The Burgundian's tale

I walked to Thames Street, then climbed St Peter’s Hill into Old Fish Street. It was dark by now. The evening’s revelries seemed to have finished and there were very few people about. A three-quarter moon lent a ghostly radiance to the still, grey scene, and the only creature moving, apart from myself, was a scrawny black cat, sitting in the lee of St Mary Magdalen Church, and unconcernedly tidying its whiskers. A couple of drunken revellers passed me as I turned into Cordwainer Street and made my way north towards Budge Row. From there it was merely a few strides left into Soper Lane, then right by the Broderer workshop into Needlers Lane, and I was almost home.

As I passed the Church of St Benet Sherehog, I could see the opening into Bucklersbury only yards ahead of me. I began to whistle in my usual tuneless fashion under my breath …

Someone jumped me from behind, coming out of the church porch with all the speed and ferocity of an arrow just released from the bow. I went down like a felled tree, stretching my length on the ground, where I was pinned by my assailant sitting astride my back, his bony little knees gripping my upper arms. A head was lowered next to mine and a blast of garlic-laden breath hit the side of my face.

‘Mind your own business, chapman, if you know what’s good for you,’ hissed a voice in my ear. A very Welsh voice. ‘This is just the first warning. So go back to Bristol, there’s a good boy!’

Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, my attacker had gone, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty street as he ran towards Soper Lane.

Six

I lay where I had fallen for perhaps a minute. I had been winded and needed to recover my breath.

Except for a sore cheek, where I had scraped my face along the ground, and some scratches to my hands, I wasn’t really hurt. But my pride was deeply wounded. My head had been so full of my meeting with the Duke and Dowager Duchess that I had grown careless, ignoring my own first rule of survival: always be on your guard — which isn’t to say that I had never been ambushed before, but, generally speaking, on those occasions I had been unlucky. Tonight, however, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I could be in danger or that I might have been followed from Baynard’s Castle. Yet I should have done. Somewhere in London lurked the murderer of Fulk Quantrell, and I was doing my best to uncover his — or her — identity.

As I heaved myself into a sitting position and probed cautiously for any bodily damage that might so far have escaped my notice, I went briefly through the people who knew of my presence and, above all, my purpose in the capital. I could forget all members of the royal family along with Timothy Plummer, Reynold Makepeace and Bertram Serifaber. That left Lionel Broderer and his mother, Judith St Clair’s housekeeper and Judith St Clair herself, who had been told of my visit by the Dowager Duchess. So, possibly, Godfrey St Clair was also aware of my existence.

But the voice that had hissed its warning in my ear had been male and Welsh. Not that the last fact meant very much. The lilting cadences of my near neighbours across the Bristol Channel are some of the easiest to fake, and I hadn’t been in any condition to listen to it carefully …

‘Master Chapman! Are you all right? Mother and I saw what happened. I tried to intercept the man who attacked you, but he was running too fast, and he had his hood pulled right over his head, hiding his face.’

It was Lionel Broderer, kneeling beside me in the dust. His face was nothing but a blur as the moon disappeared behind a cloud, but I recognized the voice with its harsh timbre, and his compact figure. ‘Here! Let me help you to your feet.’

I should have been grateful for his assistance, but I was feeling too much of a fool to appreciate his sympathy. I shook off his supporting hand.

‘I’m well enough,’ I answered brusquely. ‘A bruise or two. Nothing more.’

He proceeded to make matters worse. ‘You shouldn’t be walking abroad in the streets at night without a cudgel.’

I restrained the impulse to shout at him, but it was an effort. ‘I was summoned by His Grace of Gloucester to Baynard’s Castle and I felt a cudgel would have been out of place. In any case, I doubt if it would have helped me much. I was surprised.’

He nodded understandingly. I could cheerfully have hit him. ‘Yes. Mother and I had just returned from West Cheap, where members of the Mercers’ Guild were doing a re-enactment of the Lady Margaret’s marriage to Charles of Burgundy, twelve years ago at Damme. We came back down Soper Lane, and just as we rounded the corner, we saw you jumped on by this man who came out of St Benet Sherehog’s porch.’

‘How did you know it was me?’

Lionel chuckled. ‘How many other men of your height and girth are there in this part of London?’

By this time Mistress Broderer had joined us. ‘Is he all right, Lal?’ she enquired.

‘A trifle winded, that’s all,’ I snapped. ‘Nothing so wrong with me that I can’t answer for myself.’