The Burgundian's tale

I had already guessed the young woman’s identity, and gave her a polite bow. She returned the compliment by looking me over much as her stepmother had done, but with a greater degree of appreciation. Bertram received the same treatment, which made him blush uncomfortably and shuffle his feet. Alcina threw back her head and laughed.

‘Be quiet!’ Judith ordered. ‘This is a house of mourning. Or had you forgotten?’

‘I’m less likely to forget than any of you,’ Alcina retorted. ‘Fulk and I were betrothed to be married.’

‘And that’s a lie,’ said a fourth voice.

A young man, a few years older than Alcina and not that much younger than myself, had joined the others at the breakfast table. This, surely, must be Jocelyn St Clair, although any likeness to his father was not marked. He had the same hawkish nose, it was true, but his eyes were blue rather than Godfrey’s indeterminate grey, and his hair, worn fashionably cut and curled about his ears, was a lighter brown than I imagined the older man’s had been in his youth.

Alcina was on her feet. ‘What do you mean, a lie?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Fulk and I were going to be married. It was common knowledge!’

‘He had no intention of marrying you,’ Jocelyn threw back at her, equally furious. ‘Lionel Broderer told me so. He told me all about that scene in the workshop the evening Fulk died. And Mistress Broderer confirmed it.’

‘Liars, both of them!’ Alcina was near to tears.

‘No! There were other people present who’ll confirm it. Stop deluding yourself, Cina! Face up to the facts! There are some who really love you.’ Jocelyn hesitated, then finished lamely, ‘Brandon Jolliffe, for one. And … And Lionel wouldn’t say no if you looked in his direction.’

‘That will do, both of you.’ Judith rose from her place, magisterial in her anger. ‘There are strangers in our midst and I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in their presence. If you have differences, settle them in private.’ She turned to me. ‘Master Chapman, let us get this over and done with. If you’ll follow me, we’ll go to the winter parlour, which is always empty at this time of year. Although, goodness knows why. Today is more like winter than spring. Thank the saints the Duchess had a fine day yesterday.’ She glanced at Bertram. ‘Is he coming, too?’

Bertram drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. ‘I am the representative of my master, the Duke of Gloucester,’ he announced importantly. ‘I am here to assist Master Chapman with his enquiries.’

I am a tolerant man as a rule, as all who know me will testify (well, most of them, anyway), but I was beginning to harbour unkind thoughts about young Master Serifaber. Visions of racks and thumbscrews and vats of boiling oil hovered tantalizingly at the back of my mind.

‘Come with me, then.’ Judith swept past us, out of the door, and we, perforce, had to follow.

We were led up a flight of stairs, along a narrow corridor, up another, shorter staircase and into a room not more than about seven feet square, again facing south on to the Thames to catch whatever there was of the westering afternoon sun. This morning, however, it was cold and dismal and no welcoming fire burned on the hearth.

‘Wait,’ Judith St Clair ordered peremptorily. ‘I’ll send for candles.’

She disappeared. I ignored Bertram and took stock of the room.

There were no expensive rugs as in the hall, but, like the parlour below, the floor was covered with fresh rushes mixed with scented herbs and dried flowers. (Some underling had been up and hard at work since the crack of dawn.) A broad window seat was strewn with cushions, two carved armchairs were drawn up, one on either side of the empty hearth, a harp and its stool stood in one corner, an oak chest, banded with iron, offered an extra, if uncomfortable, seat, while a couple of joint stools completed the furnishings.

Bertram had his own method of inspection. Not content with letting his eyes do the work, he wandered around the room, touching everything: prodding cushions, running his fingers across the harp strings, kicking up the rushes.

After a while, I could stand it no longer. ‘For goodness’ sake, lad, you’re like a flea on a griddle. Stand still! You’re making me nervous.’

Judith St Clair returned with a servant, a man in his mid-twenties, a surly expression marring features that might, in other circumstances, have been quite pleasant. He was carrying a flint and tinder-box and some candles which he was directed to light and set in holders about the room. Then he was ordered to kindle the pile of sticks and logs on the hearth, a feat he accomplished with a great deal of difficulty, for the room was damp. Finally, when this was done, he stumped off, grumbling under his breath. Judith St Clair heaved a sigh.