Kate Sedley: The Goldsmith's daughter

‘Why would the King want to bring his brother to trial the day after his son’s wedding?’ she asked curiously. ‘It’s bound to throw a damper over the jollifications.’

‘Probably,’ I suggested, ‘because most of the nobles will be in London for the wedding. It’s the sensible thing to do, if you think about it carefully. It will save them all another journey later on.’

Margaret sat down again, looking around for Elizabeth, but my daughter had seized the opportunity to slither away to play with Nicholas. ‘A strange business,’ she remarked thoughtfully after a moment’s silence. ‘But the King wouldn’t dare put his own brother to death, surely? Imagine the scandal! And what would be his mother’s feelings, poor lady? You met her once, Roger. What is she like?’

I tried to conjure up a picture of that redoubtable dame, the Dowager Duchess of York, as I had seen her six years ago in a room at Baynard’s Castle, but the essence of her eluded me.

‘I’d say that she’s a very strong-minded woman,’ I answered slowly, ‘who has known a great deal of tragedy in her life. My guess would be that whatever happens, now or in the future, she will cope with her grief.’

Jack Nym was regarding me with sudden respect. ‘I didn’t know you’d ever met the Duchess Cicely, Chapman.’

‘Oh yes! And the Duke of Clarence,’ Margaret told him proudly, before I could prevent her. ‘While the Duke of Gloucester is very nearly a bosom friend.’

‘Mother,’ I interrupted swiftly, ‘you know that’s not true. I’ve had the honour to do a service or two for Duke Richard in my time, but I assure you, Master Nym, there’s nothing more to it than that.’

Adela, noting my discomfort, came to my rescue as she so often did. ‘How I wish I could see this wedding,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve never been to London, and everyone who’s been there says it’s a wonderful place. I should love to go.’

Jack Nym turned to me. ‘Why don’t you take her, Chapman? I’m going that way again on the sixth day of January. I’m carting a load of soap to the Leadenhall for Master Avenel, and I’ll gladly take you both along.’

Adela looked at me, her eyes alight with excitement, and I answered hastily, ‘That would be impossible, I’m afraid. We have two young children to care for.’

‘If that’s all that’s bothering you,’ Margaret said at once, ‘shut up your cottage and leave Elizabeth and Nicholas here with me. I shall be thankful for their company. It gets very lonely in the dead of winter, even though I do see you and Adela almost every day. And by your own admission, Roger, you’ve had a profitable season so far. Spend a little of your hard-earned money, my lad. Don’t be miserly. You’re only young once.’

‘Mother,’ I protested irritably, ‘you’ve just said yourself that it’s the dead of winter, with all the bad weather still to come. Do you think I’m so irresponsible that I’ll allow my wife to go junketing about the countryside in. .’ I caught Adela’s eye and pulled myself up short. ‘In January?’ I finished lamely.

For once in her life, Margaret Walker allowed her own needs to overrule her better judgement. So fond was she of the two children, and so desirous of some human company during the long dark evenings ahead, that she made light of a journey that she would normally have condemned as foolhardy, if not downright insane.

‘Adela’s a strong woman. Make sure you’re both wrapped up warmly and you’ll come to no harm. After all,’ she added with a conclusive gesture, ‘you both walked from Hereford to Bristol at this same time last year, and carrying Nicholas as well.’

And that had also been her doing, I reflected. Margaret was quite ruthless when it came to getting her own way, as had been Lillis, her daughter, my first wife and Elizabeth’s mother. And as was Adela, Margaret’s cousin.

My wife smiled triumphantly at me as she began to make plans with Margaret and Jack Nym. I said nothing then, for I had given my promise to keep our secret until Adela should give me leave to speak; but that evening, in the privacy of our own cottage in Lewin’s Mead, and as soon as the two children were in bed and fast asleep, I remonstrated with her.

‘Adela, this idea of going to London is utterly foolish, and you know it. You’re three months pregnant.’

She laughed and, rising briefly from her chair, kissed me lightly on the forehead.

‘Who should know that better than I? But my early morning sickness has passed, and I feel as well as I have ever done in my life. Margaret’s right, I’m strong in body. I always have been.’

‘But the journey will be tiring,’ I protested, ‘even if we go all the way in Jack Nym’s cart.’

She rested one elbow on the table between us, cupping her chin in her hand and regarding me with that faintly mocking stare that never failed to unnerve me.

‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘while you are out peddling your wares each day, I clean the cottage, make the bed, cook the food, chop the kindling, fetch water from the well, go to the market. Above all, I deal with the tempers and tantrums, bickering and squabbling of two small children who constantly vie with one another for my attention. Have you never considered that all that might be much more tiring than a journey to London?’

I had to admit that such a thought had never occurred to me. Baking, sweeping, looking after home and children was the normal business of women; what God intended them for in His earthly scheme of things. I must have looked puzzled, for she laughed again — that deep, full-throated laugh that was so peculiarly hers — and came round the table to sit on my lap, entwining her arms about my neck.

‘Master Nym has assured me that we shall travel at a steady pace, taking frequent rests. He knows all the religious houses along the route and says that we can take our pick of where to rest up. Roger, with three small children to look after in the future, this may well be my last chance to see London for many years to come.’

‘But what about the return journey?’ I asked, still determined to make difficulties if I could. ‘And where shall we stay?’

‘At a decent inn,’ she answered with some asperity. ‘I’m sure there are many such in London. Indeed, you’ve told me yourself that there are. What Margaret said is true. You’ve worked hard since you came back from Devon in the autumn. You’ve been out on the road every day from dawn to dusk, rain or shine, at a time of year when most pedlars use any excuse to remain under cover. We have a little savings in the hiding place under the floor, so we can afford to put up at an inn. And Jack Nym will bring us home again, he said so. I can see the wedding — and you can see the Duke of Clarence’s trial.’

The witch had found my weak spot. She had known, of course, from the moment that the trial was mentioned, that I must be longing to attend. I knew both Clarence and the Duke of Gloucester, had spoken to them face to face, had served each of them to the best of my ability, the latter on more than one occasion. I had even been offered a position in his household.

My devotion to Richard of Gloucester, a young man with whom, according to my mother — God rest her soul! — I shared my birth day, the second day of October, 1452, was as great as that of any of those who served him personally. But I had never wanted to give up my freedom and independence of will, and so I had declined his proposal. Nevertheless, knowing his fierce loyalty to both his surviving brothers — Loyauté me lie was, appropriately, his motto — and his equally fierce hatred of the Woodvilles, I could only guess at what his feelings must be now that the long struggle for power between the King’s family and the Queen’s was nearing its climax. I suspected that, at what must be the bitterest moment of his life so far, he would need the prayers of all those friends who wished him well. (Was it presumptuous of me to consider myself his friend? I did not think so; nor did I believe that he would, either.)