The Burgundian's tale

‘Ah!’ The housekeeper subjected me to a long, curious stare, then laughed. ‘Dear me!’ she said enigmatically before going inside and closing the door behind her.

‘What do you suppose she meant by that?’ Bertram demanded anxiously.

I didn’t reply. I was busy thinking what a tight little enclave these three houses represented. Judith and Godfrey St Clair, his son and her stepdaughter in the middle, Alcina’s uncle (and Judith’s erstwhile brother-in-law) on one side and the Jolliffes, described by Mistress Broderer as friends of Godfrey St Clair, on the other. And into this close-knit, almost incestuous community, linked by various threads of kinship, liking and would-be kinship, had come the stranger, the outsider, Fulk Quantrell, good-looking and no doubt exotically foreign after twelve years at the Burgundian court. Small wonder he had created havoc …

‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying,’ Bertram complained as we crossed the Fleet Bridge and were borne along on the tide of people all making for the Lud Gate.

There was some truth in his accusation, but I had suddenly recollected that I had had no dinner. Judging by the sun, it was well past noon and my belly, perfectly quiescent until that moment, immediately started to rumble, reminding me that food was at least two hours overdue.

‘Let’s get back to the Venturer,’ I said, ‘and see if Reynold Makepeace can find us something to eat. We’ll talk all you want to then and I promise I’ll listen.’

After an excellent meal, we spent the rest of the day indoors, avoiding the holiday crowds who still thronged the streets. The noise of their revelry reached us like the muted hushing of the sea on some distant shore, as we stood leaning over the gallery palings, staring into the Voyager’s almost deserted inner courtyard. From time to time Reynold Makepeace brought us each a stoup of ale, having given his potboys a few hours freedom to go and see the sights, like the kind and generous master that he was.

By supper time the inn was busy again as people returned, tired and happy and full of the day’s events, eager to be fed before braving the streets once more in order to sample whatever jollifications were being provided by the various guilds. Bertram would have set out for Baynard’s Castle as soon as we had put paid to a dish of brawn in mustard sauce, a cold pigeon pie, a platter of pear-and-apple fritters and several more beakers of ale. But I insisted on letting my food settle before mixing with members of the nobility, having no wish to fart and belch all evening in competition with my betters. (Heaven only knew what they had been stuffing themselves with all day!) So the church bells were ringing for compline before we left the inn.

At my insistence, we avoided the main thoroughfares, making our way by lesser-known alleyways until we reached Thames Street, where we got held up by a score or so of young people dancing round a maypole — an innocent enough pastime, but one which would obviously lead to far more lecherous activities as the evening progressed. Two of the girls entwined themselves in a highly erotic manner around Bertram and myself, advances which we reluctantly declined for different reasons. On my part, I pretended it was because I was a faithful and loving husband; but deep down, it was really because I was afraid of what noisome disease I might catch if I allowed my natural inclinations to run away with me. Bertram’s reason, I suspected, had far more to do with the fact that he was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery than from fear of acquiring a dose of the pox. (I decided I must have a quiet word with the lad. He was still somewhat wet behind the ears.)

This diversion meant that the May day was closing in before we presented ourselves at the main entrance to Baynard’s Castle. Even so, we were kept kicking our heels for at least half an hour in an ante-room of Duke Richard’s private apartments before he was finally ready to receive us. Receive me, to be precise. The Duke dismissed Bertram with a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘Report to Master Plummer and then get some sleep,’ he advised. ‘It’s been a long day.’

My companion had no choice but to obey, but I could see he wasn’t pleased. Not that the Duke noticed. Indeed, with great dark circles under his eyes, he looked too tired to notice very much at all; and I guessed that a whole day spent being polite to the numerous members of the Queen’s family had placed an intolerable strain on his already overburdened spirit and natural goodwill. Certainly the smile he gave me was an effort that showed in every muscle of his face, and I was seized by the sudden fancy that there was a shadow on his spirit like an indelible stain …

Such nonsensical imaginings only demonstrated that I, too, was fatigued almost to the limit of endurance. I took myself in hand.