There’s not a lot more to say. I didn’t believe Eloise about Philip to begin with, but it turned out to be true enough. Marthe would shelter him throughout any hue and cry that might arise, and, afterwards, the man who hated foreign parts would settle down and become a good Frenchman. (Well, he’d try, although I couldn’t really see it happening myself.) True to his word, the mysterious Raoul d’Harcourt got me out of Paris and away that same night and on the road that eventually led to Calais. And there, on English soil, I felt safe for the first time in days.
Crossing the Channel was delayed on account of the winter weather, but a little over a week later, I found myself back in Baynard’s Castle and face to face with Timothy Plummer. I’m happy to say that, on this occasion, words did not fail me and I was able to give him a masterly reading of his character that satisfied even my own outraged feelings and made Raoul, who had been present at the meeting, grin behind his hand. (Later, he treated me to the best pot of ale to be had at the Bull in Fish Street.)
I did not see the duke. He had, by now, left for his estates in the North, but at a second, more private meeting, I passed on to Timothy the little I had discovered concerning the birth of King Edward. Like me, while he considered the story of the two christenings significant, he admitted that as proof positive it left much to be desired.
‘His Grace will be disappointed,’ he admitted, ‘but if that’s all there is. .’ He trailed off, shrugging fatalistically.
‘And I’m free to go now?’ I asked.
He nodded.
So I shook the dust of London off my feet the very next morning, vowing never to return.
It’s unwise to tempt Fate.