Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

The truth was that for these past few days I had been moving in a kind of dream, where nothing was real except my own emotions. I had temporarily lost interest in the mystery of Clement Weaver, although I understood myself well enough to know that this feeling would not last. I could never resist a challenge nor the lure of London, particularly if someone else was paying for my sojourn there. In the meanwhile, some time was necessary to allow me to pull myself together and accept the situation as it was.

Alison Burnett shrugged. ‘I suppose another week or so will make little difference in the end, but I need your solemn assurance that it will be no longer than that. I want this man proved an impostor as quickly as possible, and it is already well over three months since his arrival. Every day sees him more firmly entrenched in my father’s affections. Dame Pernelle, when I saw her yesterday, told me that the creature feels confident enough now to override the Alderman’s orders where he deems it necessary, and substitute his own. Ned Stoner and Rob Short in particular deeply resent this, and are talking of looking for work at other houses within the town.’

Even this worrying piece of news did not immediately spur me into action. ‘I shall be off as soon as I can,’ I promised. It was time to go and I rose to my feet, anxious to be away. ‘But I shall come again to see you before I leave.’

As I moved towards the parlour door, it opened and William Burnett came in, wearing a very short satin doublet in what seemed to be his favourite colours, black and red. I could smell the highly scented pomade on his long auburn hair and the faint scent of musk that hung about his clothes. I knew that he did not altogether approve of his wife’s decision to employ me in this matter of determining Clement Weaver’s true identity, and was expecting no more than a bare acknowledgement of my presence. Instead, he shot out a hand and gripped my arm.

‘You’ve been in Keyford recently, haven’t you?’ he demanded. ‘Alison told me you’d gone to visit her cousin, Baldwin Lightfoot. So did you hear anything of any trouble there? A woman, they say, was arrested. A woman who had once been in the employ of the late Duchess of Clarence.’

‘I not only heard of it, I saw it happen,’ I answered, and immediately captured both his and Mistress Burnett’s undivided attention. ‘The lady was the Widow Twynyho, formerly attendant upon Duchess Isabel. A number of the Duke of Clarence’s bravos hacked down the door of her house, arrested her and carried her off in the most brutal fashion. Why, and what has since become of her, I’ve no idea, although I’ve wondered many times in the past nine or ten days.’

‘Then I can tell you,’ William said, pleased to be as well informed as myself. ‘She was taken to Warwick, where it seems Clarence was in residence, and summarily hanged, along with another erstwhile retainer of Duke George. There was a trial of sorts, but it would appear that the Duke had both the Justice of the Peace and the jurors in his pocket. These worthies are now saying that they feared for their own lives if they failed to deliver a guilty verdict.’

While I was struggling to come to terms with this hideous sequel to the events that I had witnessed, Mistress Burnett demanded of her husband, ‘How do you know all this?’

‘A party of travellers arrived at the Green Lattis shortly before I left. They were full of the story, and presumed that we would wish to hear all about it, this — this what did you call her? — this Widow Twynyho being a Somerset woman.’

‘But what was the charge against her?’ I asked. ‘Did your travellers happen to mention that?’

‘Oh, yes!’ William Burnett laughed shortly. ‘That’s the crux of the matter. Both of the accused were said to have poisoned the Duchess of Clarence at the instigation of the Queen’s family.’

Alison echoed my gasp of astonishment and horror. ‘The Woodvilles will be up in arms,’ I said. ‘This could lead to civil war if King Edward isn’t careful.’

William nodded. ‘That’s the opinion of these Warwick men. They’re predicting trouble. No one, they say, can take the King’s justice into his own hands like that. Not even the King’s own brother.’

I grimaced. ‘He might if that brother is George of Clarence. King Edward seems to have an infinite capacity for pardoning him.’

Master Burnett shook his head. ‘These men are unanimous in insisting that, this time, the Duke has gone too far. Well, Chapman,’ he added, with an abrupt change of subject, ‘when are you off to London?’

‘In a week or so,’ I answered absently and took a hurried leave of husband and wife, eager to get into the fresh air and cool my head, which was throbbing from the heat. In addition, my mind was reeling from the news of Ankaret Twynyho’s vicious and brutal end. Although I had only glimpsed her that once, I felt a personal anger at her death, and also a terrible guilt. I should have tried at least to stop Clarence’s men abducting her, but, instead, I had played the coward’s part, and it was no consolation to remember that so had every other man in Keyford.

Outside the house, I hesitated, knowing full well that I ought to visit Adela to thank her for all that she had done for my mother-in-law and daughter during my absence. The former had been lavish in her praise almost before I had crossed the cottage threshold.

‘How Elizabeth and I would have managed without my cousin’s attentions, I really don’t know, for I haven’t properly recovered from my illness,’ Margaret had proclaimed, standing there, hands on hips, and looking the very picture of health and strength.

But instead of turning towards Bell Lane and the Frome Bridge, I walked up Small Street into Corn Street and crossed over to the New Inn (alias the Green Lattis) behind All Hallows church. Once in the tap-room, it wasn’t difficult to identify the strangers in our midst by their accent, so different from our own West Country burr, and I approached the four men to ask for more details of Widow Twynyho’s death, explaining my personal interest in their story.

They were friendly men, pausing for a night’s rest and refreshment on their way to Glastonbury, the elder of the four (father, he explained, to the other three), expressing his wish to see the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere before he died. They identified the man executed along with Mistress Twynyho as one John Thuresby, but the name meant no more to them than it did to me, except that he, too, had been employed in the ducal household.

‘What was the exact charge against them?’ I enquired, for although I had heard it from William Burnett, I wished to have it afresh from the strangers’ own lips.

‘Why, that they had poisoned both Duchess Isabel and her newborn child,’ the older man answered, handing me a pot of ale which he had generously ordered and paid for on my behalf. ‘And if you’re going to ask me why two apparently faithful and loyal retainers should do such a wicked thing, what advantage they gained by these murders, don’t bother, for I’ll tell you. The implication is obvious to the meanest intelligence. They had been suborned by those who wished to be revenged upon the Duke of Clarence, and had been bribed by them to kill his wife and child.’

‘In short, it was a Woodville plot,’ I said, sipping my ale.

‘What else? But there’s more to it than that,’ my new-found friend continued, while his sons nodded in agreement. ‘Duke George is out to prove himself King in all but name. And King in name sooner or later, if he can manage it. He’s never forgiven his brother for spoiling his chances of marriage with the Duchess of Burgundy, and there have been rumours in our part of the country for months that Clarence is arming his retainers like a man ready to rebel.’