The Burgundian's tale

‘Yes, probably … I wonder what it is Master Threadgold wants to tell me.’ I shifted restlessly. ‘Why couldn’t the old fool say while I was there? I hate delays. They’re dangerous.’ I thought of Lydia Jolliffe standing at her window and watching Martin Threadgold’s housekeeper running after me. An intelligent woman, it shouldn’t have been too difficult for her to put the right interpretation on what she had witnessed. The thought forced me into making a decision. ‘As soon as we’ve finished eating, I shall go back. I shan’t wait until this evening.’

But my good intentions were destined to be no more than that. The sight of Reynold Makepeace anxiously pushing his way through the crowded ale room, and heading in my direction, filled me with foreboding. And I was right to be worried. A summons to Westminster Palace, where, it appeared, another great banquet was being held in honour of the Dowager Duchess — the poor woman would be as fat as a sow by the time she returned to Burgundy — had been brought by Timothy Plummer himself, no less, released temporarily from his relentless vigil against all those imaginary French spies and assassins in order to make sure that I obeyed. The invitation did not include Bertram.

‘Is this really necessary?’ I demanded peevishly as I mounted my horse, which, on Timothy’s instructions, had already been led out of Reynold’s stables and saddled and bridled. (I could tell that the beast was as annoyed about the disturbance as I was.) ‘I saw Duke Richard only yesterday. He doesn’t usually interfere like this. In fact, he promised to leave me alone.’

‘Oh, stop grouching,’ Timothy advised brusquely. He was no more pleased to be used as an errand boy than I was to see him. ‘An important guest has particularly asked to meet you again.’

‘Who? And what do you mean, again?’

‘Wait! You’ll find out,’ he snapped, and I could coax nothing further out of him. Something had got under his skin.

As we jogged along the Strand, I cast a frustrated glance at Martin Threadgold’s dwelling. I could see no sign of life except for William Morgan walking up the narrow lane between the two houses. Even as I looked, he scaled the St Clairs’ garden wall with perfect ease, dropping down the other side and out of sight. What, I wondered, had he been up to? He was a man whose every action filled me with disquiet. I was still convinced he had been my attacker of the previous night.

Westminster Palace, when we finally reached it (not without difficulty, I might say, as so many people were making their way there) was a whirlpool of noise and lights — every cresset, every torch, every candle aflame — with servants scurrying all over the place, shouting, issuing instructions, countermanding instructions, falling over their own feet and everybody else’s amidst an overpowering smell of roasting meat. God knows how many swans, peacocks, capons, cows, sheep, pigs had been slaughtered to make this feast. If the Burgundian ambassadors and courtiers failed to be impressed by such a display of grandeur, then they could never be impressed by anything.

Not that I was allowed to share in the occasion any more than I already had. Having seen my horse comfortably stabled, Timothy led me along a number of narrow corridors, up and down various flights of steps until he eventually, and thankfully, left me in a small, but richly furnished ante-room which, judging by the raised voice coming from behind the closed inner door, was part of a suite of rooms occupied by someone of great importance. (Well, judging by the way in which he was browbeating some unfortunate inferior, he thought he was of great importance, which is not, of course, always the same thing.) The voice was vaguely familiar, and yet I could not immediately recognize it. Nor was I able to understand exactly what was being said, although I caught a word here and there. But before memory had time to jog my elbow, the inner door was flung open by a page and a young man swept through, both hands outstretched.

‘Master Chapman! Roger! Naturally you remember me!’

His confidence and vanity were, alas, not misplaced. Although I had last seen him when he was a bedraggled and penniless fugitive, escaping the clutches of his elder brother, King James III of Scotland, I knew him at once: Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany.

‘Your Highness.’ I bowed, and he gave me his hand to kiss. ‘I thought you were in France.’

‘I was! I was!’ he exclaimed exuberantly, moderating the thick Scots tongue for my West Country ears. ‘And very civilly my dear Cousin Louis treated me — that goes without saying. But now, as you see, I’m enjoying the hospitality of my dear Cousin Edward.’ He grinned broadly. ‘There are reasons for this change of venue which I feel sure a clever fellow like yourself will be able to fathom.’

I made no reply except to bow and say, ‘I’m honoured to see Your Grace once again, and in such good spirits, too.’