The Burgundian's tale

The garden itself was planted largely for pleasure. If there was a bed of herbs and simples for the cooking pot, or one for home-made physic and medicines, I did not notice it at the time. Nor were any vegetables grown that I could see. This was a household sufficiently well-to-do to buy the best and freshest produce from the local tradesmen who daily trundled into London from their smallholdings in the Paddington fields, watered as they were by their crystal-clear springs and running brooks. The grass on either side of the path was starred with periwinkles and daisies and dotted with rose bushes, some of which were already in flower; the red of the Rosa gallica and the white of the Rosa alba, and the pink and white of the sweet-smelling Damascus rose. There were also lilies and gillyflowers, and, near the river’s edge, a willow tree, stooping to trail its branches close to the water.

Bertram was unimpressed; he was not a natural admirer of God’s creation, and a chill spring breeze, blowing in off the Thames, soon had him urging me back towards the house and the warmth of its kitchen. As we retraced our steps along the path, I glanced up at the windows of the next-door house, now to my left, just in time to glimpse a face hurriedly withdrawn into the shadows. I stopped, staring enquiringly, but it did not reappear. Its owner I guessed to be that Martin Threadgold mentioned to me yesterday by Mistress Graygoss; the older brother of Judith St Clair’s second husband and Alcina’s uncle. Unless, of course, it was one of his servants.

‘He doesn’t keep but the one servant,’ the housekeeper snorted disgustedly when I mentioned the sighting to her. ‘A maid-of-all-work you might call her, although, myself, I’d term her a lazy slattern. But fortunately most of the rooms are shut up, so she’s not a lot to do. Martin Threadgold’s generally held to be a miser. Now, do you and the lad come to table. And one of you’ — she rounded on two young girls who were busily pulling pots and pans off the fire — ‘go and call William in to his victuals.’

These were obviously the young maids referred to by Godfrey St Clair, one small and undernourished, the other a well set-up piece who looked as if she could eat a man a day for breakfast. But, as is so often the case, appearances were deceptive: she was the shy, retiring one who merely toyed with her food and left half of it on her plate, while the skinny girl had wolfed her way through two bowlfuls of an excellent mutton stew before William Morgan finally deigned to obey the housekeeper’s summons. He slouched in some twenty minutes later, sat down, offering no explanation for his tardiness, and banged the table with his spoon until the bigger of the two maids had filled his bowl with stew.

I was at last able to take a good look at the Welshman, and saw that he was indeed only about my own age, somewhere in his late twenties. (I was still some four months short of my twenty-eighth birthday.) William’s swarthy skin, blue eyes, dark hair and long, thin mouth were features which, as I remarked before, could have comprised a pleasant whole if it had not been for his sullen expression and seemingly perpetual scowl. He said nothing, but I could feel his hostility as he regarded me across the kitchen table. I pushed aside my own bowl, leaned forward and gave him back scowl for scowl. I was about to make his even fiercer.

‘Was it you, Master Morgan, who attacked me in Needlers Lane last night and warned me to mind my own business?’

The housekeeper’s head jerked up at that and she spilled some of her food as she looked from me to her fellow servant. I thought I heard her breathe, ‘You fool!’ but I couldn’t be certain.

‘Why would I want to attack you?’ the Welshman growled; but he bent closer over his plate and refused to meet my eyes. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘You must have heard of me, both from Dame Judith and from Mistress Graygoss here,’ I said, glancing at the housekeeper as I did so. Her expression confirmed my guess.

William shrugged. ‘Perhaps I did — what of it? It’s no business of mine what arrangements Duke Richard wants to make to solve this murder. Besides, how did I know what you look like? This morning was the first time we’d met.’

‘You may have been looking out of a window when I spoke with Mistress Graygoss yesterday. Or she may have given you a description of me.’

He shovelled another spoonful of mutton stew into his mouth, which he wiped on the back of his hand. ‘I was home all yesterday evening,’ he said thickly.

‘You didn’t go into the city to see the festivities in honour of the Duchess Margaret, then?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Why should I? Seen enough of them during the day.’

‘So my attacker wasn’t you?’

‘Told you, I was home.’

I didn’t believe him, but there was no point in arguing about something I was unable to prove. I changed the subject. ‘What was your opinion of Fulk Quantrell?’