The Burgundian's tale

I grinned, but made no attempt to move away. ‘A banquet, or so I’ve been given to understand. All fish dishes, I suppose as it’s Friday?’

The groom snorted derisively and paused in his work. ‘What do you think?’

‘A special dispensation to eat meat — that’s what I think. Plenty of roasted venison, beef, pork, mutton, swan, pheasant, fowl …’

‘Peacock, suckling pig,’ he added, entering into the spirit of the the thing.

We both laughed, and he stood upright again, patting the mare’s rump. ‘Maybe I could do with a rest,’ he conceded. ‘A couple of minutes.’ He forked fresh hay into the manger.

‘We were talking this morning,’ I said quickly, before he had time to embark on any topic of his own, ‘about Fulk Quantrell, who was murdered here in London just over two weeks ago. You said you knew but didn’t like him. When I asked why not, you muttered something about “like mother, like son”. What did you mean by that?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing personal. A lot of people didn’t like Dame Quantrell. Not that they voiced their opinion too loudly, you understand. She could do no wrong in the Duchess’s eyes. She was her devoted childhood friend and servant, come with her from England to make her exile bearable. Mind you, she was always civil enough whenever she visited the stables. Please and thank you, as pretty as you like.’ The groom was now getting into his stride, his arms folded, like mine, on the top of the half-door as he leaned forward confidentially. ‘The boy, though, was a different matter. Arrogant, overbearing and thinking he was God’s gift to an expectant world. Had to be mounted on the best horses, and ran with his complaints to the Duchess if he didn’t get his way. And Her Highness encouraged him with her orders that he was to ride any horse that he chose — just so long as it wasn’t one of hers, of course. But Fulk knew better than to push his luck too far. His demands were always within reason. But he was a sneak and a troublemaker when he was young, and he didn’t improve as he got older.’

‘You still haven’t told me why Mistress Quantrell was disliked,’ I pointed out. ‘If she wasn’t arrogant or rude, and didn’t carry tales to the Duchess, what exactly was it about her that people objected to?’

The groom bit a callused thumb. Behind him, the mare shifted her hindquarters restlessly. He gave her another absent-minded pat.

‘We-ell, I heard — not that I know this for certain; I never experienced it myself — but I did hear that Dame Quantrell had a habit of prying and poking into other people’s business and then threatening to use the information she’d gathered against them.’

‘Blackmail, do you mean?’

The groom sucked his teeth and pulled down the corners of his mouth. He seemed reluctant to commit himself.

‘Ye-es,’ he admitted at last. ‘I suppose that’s what I do mean. As I say, I never had any experience of it, myself. But then, I’ve no secrets to hide.’ He grinned and winked. ‘I lead a blameless life.’

I returned a perfunctory smile, too busy turning over in my mind the information he had just given me.

‘What about Fulk?’ I asked. ‘Was he up to the same tricks as his mother?’

The groom shook his head. ‘I never heard so, but it wouldn’t be surprising, I suppose, considering how close the two of them were reported to be. And now it seems that he’s been murdered. It makes you wonder. It makes me wonder, at any rate.’ The mare turned her head and nudged him in the back. Her water trough was empty. The groom made a clucking sound under his breath and said, ‘I mustn’t stay gossiping like this or I shall be boiled alive in oil. This beauty belongs to one of Queen Elizabeth’s sisters. I’ll bid you goodnight.’ And, grabbing a black leather bucket, he ran towards the well in the middle of the stable yard.

I called an answering ‘Goodnight!’ but it was doubtful if he heard me. He was too busy winching up the bucket. There was no sign of Bertram. He was probably nursing a sense of grievance at my abrupt departure and had abandoned me to my fate. Not that I needed him. I found the outer gate quite easily and, after a short but acrimonious colloquy with the gatekeeper as to who I was and what had been my business in the castle (I was leaving, I pointed out, not trying to get in!), I finally made my exit. Five minutes later I was in Thames Street, then heading north towards Knightrider Street, making my way back to the Voyager.

I had heard the watch cry midnight before I eventually closed my eyes. I had been staring for more than an hour into the blackness and an impression of the room remained, like reflections in a river, distorted and dark.