The Burgundian's tale

After the King and Queen were seated on their thrones, there was a delay while we all awaited the arrival of the Duchess, whose progress had no doubt been hindered by the cheering crowds. I caught a glimpse of Timothy, standing not far behind Duke Richard’s chair and, from time to time, signalling vigorously to other men stationed at various strategic points around the hall. I wondered what they thought would happen. Did they seriously expect the French ambassador to leap forward and attack Duchess Margaret with his poignard? Or was it, as I suspected with my usual cynicism, self-importance for its own sake?

Suddenly I found Timothy directly behind me, panting heavily after having forced his way through the press to my side of the hall. He dug me painfully in the ribs. Before I could protest, he hissed in my ear, ‘Directly in front of us. Front row. Black gown, heavily embroidered. Judith St Clair. The man on her left is Godfrey.’

I craned my neck, trying to get a better view across the intervening two ranks, but the women’s hennins with their floating scarves made it impossible to see anything from where I was standing. It was like peering through a forest of flags all flying from the tops of steeples. (And it confirmed me in my belief that the current crop of women’s fashions were being designed by madmen.)

‘I can’t see-’ I was beginning, but just at that moment the trumpeters went wild with a fanfare that made even my teeth hurt. Timothy gave a strangled cry and set off to fight his way back to his official position, while I suppressed a desire to burst out laughing. All the same, I had managed to catch a glimpse of a heavily embroidered black sarcenet sleeve and a white hand resting on a wrist cuffed in black velvet. At least I knew roughly where to look for my quarry once the present ceremony was over. Moreover, two people in deepest mourning stand out in a crowd of popinjays.

My travelling companion of the last three days, the young Earl of Lincoln, resplendent in white and gold, proudly led his aunt towards the thrones at the far end of the hall. As she passed, I saw enough of the Dowager Duchess to realize that the slender, vibrant, twenty-two-year-old girl, who had set sail for Sluys twelve years previously to become the third wife of Charles of Burgundy, was now a matronly woman in her mid-thirties with a thickening waistline. But she was still attractive enough, with her pale skin and Plantagenet red-gold hair, to send the waiting crowds into a frenzy of adoration. Their cheers rolled in through the open doorway, and probably drowned out the King’s initial greeting to his sister. (I saw her lean closer to him, as though she had difficulty hearing.)

Edward had risen at the Duchess’s approach and embraced her lovingly. Then, after greeting the Queen and making suitable obeisance to her mother, Margaret was passed from one sibling to another, one in-law to another, rather, I reflected irreverently, like a bolster full of feathers.

I touched Bertram on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get out now,’ I whispered, ‘before everyone has the same idea.’

We weren’t far from the door, and managed to inch our way outside without attracting too much notice. Once in the fresh air, we took deep breaths and stretched our cramped muscles. I drew Bertram into the shelter of the Abbey.

‘When the crowds begin to disperse,’ I said, ‘look for a couple in mourning. That’ll be Judith and Godfrey St Clair.’

My companion nodded. ‘I wondered what Master Plummer was whispering to you about.’

It was a lengthy wait. It was not until the good and the great, led by King Edward and the Dowager Duchess Margaret, had processed from the hall into the palace — ‘Banquet,’ Bertram informed me tersely — that the less important guests who had been invited to the welcome ceremony were permitted to leave. Even then, there was an order of departure to be observed. But, at last, among the many-hued silks and velvets emerging into the uncertain May sunshine, I saw two sable-clad figures walking decorously side by side.

Judith St Clair was a woman of around the same age as Mistress Broderer; perhaps, to be fair, a few years younger. She was good-looking and knew it: that was obvious in the upright stance and the proud carriage of her head. At some time in her life she had been taught to set a value on herself, probably by the woman I had so recently been watching, Margaret of York, when Judith and her twin had been in the Duchess’s employ. She had no one distinguishing feature that made her instantly recognizable, and yet, oddly, I felt that I would know her again if I had to pick her out in a crowd.