Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

‘A very useful one.’ I summoned up a smile. ‘I shan’t be gone long. My wife will entertain you while I’m away.’

‘Enchanted,’ he said, turning to Eloise with his most engaging smile.

She returned it, dewy-eyed.

I left them to it.

For once, John Bradshaw and Philip were not bedding down in the stables, which were empty apart from the horses. I eventually ran them to earth in the kitchens, Philip already asleep, lulled by the unaccustomed warmth, curled into a corner on a pile of old sacks. Two young lads were taking the spit apart, ready for cleaning, jabbering to one another, and for one short moment I thought how clever they were to be speaking a foreign tongue at their age. Then reality took hold and I gave myself another mental shake. I must sharpen up, I thought disgustedly.

I looked around for John and found him seated on a stool by the slowly dying embers of the fire, knife in hand, whittling a piece of wood into a cruciform shape, one arm of which he had already embellished with delicately carved leaves and flowers. There being no other seat available, I dropped on my haunches beside him and admired his handiwork.

‘That’s beautiful,’ I said.

‘It’s a talent I’ve had from boyhood.’ He sounded faintly surprised. I was surprised myself. With his big hands it seemed unlikely that he could be capable of such fine work. ‘Did you want me?’ he added.

‘I’ve come to warn you that we shall have company again tomorrow, on the road.’

‘The Frenchman?’

‘Who else?’

John bit his lip. ‘I didn’t see him lurking there in the courtyard this evening. He must have wondered when he overheard me addressing you and Mistress Gr- Mistress Chapman as I did.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I’m growing careless. A sure sign that I’m beginning to get rattled.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him. ‘Eloise has explained the incident to his satisfaction.’ And I told him what she had said.

‘An intelligent woman,’ he confirmed. ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?’

‘No, there’s more.’ I glanced around to make certain that no one else had entered the kitchen without us noticing, but there were still only the two scullions and a slatternly girl washing the dirty dishes. ‘Monsieur d’Harcourt thinks that Oliver Cook was murdered.’

John Bradshaw stopped his whittling and turned his head in my direction. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured.

I related the story of the knife found on the deck by one of The Sea Nymph ’s crew and how it came to be in the Frenchman’s possession. When I had finished, John said nothing for a moment or two, then asked, ‘Do you believe him?’

‘Why would he make up such a story?’

‘To divert suspicion from himself, perhaps. After all, what do we know of him? He appears out of the blue at Dover. No one seems at all sure where he was throughout the voyage; he picks up one of the Armigers’ saddlebags, apparently by mistake, at Calais, in spite of the fact that he has no saddlebag of his own, merely a baggage roll; and we only have his word for it that this knife was discovered by a member of the crew and brought to him at his inn.’

‘You think he might be a Woodville agent?’

‘Or a French agent. On the other hand, he could be exactly what he says he is, a goldsmith travelling home to Paris, and his story a true one. But it must have occurred to you that Oliver Cook might well have been murdered.’

‘Well, yes,’ I admitted. ‘Except that I can see no reason for it. We know he’s not the agent of anyone. He’s the head cook at Baynard’s Castle.’

John Bradshaw laughed softly. ‘And you think that means he couldn’t have been recruited or suborned by someone? Offer enough money and you can buy almost anything or anybody. Not everyone makes spying their only profession.’

‘Like you and Timothy.’

‘Exactly.’

I sighed and straightened up. ‘I suppose all we can do is to keep an eye on Master Harcourt. And if he’s to travel with us tomorrow, we can do that easily enough.’ I held out my hand for the half-finished cross and he laid it carefully in my left palm. I examined it closely in the remaining light from the fire. ‘It truly is beautiful,’ I said with the admiration of one who couldn’t carve a leg of mutton without making a botched job of it. I grinned as I got in a little dig at him in return for his dressing-down of Eloise and myself earlier in the evening. ‘Not bad for a Hampshire hog.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I’m a Hampshire hog?’

‘I thought I recognized the accent.’

He laughed. ‘Well, you’re out there, my Bristol bumpkin. I’m a Suffolk swine. My home town is Ipswich. Most of my kith and kin live there, or roundabout.’ He took back the cross from me. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m making this for one of my young cousins, Tom Wolsey. His father, a relation of my mother in the third or fourth degree, is a butcher, and a good one, too. As skilful a carver in his own way as I am in mine and a pleasure to watch. Young Tom’s handy with a knife, as well. A big, well-set-up young chap. Only ten years old, but already as strong as an ox. Looks a bit like me,’ he added proudly.

‘A good thing in a butcher,’ I said.

John Bradshaw gave a shout of laughter that made the scullions and the girl turn to stare at him. He lowered his voice again. ‘The good Lord love you! Thomas ain’t destined for the shop. He has brains as well as brawn and his father has ambitions for him. It’s Oxford for Master Tom and then probably the Church. Or a secretaryship to some great churchman. That’s why I’m making him this.’ He touched the half-finished cross with a beefy forefinger and then resumed his carving.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Sun-up. We need an early start.’

‘Don’t we always?’ I grumbled.

Thomas Wolsey. That was the first time I ever heard a name that now, in this, my seventy-sixth year, is as familiar to me as my own and a great deal more familiar than the majority of others. Young Master Tom from Ipswich has certainly risen further than most of his generation, and his talents would just as certainly have been wasted in a butcher’s shop.

Eloise and Master Harcourt were still seated where I had left them, one on either side of the inn parlour fire, talking away together in rapid French, which slid politely and effortlessly into English as I made my reappearance. It seemed, upon enquiry, that they had been exchanging horror stories about Paris. Or so they claimed.

‘Monsieur d’Harcourt,’ Eloise said, ‘has been telling me of a terrible winter, at the beginning of this century, when icebergs floated down the Seine and even the ink froze solid on the quill. And less than fifty years ago, wolves got into the city and killed and ate more than a dozen people in the market gardens and scavenged the dead bodies from the great gibbet at Montfaucon.’ She gave a crow of laughter at my look of disgust and added triumphantly, ‘And the Seine has overflowed its banks more then twenty-seven times. Once, it brought the entire city to a standstill for more than six weeks.’

‘Dear God!’ I murmured, crossing myself.

The Frenchman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ah, madame,’ he said, ‘you have forgotten the outbreaks of mumps and scarlet fever and smallpox, and the thirty-six outbreaks of plague during the past thirty-two years.’

‘Enough!’ I exclaimed, flinging up a hand. ‘I didn’t think there could be an unhealthier spot on earth than London, but it seems I was wrong. We shall be starting at sun-up, as usual, my dear,’ I added, addressing Eloise, then bowed stiffly to Raoul d’Harcourt. ‘If you still wish to join us, monsieur, you are welcome, as I told you earlier.’ He inclined his head graciously and murmured something in French, which I ignored. ‘And now I’m for my bed.’