‘If he comes at all,’ John muttered lugubriously. ‘I’m inclined not to wait very much longer. I’m coming round to your way of thinking, Roger. This is a fool’s errand. By the time Maître le Daim arrives — if he arrives — King Edward will have his answer anyway. The streets and taverns here are buzzing with talk that the dauphin’s betrothal to the Princess Elizabeth is to be broken off and that he will be married to Maximilian’s young daughter. That means Louis is bound to be negotiating a treaty with Burgundy very soon, probably in the next few weeks. Before Christmas. So I think our continued presence here is pointless. His Highness will probably have the news before we get home in any case.’
As he spoke, he raised an eyebrow at me, plainly wondering if my secret mission was anywhere near completion. I gave a barely perceptible shake of my head, but later, after Philip had disappeared into the kitchen and Eloise had taken herself off to bed, I told him of my decision.
‘Well, it’s up to you. I suppose you know what you’re doing. The duke will no doubt be disappointed, but he can’t expect miracles if, as you tell me, what he’s asked you to do is almost impossible.’ He thought for a moment, leaning forward, elbows on knees, staring into the heart of the fire burning on the hearth. Then he straightened his back, turning towards me. ‘I tell you what, Roger. Let’s make an agreement that if Maître le Daim hasn’t arrived in Paris by this time next week, we pack up and leave.’
I nodded. ‘Agreed.’
He seemed relieved and accompanied me upstairs, climbing to his tiny attic bedchamber above ours in better spirits than he had been in for days. I even heard him whistling to himself as he proceeded on up the next flight of stairs.
But my own sleep was disturbed by odd dreams. Over and over again I was standing in the parlour of the house in the Rue de la Tissanderie and Jane Armiger was saying, ‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’ Several times I awoke and dozed off, only to return to the same dream each time.
I awoke in the chill first light of dawn to the drumming of rain against the shutters. The only other sound in the room was Eloise’s steady, rhythmic breathing as she lay beside me, her fair curls fanned out across the pillow. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her, I raised myself to a sitting position and drew back the bed-curtains a trifle to allow in a little more air before giving my full attention to my dream. It was telling me something, I knew that. But what?
‘Oh, Robin, how can you be so cruel?’
Robin. In this case short for Robert, but also interchangeable with it, another version of the same name. The man, mentioned to us by the landlord of the seedy tavern near the Porte Saint-Honoré, was known as Robert of Ghent and seemed, from what we could gather, to be roughly the right age (the landlord had indicated grey hair). But he was a Fleming.
Or was he?
That, now I came to consider it dispassionately, was my own assumption. My heart began to beat a little faster and my palms to sweat with excitement. But why would he be called Robert of Ghent if he were not Flemish? I could understand the change from the Anglo-Saxon Robin to the more Gallicized Robert, but why choose de Ghent as a surname? Then, suddenly, enlightenment burst upon me like the sun breaking through clouds on an overcast day. John, that doughty son of King Edward III and brother of the Black Prince, had, I was sure, been born in Ghent, but the name had been Anglicized to Gaunt.
I found I was holding my breath and let it out in a great gasping sigh. Was I on to something? Had Philip’s instinct — that this man could be the one we were after — been right all along? I had always known him for a shrewd little monkey, so why had I not listened to him, respected his hunch more readily than I had? Because I was a conceited fool who thought he knew better, but in truth couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose, that was why. And I had been blinded by the conviction that I had been given an impossible task that could never be fulfilled. I told myself severely not to get over-optimistic, that I could still be wrong, but I swung my legs out of bed and tiptoed down through the silent house to the kitchen, where Philip slept beside the dead embers of the fire.
He was alone, Marthe occupying the second attic bedchamber at the very top of the house. I knelt down and roused him, pouring my theory into his ears before he was even properly awake, so that he blinked stupidly at me and I had to repeat myself over again. And again. Finally, however, I made him understand, but to my surprise, he seemed more concerned with disproving my reasoning than applauding it.
‘It was yourself,’ I pointed out indignantly, ‘who suggested from the start that this Robert of Ghent might be the man we were looking for. Why the change of heart?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Obviously,’ I snapped, getting to my feet. ‘Nevertheless, it’s a lead I intend to follow up.’
‘Then you’ll go alone,’ he said, lying down and turning on his side, pulling the grey blanket up over his head to cover it. ‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’re right when you say it’s a bloody impossible task. Forget it, Roger. Go home and tell the duke it can’t be done, tracing a man you’ve never seen — and nobody else knows anything about — after forty bloody years.’
I stared down in bewilderment at his rigid form, defiant beneath its covering. I couldn’t work out what had happened to bring about this uncompromising attitude, a reversion to the man he had been until a few days ago, when the old friendship seemed to have been restored between us. What had I said? What had I done?
‘John says you’re to come with me.’ I was horrified to hear the words come out as a sort of childish whine.
‘Fuck John!’
I turned on my heel and left him.
I found the tavern again, not without some difficulty, but not nearly as much as I had expected. My sense of direction stood me in good stead, and I remembered a ruined, ivy-covered gateway in the old wall of Philip Augustus not far from the Louvre Palace — no longer lived in by the kings of France and used mainly as a prison — which was only a street or two from the inn I was seeking. The anticipated hostile silence greeted my entrance, all the more disconcerting because of the previous noise and bustle, but fortunately the landlord recognized me and, if not actually brimming over with goodwill, at least greeted me with a certain courtesy and a warning glance at his regular customers that said he wanted no trouble. Nevertheless, I could still feel the threat of cold steel between my shoulder blades.
I managed at length to make myself understood by dint of repeating ‘Robert de Ghent’ a number of times and drawing a crude picture of a house in the dust and spilled wine on one of the table tops. With comprehension came a greater friendliness, and because I was unable to follow the instructions given to me, one of the men sitting nearby slid off his bench, grabbed me by the elbow and jerked his head as indication that I should go with him.
He led me to an alleyway about three streets distant and, with another jerk of his head, pointed to a house about halfway along on the left-hand side. Then he walked away without once looking back. I approached the door indicated and raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.
I had told no one where I was going. I had breakfasted more or less in silence with John and Eloise, then, in the little bustle that always succeeds a meal, had grabbed my cloak and hat and slipped away into the rainy early morning streets. Now, I wondered if it had been wise to be so secretive, even if it had meant avoiding Eloise’s catechism as to where I was going and what I was doing. I reassured myself with the thought that should anything happen to delay my return, Philip, at least, would know my destination and be able to lead John to the inn.