Kate Sedley - The Dance of Death

So he did, but which uncles, I wondered, was John referring to? The prince had only one on the spear side of his family, but at least three on the distaff. And Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, had been head of the prince’s household, at Ludlow, for many years now. His influence with young Edward must be predominant.

Eloise’s voice interrupted my wandering thoughts. ‘I told Olivier that I’m in Paris with my husband. He’d like to meet you, Roger, but as he must leave again not later than tonight, I promised I would take you to the Hôtel Saint-Pol after supper.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said abruptly. ‘I can’t come.’

I saw John look hard at me, and this time I met his gaze unflinchingly. He gave an almost imperceptible nod to show he understood.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. Eloise tried her damndest to make me change my mind. She cajoled, she persuaded, she sulked, she even swore in a most unladylike fashion, and when I finally said that thank God I was not really her husband, she indulged in a minor bout of hysterics that only abated when she saw that I remained entirely unmoved by it. In fact, what had happened between us before dinner might never have been. Our former barbed relationship had been resumed, at least by me, and I think the realization that nothing had changed shocked her. I don’t know what she had expected, and at that moment, I didn’t care. I had other things to think about.

‘Why not?’ she demanded.

‘Why not what?’

‘Why won’t you come with me to meet Cousin Olivier?’

‘Because you have seen him and discovered what you came to Paris to find out. Why visit him again simply to perpetuate a lie? Besides, I have business of my own to attend to.’

She got up from the table, looking extremely white. ‘I wish you were dead,’ she said very slowly and clearly, then left the room.

John Bradshaw raised his eyebrows at me, but forbore to comment. Not that he needed to. His accusatory glance said all that was necessary, and in truth, I was beginning to feel guilty myself. I should have realized that Eloise’s feelings had gone deeper than my own.

John’s voice recalled me to myself. ‘Do you go out this afternoon?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘This evening, after supper.’

‘Then take Philip with you. It’s dangerous abroad after dark.’

‘He won’t come,’ I averred. ‘For some reason or other, I seem to have offended him. I shall be all right. I’m a big fellow and I’ll carry my knife.’

The afternoon lagged past. John disappeared on business of his own — making arrangements for the return journey, he said — and there was no sign of Philip. I tried on three occasions to speak to Eloise, but she had locked our bedchamber door and refused to answer my knock. I ate supper alone, none of the other three putting in an appearance, much to Marthe’s obvious distress, as she had prepared a mutton pie, which smelled and tasted delicious, except that, by this time, I was in no mood to appreciate it as it deserved. My feeling of guilt had assumed enormous proportions, and it was only by telling myself that no doubt this was precisely Eloise’s intention, and that she had been as eager in promoting our lovemaking as I had been, that I was at last able to stop blaming myself alone for what had happened. A revue of my conduct persuaded me that I had never given her reason to believe I harboured any deeper feelings for her than that of a man thrown into close proximity with a pretty woman, nor that she felt differently about me. I consoled myself with the thought that a very few days more, a week at most, would see the parting of our ways.

In the meantime, I must make my way back across the city to speak to Robin Gaunt in one last effort to unearth another sliver of evidence that might give some credence to the Duchess of York’s claim that her eldest son was a bastard. If I had had any doubt to begin with of what was really in Prince Richard’s mind, of what he was hoping to prove, then John Bradshaw’s words at dinner had dispelled them. If King Edward were really as ill as he had indicated — and I remembered his absence from the victory banquet at Baynard’s Castle — then the thought of a child king, brought up in the shadow of his Woodville relations and necessarily influenced by them, could only spell trouble and possible danger for the Duke of Gloucester. If, therefore, he could prove the truth of his mother’s erstwhile accusation, it would make him the rightful king, his brother Clarence’s children being barred from the throne by their father’s act of attainder. Oh, yes, I could see it all quite plainly, and I didn’t know that I blamed him for what he was trying to do. I just wished he hadn’t chosen me to assist him.

All these thoughts and more chased one another through my head as I crossed from the Île de la Cité to the Rue Saint-Denis and then made my way through a maze of back streets in the direction of the Porte Saint-Honoré. Twice I lost my bearings in the dark, once ending up close to the Porte Montmartre and having to make my stumbling way southwards, keeping close to the walls of the overhanging houses, the soles of my boots slithering on the slimy cobbles. It had turned even colder since the morning and I wrapped my cloak well around me. Beneath it, my right hand kept a fast grip on the haft of my knife.

But nobody challenged me. Several times I glanced over my shoulder, but no one seemed to be following me. I did think once that I saw a man wearing a hat with a feather in it, but he had disappeared by the next turn in the road. I reached the Gaunts’ house without incident.

The shutters were fast closed, permitting no welcoming chink of candlelight to show. A sensible precaution, I supposed, in an area such as this, where even the rats scurried past as though afraid of their own shadows. I stepped forward and rapped on the door — only to find that it gave under my hand. It was already open. Cautiously, I pushed it wider and took a few steps inside.

‘Master Gaunt!’ I called.

There was no reply.

I tried again. ‘Mistress Gaunt! It’s me, Roger Chapman.’

The silence was deafening. Suddenly, my heart was beating faster and my palms were sweating. Every instinct screamed at me that something was wrong and to get out and away while the going was good. Then, unexpectedly, there was the scrape of a flint. Tinder flared and a candle was lit, the spurt of flame blinding me for an instant. Behind me, someone moved and slammed the door shut, imprisoning me. The candle was moved, but my eyes were still dazzled. I moved a step or two forward, stumbling over something lying on the floor. More than one thing. . As my vision cleared and adjusted to the gloom, I saw with mounting horror that they seemed to be bodies, and as two more candles were lit from the first, I yelled out in fear.

They were indeed bodies: those of Mistress Gaunt and, almost certainly, her husband. Both had had their throats cut.

‘So here you are, Roger,’ said a familiar voice, and John Bradshaw emerged into the pool of light in the centre of the room.

I stared at him, relief surging through me. ‘John! Thank God,’ I breathed. ‘But. . but how did you get here? How did you know about the Gaunts? Where to come?’ I seized him by the arm. ‘Above all, do you know who committed this. . this outrage?’

For answer, he simply smiled and held out the bloody knife he was still clutching in one hand. ‘If you don’t struggle, it’s very quick,’ he said gently. ‘My cousin Wolsey taught me how to butcher animals.’

‘Butcher?’ My brain refused to believe what he was saying. My thoughts were thick and stupid, refusing to accept the evidence of my ears and eyes.

John went on, ‘I’m sorry, Roger, to have to do this. I like you. I really do. But I can’t let you return home to my lord of Gloucester with that story of the christenings. I’m not a fool. I know it’s not proof positive, but it’s an indication that the duchess’s story might be true. Enough, at any rate, to persuade the duke that he has some claim to the throne and to depose his nephew. I can’t allow that. My loyalty is to the queen. Her mother, the old Duchess of Bedford, came from Luxembourg, and so did some of my forebears. I owe her and her sons my allegiance.’