Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘I know he’s always hated the Queen and the rest of the Woodvilles. But be fair! The marriage must have come as a nasty shock to him.’

‘It came as a nasty shock to everyone,’ snorted Timothy. ‘Duchess Cicely ranted and raved at the King for days, and even went so far as to hint at his bastardy. But it’s all a long time ago now; thirteen years since the wedding, and everyone has learned to make the best of it. Or, at least, to dissemble their feelings.’

‘Except the Duke of Clarence,’ I murmured. ‘So, what has he been up to?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘So far he’s contented himself with being as unpleasant as possible. He’s absented himself from court without the King’s permission on a number of occasions. Then, when he does deign to put in an appearance, he makes his Chief Taster taste every morsel of food and drop of drink before it passes his lips, the inference being, of course, that the Queen and her relations are trying to poison him. His manners, even towards his elder brother, are atrocious, while he treats Earl Rivers as though he isn’t there at all. Still, the King must take some share of the blame for that. His Highness put the cat among the pigeons as far as his brother-in-law’s concerned.’

I was intrigued. ‘What did he do?’

Timothy regarded me in exasperation.. ‘You really don’t hear anything down here in this western fastness, do you? Or is it simply that any news that doesn’t concern trade and market prices isn’t interesting to the people of Bristol?’

‘Just tell me a plain story,’ I begged. ‘I must move on soon.’

‘The King,’ Timothy explained, and grinned with sudden pleasure at the recollection, ‘offered Earl Rivers as England’s official candidate for the new Duchess of Burgundy’s hand. He guessed, naturally, that Mary would refuse Anthony Woodville — which she did, even more peremptorily than she had Clarence — but he knew how the offer would infuriate his brother, and I suppose he couldn’t resist cutting George down to size. The trouble is,’ my companion added, the grin fading, ‘there was an almighty row, and Duke Richard is being forced, as usual, to play piggy-in-the-middle. His health is suffering accordingly, and he looks thinner and more careworn than ever.’

This I could well imagine, for the Duke of Gloucester seemed to have spent the whole of his adult life acting as peacemaker between his two remaining elder brothers. That he appeared to love them both equally was his misfortune, for his loyalty still lay as it always had done, with King Edward.

‘So, what has all this to do with your being here, in this out-of-the-way spot?’ I asked yet again.

Timothy took the last bite from his apple and threw away the core. ‘This out-of-the-way spot,’ he reminded me, ‘is part of Clarence’s holdings in this county, and Farleigh Castle can’t be many miles distant. One of my spies in Duke George’s household thinks mischief may be brewing here, but he’s unable to discover exactly what. All he’s heard so far is the merest whisper, the merest breath of rumour. He’s one of my very best men, which means that if there is any truth in the story, the Duke must, for once, be keeping the details extremely close — which in itself is a worrying sign. Clarence usually can’t keep his mouth shut.’

I was still nonplussed. ‘But there’s nothing and no one of any importance here,’ I protested. ‘What harm could he — or she or it — possibly do either to His Highness or to the Woodvilles in Keyford?’

‘It might not necessarily be physical harm,’ Timothy demurred. ‘Insult, insinuation, both are grist to Clarence’s mill in trying to stir up popular support and sympathy on his own behalf. Howbeit, I’m here to keep watch for a day or two. If nothing comes of it…’ Once again, he shrugged. ‘Like you, I’m baffled by my man’s report, but I trust him enough not to ignore any of his information.’ He glanced along his shoulder at me. ‘Now it’s your turn to tell me what brings you here.’

I knew he would be interested in my tale, for our friendship — if that is not too strong a word for it — had started during my hunt, six years earlier, for the missing Clement Weaver, and to some extent the search had involved both him and his master, the Duke of Gloucester.

He heard me out in silence and then laughed. ‘Come and work for His Grace, Roger, as he’s asked you to do on more than one occasion. You’d be invaluable to him — and to me. Your nose leads you straight into the thick of any mystery that’s in the offing, and your natural curiosity won’t let you rest until you’ve solved it.’

I scrambled to my feet, tossing my apple core into his lap, which he brushed clear of his excellent woollen hose with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m happy as I am, being my own master. I must be going. How long do you intend to remain here?’

‘Until tomorrow perhaps, but no longer. Whereabouts does this Baldwin Lightfoot live?’

I nodded towards the scattering of buildings. ‘Mistress Burnett says his house stands a little apart from the others, with a high-walled orchard adjacent, and I can see only one that answers that description. In any case, if I should prove to be wrong, an enquiry or two should soon locate him.’

I did not add that a cottage in the foreground, with pens for hens and geese, and a small pond behind it for ducks, was the most urgent object of my attention. However, I had already decided that pleasure must come after business, and therefore, with Timothy’s eyes still upon me, I made my way along the street, pausing only to confirm from a passing stranger that Baldwin Lightfoot’s was indeed the house with the orchard.

My informant was a local man, a woodsman judging by the billhook that dangled from one hand and the axe slung across his opposite shoulder. ‘Ay, that’s where Master Lightfoot lives all right. And next to him is the Widow Twynyho’s, she as used to be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the poor young Duchess of Clarence, God rest her soul.’ There was evidently some pride in this royal connection.

I thanked the man and walked on through the quiet of the afternoon towards Baldwin’s house. As I approached it, I heard, very faint and as yet some miles distant, the rhythmic pounding of horses’ hooves; and, every now and then, so still was the air, the jingle of harness.

Baldwin Lightfoot’s house was solidly built of local stone, too small to be a manor, but a substantial dwelling place, nonetheless. There was a capacious undercroft for storage, a paved courtyard in front and a garden behind. Alongside was the orchard, the tops of the trees just visible over the high wall that enclosed them.

I crossed the courtyard and knocked at the door. It was answered by an elderly woman in a gown of dark blue homespun and a bleached linen hood and apron, both of which were slightly soiled and crumpled. The bunch of keys jangling at her belt proclaimed her Baldwin’s housekeeper.

‘Is your master in?’ I asked.

She took one look at my pack and said, ‘Not to pedlars he isn’t. But the girl and I might be interested if you’ll come through to the kitchen.’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been sent with a letter to Master Lightfoot from his cousin, Mistress Burnett of Bristol.’

The housekeeper eyed me doubtfully, disinclined to believe my story, but at the same time recognizing a certain ring of truth about it. ‘Why would she send a chapman?’ she demanded.

Fortunately, before it became necessary for me to embark on any sort of explanation, I heard a door open somewhere, and the next moment a man strolled into view. ‘Who is it, Janet? Who is this person?’