Saintly Murders Page 9

  Edward sighed and stared down at the pieces of parchment on the table before him. Mother still clung to a pattern: her shaved eyebrows, the light, white paste on her face, and the soft red blush high in her cheeks. Many claimed Edward of England had been pursuing his mother all his life. More than one courtier had whispered on the likeness between Cecily of York and Edward’s own wife, the striking beauty Elizabeth Woodville. Edward closed his eyes. He wished he was in his bedchamber with Elizabeth, arms round her cool, alabaster body, his face nuzzling between her breasts.

  ‘Your Grace, we are waiting!’

  ‘Sweet brother.’

  Edward raised his head and smiled at George, Duke of Clarence, his handsome, treacherous brother: gold hair falling down to the nape of his neck, that beautiful oval face marred by the rather heavy chin, the cynical blue eyes, and that pouting lower lip.

  ‘Have you been drinking, brother?’ Edward asked sweetly.

  ‘Deep and full of the waters of life, Your Grace.’

  The man beside Clarence laughed abruptly. Unlike his brothers, he was not dressed in the blue, red, and gold of the Royal Household. Richard of Gloucester had been hunting in the forest around Canterbury. He still wore a green, weather-stained jerkin over a white linen shirt. A delicate, narrow-faced man, Richard could be charming when he wished and implacable to those he opposed. Now he sat twisting a feathered cap in his hands or glancing at the ring displaying his emblem, the Boar Rampant.

  ‘You are amused, brother?’

  Edward just wished he hadn’t drunk so much himself; his belly felt tight, swollen. He loosened the brocaded jacket as he gazed round at the rest, men who had fought shoulder to shoulder with him at the bloody battles of Towton, Mortimer’s Cross, Barnet, and Tewkesbury; dark-brown Hastings, with whom he’d shared many a mistress, his companion in lechery; Francis Lovell, seated across from Richard of Gloucester, eyes watching the King’s brother like a greyhound would his master. Shifting alliances, the King thought; he groaned quietly to himself. He had fought valiantly for the Crown. Now he had to struggle against the jealousies of his own victorious war party as it fragmented into factions, lost in court intrigue, each choosing their own master.

  Edward beat a tattoo on the table. His mother watched and tried to control both her rage and fear. You are getting fat, Edward, she thought, noticing how his rings were tight, lost in dimpling folds. Edward the Beautiful, over six foot two in his stockinged feet, once called ‘the Royal Leopard,’ ‘the Golden Lion,’ ‘York’s Sweet White Rose,’ had feasted and drunk a little too deeply. All the fault of his wife, that jumped-up Woodville who preened and prinked as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And she, Cecily, the widow of the great hero of York, had to play second fiddle, but not now! She had roused her son, demanded this council, and glaring across at the smiling faces of her other sons, Cecily wondered what role they would play. She only wished Walter Venables were seated beside her to whisper counsel and good advice. However, the King had been most insistent: ‘No henchman, dearest Mother. If you bring yours, my darling brothers will bring theirs.’

  Edward was still staring down the table as if fascinated by the blue-and-white shield fixed on the wall above the oak-panelled wainscoting. Cecily glared across at her two other sons. Richard she could never understand; he was merely his eldest brother’s shadow. If Edward said Monday was Sunday, Richard would believe. Secretive and withdrawn! Cecily regretted her epithet, ‘the runt of the litter’; he’d never forget that! Impetuous and very proud! Richard’s green eyes came up and caught his mother’s glance and gave her that lopsided smile as if he could read her thoughts. Beside him Clarence was pretending to be asleep. Beneath the table Cecily squeezed the knotted handkerchief. Clarence was very dangerous, a truly unstable young man. He had fought for York but also for the other side, allying himself with traitors. Yet Clarence had all the cunning of a cat: He knew when to spring and deftly change sides. Did Clarence know of her fears? Had he whispered them to young Richard, whom he’d always tried to seduce with his golden locks and false bonhomie?

  Cecily of York stared at the picture of her husband on the far wall: He had been a broad-faced, golden-haired man. The artist had been flattering. Cecily had not really loved her husband, but she had supported his cause and shared his triumphs as well as eaten the bitter ashes of defeat: flight, penury, and exile. And disgrace? Cecily shuddered at the thought. Yet she must not panic. The game was afoot: That old spider, King Louis, in his turreted fortress, had spun his web to see what flies he could catch. A spy lurked here. The King was reluctant to believe it, but Cecily was convinced. Venables had hinted as much, just the odd whisper, the comment. She had put all her trust in that Irishman, Padraig Mafiach, and only hoped he could bring news which would reveal the traitor and send him to the scaffold, his mouth sealed once and for all. If only the Blessed Roger had lived! He could have given her ghostly advice; sitting on the shriving pew, she would turn her ear and listen to his counsel, the fruit of prayer, penance, and fasting. But Roger was gone. Perhaps if she supported his cause, saw him hallowed in the Court of Heaven . . .? She glared across at old Bourchier. He’d never liked her! From the very start he had placed one obstacle in front of another. Spineri, the papal legate, was hers both body and soul. She had wanted one of the court physicians, but Bourchier had objected, instead appointing some woman, an apothecary from the city. Well, she’d soon take care of her, or at least Venables would.

  ‘Padraig Mafiach is dead.’

  The knotted kerchief fell from Cecily’s nerveless fingers.

  The King held up a piece of parchment. ‘He was murdered in a chamber at the Falstaff Inn.’

  ‘You said he’d be safe!’ Cecily snapped.

  She could have bitten her lip as her two other sons’ heads came up, like hunting mastiffs who had scented their quarry.

  ‘You said he would be safe!’ she repeated, trying to keep her voice level. ‘He was from my household.’

  ‘Madam’ – Edward smiled – ‘he was also paid for with my gold. The man was a fool. He arrived, still hiding under his disguise of Robin Goodfellow.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Clarence asked languidly.

  ‘His brains beaten out with a battle-club.’

  ‘And his killer is under arrest?’ Gloucester’s voice was mocking.

  ‘There is no sign of an assassin. Colum Murtagh, Master of the Royal Horse, has the matter in hand.’

  Cecily, to hide her consternation, picked up the fallen kerchief. She didn’t like the way Bourchier was staring at her, but she felt her tension ease. Murtagh the Irishman was one of her late husband’s henchmen, one of those few men who could not be bought and sold for a bag of coins.

  ‘And the message?’ Bourchier asked. ‘Mafiach brought a message, yes?’

  ‘A passage from the prophet Zephaniah in both Latin and English, with some observations written beneath. My clerks of the chamber tell me it’s in cipher, but they cannot understand it. I have sent it to the House of Secrets in London.’

  ‘Will it contain the name of the traitor?’ Hastings, Edward’s leading general, drank the wine cup he had insisted on bringing into the Council meeting. ‘I mean, if it contains a name, we have a case. And if we have a case, we will have a trial.’ He paused. ‘Someone’s head will adorn London Bridge.’

  ‘But that’s the problem.’ Edward leaned back in his chair. ‘The cipher, you might say, contains the letters of everyone at this Council meeting.’

  ‘What?’ Lovell demanded.

  ‘So my cipher clerks tell me.’ Edward spread his hands. He picked up a piece of parchment and tapped the table. ‘And I’ve more news. Our sweet brother, Louis of France, wishes to show us great amity and friendship. The Vicomte de Sanglier is already at sea. He will land at Dover tomorrow and be at Islip within days.’

  ‘Why?’ Cecily asked harshly. ‘To exchange the kiss of peace?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Bourchier’s vein-streaked face broke into a smile. ‘I
think he’s here to see what damage can be done. When the bowl cracks and the milk splatters, the cat always appears.’

  ‘Elaborate, Your Eminence.’ Clarence leaned across the table, fingers beating against his lower lip.

  ‘We all fear Louis,’ Bourchier replied. ‘He has a spy in both the Royal Household and in Canterbury. I think that spy killed Mafiach. Who, apart from us and Murtagh, knew he was coming? Who would have been waiting?’ He sat back at the exclamations of protest. ‘You can shout and shout,’ Bourchier continued, ‘but I deal with facts. Mafiach was murdered, and according to Murtagh, who brought me that parchment, his psalter was stolen. Only Mafiach knew how to break that code. He chose it and has taken the secret with him to the grave.’

  ‘De Sanglier’ – Gloucester’s voice was barely above a whisper – ‘could have sent agents in pursuit?’

  ‘True,’ Bourchier murmured. ‘But my hypothesis is more logical. I suspect it’s going to get worse before it gets better.’ His eyes now held those of Duchess Cecily. ‘Your confessor, Madam, Roger Atworth. Tomorrow, the hour after noon, his corpse is to be exhumed in the cause of his beatification.’

  Bourchier ignored Clarence’s bark of sneering laughter.

  ‘And what has that to do with Mafiach?’ Edward asked crossly.

  ‘Perhaps I am mistaken’ – Bourchier joined his hands before him as if in prayer – ‘but Atworth, like the late, lamented Mafiach, knew too many secrets. Madam, I hesitate to say this, but I wonder if Blessed Roger died of natural causes?’

  Protests and demands rose to clarify his remarks. Bourchier shook his head and hitched the thick robe closer about his shoulders, his eyes never leaving those of Duchess Cecily.

  ‘Something was mysterious about Atworth’s death,’ the Archbishop continued. ‘Madam, I understand he should have written to you and did not? His withdrawal from community life just before he died, all these strange phenomena . . .’

  ‘The manifestation of God’s will!’ Cecily snapped. ‘Atworth was a holy man!’

  ‘Aye, Madam, but he was also a sinner, as we all are in the eyes of God.’

  Cecily felt herself go ice-cold, as if some mysterious hand had withdrawn the warmth from this scented chamber and allowed the cold night air to drift in. You old fox, Cecily thought, you know about me! She glanced down the table, allowing the babble of conversation which had broken out to wash over her as the others questioned Bourchier. Cecily kept her face impassive, but she was taken back in time, long before these sons of hers had ever seen the light of day. She and her husband were in Calais as the French forces drew closer and England’s great empire in France crumbled and broke – tempestuous, hot-blooded days! She glanced up. Edward was staring at her strangely.

  ‘Madam,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’

  Bourchier was now involved in answering some question posed by Clarence, but he was still watching her from the corner of his eyes.

  ‘Your Eminence,’ she called out, ‘Blessed Roger Atworth was my confessor. Do you know who, in the community, was his?’

  ‘Why, Madam, he had none there.’

  ‘But he must have been shriven? He was, as you say, a sinner like us all in the eyes of God.’

  ‘Of course, Madam, but didn’t he ever tell you?’ Bourchier clasped his hands together. ‘I performed that service for him.’

  Cecily of York gripped the table to steady herself. You are lying, she thought. You must be lying! Everything she held secure was now crumbling, breaking down. All she could think of was Atworth. The Duchess started as the King banged the table with the pommel of his dagger.

  ‘You have heard what I know. The hour grows late; there is little more we can do.’ Edward held up his hand at the murmur of voices. ‘We must prepare for the arrival of the Vicomte de Sanglier,’ he added silkily. ‘The night goes on, and the ladies await us.’

  A chorus of laughter greeted his words. Bourchier got to his feet, bowed, and waddled out. The others rose and drifted away. Edward tapped his mother’s toe with his soft-booted foot, a sign for her to stay. Once the chamber was empty, Edward stretched and got to his feet. He opened the door and said something to the captain of the guard; he closed and locked the door, then re-took his seat.

  ‘Mother, you are perturbed?’

  ‘Son, I am not.’

  ‘Mother, you are lying. What is this Atworth to you? A mouldy old friar who listened to your petty sins and shrived you? Oh, I know, I know’ – he raised a be-ringed hand – ‘you knew him in France.’

  ‘He was valet to my chamber.’ Cecily moved in a rustle of taffeta to face her son squarely. ‘I was young.’ She smiled. ‘Your father and I, we had gone to France to see if we could turn back the tide, but the Dauphin’s men believed in “La Pucelle,” the Maid of Orleans, Jeanne d’Arc. They maintained God had showed his hand. I don’t know if he had,’ she added drily, ‘but he certainly wasn’t with us. The English army broke and fled; your father and I sheltered in Calais.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Edward insisted.

  ‘I committed a murder; that’s all I’ll tell you, my son. I killed a man. He threatened both me and your father.’

  ‘But I have killed.’ Edward leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, searching his mother’s face as if he could find the truth there. ‘We’ve all killed, Mother. Those who wear the Crown, or who want to wear it, wade through a sea of blood to the throne.’ He paused. ‘You’ve got nothing to fear. Who was this man?’

  ‘He was an enemy; he could have wreaked destruction.’

  ‘And you cannot tell me his name or why?’

  ‘No.’ Cecily kept her voice steady. ‘But the incident weighs on my conscience.’

  ‘But how can he threaten you now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cecily whispered, ‘but I have a feeling it matters.’ She kissed her fingers and pressed them against her beloved son’s lips. ‘And that, my golden boy,’ she whispered, ‘is all I will say!’

  In the woods to the north of Canterbury, the woman calling herself Blanche Southgate gingerly dismounted from the palfrey she had bought in the small horse market outside Queningate. As instructed, she led her horse along the narrow trackway. At any other time Blanche would have been nervous, but tonight she felt confident. The merchant had promised that she would be safe, as well as rich, and Blanche revelled in the idea of her new-found wealth. The palfrey, as well as its harness and saddle, must have cost a pretty penny, and the same for the dress, kirtle, and cloak she now wore. She had proper shoes on her feet, whilst her hair had been washed and dressed like the rest of her to be comely and sweet-smelling.

  All around echoed the sounds of the night, the rustle in the undergrowth, the lonely hoot of a hunting owl. Blanche gulped to hide her nervousness. In the saddle-bags she carried a dagger, but the woods were safe. No outlaws prowled there. The city watch had been most vigilant; and Royal Household troops, only a mile away at Islip, had hunted these lonely copses, cleaning out the beggars and tinkers, the men who lived in the shadows well away from the light of the law.

  Blanche prided herself that she knew these things. She was not an ignorant girl but had been part of a travelling troupe who had fallen on hard times in London. Blanche had seen the world. She had played in the households of the great ones of the land. She had entertained powerful merchants and sold her favours for no less than a silver piece. She only wished the man who had hired her could have kept her, had not insisted that she leave a comfortable bed and meet him here, well past the hour of midnight, under the starlit sky. The palfrey stopped in its tracks and whinnied, head turning as if attracted by a sound. Blanche, holding the halter, stared into the darkness. She could make out the trees, the glint of the moonlight on a small mere.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, patting the palfrey’s neck.

  The horse, snickering, let itself be led on. A small animal raced across their path. Blanche started, and the horse whinnied and backed, but it was well-trained, and Blanche had nothing to
fear. Clicking her tongue, she led it on as she used to the pack ponies of her travelling troupe. At last she reached the clearing awash with moonlight. She smelt the dampness of the wood and the faint tendrils of wood-smoke, probably from some poacher’s fire.

  Blanche was quite determined. At the slightest hint of danger, she’d mount this palfrey and ride like the wind back to the comfort and security of the city walls. She glimpsed the disused charcoal-burner’s cottage, its roof long gone, the wattled walls open to the elements. She led the palfrey across and paused.

  ‘Good evening, Blanche.’

  She whirled round. The man dressed like a friar had appeared as if out of nowhere. Blanche wasn’t sure. Was this the merchant?

  ‘I am sorry I’m late,’ she stammered. ‘But’ – she laughed nervously – ‘better late than never!’

  ‘Yes, Blanche, better late than never.’

  She recognised the voice and relaxed.

  ‘Come, I’ll take the horse.’

  She went across and handed him the reins, so pleased the knife the man thrust deep into her stomach, twisting and turning, was hardly glimpsed. Blanche staggered away as the cowled face watched her, already steadying the horse against the sudden smell of blood.

  Kathryn sat at the kitchen table. Thomasina, head-dress billowing out like the sail of a great cog, her fat face red and sweaty, was raking out the coals from the bread oven beside the hearth.