The Burgundian's tale

Bertram was growing used to this introduction and no longer tried to look worthy of it, but he was too young, and obviously too green, to hold Mistress Jolliffe’s attention for long. She gave him a quick nod and then turned back to me, resuming her seat in the room’s only armchair and picking up her embroidery frame as she did so. But if she had hoped to present a demure, wifely tableau (Penelope at her loom), she was wasting her time. She never could, and never would, look domesticated.

‘Sit down,’ she invited, but as there was only one stool, Bertram was forced to stand, supporting himself against the nearest wall. I removed a lute from the stool, which was far too small for my hefty frame, and perched awkwardly on its edge. Mistress Jolliffe smiled slightly at my discomfort, but made no comment. The fragrance of wild flowers rose from the rushes on the floor and, with my new-found knowledge, I recognized the rich wall hangings as being embroideries rather than tapestries. I wondered if they had been purchased from the Broderer workshop; or had they perhaps been a gift?

While I made an attempt to settle myself, I took covert stock of Lydia Jolliffe, trying to guess her age. If she had a son as old as, or older than, Alcina Threadgold, she was probably in her late thirties or, more likely, early forties; but she was one of those women whose years sit lightly on them. Nevertheless, self-confidence and the mature curves of her figure led me to believe she was older than she looked.

‘I’m forty, Master Chapman,’ she said with a rich, full-throated laugh that made me start violently and blush. ‘Men are so transparent,’ she added, selecting a long pale-green silk thread from a pile on a small table beside her, and once more plying her needle in and out of the white sarcenet stretched on the tambour frame. ‘It’s so easy to tell what you’re thinking. Women are much better at concealing their thoughts. Now, I presume you wish to ask me about the murder of Fulk Quantrell. What is it you want to know?’

I rubbed my nose nervously. ‘Well, to begin with, may I ask where you were on the night of May Day or the early hours of the following morning, when the young man was killed?’

‘That’s simple. I was home here, in bed with my husband. He’ll vouch for the fact.’

Of course he would, just as she would vouch for him. A wasted question but, all the same, one that had had to be asked.

‘Did you like Fulk?’

She shrugged. ‘I neither liked nor disliked him. He was Judith’s nephew. A pleasant enough lad, prettily behaved, respectful to his elders. He had more to do with my son than with me. You must ask Brandon about him. Fulk was young enough to have been my son.’

Her last remark was more revealing than she had intended, containing as it did an undertone of bitterness.

‘Did he find you attractive?’

Lydia glanced up sharply, then laughed again, but this time it was a high-pitched, artificial tinkle.

‘Dear saints, of course not! I told you: I was old enough to be his mother.’

There it was again — that insistence on the difference in their ages. I ignored it. ‘Was your husband jealous?’

She tossed her embroidery frame angrily to one side, missing the table and letting it fall among the rushes. ‘Don’t you listen to anything I say? He was my son’s friend, not mine.’

‘Even so,’ I urged, ‘you must have formed some opinion of his character other than that his manners and general address were good. What was he really like, underneath, do you think?’

I could see her struggling with herself for several seconds — women, whatever she maintained, are just as easy to read as men on occasions — but whatever it was she had in mind to tell me, prudence eventually won. She managed to smile.

‘Fulk naturally had his own interests at heart; what young man of eighteen does not? One could hardly blame him for taking advantage of Judith’s infatuation.’

‘Did you and Master Jolliffe approve of Mistress St Clair’s decision to make him her sole heir?’

Lydia picked up the discarded embroidery frame and continued with her stitching. ‘Roland and I neither disapproved nor approved. It was not our business.’

Very commendable, but not what Judith St Clair had told me. I wondered what the Jolliffes had really said to one another in the privacy of the marital bed, and to their neighbours.

‘But you must have had some feelings about Fulk’s stealing Mistress Alcina’s affection away from your son.’

Once again there was that hesitation while she decided what to say; and once again she decided to lie. ‘Whatever you may have been told, Master Chapman, there was never anything settled in the way of a betrothal between Brandon and Alcina. If anything, he was less fond of her than she of him. They were friends. Something might have come of that friendship eventually, who can tell? But somehow, I doubt it. Brandon is a very good-looking boy. He can have his pick of any girl in London.’