The room was exactly as I remembered it — small, but spotlessly clean, opening off a gallery that ringed three sides of the Voyager’s inner courtyard. The bed, which took up most of the space, still sported the same goose-feather mattress and down-filled pillows. There were no other furnishings, but my wants were modest, having no luggage except my pack and the cudgel I had insisted on bringing with me despite Timothy’s reservations.
‘You won’t need your cudgel,’ he had objected. ‘You’ll be under royal protection. The Duke’s armourer can supply you with any weapons you might need to keep you safe in the London streets.’
But I preferred my own trusty ‘Plymouth cloak’ and my knife, both of which I was used to handling, and in this argument, the Earl of Lincoln, who had happened to overhear the altercation, had backed me up.
‘Better the weapons you know, Master Plummer, than those you don’t,’ he had said gaily, but decidedly; and I noted with amusement that Timothy gave in at once. The young man might parade and boast of his de la Pole and Chaucer blood, but he was a Plantagenet at heart, and expected to be treated as one.
The horse that had been hired for me from the Bell Lane stables, in Bristol, Reynold Makepeace readily agreed to house and feed for the duration of my stay in London at a slightly increased cost, to be added to the price of my room. I was happy to agree, and having donned a clean shirt and hose, brushed down my leather jerkin and combed my hair, set out for Baynard’s Castle as I had been instructed.
It seemed to me that I had stood in that room only yesterday, instead of nine years earlier. There was no fire of scented pine logs on the hearth, it was true, but everything else was surely just the same: the table against the wall supporting silver ewers and goblets of the finest Venetian glass; the armchairs with their delicately carved backs, depicting birds and trailing, interwined vine leaves; the tapestries, slightly more faded perhaps, showing Hercules’s fight with Nereus; and the copper chandelier with its scented wax candles, all lit because of the overcast day and the general gloom of the chamber.
But the dark-haired young man (exactly my own age for, according to my mother, we had been born on the selfsame day) who rose to greet me was older and far more careworn than he had been on the occasion of our first meeting. Lines of suffering and sorrow were deeply scored into the thin, olive-skinned face. Sadness lurked behind a smile that had once been sweet and gentle, but which, now, could suddenly transform itself into a kind of rictus grin. Once described by the Countess of Desmond as ‘the handsomest man in the room after the King’, Richard of Gloucester’s good looks had been eroded by the twin evils of great grief for the death of his brother, George of Clarence, and his hatred for those he considered responsible for that death, the Queen’s family, the Woodvilles.
Then, as he came towards me, he smiled again, and this time his whole face lit up. I realized with gratitude that the man I had known and to whom I had sworn lifelong devotion was still there, inside that shell of suspicion and disillusionment that had hardened around him for his own protection.
‘Roger!’ The Duke held out a heavily beringed hand, which I knelt and kissed. He raised me, adding, ‘It’s good to see you once more. Thank you for coming. I know you’re married and a father. And also, rumour has it, a householder. You must tell me how that happened, for you’d never accept any help from me. But first, here’s someone who wants to meet you.’ He turned and beckoned.
A boy, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, came forward; a tall, smiling, shining — for I can think of no better way to describe him — child of some eleven or twelve years of age.
‘My son, John,’ the Duke said proudly. ‘John, this is Roger Chapman of whom you’ve heard me speak.’
I bowed. ‘My Lord.’
This, I knew, was Duke Richard’s bastard son, born before the Duke’s marriage to his beloved cousin, Anne Neville. There was also a bastard daughter, Katherine, as much the apple of her father’s eye as this bright and lively young man. (I wondered fleetingly about Prince Edward, the Duke’s legitimate heir, who, if everything said of him were true, had inherited his mother’s fragile constitution.)
The boy grinned broadly. ‘My Lord father has been singing your praises, chapman. My cousin, John of Lincoln, insisted on haring off to Bristol just to steal a march and get a glimpse of you before I did. I wanted to go, too, but it wasn’t allowed.’
I addressed the Duke. ‘Your Grace, I suspect all this underserved praise is a ploy, first to get me to London, secondly to ensure I do your bidding now I’m here.’
Duke Richard smiled. ‘You always did have a suspicious mind, my friend. But if you can solve the riddle of a death that will greatly distress my sister, the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy, when she hears of it, I don’t mind what you think of me.’ He gave his son a little push. ‘Off you go, my lad, and make yourself useful to your grandmother if she needs you.’ He ruffled the dark hair so like his own and watched with pride and affection as the Lord John made his courtesy to both of us in turn before quitting the room. ‘One of the lights of my life,’ he said simply as the door closed. ‘Now, come and sit down and tell me all that’s happened to you in these past two years.’
Half an hour later, he knew as much of my life as I had chosen to reveal; and, being an astute, shrewd man, probably much else that I had hoped to conceal.
‘The bond of marriage can sometimes be just that,’ he said enigmatically when I had finished. ‘All the same, I’m delighted you’ve found a good woman to comfort your bed and bear your children. I’m pleased, too, for your good fortune, and that the money I sent after you last time proved of use in furnishing the house. You obviously rendered this Mistress Ford a great service to be the recipient of such gratitude.’ He must have seen me colour up because he chuckled. ‘No, no, Roger! I didn’t mean that! I give you credit for being a faithful and loyal husband. Now, I’m afraid I must leave you. I’m wanted at Westminster. But I’ll send Timothy to you. He’ll arrange for someone to show you where the murder was committed and Mistress St Clair’s house in the Strand. How you then go about solving our mystery is up to you. But I’m sure we shall see one another again in the days to come.’ He pressed my shoulder — the same one — and I valiantly refrained from letting out a yelp of pain. ‘I shall, of course, expect to be kept informed of your progress, but otherwise, you won’t be bothered. I know you like to work alone.’
I again kissed his hand. When he had gone, I sat down and waited patiently for Timothy Plummer.
In fact, Timothy appeared only briefly before handing me over to a young officer of the Gloucester household named Bertram Serifaber — a stocky, curly-haired young man, as friendly as he was bright and quick-witted.
‘I’m to assist you in any way I can,’ he told me. ‘I’m at your disposal for as long as you need me, and all my other duties are to be subordinated to your demands.’ He smiled happily at the prospect and his brown eyes sparkled. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he admitted candidly. ‘These state occasions can be a bore. There’s such a lot of standing around, just twiddling one’s thumbs. Trying to track down a murderer will be much more fun.’
‘Only trying?’ I teased. ‘You should have more confidence in me, my little locksmith.’
He blushed, then quickly forgot his embarrassment and grinned. ‘You’re right. My father, grandfather and great-grandfather were, or are, all serifabers, but mending and fitting locks didn’t appeal to me. When my father did some work in the royal palace at Westminister a year or so ago, I accompanied him, which is how I met Master Plummer. He was in the service of the King at the time, as I expect you know.’ I nodded. ‘Well, he took a liking to me, thought me bright enough to be trained as a future spy and persuaded my father at least to let me try. Mind you,’ my new young friend added with a sigh, ‘I didn’t bargain on Master Plummer returning to the Duke of Gloucester’s household and having to go with him to Yorkshire.’