Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

Philip discovered no trace of Raoul d’Harcourt, nor had I expected him to. In fact, I doubted if he had even tried to find the man, and on his return half an hour later, his breath smelled suspiciously of wine. The information that Maître le Daim’s visit to Paris had been delayed affected him less than the rest of us, but then he was already in an ugly mood. For my own part, the news came as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant a longer stay in the city, but on the other, that was to my advantage. It gave me more time to search for Robin Gaunt, for I had made up my mind that when Eloise’s part had been played, and the necessary facts obtained from her cousin Olivier (or not), that would be the end of our mission and we would all return to England. Quite when I had reached this momentous decision I wasn’t sure, but probably sometime during the previous day when the enormity and nigh impossibility of the task imposed upon me by the duke had struck home with even greater force than before.

Eloise and John Bradshaw both appeared disheartened by the check to our immediate plans, but again this worked in my favour. Eloise’s amorous mood seemed to have been dissipated, and the remainder of Sunday was spent in desultory speculation between her and John as to the likelihood of the Fleming actually making the journey to Paris at all, King Louis’ fickleness of purpose being notorious. We all went early to bed, and, loitering by the parlour fire, I gave Eloise time enough to fall asleep before going upstairs myself.

For the next three days, Philip and I scoured the city, all three parts of it, making ourselves understood with increasing success but to no avail. An elderly Englishman called Robin Gaunt remained as elusive as I had always supposed he would be. Eloise grew ever more indignant at my protracted absences and refused to accept my excuse that I was fulfilling my role as a wealthy haberdasher, buying and selling wares to my French counterparts.

‘Nonsense!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why are you taking Philip with you?’

‘As my servant. A prosperous merchant must have a servant. Besides, another man is added protection. Two are less likely to be set upon than one.’

‘You’d do better with my company,’ she snapped. ‘What can you and Philip possibly achieve when neither of you speaks the language?’

‘You know John says you must stay here, just in case your cousin arrives unexpectedly.’

The same reason kept Jules from accompanying us as he waited hour by hour for news from whoever his informant was that Olivier le Daim was at last approaching, or had entered, the city. But Philip and I returned, footsore and weary, to the house in the Rue de la Barillerie at sunset on Wednesday evening to learn that Jules’s latest information suggested Olivier might not be setting out from Plessis-les-Tours until the following Monday.

‘If he comes at all,’ John muttered lugubriously. ‘I’m inclined not to wait very much longer. I’m coming round to your way of thinking, Roger. This is a fool’s errand. By the time Maître le Daim arrives — if he arrives — King Edward will have his answer anyway. The streets and taverns here are buzzing with talk that the dauphin’s betrothal to the Princess Elizabeth is to be broken off and that he will be married to Maximilian’s young daughter. That means Louis is bound to be negotiating a treaty with Burgundy very soon, probably in the next few weeks. Before Christmas. So I think our continued presence here is pointless. His Highness will probably have the news before we get home in any case.’

As he spoke, he raised an eyebrow at me, plainly wondering if my secret mission was anywhere near completion. I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head, but later, after Philip had disappeared into the kitchen and Eloise had taken herself off to bed, I told him of my decision.

‘Well, it’s up to you. I suppose you know what you’re doing. The duke will no doubt be disappointed, but he can’t expect miracles if, as you tell me, what he’s asked you to do is almost impossible.’ He thought for a moment, leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring into the heart of the fire burning on the hearth. Then he straightened his back, turning towards me. ‘I tell you what, Roger. Let’s make an agreement that if Maître le Daim hasn’t arrived in Paris by this time next week, we pack up and leave.’

I nodded. ‘Agreed.’

He seemed relieved and accompanied me upstairs, climbing to his tiny attic bedchamber above ours in better spirits than he had been in for days. I even heard him whistling to himself as he proceeded on up the next flight of stairs.

But my own sleep was disturbed by odd dreams. Over and over again I was standing in the parlour of the house in the Rue de la Tissanderie and Jane Armiger was saying, ‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’ Several times I awoke and dozed off, only to return to the same dream each time.

I awoke in the chill first light of dawn to the drumming of rain against the shutters. The only other sound in the room was Eloise’s steady, rhythmic breathing as she lay beside me, her fair curls fanned out across the pillow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, I raised myself to a sitting position and drew back the bed-curtains a trifle to allow in a little more air before giving my full attention to my dream. It was telling me something, I knew that. But what?

‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’

Robin. In this case short for Robert, but also interchangeable with it, another version of the same name. The man, mentioned to us by the landlord of the seedy tavern near the Porte Saint-Honoré, was known as Robert of Ghent and seemed, from what we could gather, to be roughly the right age (the landlord had indicated grey hair). But he was a Fleming.

Or was he?

That, now I came to consider it dispassionately, was my own assumption. My heart began to beat a little faster and my palms to sweat with excitement. But why would he be called Robert of Ghent if he were not Flemish? I could understand the change from the Anglo-Saxon Robin to the more Gallicized Robert, but why choose de Ghent as a surname? Then, suddenly, enlightenment burst upon me like the sun breaking through clouds on an overcast day. John, that doughty son of King Edward III and brother of the Black Prince, had, I was sure, been born in Ghent, but the name had been Anglicized to Gaunt.

I found I was holding my breath and let it out in a great gasping sigh. Was I on to something? Had Philip’s instinct — that this man could be the one we were after — been right all along? I had always known him for a shrewd little monkey, so why had I not listened to him, respected his hunch more readily than I had? Because I was a conceited fool who thought he knew better, but in truth couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose, that was why. And I had been blinded by the conviction that I had been given an impossible task that could never be fulfilled. I told myself severely not to get over-optimistic, that I could still be wrong, but I swung my legs out of bed and tiptoed down through the silent house to the kitchen, where Philip slept beside the dead embers of the fire.

He was alone, Marthe occupying the second attic bedchamber at the very top of the house. I knelt down and roused him, pouring my theory into his ears before he was even properly awake, so that he blinked stupidly at me and I had to repeat myself over again. And again. Finally, however, I made him understand, but to my surprise, he seemed more concerned with disproving my reasoning than applauding it.

‘It was yourself,’ I pointed out indignantly, ‘who suggested from the start that this Robert of Ghent might be the man we were looking for. Why the change of heart?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’