Kate Sedley - The Goldsmith's daughter

‘You’re looking pensive, Master Chapman.’ Isolda’s voice broke through my thoughts, making me jump. ‘Have you come to the conclusion that I’m speaking the truth?’

‘I might have,’ I answered cautiously. I longed to tell her the whole story, but there were secrets that had to be preserved, at least until the truth was exposed. And perhaps — who could tell? — even after that revelation. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. ‘Mistress Bonifant,’ I asked abruptly, ‘why do you think no one has tried to kill me?’

‘Why has no one tried to kill you?’ she repeated blankly.

‘Yes. Oh, several times I’ve thought my life was in danger, but on each occasion so far, it seems to have been a false alarm, arising out of a natural expectation on my part that the murderer of Master Bonifant would try to prevent me discovering his — or her — identity. After all, a person who has killed already has less reason to fear killing again. However many your victims, you can only be hanged once.’

‘Master Chapman!’ Isolda rose to her feet. Her face was white and strained, like someone who was holding her emotions on a very short rein. ‘This has been a trying morning. I have found out things about my husband I would far rather never have known — or at least not known for certain — so I have no wish to be further burdened by talk of hanging. It’s almost ten o’clock and dinner will soon be ready. Will you stay and eat with us?’

I declined her invitation, wanting to get back to the Voyager to spend as much time with Adela as I could before her departure the day after next.

‘But there is one more question I should like to ask you,’ I murmured apologetically. Taking Isolda’s resigned expression as permission to proceed, I said, ‘On the evening of the murder, did Master Bonifant visit you in the kitchen before going upstairs to change into his Sunday clothes?’

She frowned. ‘I don’t recollect his doing so, but I may have forgotten the incident if it was of no significance. Who claims that he did?’

‘Toby Maybury. He says that he saw your husband going into your bedchamber some while after he had left the shop. According to Toby, Master Bonifant explained away his tardiness by saying that he had been to the kitchen to have a word with you.’

Isolda gave a crack of laughter. ‘If I were you, Master Chapman,’ she advised, ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that Tobias Maybury says.’ She spun on her heel and made for the parlour door, where she paused, her hand on the latch. ‘That boy is a menace and always has been. Well, I doubt if we shall run into one another tomorrow at the tournament. The crowds will be far too dense. But in case we do, promise me that, just for once, we won’t talk about my husband’s murder.’ She passed a hand wearily across her forehead. ‘And now I must go to Nell and reassure her that what I overheard this morning will not affect my fondness for her. None of it was her fault. And I have been used to hearing myself described as ugly throughout my life.’

Isolda’s prediction that the tourney ground at Westminster would be crowded proved to be correct.

It was a bright, clear day, warmer than of late, but still with a sharp wind blowing off the river; a day necessitating woollen cloaks, stout boots and pattens for the women, but one also that encouraged people to be out of doors rather than languishing at home.

The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester were notable only by their absence, and the Duke of Clarence mouldered in the Tower, still uncertain of his fate. But the lack of the King’s family was amply compensated for by Mistress Shore, wearing her ivy-leaf coronet, and by the multitude of Woodvilles, their courtiers and sycophants, who surrounded him and the infant Duke and Duchess of York, not only in the loges, but also in the arena. Leading the Party Without were the Queen’s brother, Anthony, Earl Rivers, and her elder son from her first marriage, Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, while the ranks of the Party Within were swollen by others of her numerous relatives, including Sir Richard Haute, who was to win one of the principal prizes.

In accordance with the rules laid down by the first Edward, two centuries earlier, no contestant could be accompanied by more than three armed knights or squires, and the carrying of knives, clubs and daggers was strictly forbidden. Heralds and spectators had to be weaponless, and a fallen participant was allowed time to rise. Even so, some ugly injuries were sustained, and the sight of these, together with the noise, dust and incessant clash of arms, were enough to test the strongest nerves. I was not surprised, therefore, when Adela apologised to the Lampreys, who had accompanied us, and insisted that she and I leave the tourney ground and go in search of quieter pleasures. In her condition, peace and rest were becoming daily more essential.

As usual at these affairs, the vendors of drinks and hot pies were doing a roaring trade but, although I bought two meat pasties, one for each of us, Adela said that all she wanted was to quench her thirst, so I was obliged, with very little persuasion, to eat them both. We discovered a man selling cups not only of ale but also of primrose wine, and having purchased one of the former for myself and one of wine for Adela, we retired to some tables and benches that had been placed near Westminster Gate under a makeshift awning. At that distance, the sounds of the jousting were muted.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Adela sighed, some of the colour coming back into her cheeks. She took another sip of her wine, then leant across the table, proffering me her cup. ‘Try this, Roger. It’s very good. You’d like it.’

I gave a decided shake of my head. ‘No, I shouldn’t. I hate primrose wine. You know I do.’

‘But this is different. I don’t know what’s in it, but it has a more pungent smell to it and a stronger flavour than any other primrose wine I’ve ever drunk. I’m sure you’d agree with me if only you’d taste it.’

Once again, I shook my head vehemently, setting down my beaker of ale on the table between us, while I finished off the second of the two pasties.

‘Primrose wine is primrose wine,’ I observed thickly, through a mouthful of pastry.

Adela never argued with me when I was in one of my unreasonable moods. She had other methods of dealing with my obstinacy.

My attention was momentarily distracted by a brawl between a couple of drunkards which was taking place some twenty paces distant, the distraught wives hanging on to their husbands’ jackets and vainly trying to separate them. Not that there was likely to be much physical damage done: it was mostly hot words and posturing. Grinning to myself, and keeping my eyes on the contestants, I put out my hand, picked up my cup and raised it slowly to my lips. . The flavour burst, like a golden bubble, inside my mouth. There was a delicate hint of sage, of rosemary, of wild arum, like nothing I had ever previously tasted. It was like drinking the essence of spring.

‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ demanded my wife.

‘I. . What? That isn’t my ale.’ I stared indignantly from the table to Adela, who was smiling at me and looking ineffably smug.

‘I switched the cups while you were watching those two men. Be honest, Roger! Admit it! That primrose wine is like no other you’ve had before.’

‘It’s better than Margaret’s or Goody Watkins’s, I’ll give you that,’ I answered grudgingly, unwilling to concede her the victory. Our eyes met and she held my gaze. After a moment or two, I burst out laughing. ‘All right! You win! It does indeed have the most wonderful flavour, and just to prove to you that I’m sincere, I’ll buy myself a cup.’

I swung my legs over the bench and went in search of the wine-seller. I found him eventually, his tray slung around his neck by its leather strap, but its contents diminishing fast. In response to my request for the recipe for the primrose wine, he shook his head lugubriously.