Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

She laughed. ‘You don’t marry an Englishman,’ she answered drily, ‘and expect him to speak your tongue. It takes years before he’ll even try.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, let me see if I have these facts correctly. This is about the rumour that one of the duchess’s bodyguard of archers was her lover during the time that the Duke of York was away fighting around Pontoise.’

I nodded eagerly. She rose and fetched two wooden beakers from a cupboard and filled them from a jug of that rough red wine the natives seemed to thrive on. Personally, I found it too strong for my taste, but I made my usual pretence of enjoying it. When I had taken a couple of mouthfuls, I asked, ‘How long was the Pontoise campaign?’

Mistress Gaunt pursed her lips and considered her answer carefully. ‘Six or seven weeks, perhaps. I think it was late August by the time the duke and his troops returned to Rouen.’

I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. ‘And during that time, was there any talk of the Duchess Cicely taking a lover from amongst her guard of archers?’

My companion shrugged and answered much as Jane Armiger had done in response to the same query. ‘There were always rumours. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman.’

‘Did she have a roving eye? Did she like men? Was she a faithful wife?’

‘If she wasn’t, she was very discreet.’ There was a note of asperity in Mistress Gaunt’s voice and she showed a heightened colour.

‘This archer,’ I pursued relentlessly, ‘this Blackburn or Blaybourne or whatever he was called, was he handsome do you remember?’

There was a longish pause before Mistress Gaunt said, somewhat reluctantly, ‘Yes. Very handsome.’ There was something in her tone that made me think that she had fancied this ‘very handsome’ man herself.

‘What was he like to look at?’ I asked quickly before the little spurt of jealousy (if it was that) had time to fade. ‘Tall and fair? Short and stout?’

‘Short and stout?’ She laughed dismissively. ‘I’ve told you, he was handsome. Over six feet in his stockinged feet and so blond his hair was flaxen in the sunlight.’

I drew a sharp breath. She might have been describing King Edward in his golden youth, ‘the handsomest prince in Europe’.

‘Not like the Duke of York, then,’ I suggested. ‘I’ve always heard that he was short and dark, rather like the Duke of Gloucester.’

She eyed me narrowly. ‘What are you saying? Do you think. .?’

‘What do you think?’ I countered. ‘King Edward’s birthday is at the end of April. If he was not born prematurely and you count back nine months, that would mean conception was the end of July, when, according to you, the Duke of York was away fighting at Pontoise.’

Mistress Gaunt sat staring at me without speaking for at least half a minute while she bit at a rough piece of skin around her left thumbnail. Finally, with a shake of her head, she said, ‘You might be right, but then again, you might not. If your king Edward had been late arriving, then who is to say that he was not conceived before his father left on campaign? I agree that his likeness to Archer Blaybourne is a point in favour of whatever it is you and your duke are trying to prove — ’ she was an intelligent woman: she knew exactly what we were trying to prove — ‘but many children do not necessarily resemble their parents. In some cases that I know of, there is a great disparity of feature. King Edward may well look like his mother.’

I sighed. She was right, of course. There was nothing here to declare positively that Edward of Rouen was the son of a common archer and not the proud Plantagenet he claimed to be. And if Duchess Cicely still refused to confirm that long-gone accusation. .

Mistress Gaunt broke in on my thoughts with the self-same query. ‘What does my lady of York herself say? She is the only one who knows the truth.’

I finished the last mouthful of wine and rose to my feet. ‘She says nothing, nor will she, I think, however much she secretly believes Duke Richard to be the rightful king.’

My companion gave a little cry. ‘You think she really thinks that?’

It was my turn to shrug. ‘Frankly, mistress, I don’t know what anyone’s thoughts on the subject really are. The only thing I’m sure of is that this was an abortive errand from the beginning, and unlikely to produce any positive evidence one way or another. The duchess. .’

Mistress Gaunt was not listening. She had gone over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, letting in the cold November air as she leaned out over the sill, glancing up and down the alleyway outside.

‘What is it?’ I asked sharply.

She withdrew her head, looking sheepish. ‘It’s nothing. I was convinced I heard somebody outside, that is all, but there’s no one there.’

‘The street’s full of people and wagons and animals,’ I said, impatience colouring my tone. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll come back again this evening, mistress, and speak to your husband. At what hour do you expect him home?’

‘Probably to supper,’ she replied, but absentmindedly, as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘there was that extremely odd business of the christenings. I don’t think I’ve ever seriously considered it before, but now. . Yes, looking back, it does seem odd.’

‘What business of the christenings?’ I demanded eagerly.

She motioned me to sit down again and reseated herself on the stool opposite, where she appeared to drop into a reverie.

‘Well?’ The sound of my voice made her jump. ‘What about the christening?’

‘Christenings,’ she corrected me. ‘The lord Edward’s and his brother’s, the lord Edmund’s, two years later.’

The lord Edmund? I cudgelled my brains, then recollected vaguely that there had been another brother between King Edward and the Duke of Clarence: Edmund, later Earl of Rutland.

‘Go on,’ I urged.

Mistress Gaunt poured us both more wine and took several sips before continuing. ‘Lord Edward’s christening — remember he was the eldest son, the first-born male — was a very muted affair. No great fuss was made, no great throng of guests assembled, and it took place in a small, private chapel in Rouen Castle. But Lord Edmund’s christening was magnificent. The ceremony was held in Rouen Cathedral — jewels, velvets, both English and French dignitaries present. Above all, the Duke and Duchess of York had managed to persuade the Rouen Cathedral Chapter to grant the supreme honour of allowing them to use the font in which Duke Rollo of Normandy had been baptized into Christianity, and which, ever since, had been kept covered as a mark of respect. It was an unheard-of concession. We were all amazed. You would have thought,’ she added reflectively, ‘that Edmund, not Edward, was his father’s heir.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘Why has that never struck me until now? And I was present, on both occasions.’

I was trembling with excitement. ‘And it was Edmund of Rutland who was killed alongside the duke twenty-odd years ago, at Wakefield — which might mean nothing, or it might mean a preference by the Duke of York for his seemingly second son.’

My companion brought me down to earth. ‘It’s still not proof,’ she pointed out.

‘Not solid proof,’ I admitted. ‘But it means something, surely.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, I think it is. . suggestive.’

‘Oh, more than that,’ I insisted.

She laughed and said in her astonishingly good English, ‘I’m certain even the most inexperienced lawyer could find you a dozen good reasons why my lord of York preferred the company of his second son to that of his first-born. Fathers and eldest sons do not always see eye to eye.’