I pushed aside my empty ale cup and folded my arms.
‘Then tell me, as one who is deep in the King’s confidence, what was the truth about Clarence’s death? Drowned in a butt of malmsey wine was the nonsense we heard. There were other versions, of course, just as wild and foolish, but that seemed to be the one most widely reported.’
‘You think it nonsense, do you?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. As a matter of fact, it’s the truth.’ I tried not to look incredulous. Timothy leaned over and tapped the table. ‘Think about it and you’ll see it makes sense.’
I thought about it, but without much success. ‘It still sounds like a mare’s nest.’
Timothy sighed. It was a habit he had when talking to me, as though forced to deal with a peculiarly dim-witted child.
‘Put yourself in the King’s shoes. On the one hand’ — mixing his metaphors — ‘you know that fratricide, even when it’s legal, is generally abhorred by most right-thinking people. On the other, you’re desperate to pacify your queen and her family, who are all baying for Clarence’s blood. And on the third hand — well, you know what I mean — you’re pretty desperate yourself to get rid of a brother who knows too much.’
‘What did Clarence know?’ I interrupted.
My companion gave me a pitying look. ‘Even if I knew — which I don’t — I wouldn’t tell you. The less people like us know, the better. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes! As the King, you don’t want to offend your subjects too openly, by a properly staged execution. But your troublesome, scheming brother has been tried and sentenced to death, the death warrant signed. So you warn him today is the day he must die. He attends Mass, offers up his Mass penny, makes his confession and his peace with God and his enemies. Then he’s left alone. Some kind friend has sent him a cask of his favourite malmsey wine. If you were Clarence, what would you do?’
‘Oh, I’m Clarence now, am I? All right, I’ll play. I’d get drunk. Stinking, out of my head, out of my mind, blind drunk.’
‘Exactly! And if, then, a couple of turnkeys — acting under orders, of course — popped into your cell and held you head-down in the cask of malmsey until you drowned, isn’t that a better way to go than with your head on the block, at the mercy of some blundering butcher of an executioner?’
‘And better for the King, as well,’ I murmured, ‘because no one knows for certain what has happened to Clarence. There are rumours, but no one knows whether or not to believe them. By the time we know for a fact that Brother George really is dead and mouldering in his tomb in Tewkesbury Abbey, we’ve all got used to the idea. The King’s got rid of him without suffering any wave of popular revulsion. Clever. Is that what really happened?’
Timothy looked offended. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
I sucked in my bottom lip. ‘It’s feasible, I suppose. It has a certain irresistible logic to it. And there’s one thing for sure,’ I added, tapping the tabletop in my turn, ‘we’re never going to be told anything different, not now, nor in the future.’
‘You’re a hard man to convince,’ Timothy snorted, rising to his feet. ‘Well, I suppose I must be away to this woman’s cottage you’ve told me about, to see my prisoner for myself. Do you want to come with me?’
I hesitated. ‘I would,’ I said, ‘if I were sure that Sergeant Manifold has sent to inform the Widow Godsmark of her son’s death. But I think I must satisfy myself on that point before I do anything else. She lives very close, within sight of the castle walls, so I’ll go there now. If you truly don’t object to my company, I’ll catch you up.’
Timothy grinned. ‘By all means. Your company, Roger, is akin to an old nagging toothache that comes back every now and then, when the wind’s in the wrong quarter, to plague me. Irritating, but familiar, and I know it will go away again.’
I returned the grin. ‘Admit that you and His Grace of Gloucester owe me a lot.’
‘I wouldn’t deny it,’ he answered handsomely, but took the gilt off the gingerbread by adding, ‘I wouldn’t dare to.’
We left the guardroom by a door that looked as if its hinges might give way at any minute, and my companion promptly tripped over a block of fallen masonry.
‘You see what I mean,’ Timothy snarled.
I concealed a smile and we proceeded across the barbican bridge to the town beyond. My companion was immediately hailed by Richard Manifold, who, as luck would have it, was passing at that very moment, accompanied by four of the brothers from the friary, carrying Walter’s body on a makeshift bier.
‘Master Plummer! Grant me a minute or two’s grace and I’ll conduct you to Mistress Ford’s cottage. Our suspect’s there. With luck, he’ll have recovered consciousness by now.’ He noticed me and his expression changed. He looked suddenly like a man who had just been poked in the stomach with a very sharp stick. ‘What are you doing here, Chapman?’
‘Renewing acquaintance with an old friend,’ I answered blithely. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’
He was about to tell me in no uncertain terms what I could do with my offer, when he had second thoughts.
‘You can accompany the brothers to Goody Godsmark’s and break the sad news to her, while I take Master Plummer to Mistress Ford’s. The sooner we get back to our prisoner the better.’ He enjoyed equating himself with an officer of the King.
I managed to hide my annoyance and gave him my most disarming smile. ‘Of course. I’ll join you both later.’
Before Richard could cavil at this proposal, Timothy clapped me on the back and said, ‘Yes, do that, Roger. We’ll be pleased to have your company.’ He nodded abruptly at Richard. ‘Lead the way, Sergeant.’
They strode off in the direction of the Frome Bridge. I joined the sad little procession bound for Goody Godsmark’s cottage.
The widow took the news of her son’s death as badly as I had feared she would. At first, she was struck almost dumb, white and trembling and refusing to believe it was Walter on the bier, until one of the friars removed the sheet that covered him. Even then, she stared at the discoloured, bloated face for some moments before giving a high-pitched scream and throwing herself on her knees beside the bier, which had been lowered to the floor. After that, her grief increased in volume until the neighbours were crowding in to find out what was going on. The brothers didn’t wait to enlighten them — cravenly leaving that to me — and disappeared with a practised rapidity that said very little for the Christian virtues of comfort and compassion.
To my relief, once I had explained the facts of Walter’s death, the women began to take charge as, thank God, they always do in such circumstances. The men were worse than useless, standing about and getting in the way, the more charitable amongst them murmuring that they weren’t at all surprised, the rivers claimed the lives of too many drunkards, while the rest muttered darkly that anyone who did Jasper Fairbrother’s dirty work for him deserved all he got.
After a decent interval, I decided that I, too, could slip away without being missed, leaving Goody Godsmark in the hands of her capable neighbours. But as I inched towards the cottage door, she noticed me and gave an ear-piercing shriek. Strong men flinched.
‘You!’ she cried, one of her long, bony fingers stabbing the air in front of her. ‘You! Chapman! I told you you shouldn’t have started my boy thinking! I knew no good would come of it! It weren’t natural to him. But you would encourage him! Brooding he was, all Tuesday, after you’d gone. Went out, but wouldn’t say where he was going. Came back. Brooded some more. Then went out a second time.’ Her voice rose to a banshee wail. ‘It’s your fault! Your fault! You started him thinking!’