Kate Sedley - The Goldsmith's daughter

‘Nothing at all,’ I answered truthfully, but being less than candid. ‘And both the wedding and the trial now being safely over, Adela and I can spend our remaining days in London in a more leisurely fashion, and go where the fancy takes us. She has a desire to visit Leadenhall market again this afternoon, not having seen much of it the day before yesterday.’

‘Then you must promise to have supper with us afterwards,’ Philip insisted. When I demurred, knowing that hospitality did not come cheap, he said impatiently, ‘Jeanne will be only too delighted to see you, and any information you can give her about the trial will be ample reward for such victuals as we can offer you.’

It was impossible to withstand such an invitation; and so, after browsing amongst the stalls and shops of the Leadenhall, and after the purchase of a whip and top for Nicholas and a doll for Elizabeth, Adela and I walked up Bishop’s Gate Street, eventually turning in amongst the narrow alleyways of Cornhill to the cottage behind the Lampreys’ shop. There, we were afforded such a warm welcome that it was late into the evening, some hours after curfew and the closing of the city gates, before we returned to Bucklersbury.

We were met on the threshold of the Voyager by a perturbed Reynold Makepeace, who at once took my arm, drawing me to one side.

‘There’s a man here who says he must speak to you urgently,’ he said in a low voice, trying to prevent his words from reaching Adela’s straining ears. ‘The man,’ he added impressively, ‘wears the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.’ Reynold’s bright hazel eyes were round with curiosity and also with fear.

‘Timothy Plummer!’ I exclaimed disgustedly. ‘What in Heaven does he want?’

‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ asked a well-remembered voice, and, a second later, Timothy emerged from the landlord’s private parlour, just to the right of the inn’s front door.

‘So it is you,’ I sighed. ‘For one blessed moment, I was praying I might be wrong.’

‘That’s not a very friendly greeting,’ he reproached me.

‘And you’ve been particularly hard to find. I was asking for a lone chapman. I didn’t expect you to be in company with your wife.’ His smile faded. ‘And the cursed annoying thing is that you’ve been almost on the Duke’s doorstep all along.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded irritably. ‘We’re a long way from Baynard’s Castle.’

‘We’re not at Baynard’s Castle,’ Timothy snapped back, reverting, as he so often did when pomposity got the better of him, to lumping himself together with the Duke. ‘We’re staying at Crosby Place, in Bishop’s Gate Street.’

As he spoke, I recalled the splendid house and garden Adela and I had passed earlier in the evening, on our way to the Lampreys’ cottage. I had mentioned it, in the course of our conversation, to Philip, who had told me that it belonged to Sir John Crosby, an extremely rich wool merchant, who rented out the place to visiting dignitaries. Foreign ambassadors often resided there for a season. Both the French and Danish envoys had certainly done so. And now it appeared that the Duke of Gloucester had hired Crosby Place for the duration of his present unhappy stay in London. I had no idea whether or not Duchess Cicely was in the city; but if she were, I guessed that Duke Richard might feel he had enough sorrow to bear, without having to cope daily with his mother’s grief as well.

‘Am I to assume that His Grace the Duke of Gloucester wishes to see me?’ I asked sarcastically, and incurred Timothy’s immediate ill-will.

‘I’m not out scouring London on a bitterly cold, windy, sleety January night for my own pleasure,’ he rasped. ‘Of course His Grace wants to see you.’

‘What for? Did he say?’

‘No, of course he didn’t say! Nor did I ask him. It’s not my place. You just come along with me and you’ll find out soon enough.’

I put my arm around Adela. ‘And what about my wife?’

Timothy raised his eyes to heaven. ‘She’ll have to stay here until you return. She’s surely capable of doing so! She looks like a sensible woman. Which reminds me.’ His eyes lit with a malicious pleasure. ‘I rather fancied, when I saw you in Keyford last year, that you were after a different quarry.’

‘A mistake on my part,’ I answered serenely, thanking my lucky stars that I had told Adela all about Rowena Honeyman, and that I therefore had nothing to hide. ‘But how did you know? I’m ready to swear I didn’t say a word about the lady.’

‘It’s my job to know everything about everyone,’ Timothy replied curtly, disappointed that his barb had missed its mark.

This uncharacteristic spitefulness indicated to me something of his perturbed state of mind, and probably denoted the general anxiety and misery of the Duke’s entire household. If the master were deeply unhappy, his servants would be, too.

I kissed Adela. ‘I must go, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I have no choice. Go to bed and get some rest. Are you all right, now? No more heartburn?’

She shook her head and kissed me back. ‘Don’t worry about me, Roger. I’m perfectly well, only a little tired.’ She smiled up at me, but I could see the worry in her eyes. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘Don’t undertake anything dangerous. Promise me.’

I didn’t feel that I could make any promises that I might be called upon to break, so I just kissed her again without making answer. Then, handing her over to the care of Reynold Makepeace and his wife, and roundly cursing my foolhardiness in going to Westminster Hall that morning, in defiance of Philip’s advice and my own common sense, I wrapped my cloak more securely about me and instructed Timothy Plummer to lead the way.

There could not have been a more marked contrast between the cold, dark street without, roofs and window panes drummed by the onset of a thin, lashing rain, and the great hall of Crosby Place.

The leaping flames of a huge fire burning on the hearth sent shadows flickering across the richly carved ceiling and the delicate tracery of the musicians’ gallery. High walls and spacious, lofty windows spoke louder than words of the modern approach to building, and of the fortunes to be made in the wool trade. Sir John Crosby was a man of substance and intended that the world should know it.

The hall was empty except for two young people who were playing spillikins in front of the fire. The elder was a very pretty, dark-eyed girl some twelve or thirteen years of age, the younger a sturdy boy of about ten. It was nearly seven years since I had seen them last, but they were both instantly recognisable; the girl because she was so like her father, the boy on account of the strong resemblance he bore to his physically more powerful uncles, the King and the Duke of Clarence. These were Richard of Gloucester’s two bastard children, the Lady Katherine and the Lord John Plantagenet.

They glanced up as Timothy Plummer and I entered, brushing the rain from our cloaks, smiled and then continued with their game. But within seconds, a large, comfortable-looking woman, who was plainly their nurse, bustled in and began to shepherd them away.

‘Time for bed,’ she said as they protested. ‘You can play again tomorrow.’ And she swept up the spillikins, dropping them into a capacious pocket. ‘Make your courtesies to Master Plummer and the gentleman.’

But this they had already done without any prompting, and allowed themselves to be hustled through a door and out of our sight. I stored up the incident to relate later to Adela; a moment to treasure and remember in old age, when two scions of a royal Duke made obeisance to a common chapman.

When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who was then the gentleman?