By this time, it was getting towards mid-afternoon and the heat was brazen. It had returned with renewed vigour after the rain of the previous day and I was sweating profusely. I needed somewhere cool to sit down and think things out where I would not be distracted by the aimless chatter of my fellow men (and women). That ruled out the Green Lattis, or any other of Bristol’s numerous hostelries. Moreover, I had drunk more than enough, for a while at least: a potent brew at the Wayfarer’s Return and a mazer of elderflower wine with my dinner. My head was swimming and its cause was not just the warmth of the city streets.
My conscience, too, was beginning to trouble me. I hadn’t earned as much as a groat for nearly two days, having spent the time in searching for clues to prove Burl Hodge’s innocence. Adela would soon be complaining of a lack of money and I should have nothing to offer her. It would mean breaking into my secret hoard – and I was saving that for an altogether different purpose. All the same, pounding the hot cobbles or even walking out into the countryside at present held no allure. My mind was focused on winkling out the real murderer of Robin Avenel.
I was conscious of a feeling I had so often experienced in the past; an awareness of being in possession of some fact, some knowledge, that I had either overlooked or was unable to extricate from the deeper recesses of my mind. I cursed myself roundly, as I always did, for one of these lapses. Carelessness and inattention to what was being said or done by the people around me undid all God’s efforts to set me on the short and easy path to the truth.
I was by now finding the heat – and my thoughts – so oppressive that I decided to stroll down to the banks of the Frome near the Dominican friary in the Broad Meads, where the river curved around the base of the castle and formed a part of its moat. I therefore left the city by the Pithay Gate and bridge and walked across the parched fields to my favourite spot, opposite the castle mill and weir, where I pulled off my boots and jerkin and lay supine among the sweet-smelling grasses and flowers that bordered the water’s edge. But when sleep threatened to overwhelm me, which it very soon did, I forced myself to sit upright and plunged my feet, hose and all, into the river. The shock of the cold water did the trick. It was time to take stock and sort out what I knew. And what I didn’t.
To begin with, I felt certain that Elizabeth Alefounder’s appearance and continued sojourn in Broad Street was no mere family visit to her brother, but had had, from the outset, a much more sinister purpose. Robin Avenel had been under suspicion of being a supporter of the Lancastrian, and therefore of Henry Tudor’s, cause since the previous summer. But in my estimation he had never been decisive enough to hold any opinions of his own without having them formed for him by someone of far more positive views. His father, Peter Avenel, was a straightforward man who, I suspected from the little I knew of him, would always support the ruling faction in the interests of a quiet and prosperous life. He would change his political coat as often as he changed his everyday apparel and shy away in horror from any hint of treason. But somebody had persuaded Robin to dabble his toes in the murky waters of sedition, and that person, I felt sure, was his strong-minded sister.
So, I had established to my own satisfaction that Elizabeth Alefounder had arrived in Bristol with some nefarious purpose in mind; some purpose which involved Robin Avenel renting the old Witherspoon house at Rownham Passage for a night at the beginning of June. He had told the apothecary that the accommodation was needed for two men, although when, the following day, I had made my own ill-fated entrance upon the scene, I had only been aware of the presence of one man – a man I now thought, from his speech, might have been a Scot.
But that, I had to admit, was no more than guesswork. There had indeed been trouble in Scotland, according to the Dominican friar who had stopped to refresh himself at the Full Moon. King James III had quarrelled with his brothers: one, the Earl of Mar, had died in suspicious circumstances; the other, the Duke of Albany, had fled, no one knew whither. But supposing he was here, in Bristol … Yet what possible connection could there be between Lancastrian supporters of Henry Tudor, such as Elizabeth Alefounder and Robin Avenel, and a royal duke of Scotland escaping his brother’s wrath?
To add to my confusion, I was also faced with an Irish slaver who – it seemed likely – had been about to double-cross the Avenels and who had been summarily murdered for his pains by a pair of ruthless women, who had at first mistaken me for him. And now Robin Avenel himself was dead, but by whose hand? And why had he risked breaking into my house a week and more ago? What had he been hoping to do or find?
My head was beginning to ache, and not just because of the sun’s relentless glare, but I did my best to ignore it and continue with my train of thought. Although Edgar Capgrave had observed Rowena Hollyns returning with her mistress from Rownham Passage, her gown muddied and wet, he swore that she could not have left by the Frome Gate earlier that same day without him having seen her. Or, rather, without him remembering to have seen her. There was a difference, and it might be that his memory was not as infallible as he thought it.
All the same, had not Jess, the kitchen maid, told me less than an hour since that the blue brocade gown belonged not to Rowena, but to Mistress Avenel? And that her mistress complained of not being able to find it? If that were so, had it merely been mislaid or had it been taken by someone else? And if so, by whom and why? Jess had also denied Rowena’s ownership of a pair of red shoes. Indeed, I already knew that Robin Avenel had possessed red shoes; one of them still reposed in my secret hiding place, along with the ring I had found in the ‘murder’ house. But I was still uncertain of the significance of either item …
I was beginning to nod off by now, and made a determined effort to keep myself awake, sucking in great gulps of air and agitating my feet in the river. But it was no good. Fatigue and heat won the unequal contest, and I was vaguely aware of my chin falling forward on my chest before I was lost in a scene that seemed to have no connection with any of the myriad thoughts milling around inside my head.
I think I have said somewhere before in these chronicles that my mother was gifted with the ‘sight’, something that I have inherited but which visits me very rarely and then only in the form of dreams …
Now, I was standing in the crypt of Saint Giles, but the rows of shelves and coffins had disappeared and I was at the bottom of the steps leading down from the nave. But it was not the present staircase; indeed I knew – although how I knew was a mystery – that the church was a different building. It was not even a church any more.
Above my head, I could hear a mob baying for blood, hammering and battering at the outer door, screaming filth and imprecations in the mindless way that only a crowd can do. I have seen it happen too often: people lose their souls; all vestige of human dignity and kindness desert them and they turn into ravening beasts. I could feel the hair rising along my scalp, even though, in the strange way of dreams, I knew I was not their quarry.
I moved forward effortlessly, weightlessly, skimming the ground along the length of that great cellar. From somewhere overhead came the sound of rending wood and the crash of the door caving in. Blood-curdling shouts of triumph preceded the rush of feet towards the cellar stairs and my heart started to beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe. People were in danger and I had to reach them before their persecutors did …
I could see them now, faint shapes in the darkness, illuminated by the flickering glow of rushlights and candles. There were about a score, all men, and wearing – judging by some ancient illustrations I had seen – the Jewish gabardine.
‘What are you doing? Why are you still here?’ I yelled, but although my lips moved no sound came out. ‘The others have all gone! Why haven’t you gone with them?’
But they couldn’t hear me any more than I could hear myself. They turned and looked straight through me, foreknowledge of death already written on their faces.
‘Why did you wait?’ I demanded again. ‘Why didn’t you leave with the others?’
But they took no notice, blowing out the candles and all pressing hard up against the furthest wall. Then, in a great rush of noise and movement, the mob was upon them, slaughtering them like beasts in the shambles until the floor and walls ran red with blood. One of the crowd set fire to a man’s gabardine with his torch, another dashed someone’s head in with his club. And yet a third took hold of me by the shoulder and shook me violently, urging me to move. I spun round, fetching him a blow across his cheek, and found myself flat on my back on the river bank, staring up stupidly into the cowled features of one of the Dominican friars.
‘Riding the night mare, Roger?’ enquired a familiar voice ruefully as the man rubbed his face where my hand had caught him. ‘If all that snorting and threshing of limbs is anything to judge by, you must be suffering from a very bad conscience. Or I suppose, knowing you, it might just be too much ale and victuals.’
‘T–Timothy?’ I stuttered, my brain still feeling as if it were stuffed with feathers, and trying desperately to shake off the clinging remnants of my dream. ‘Timothy Plummer?’
He sat down beside me on the grass, tucking surplus folds of the habit, which was far too large for him, around his knees.
‘The very same,’ he grunted.
My mind was beginning to clear and I sat up with such force that I almost knocked him over.
‘Where have you been?’ I roared. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere for days. And what in heaven’s name are you doing dressed up as a Dominican friar?’
‘I’m staying with the brothers in the friary,’ he answered mildly. ‘I’m less conspicuous if I blend in with my surroundings. And could you try not to be so rough? That’s the second time in minutes that you’ve attacked me. What’s making you so angry?’
‘You are,’ I replied in a more subdued tone, but with enough venom to let him know that I was still not mollified. ‘Finished playing the beggar now, have you? Now that your testimony has got a friend of mine arrested and charged with a murder he didn’t commit.’
‘Ah!’ Timothy paused to wipe his nose on the sleeve of his habit. ‘So that’s it. I thought if I started that particular hare, our good friend Richard Manifold might go chasing after it. It seems I haven’t been disappointed.’
‘Burl Hodge did not kill Robin Avenel,’ I hissed furiously. ‘You know he didn’t.’
Timothy laid a restraining hand on one of my arms, and it was only then that I realized my own hands had balled themselves into fists.
‘How do you know your friend is innocent?’ he asked softly. ‘Have you any proof?’
‘Not yet,’ I snapped. ‘But I mean to find some.’ I turned to look at my companion, scrutinizing him narrowly. ‘I’m sure you have a very good idea as to the name of the real murderer.’
He lowered his hood and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I wish I had. It might indeed be your friend, this Burl Hodge, for all I know.’
‘And you think I’ll believe that?’ I sneered.
Timothy shrugged. ‘You must believe what you will. It happens to be the truth. I didn’t want Robin Avenel dead. At least, not until …’ He broke off, looking vexed.
‘Until what?’ I asked, feeling daunted. I had counted on being able to prove Burl’s innocence once I had found the Spymaster General. But now he had found me and I was no further forward. My mind was still clogged with my dream, trying to interpret its meaning, and I wasn’t really thinking about what I was saying. I just made a stab in the dark. ‘You were hoping he would lead you to the Duke of Albany, I suppose.’
The effect of my words on Timothy was as unexpected as it was startling. Taken unawares, I found myself lying once again flat on my back with my companion’s fingers around my throat.
‘What do you know about the Duke of Albany? Where is he?’
I made a gurgling sound, unable to speak, and felt the blood pounding inside my skull. Recovering from my surprise, I took hold of Timothy’s skinny wrists in a grip of steel and prised his hands from my neck. Then I rolled over, coughing violently and pinioning him beneath my weight.
‘Don’t,’ I said, bringing my face as close to his as I dared without being asphyxiated by his breath, ‘ever do that to me again. I don’t like it.’
I held him down until I could see that he was struggling for air, then freed him. He sat up, every bit as furious as I had been.
‘Don’t threaten me with what you like and don’t like, Roger! I could have you arrested and tried for treason as easily as I could spit in the river there. I hold a warrant and a token of credence from the King. There isn’t a sheriff in the country who wouldn’t acknowledge their authority and do my bidding. So if you’ve any sense, which I sometimes doubt, you’ll answer my question. What do you know about the Duke of Albany, and how do you know it?’
I rubbed my throat and hawked and coughed a bit more, just for appearances’ sake and to make him wait, as well as to impress upon him that he had done me serious injury. But I could tell he was growing impatient and so, without further ado, I explained how I had come by such knowledge as I possessed.
When I had finished, I could sense rather than see his disappointment. He sighed.
‘You don’t really know anything,’ he said. ‘You’ve just been bumbling around in your usual incompetent fashion, nosing out a fact here and a bit of gossip there, then adding a rumour or two and a few lucky guesses to the brew until it’s all bubbling away inside your head like a bad cook’s mess of pottage.’
I knew that when Timothy began insulting me, I was closer to the truth than he liked. I squeezed the water out of the feet of my hose and turned to look at him.
‘Stop waxing poetical and just tell me what’s going on. You ought to know by now that you can trust me.’
He thought about this, staring at the sunlight sparkling on the river, brilliant discs of gold like newly minted pennies. Then he heaved another sigh, this time of resignation.
‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘But I can’t tell you who murdered Robin Avenel, because I don’t know. That is the truth. Of course,’ he added, puckering his thin lips judiciously, ‘my guess, if I had to make one, would be Silas Witherspoon.’
‘Silas Witherspoon? In God’s name, why?’
Timothy shot me a sideways glance. ‘I’m trusting you as you requested, Roger – interfering, disobedient fool though you are. I gave you strict instructions not to get involved in this.’ He gave a short bark of laughter that sounded almost affectionate. ‘I might have known I was wasting my breath!’
‘In the name of Gabriel and all the angels, just get on and give me the facts,’ I begged. ‘Why Silas Witherspoon?’
‘He’s a Tudor agent. Has been for years.’
‘You know this for a fact?’ My companion nodded. I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. ‘But in that case, why haven’t you got rid of him? Even if there’s no positive proof, don’t try telling me you couldn’t manufacture some if you put your mind to it.’
Timothy leaned forward and trailed a hand in the river, frightening a moorhen who had rashly ventured forth from her nest among the reeds.
‘Don’t underestimate me, Roger, by supposing that I don’t know how to do my job. Of course I can tighten the noose around Silas’s neck any time I please. But what would be the point, have you thought of that? Another agent would only be sent from Brittany to take his place; a man who would be unknown to us and whose identity would have to be discovered all over again. As it is, Apothcary Witherspoon is closely watched by the Sheriff and his men and is even, on occasions, given false information to confuse our Lancastrian friends across the Channel. One day his time will come, but not just yet.’
I rubbed my forehead, trying to adjust my mind to this new vision of Silas Witherspoon as an agent of Henry Tudor.
‘So,’ I said at last, ‘he and the Avenels are bedfellows?’
Timothy dried his wet hand by shaking it, the iridescent drops flying in all directions like a miniature rainstorm.
‘They were,’ he conceded, ‘until lately. But not, I fancy, any more.’
‘Go on,’ I encouraged, when he seemed disinclined to continue.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We–ell, I fancy it’s a matter of loyalties. There have been rumours coming out of Brittany for some months past – you may even have heard them yourself – that Henry Tudor has been ill. He’s always been of a sickly constitution, but recently there have been, or so I’m told, serious worries amongst his followers concerning his general health. In short, there are fears that he might die before he can make old bones. So you see the Lancastrian dilemma.’
I did indeed. The direct male line of Henry of Bolingbroke had come to an end, first at Tewkesbury, with the death in battle of his great-grandson, Prince Edward, and then, subsequently, with the death in the Tower of London of his grandson, the boy’s father, King Henry VI, who had died, we were informed, of ‘pure displeasure and melancholy’. (And if you believed that you had to be the most credulous fool in Christendom.) The Lancastrian cause was in decline, as were its contenders for the English crown. Henry Tudor, who, through his mother, Margaret Beaufort, was the great-great-grandson of John of Gaunt and his third wife and former mistress, Katherine Swynford, was the best that supporters of the Red Rose could find. But his claim was thin and tarnished by the Bend Sinister. If he were to die, who could be found to replace him?
‘You mean …?’ I began, but hesitated.
Timothy nodded. ‘There are certain Lancastrian supporters who have been casting around for another claimant to the throne. The Scottish king and his siblings are all grandchildren of James I’s queen, Joan Beaufort, who was herself a grandchild of John of Gaunt and his paramour, Lady Swynford. So you see, this quarrel between King James and his brothers set some of Henry Tudor’s disaffected supporters thinking.’
‘They could offer one of his brothers the chance of the English throne?’
‘Precisely. Now, whether Albany’s flight from Scotland was really because he thought his brother, the Earl of Mar, had been murdered and feared the same fate, or because he received an offer from across the water, no one’s yet sure. My guess would be both.’
‘But surely,’ I protested, ‘no one would give up a royal dukedom for the life of a puppet at the court of Brittany with no serious chance of ever inheriting the English throne? Everyone knows that King Edward has two sons to succeed him. Not to mention several daughters in a land that has no Salic law.’
Timothy smiled. ‘Probably not, if the offer of the crown was the sole inducement. But if Albany really is in fear of his life … That’s why I said my guess would be that he’s influenced by both considerations.’
There was silence for a minute or two, broken only by the chirping of a cricket hidden somewhere in the grasses. The white flowers of water hemlock nodded like stars at the end of their long, coarse stems.
‘Are you telling me,’ I asked eventually, ‘that you believe the Duke of Albany to be in hiding here, somewhere in Bristol?’ Timothy inclined his head. ‘But in Jesu’s name, why? Why would Tudor agents bring him west instead of taking him south or east? Plymouth, Dover, Southampton would be understandable. But here? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense if one of the most reliable agents you have – and one, moreover, who is an ardent supporter of the faction now anxious to replace Henry Tudor with a healthier specimen – lives nearby. Elizabeth Alefounder not only resides at Frome, but also has – or, rather, had – a brother in Bristol with whom she could stay without raising any conjecture. As for Bristol itself, it’s a port, isn’t it, like any other? Ships from many countries sail up the Avon and anchor here with every tide. And it has the added advantage of throwing Albany’s pursuers off the scent. King James’s men, as I happen to know, are even now looking for him all along the east coast, thinking him bound for France.’
‘But the ship that came to fetch him away was Irish-owned, the Clontarf. Its captain, Eamonn Malahide, was an Irish slaver.’
Timothy looked annoyed.
‘Is there anything you don’t know? Anywhere where you haven’t poked that long nose of yours?’ Again, he shrugged. ‘I have no idea why Mistress Alefounder made that decision. Maybe because she found it easier to make arrangements with someone who spoke the same language. Well, spoke it after a fashion, that is! Then again, perhaps not. But whatever her reason, she seems to have picked the wrong man.’
I nodded. ‘So it would appear. He had a reputation among his own kind for avarice, and in pursuit of money would sell his services to two sides at once.’
Timothy heaved an even deeper sigh than before.
‘And how did you learn that?’ he asked resignedly.
‘I visited the Wayfarer’s Return in Marsh Street.’ Even Timothy knew enough about Bristol by this time to need no interpretation of this remark. ‘My guess is,’ I went on, ‘that Eamonn Malahide was to pick up his passenger – in all probability this Scottish duke – from the house at Rownham Passage, where Elizabeth Alefounder would pay him his money to carry the man to Brittany. But in fact, Malahide would have made him a prisoner as soon as he was far enough out to sea, and then sailed with him to Scotland where he would have returned the duke to his brother and collected a fat reward.’
Timothy stretched and yawned. ‘As fair an assessment of events as I could have made myself. You know, you really are wasted as a pedlar, Roger. You’re an educated man and have all the makings of an excellent spy. One who could even become Spymaster General when I decide to retire. You should accept Duke Richard’s offer of employment, then I could oversee your training.’
‘You work for the King.’
‘Not for much longer. I have asked permission to rejoin the duke’s household and His Highness has been pleased to grant my request. I shall ride north to rejoin Prince Richard as soon as this particular task is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘But you hate the north,’ I protested, ‘and I understand that His Grace rarely comes south since Clarence’s execution. They say his hatred of the Queen’s family is as strong as ever.’
‘True,’ Timothy admitted. ‘But I love that man and I miss him. I’m even willing to live amongst barbarians in order to serve him. So …’ He spread his hands and gave me a sheepish grin.
I knew what he meant. Richard of Gloucester had always exerted the same fascination over me. But, unlike my companion, I was not prepared to sacrifice either my independence or my passionate affection for my own strip of ground for the duke or for any other man. All the same, I was glad to know that the King’s brother would soon have one of his most loyal and ablest servants with him again.
‘So, what would be a satisfactory conclusion to this case?’ I asked.
‘To find the Duke of Albany and take him to London as a hostage for the English crown. Our spies in France tell us that King Louis is busy inciting King James to break the truce with England and begin raiding across the border again, which, of course, could eventually lead to a full-scale war. The Duke of Albany could prove to be a valuable bargaining counter in this dangerous game.’
‘And you’re sure that the duke is somewhere in Bristol, unlikely as that may seem?’
Timothy scratched his nose. ‘When Robin Avenel and his sister learned – from whatever source – that this Irish sea captain was going to betray Albany and carry him back to Scotland, they were left with the duke on their hands until they could arrange for another ship to take him to Brittany. They must have hidden him somewhere.’
‘Why didn’t they leave him in the Witherspoon house at Rownham Passage?’
Timothy pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘That’s what makes me think that Silas Witherspoon is not of their way of thinking. That he’s still loyal to Henry Tudor. They didn’t dare risk him discovering the true identity of the man they were trying to get to Brittany.’
‘So, you assume they brought the duke back here and have kept him hidden ever since?’
‘Yes, until they can arrange to smuggle him aboard some other ship. And that could happen any day.’
‘How do you know it hasn’t happened already?’
‘To be honest with you, I don’t. Some of the Sheriff’s men have been keeping close watch on all the foreign ships tying up along the Backs, but there are so many of them, it’s impossible to stand guard over each one every minute of every day. But as long as I’m not certain that Albany’s gone, I have to stay and do what I can to intercept him.’
‘And if you were sure he’d gone?’
Timothy eased his thin buttocks against the hard ground. ‘I’d have to return to London and admit defeat to the King.’
‘Would he be angry?’
‘He may not be pleased,’ was the cautious reply. ‘But as I’m to leave Westminster soon, perhaps I’m not as afraid of His Highness’s displeasure as I might otherwise have been. Besides, my own guess is that Albany will himself tire of this charade. He must know very well that his chances of ever becoming King of England are extremely slight, if they exist at all. He’s probably just using Elizabeth Alefounder and her friends to find a way abroad that will fool his brother and all King James’s agents who are hot on his trail.’ Timothy got slowly and, I thought, a little painfully, to his feet. I realized suddenly that in the eight years since I had first met him, he had aged considerably. He stooped and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘So if you hear anything you think I should know, Roger, I rely on you to tell me.’
‘And the murder of Robin Avenel?’ I asked. ‘What do you know of that?’
‘I’ve told you, no more than you do. My one concern is to keep his name separate from my search for Albany. Let matters alone there, lad. Your friend won’t be the first innocent man to swing. In the interests of the State, it’s better that this death is resolved simply and cleanly.’
He pressed my shoulder once again and strode off in the direction of the friary. I sat where I was, watching him until he entered the gate and disappeared from view.