Kate Sedley: The Goldsmith's daughter

Timothy indicated that I should take a seat near the fire while he went to find the Duke, but I preferred to stand. When he had disappeared through the same door as the children, I noticed how quiet it was. In a great household there was usually constant noise and movement, but today it was as if someone had died and everyone was already in mourning.

The door opened once again and Richard of Gloucester came in.

He was wearing a long, green brocade robe, trimmed with sable, over hose and a shirt bleached so white that it made his skin appear the colour of old parchment. I thought that I had never seen him look so fragile. He had always been small of stature and of slight physique, two facts that belied the depth of his determination never to give in to the ill-health that had dogged him since he was a child; but that evening, he seemed sick in mind as well as body. The almost black hair and dark eyes were lacklustre, and his nervous habit of twisting the rings on his fingers more pronounced. We were the same age, twenty-six, but I felt myself to be many years younger than Richard of Gloucester.

He gave me his hand to kiss and sat down; then, bidding me be seated in a chair opposite his own, he smiled, and, as always, that smile revealed a different man, infusing his rather austere features with warmth and kindliness.

‘Thank you for coming, Roger,’ he said, although he must surely have expected me to obey his summons. An attendant entered, carrying a silver flagon and two crystal goblets which he placed on a small table at the Duke’s elbow, before making a stately exit. ‘Will you take some wine? This is an excellent malmsey, although a little too sweet for my taste, I must confess. My bro. . Some people, I know, prefer it for that reason.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, my lord. I know nothing of wines.’ I accepted the brimming goblet with its silver-gilt rim engraved with a scene of Bacchanalian revels, and waited for him to fill his own.

When he had done so, ‘To the absent,’ he said quietly, raising it in salute.

‘To the absent,’ I repeated, avoiding his eyes.

‘You must be wondering why I’ve sent for you,’ he went on, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I understand from Timothy Plummer that your wife is with you here, in London. I’m sorry to intrude upon your visit like this, but I have need of your special powers.’

Richard of Gloucester was a man liked, in many instances loved, by everyone who took the trouble to know him properly. All the same, in spite of his gentleness and thoughtfulness towards friends and servants, there was a ruthless streak in his nature. When he decided that he wanted something done, no consideration for the convenience or feelings of others would deter him from getting his way.

After a few seconds, while he contemplated the crackling flames on the hearth, he raised his eyes to mine.

‘You attended the Duke of York’s wedding yesterday. I saw you, outside Saint Stephen’s Chapel.’ He did not wait for my affirmation before continuing, ‘You therefore cannot have failed to notice Mistress Jane Shore.’

‘I saw a woman I was told was Mistress Shore. She was dressed in a pale blue gown that seemed to sparkle as she moved.’

‘I couldn’t say,’ was the terse reply. ‘I took no notice of what she was wearing.’

The Duke plainly disapproved of the King’s chief leman, as he no doubt disapproved of all Edward’s other mistresses, and of the sybaritic life that had turned his adored eldest brother from the magnificent, clean-limbed hero of his youth into the man he was today; still immensely tall, still golden-haired, but running to fat, the blue eyes dimmed by boredom and excessive drinking, the once handsome features blurred by too much good living, the sharp mind blunted by constant flattery from sycophantic courtiers. I reflected, as I had done once or twice before, that there was a deep-rooted streak of puritanism in Richard of Gloucester’s nature that no doubt made him many enemies. His ability to see things only as good or evil, right or wrong, could one day cause him great suffering, if, that is, it had not done so already.

He interrupted my train of thought to ask, ‘What else do you know of Mistress Shore?’ While I cudgelled my brain to remember what Jeanne Lamprey had told me of the lady, the Duke went on, obviously not expecting an answer, ‘She is the daughter of a mercer called Lambert, and she married a goldsmith by the name of William Shore.’ He refilled both our goblets. ‘She was not, however, the only female of the Lambert family to marry into that particular trade. It seems that a cousin of her father’s also married a goldsmith, one Miles Babcary, who still owns a shop in West Cheap. This couple — so my information runs — had an only child, a daughter who, in due course, married a man, whose name I can’t remember.’ The Duke was growing impatient, wanting to be done with the tale. ‘The long and the short of it is, Chapman, that some months ago this girl — or woman, as I think she now is — was suspected of murdering her husband. She was never arrested, never charged with the crime — partly, I am told, for lack of evidence; and partly, I suspect, because of influence brought to bear by Mistress Shore upon the King. But the taint of suspicion still surrounds her, poisoning her life.’

There was another silence as the Duke’s attention again began to stray, the expression on his tired face becoming ever more haunted.

I cleared my throat. ‘And Your Highness wants me to discover the truth of this matter, if I can?’

‘What? Oh. . Yes! That’s why I sent for you, Roger. Mistress Shore is very unhappy that her cousin is still being whispered about by her neighbours.’

My thoughts were racing. Why was the Duke of Gloucester interesting himself in this affair? He disliked the King’s mistress, so why was he hoping that I might be able to clear the name of one of her kinswomen? What did any of it matter to him, especially at a time when he had far greater worries to occupy his mind?

But of course! Fear for the Duke of Clarence was the reason. He was convicted but not yet sentenced. There was still time for clemency on the part of the King. And what my lord of Gloucester needed above all else was as many voices as possible raised on Clarence’s behalf; as many people as he could muster to plead for the Duke with King Edward in order to counteract the influence of the Queen and her family. And who would be listened to with more sympathy than a favourite leman? But first he had to find an inducement, a lure, in order to persuade Jane Shore to embrace his brother George’s cause. So if, at his instigation, I could clear her kinswoman of the suspicion of having murdered her husband, then he would have the necessary bait.

Duke Richard laughed suddenly. ‘Your face, Roger, is as easy to read as an open book. You’ve guessed, I think, why I’m asking for your help in this matter.’

I gulped down the rest of my wine, half rose and replaced the empty goblet on the table beside him, then subsided again into my chair.

‘But what if this cousin of Mistress Shore is guilty of murdering her husband, my lord? What then? What good will that be to you?’

He sighed, pushing the curtain of hair out of his eyes. ‘Then at least we shall know the satisfaction of having brought a criminal to justice,’ he said heavily. And when I did not answer, he asked, ‘Well? Will you do this for me?’

‘Do I have a choice, my lord?’

‘You always have a choice, Roger. You know that.’

But I was not so certain that I did. People of the Duke’s standing never realise how used they are to being obeyed until someone challenges their authority. Not that I was about to do so. For one thing, my loyalty to Richard of Gloucester was as strong as ever, my affection for him undiminished; for another, however hard I tried, I could never quite suppress the feeling of excitement that invariably overwhelmed me when presented with a challenge to what the Duke had flatteringly called ‘my special powers’. Wherever there was a mystery, I could not rest until I had solved it.