Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

Eloise’s voice rescued me from my grim thoughts. ‘ La Danse Macabre ,’ she said slowly and, like me, suddenly shivered, clutching at my arm again for comfort. ‘I don’t know why it is,’ she went on, ‘but until now I’ve always thought it slightly humorous, all those dancing bones and grinning skulls. Yet today they strike me as sinister. What’s the reason, do you think, Roger?’

I covered the little hand tucked into the crook of my elbow with one of my own. ‘You’re overtired and nervous,’ I said, ‘and strange things have been happening during the past week.’ I grinned weakly. ‘And I don’t suppose having to pretend to be my wife has made matters any easier.’

‘Oh, that,’ she said, and gave a half-laugh, half-sob. Turning to look at her, I was amazed to see what could have been tears sparkling on the ends of her lashes, but before I could say anything more, she swung on her heel, taking me with her. ‘Enough of this dismal conversation!’ She squeezed my arm. ‘You wanted to see Paris, and Paris you shall see.’

I can’t remember how far we walked, but I know that by dinnertime my legs were aching as they had never ached before. Eloise was an indefatigable and informative guide to a city she plainly loved with all her heart, and dragged me from place to place with an enthusiasm that seemed completely to have supplanted her earlier malaise, so much so that I could not help suspecting that it was a little spurious. But I said nothing, applying myself instead to taking note of my surroundings so that I could, if necessary, find my way around on my own. Relieved as I was to follow John Bradshaw’s advice and take Philip and the Frenchman, Jules, with me, I could foresee times when it might be essential to be alone.

One of the things that puzzled me were the fragments of old, ivy-covered wall and broken gateways that stood sentinel among the crowding houses and gardens, until Eloise explained that these were the remains of the original city wall erected at the command of Philip Augustus in the thirteenth century. It had never properly been demolished when, over a hundred and fifty years later, Charles V had ordered a new wall to be built, the one that now surrounded La Ville. The old wall still did for La Université on the south bank of the Seine, but the great palaces and churches of La Ville had to be afforded better protection.

By the time we eventually paused for refreshment in the Rue Saint-Antoine, close to a group of menacing black towers, enclosed by a circular moat, drawbridge raised, portcullis lowered, which Eloise named as La Bastille, I was more than ready to leave any further knowledge of Paris to my own wanderings.

‘Weakling!’ Eloise scoffed. ‘We haven’t seen a quarter of even La Ville.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said, tucking in to an eel pie, washed down with a rough red wine that made my head spin after only one or two gulps. (I noticed it had no such similar effect on my companion.) But it generated a warm glow against the chill of the November morning. I began to feel more relaxed.

A man entering by the nearby Porte Saint-Antoine reminded me of John Bradshaw: middle-aged, well-fleshed, square of face with a thatch of brown hair, English-looking.

‘Did you know,’ I asked Eloise, suddenly recalling a surprising fact, ‘that John had a French grandmother?’ She shook her head. ‘So he told me,’ I went on. ‘You wouldn’t think it, would you, to look at him?’

She wiped her mouth daintily on the back of her hand. ‘Poor man,’ she murmured ironically. ‘A French grandmother! What a cross for him to bear!’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I answered stiffly.

‘Didn’t you? You English think you’re only one step down from God.’

I could see that we were on the brink of another of our pointless disputes. I said, ‘She came from Clervaux. John’s grandmother, that is.’

Eloise raised her eyebrows. ‘From Clairvaux or Clervaux?’ she asked.

‘What sort of question is that?’ I barked irritably. ‘I warn you, I’m in no mood for playing games.’

‘You’re so ignorant,’ she replied coldly. ‘I’m not playing games. Did John Bradshaw’s grandmother come from C–L-A-I-R-vaux or from C–L-E-R-vaux? The first is in Champagne, where St Bernard founded his great monastery. The second is in the Grand Duchy.’

‘Grand Duchy?’

She sighed wearily, a well-travelled woman dealing with an ignorant stay-at-home. ‘Luxembourg.’

I had to admit that I didn’t know the answer, nor had I realized that there was any question to be asked in the first place. I suggested austerely that we go back to the Île de la Cité and the Rue de la Barillerie. Eloise agreed with a rather superior smile, which annoyed me even further.

We returned by the Pont Notre-Dame, eventually emerging into the square in front of the cathedral, where three streets converged on a space that was overhung on one side by the frontage of what my companion informed me was the Hôtel Dieu, a strange building whose roof looked as though it had suffered a very nasty rash of pustules and warts. I was just about to ask Eloise the reason for this architectural aberration when a fist smote my shoulder and a familiar voice addressed us in English.

‘Master Chapman! Mistress Chapman! What a pleasure to see you both again!’

It was William Lackpenny.

‘M-Master Lackpenny!’ I stuttered. ‘Will! Y-you’re in Paris, then!’

‘We arrived this morning.’ He beamed.

‘We?’ Eloise queried. ‘Are the Armigers with you, as well?’

‘Indeed. They are at this moment settling into Mistress Armiger’s cousin’s house in the Rue de la Tissanderie, off the Rue Saint-Martin. Perhaps you know it? For myself, I’ve found a very comfortable lodging not far from the Hôtel de Ville in the Place de Grève.’

‘But what has happened about Master Cook?’ I asked. ‘We imagined you still in Calais, waiting for news.’

Will Lackpenny shrugged. ‘There was no news, that was the trouble, and we couldn’t wait for ever.’ He added hastily, realizing how callous he must sound, ‘At least, Master Armiger felt that to remain there any longer was a waste of time. He was certain that his brother-in-law had been washed overboard and drowned mid-Channel. No hope of the body ever being found, so he persuaded Jane — Mistress Armiger I should say — that they might as well continue their journey. Naturally, she, poor girl, didn’t wish to leave Calais until something definite had been heard. But even I, far more sympathetic, I assure you, than that cold fish of a husband of hers, could see that to remain was useless. Oliver’s dead: I don’t think there can be any doubt about it. So we left a day and a half after your good selves. We made excellent time on the roads and here we are. And who should I encounter almost as soon as I set foot out of doors but the two of you!’

He seemed so genuinely pleased at the meeting that I began to feel churlish at our lack of response. But I knew John Bradshaw would feel the same. If Will Lackpenny and the Armigers were to plague us with their attentions, we should have to be constantly alert, ready to slip into our respective roles as master and servant at a moment’s notice. I found myself wondering about Robert Armiger’s insistence on following us to Paris so soon, and whether or not there was something sinister to be read into it. Or had my smart young gent of the blue feather — now dried out and perked up again after its salt-water baptism — persuaded the older man that no good could be achieved by loitering in Calais? Was he a Woodville agent, or were they, all three, exactly what they seemed to be?

I became conscious of Eloise nudging me in the ribs.