But instead of turning towards Bell Lane and the Frome Bridge, I walked up Small Street into Corn Street and crossed over to the New Inn (alias the Green Lattis) behind All Hallows church. Once in the tap-room, it wasn’t difficult to identify the strangers in our midst by their accent, so different from our own West Country burr, and I approached the four men to ask for more details of Widow Twynyho’s death, explaining my personal interest in their story.
They were friendly men, pausing for a night’s rest and refreshment on their way to Glastonbury, the elder of the four (father, he explained, to the other three), expressing his wish to see the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere before he died. They identified the man executed along with Mistress Twynyho as one John Thuresby, but the name meant no more to them than it did to me, except that he, too, had been employed in the ducal household.
‘What was the exact charge against them?’ I enquired, for although I had heard it from William Burnett, I wished to have it afresh from the strangers’ own lips.
‘Why, that they had poisoned both Duchess Isabel and her newborn child,’ the older man answered, handing me a pot of ale which he had generously ordered and paid for on my behalf. ‘And if you’re going to ask me why two apparently faithful and loyal retainers should do such a wicked thing, what advantage they gained by these murders, don’t bother, for I’ll tell you. The implication is obvious to the meanest intelligence. They had been suborned by those who wished to be revenged upon the Duke of Clarence, and had been bribed by them to kill his wife and child.’
‘In short, it was a Woodville plot,’ I said, sipping my ale.
‘What else? But there’s more to it than that,’ my new-found friend continued, while his sons nodded in agreement. ‘Duke George is out to prove himself King in all but name. And King in name sooner or later, if he can manage it. He’s never forgiven his brother for spoiling his chances of marriage with the Duchess of Burgundy, and there have been rumours in our part of the country for months that Clarence is arming his retainers like a man ready to rebel.’
‘But on what grounds could he possibly take up arms against the King?’ I demanded. ‘Even if Edward were killed in the conflict, he has two sons to succeed him.’
My acquaintance from Warwick hunched his shoulders. ‘If Clarence were successful, I wouldn’t give a fig for the lives of any of the Woodvilles, including those of the little Prince of Wales and Duke of York, for they’re both half Woodville, after all.’
‘They’re also Clarence’s nephews,’ I protested.
‘Maybe,’ put in one of the sons, ‘but there have been odd stories floating around Warwick for some time now. We’ve a kinsman who is one of the Duke’s Yeomen of the Chamber, and he talks of messengers who come from parts hereabouts, from Robert Stillington, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. It would seem that the Bishop and the Duke have much to say to one another.’
At his words, I was transported back in my mind to the previous August, to Farleigh Castle on the other side of Bath, and to the almost royal reception accorded by Clarence to Robert Stillington. I remembered, too, thinking it more than a coincidence that the Duke should be spending twenty-four hours in Somerset at the same time that the Bishop was visiting his diocese; and I had also wondered why, with such little time at their disposal, they had found it necessary to spend it together. Afterwards, I had considered myself unduly cynical, but here was proof that I had been right to be suspicious. However unlikely an alliance it might seem, something was being hatched between those two.
We talked a little longer about the possible future intentions of the Duke of Clarence, then I finished my ale, thanked the men from Warwick for their time and patience and wished them God speed on the final stage of their journey to Glastonbury the following day. The late April afternoon was already somewhat advanced when I emerged from the inn, and my womenfolk would be on the lookout for me, for I had promised my mother-in-law that I would not stay long in Small Street. And I had still not visited Adela to tender my thanks. I debated for a moment or two whether or not to leave my call on her until the next day, but conscience won and I walked down Broad Street, under Saint John’s Arch and across the Frome Bridge to Lewin’s Mead.
As I approached the cottage, I saw Adela framed in the doorway, talking to someone. It was not, as I had half-expected, Richard Manifold, but a stranger, a thin wisp of a man with greying hair, bandy legs and clothes which were clean and carefully mended, but which had seen better days. He had a slightly bewildered air, staring around him in confusion and biting his nails as though he didn’t quite know what do to. Just before I reached the door, he finally shuffled off, with a number of backward glances over his shoulder.
‘Who was that?’ I asked, stooping to give Adela a brotherly kiss on the cheek.
‘A kinsman, or so he claimed, of Imelda Bracegirdle. He’d come from Oxford, looking for her,’ Adela said thoughtfully, ‘and at first refused to believe that she was dead. The news appeared to distress him, and he kept saying, “She can’t be. What’s he going to do?”’ She smiled up at me. ‘I’m so pleased to see you, Roger. Don’t stand there on the doorstep. Come inside.’
Chapter Fourteen
I stepped inside a little warily and was immediately embraced about the knees by Nicholas, who seemed as delighted as his mother at my unexpected reappearance. I swung him up into my arms and returned his embrace, but something must have shown in my face, for Adela laughed.
‘Set your mind at rest,’ she said bluntly. ‘As I’ve told you before, a woman can be pleased to see a man without expecting a proposal of marriage.’
I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks. ‘I … I didn’t imagine…’ I began, but being unsure how to proceed, I gave Nicholas a hearty kiss and lowered him gently to the floor.
The brown eyes mocked me. ‘No, of course you didn’t.’ Adela motioned me to a stool and busied herself fetching me a cup of ale from the barrel. ‘How was your journey? What did you discover in Keyford? Is Mistress Burnett’s cousin behind this plot to defraud her, do you think? Or are you still as much in the dark as ever?’
The awkward moment passed, her deliberate spate of questions allowing me time to recover my composure, and I settled down to give her all my news, and to thank her for looking after Elizabeth and Margaret during my absence. This last she dismissed with a wave of her hand and an exhortation not to be so foolish. But for the rest of my story, it was perhaps natural that the arrest and subsequent execution of Ankaret Twynyho should claim the largest share of her interest, for its consequences might well plunge the country into another bout of civil war.
I tried to reassure her. ‘The King has never rounded on Clarence yet, however often Brother George has betrayed him.’
‘But according to you, the men from Warwick think that the Duke is plotting open rebellion, and planning to take the crown for himself.’
I leaned forward and squeezed her hand. ‘In my opinion they’re being unduly pessimistic. King Edward has always been more than a match for his brother. He’s always been able to mollify Clarence before matters went too far, and he’ll do so this time, mark my word. Forget it, and tell me about this man who came looking for Mistress Bracegirdle.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she protested. ‘He was only a minute or two before you, and when I answered the door, his surprise at seeing me was obvious. He asked for Imelda. When I said she was dead, murdered last January, he at first refused to believe me and declared I must be mistaken. Finally, when he’d accepted that I was speaking the truth, he just kept repeating, “She can’t be! What’s he going to do?” Then he saw you coming and moved away. Poor man! I should have invited him in. He seemed completely broken by the news.’