The Burgundian's tale

I had realized, long before reaching Bucklersbury, that I could no longer resent my summons to Baynard’s Castle that evening, however abortive my interview with the Dowager Duchess Margaret might have been. The inspiration and information I had received while there had been invaluable. Things were finally beginning to fall into place. A pattern was emerging that inexorably led me forward to one conclusion, and one only. In the morning, I would pay another call on the Jolliffes. Meanwhile, sleep was claiming me at last …

I was back in the Earl of Lincoln’s bedchamber, watching from the shadows where no one could see me. But the man in the sponge-lined tub wasn’t the King’s young nephew: he was a man I had never seen before, and standing, waiting to attend him, were his three pages, Lionel Broderer, Brandon Jolliffe and Roger Jessop.

Suddenly, the man in the bath tub began to laugh, throwing out his arms and saying, ‘Think, man, think! I’ve never been renowned for living like a monk!’ and then laughing so hard that his whole body shook — and continued to shake until he slowly sank beneath the water and disappeared. The other three men stood like statues and made not the slightest effort to save him. I tried to go to his aid, but my limbs were like lead and I was unable move.

‘He’s drowning!’ I yelled, but my voice made no sound. Then, just as I managed to reach out a hand to the edge of the tub, the stranger bobbed to the surface of the water again, like a cork, and laughing harder than ever.

‘Nonsense!’ he shouted. ‘I haven’t drowned!’ And he heaved himself out of the tub, only to collapse in a pitiful heap on the floor. This time, I was in no doubt at all that he was dead …

I woke up, sweating profusely and with a terrible thirst, astonished to see that it was already morning. Sunlight was pouring through the cracks in the shutters, and I could hear the maids and tapsters and stable boys calling to one another as they set about their tasks for the new day. Reynold Makepeace, too, was calling a brisk greeting to his workers as he crossed the inner courtyard from his private quarters on the opposite side.

I dressed swiftly and went outside to hold my head and hands under the pump, before dragging one of my best bone combs, taken from my pack, through my tangled mop of hair. A quick rub of my teeth with the willow bark I always carried, and I was off to the taproom to bespeak breakfast, and in the hope that I might meet my friend the groom once again. But my luck was out: there was no sign of him and, upon enquiry, I was told that he had left the inn over half an hour ago. The morning was more advanced than I had thought.

I ordered a meal of pickled herring, porridge and a bacon collop, and while I was eating it, I thought back over my dream. It was no ordinary dream — not one of those jumbles of ridiculous events and even weirder facts that plague one’s nights with their nonsense. This had been one of those visions that have haunted me from childhood, and that are a pale version of my mother’s ability to ‘see’. She had always denied having second sight, but there was no doubt that she had had sufficient accuracy in foretelling the future to make people a little afraid of her. In a larger community than Wells, where the town huddled around the cathedral like chicks around their mother hen, she might well have been denounced as a witch. But our neighbours knew and trusted Mistress Stonecarver (my father’s profession) and even came to her for advice.

As I say, I had inherited a fraction of her power in the form of these dreams, and last night’s — or, rather, this morning’s — needed very little interpretation in the light of what I now thought I knew.

I was just congratulating myself that I was at last free of Bertram’s company (although, admittedly, I had grown fond of the lad) when he walked into the ale room, grinning all over his face.

‘I’ve persuaded Master Plummer to give me one more day’s grace,’ he announced, beaming with self-congratulation. He sat down on the bench beside me. ‘You have the benefit of my company and advice for one last time. By the way,’ he added in a more aggrieved accent, ‘where did you get to last night when you suddenly disappeared like that?’

‘I saw someone I knew,’ I answered shortly, rising from the table. His face fell. ‘If you want to buy yourself a stoup of ale and some breakfast, by all means do so,’ I encouraged him. ‘I highly recommend the pickled herring and bacon collops. You can catch me up later.’

But he wasn’t so stupid. ‘I see!’ he mocked. ‘I can catch you up although you’re not going to tell me where you’re going! No, I thank you. I’m coming with you.’

I sighed. ‘I’m paying a visit to the Jolliffes. You can find me there.’

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘And that’s the truth you’re telling me?’

‘I swear it.’ I didn’t say where I might be going afterwards. I didn’t see any need.