The Burgundian's tale

Judith, too, seemed to be missing, to the great distress of her husband, who found it impossible to comprehend what was going on, and was overwhelmed by the invasion of his house by the King’s brother and various representatives of the law. I whispered to Bertram, who, following my instructions, slipped inside the ‘fly trap’, emerging a few seconds later with Judith’s confession. This he handed to the Duke, who read it without comment, before passing it to Godfrey St Clair.

Godfrey’s whole body was shaking so much that Duke Richard ordered a stool to be found for him, and, when this had been brought, he read his wife’s confession with Alcina and his son looking over his shoulder. Of course, all three refused to believe it, but there was a desperation in their denials reminiscent of people spitting against the wind. There was no refuting, either, that the confession was written in Judith’s own hand, no matter how much they would have liked to prove it a forgery. Even so, they would have continued to express their doubts, had not one of the Sheriff’s men brought word that Mistress St Clair was to be seen sitting beneath the willow tree at the bottom of the garden, apparently either asleep or gazing out across the Thames. At this information, Godfrey gave a great cry and, oblivious to protocol, rushed from the bedchamber without so much as glancing at the Duke or asking his permission. He had guessed the truth, of course: Judith had taken her own life.

Duke Richard glanced at me with raised eyebrows. I told him about the lettuce and poppy juice potion that she took for her headaches.

‘She must have seen Your Highness’s approach along the Strand,’ I suggested, ‘and realized that the game was up. But, My Lord, how did you know where to look for me?’

The Duke, who could be extremely haughty if he wished, merely grinned like a schoolboy and perched on the end of the bed, smoothing the beautiful, embroidered coverlet with a long-fingered, appreciative hand.

‘First things first,’ he reproved me gently. ‘Are you fully recovered after your ordeal? If so, I should be glad to know the details of these two murders. My sister, the Duchess Margaret, will be shocked beyond measure and and it will be hard to convince her of Mistress St Clair’s guilt, in spite of her confession. I need to know all of the facts.’

So, I told him.

When I had finished speaking, I lay back against the pillows, exhausted, my recent experience in the ‘fly trap’ having sapped my strength. Bertram handed me another beaker of wine and, over its rim, I met his reproachful gaze.

‘If only you’d kept me informed,’ he chided, ‘instead of trying to keep me in the dark all the time, you wouldn’t have ended up almost dead meat.’

‘I’m truly sorry,’ I said contritely.

But my apology must have lacked sincerity, because the Duke laughed.

‘And so you should be, Roger,’ he told me. ‘If it wasn’t for young Master Serifaber’s unshakable conviction that something had happened to you, and his insistence on speaking personally to me, you would certainly have died of suffocation.’

It appeared that Bertram, calling on Lydia Jolliffe, had been informed not only of my visit, but also of the fact that she had seen me returning along the Strand in the direction of the city. Indignantly, he had returned to the Voyager only to find that I wasn’t there.

On some God-given impulse, he had decided to visit the Broderer workshop, where Martha had just arrived in order to give a hand with some of the beadwork. She admitted to having seen me and, under pressure, had reluctantly divulged the gist of our conversation. Bertram had then set off back to the Strand, convinced that I had gone to confront Judith St Clair and, as a much brighter lad than I had earlier given him credit for being, already beginning to get a faint inkling of the truth.

At the St Clair house, Paulina Graygoss, who answered his knock, had declared that I had called, but must have gone without her noticing, because she hadn’t seen me since. She had referred him to William Morgan, who had confirmed that I had left. Something in the latter’s manner, however, had aroused Bertram’s suspicions and convinced him that the Welshman was acting under orders from Judith St Clair. Bertram, therefore, had made his way back to Baynard’s Castle to seek out Timothy Plummer, but that gentleman, still swollen with self-importance in his role as chief guardian to the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, had refused to listen to what he considered the merest conjecture. My fate could well have been sealed there and then, had the Duke of Gloucester not happened to ride into the outer courtyard at the very moment Bertram was leaving.