Both had increased in intensity during the last few minutes, and there was also a hint of sleet in the air. The cobbles gleamed wetly between the piles of refuse that had mounted up everywhere during the day, and their surface was treacherous and slippery. I trod warily, using my cudgel as a walking stick rather than holding it at the ready as a weapon. A sudden, particularly fierce gust of wind almost tore my cloak from my back, and I clutched at it with my free hand, holding the edges together at the neck as best I could, but unable to pull up my hood, which now lay, a soggy weight, across my shoulders. I silently cursed Master Babcary for delaying me, but reflected yet again on how much he and Gideon Bonifant must secretly have disliked one another. To be compelled to live and work together, day in, day out, under the same roof, and, at the same time, be forced to present a complaisant face to the world for Isolda’s sake, must have been purgatory for both of them. Had it eventually been enough of a spur to drive Miles Babcary to murder?
I was too tired and too preoccupied with the elements to give the idea further consideration just then, and I pushed on along West Cheap in the direction of the Poultry. The rising storm had driven most people to seek either permanent or temporary shelter indoors, and there were only two or three other intrepid walkers like myself still battling against the squalls of wind and rain. Many of the wall cressets had been doused or blown out, but shafts of light from shops and houses slabbed the darkness.
I was approaching the entrance to Gudrun Lane, a gaping mouth of blackness on my left, illuminated solely by a lamp hanging high over the doorway of a stable. As I pressed forward, my head bent against the ever increasing force of the wind, I was suddenly convinced that, out of the corner of my left eye, I had seen a movement — someone or something had retreated into the alleyway. Common sense told me that there was little significance to be attached to this fact: a man, a child, a dog, a cat was taking cover from the storm. But I discovered that for no apparent reason I was nervous. Fear slithered across the surface of my skin.
I had suddenly recollected that halfway along its length, Gudrun Lane was connected, by a little street running at right angles to it, to Foster Lane. And Foster Lane, at its southern end, joined West Cheap by the church of Saint Vedast and Master Babcary’s shop. I also remembered something else that I had lost sight of during the last two or three hours, whilst making the acquaintance of Miles Babcary’s family and servants: a member of that household could well be a murderer who would be terrified that I might discover the truth about him or her. Had someone left the house as soon as I had taken my own departure, hurrying by that circuitous route to waylay me at the entrance to Gudrun Lane?
I spun round, my cudgel gripped firmly in my right hand and raised to do whatever combat was necessary. My heart began beating faster as I entered that black void of the lane, lit by its solitary beam of light from overhead.
Eight
Keeping close to a row of three-storeyed houses that made up the left-hand wall of Gudrun Lane, I crept forward, my cudgel at the ready, my feet squelching through puddles and piles of garbage. Once, a thin cat, disturbed from its scavenging by my approach, shot across my path with a screech of fury, making me start back and almost knocking me off balance, my heart pounding so hard that I was scarcely able to breathe. Another time, a dog, as wet and bedraggled as I must have looked myself, came sniffing and snapping around my ankles, until I kicked it away with a curse. But apart from these two incidents, nothing broke the silence except for the drumming of the rain and the gusting of the wind.
I was beginning to doubt the existence of this alley that connected Gudrun and Foster Lane — how did I know about it, anyway? I must, at sometime or another, have been this way with Philip Lamprey during one of our forays into the city — when suddenly, there it was, to my left, as narrow and as noisome as memory had painted it. I hesitated for a long moment before turning the corner, every muscle tensed in readiness for a sudden assault upon my person. But nothing happened. No one was lying in wait for me, and the wet cobbles stretched away into the darkness, lit by the pallid gleam of a torch fixed to the wall of one of the cottages and set in a sheltered nook, out of reach of the wind. The piles of rubbish were even higher here than in West Cheap, and I had to step with extreme caution so as not to lose my footing.
Beyond the range of the torchlight, I paused again, convinced that I had heard a noise some little way ahead of me: a cough, perhaps, or a sharp intake of breath.
‘Who’s there?’ I called, but there was no reply. Seconds later, a huge rat scuttled close to one of my boots and disappeared into another mound of offal and rotting vegetables a few yards behind me.
Three or four more paces brought me into Foster Lane. I turned left towards the looming bulk of Saint Vedast, and within moments was back in West Cheap, standing outside Master Babcary’s shop. I could hear voices from within raised in cheerful conversation, and the sudden peal of a woman’s laughter, but the shutters were up and there was nothing, no movement of any kind, to suggest that anyone was lurking in the surrounding shadows. Either whoever had come after me, with the intention of warning me off, had then thought better of it, or I had been a victim of my own overheated imagination. I was reluctant, however, to admit that it might be the latter.
The storm had abated somewhat, and I was gripped by a burning desire for the warmth and safety of the Voyager — its ale, its excellent food and the company of my wife. Moving as far into the centre of the thoroughfare as I dared without danger of stumbling into the open drain, I strode out as fast as I could, looking straight ahead of me and ignoring as much as possible all the black, gaping mouths of the streets and alleyways on either side of the road. Ten minutes later, I reached the Great Conduit and the entrance to Bucklersbury.
‘You’ve had a long day,’ Adela observed.
She was curled up on the bed, watching me devour a huge, steaming hot meat pie, together with a bowl of dried peas and onions. Both dishes had been served, on the orders of Reynold Makepeace himself, in the warmth and comfort of our room. My wife, who had eaten her supper before my arrival, assured me that she was feeling a great deal better, and insisted that we talk about the rigours of my day — although I fancied that there was an unusual touch of acerbity in her tone.
‘As a matter of fact, I have had a very tiring few hours,’ I answered defensively. ‘First, if you remember, I had to visit Mistress Shore at her house in the Strand-’
Adela, who had indeed forgotten this fact, immediately interrupted. ‘Tell me all about it!’ she commanded.
And I was allowed to go no further with the account of my doings until I had described my meeting with the King’s mistress in the the minutest detail. Adela was particularly taken with my description of the old dog on his red satin cushion, and at once pronounced Mistress Shore to be a woman very much after her own heart.
‘Jeanne Lamprey tells me that she’s popular both with the common people and at court.’ Adela tilted her head to one side. ‘So why doesn’t the Duke of Gloucester care for her, do you suppose?’
I stared consideringly at my plate. It was a question that had been nagging away at the back of my own mind ever since my meeting with the King’s mistress and the realisation that she was, in truth, as kind and as merry and as unassuming as her reputation made her out to be. Why then did the man I admired — worshipped, almost — above all others obviously have so little liking for her?
‘I think,’ I said at last, raising my eyes to my wife’s, ‘that Duke Richard regards Mistress Shore in the same light as he regards members of the Queen’s family, the Queen herself, Lord Hastings and so many others who surround the King. He sees them all as responsible in their various ways for his brother’s physical and moral decline. Oh, Edward’s handsome enough even now, I grant you, but seven years ago, around the time of the battle at Tewkesbury, he was magnificent; lean as a greyhound, strong as an ox and with a mind sharp enough to outwit all those powerful barons who had robbed him of his throne and driven him into exile.