your “friend”!’ I shouted, bringing my fist down with a thump on the table. ‘Sweet Virgin!’ I straightened my back and took in air like a drowning man reaching the water’s surface. ‘You’re asking me — all right, the king is asking me — to squire a woman to France, posing as her husband, and to share the same bed with her for goodness knows how many nights. If this isn’t an invitation to commit adultery, I don’t know what is!’

‘Not if you’re a faithful husband,’ the spymaster retorted smugly. ‘And I hope, Roger, that you’ve always been that.’

Which showed how much he knew. I recollected with acute discomfort an amorous episode the previous year with a cosy little armful in Gloucester by the name of Juliette Gerrish. Until then, I had thought myself immune to the physical charms of other women. Now I knew better.

I walked back to the window. The man and woman had disappeared. The landing stage was empty. Typically, the warmth of the autumn afternoon had suddenly vanished and there was a spiteful rumour of winter in the air. Clouds chased one another overhead, broken by only momentary gleams of sunlight, cold as steel.

‘So what is she like, this woman I’m to escort to France?’ I asked harshly. ‘Old? Young? Pretty? Plain? Or downright ugly with a face like a pig’s backside? Probably the latter. That would be your idea of a joke.’

‘All the better for you if she had.’ Timothy grinned. ‘It would curb your baser instincts, if they’re what you’re afraid of.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

There was a pause: then my companion said, with more than a touch of evasiveness, ‘You’ll find out, all in good time. I’m just relieved that you seem to have accepted the situation.’

‘Don’t be too sure.’ I heaved myself away from the wall against which I had been leaning and faced him once more. ‘I’ve a good mind to try to speak to my lord of Gloucester. He’s here, in the castle, and has always shown himself sympathetic to me in the past.’

‘Ah! Now!’ Timothy smiled benignly. ‘It’s odd that you should say that, Roger, because I have instructions to take you to see the duke this very evening. His Grace has half an hour to spare before attending yet another banquet of thanksgiving, given by the lord mayor.’

‘Oh? And what does he want to see me about?’ I demanded belligerently. ‘Prince Richard, I mean.’

Again Timothy looked discomfited. ‘He wants you to undertake a special mission for him while you’re in Paris. Paris, by the way, is your eventual destination. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that.’

‘There’s a great deal you haven’t mentioned,’ I retorted wrathfully. ‘This is a bit like peeling an onion: there’s always another stinking layer underneath.’ I returned to the table and sat down yet again, folding my hands on the table top and staring at him across the wine- and food-stained boards. I made a great effort to speak calmly. ‘So let’s begin at the beginning, shall we, “old friend”? Why am I — and, of course, my fair travelling companion — being sent to France in the first place? Am I allowed to know the reason?’

Timothy breathed an obvious sigh of relief, sensing my capitulation. ‘Let’s have some wine,’ he suggested, and, going to the door, opened it and yelled for a server. ‘We might as well be comfortable,’ he added, ‘and it’s still an hour or so until supper. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

Ten minutes later — the service was prompt in Baynard’s Castle — Timothy poured us both a second mazer of a wine that he assured me, aware of my ignorance, was one of the best in the castle cellars. This information did nothing to reassure me. On the contrary, it only increased my uneasiness. If the lackeys had orders to treat us like honoured guests, there was a reason for it. ‘Flattery’ and ‘bribery’ were two of the words that immediately sprang to mind; ‘softening up’ were two more. I liked none of them.

Suddenly realizing how thirsty I was, I had tossed back the first cup of wine with an abandon that had made my companion wince, but he had forced himself to keep pace with me for the sake of good fellowship. Now, however, he urged me to savour the second with more decorum.