‘They could offer one of his brothers the chance of the English throne?’
‘Precisely. Now, whether Albany’s flight from Scotland was really because he thought his brother, the Earl of Mar, had been murdered and feared the same fate, or because he received an offer from across the water, no one’s yet sure. My guess would be both.’
‘But surely,’ I protested, ‘no one would give up a royal dukedom for the life of a puppet at the court of Brittany with no serious chance of ever inheriting the English throne? Everyone knows that King Edward has two sons to succeed him. Not to mention several daughters in a land that has no Salic law.’
Timothy smiled. ‘Probably not, if the offer of the crown was the sole inducement. But if Albany really is in fear of his life … That’s why I said my guess would be that he’s influenced by both considerations.’
There was silence for a minute or two, broken only by the chirping of a cricket hidden somewhere in the grasses. The white flowers of water hemlock nodded like stars at the end of their long, coarse stems.
‘Are you telling me,’ I asked eventually, ‘that you believe the Duke of Albany to be in hiding here, somewhere in Bristol?’ Timothy inclined his head. ‘But in Jesu’s name, why? Why would Tudor agents bring him west instead of taking him south or east? Plymouth, Dover, Southampton would be understandable. But here? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It makes perfect sense if one of the most reliable agents you have – and one, moreover, who is an ardent supporter of the faction now anxious to replace Henry Tudor with a healthier specimen – lives nearby. Elizabeth Alefounder not only resides at Frome, but also has – or, rather, had – a brother in Bristol with whom she could stay without raising any conjecture. As for Bristol itself, it’s a port, isn’t it, like any other? Ships from many countries sail up the Avon and anchor here with every tide. And it has the added advantage of throwing Albany’s pursuers off the scent. King James’s men, as I happen to know, are even now looking for him all along the east coast, thinking him bound for France.’
‘But the ship that came to fetch him away was Irish-owned, the
Clontarf
. Its captain, Eamonn Malahide, was an Irish slaver.’
Timothy looked annoyed.
‘Is there anything you don’t know? Anywhere where you haven’t poked that long nose of yours?’ Again, he shrugged. ‘I have no idea why Mistress Alefounder made that decision. Maybe because she found it easier to make arrangements with someone who spoke the same language. Well, spoke it after a fashion, that is! Then again, perhaps not. But whatever her reason, she seems to have picked the wrong man.’
I nodded. ‘So it would appear. He had a reputation among his own kind for avarice, and in pursuit of money would sell his services to two sides at once.’
Timothy heaved an even deeper sigh than before.
‘And how did you learn that?’ he asked resignedly.
‘I visited the Wayfarer’s Return in Marsh Street.’ Even Timothy knew enough about Bristol by this time to need no interpretation of this remark. ‘My guess is,’ I went on, ‘that Eamonn Malahide was to pick up his passenger – in all probability this Scottish duke – from the house at Rownham Passage, where Elizabeth Alefounder would pay him his money to carry the man to Brittany. But in fact, Malahide would have made him a prisoner as soon as he was far enough out to sea, and then sailed with him to Scotland where he would have returned the duke to his brother and collected a fat reward.’
Timothy stretched and yawned. ‘As fair an assessment of events as I could have made myself. You know, you really are wasted as a pedlar, Roger. You’re an educated man and have all the makings of an excellent spy. One who could even become Spymaster General when I decide to retire. You should accept Duke Richard’s offer of employment, then I could oversee your training.’
‘You work for the King.’
‘Not for much longer. I have asked permission to rejoin the duke’s household and His Highness has been pleased to grant my request. I shall ride north to rejoin Prince Richard as soon as this particular task is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘But you hate the north,’ I protested, ‘and I understand that His Grace rarely comes south since Clarence’s execution. They say his hatred of the Queen’s family is as strong as ever.’
‘True,’ Timothy admitted. ‘But I love that man and I miss him. I’m even willing to live amongst barbarians in order to serve him. So …’ He spread his hands and gave me a sheepish grin.
I knew what he meant. Richard of Gloucester had always exerted the same fascination over me. But, unlike my companion, I was not prepared to sacrifice either my independence or my passionate affection for my own strip of ground for the duke or for any other man. All the same, I was glad to know that the King’s brother would soon have one of his most loyal and ablest servants with him again.
‘So, what would be a satisfactory conclusion to this case?’ I asked.
‘To find the Duke of Albany and take him to London as a hostage for the English crown. Our spies in France tell us that King Louis is busy inciting King James to break the truce with England and begin raiding across the border again, which, of course, could eventually lead to a full-scale war. The Duke of Albany could prove to be a valuable bargaining counter in this dangerous game.’
‘And you’re sure that the duke is somewhere in Bristol, unlikely as that may seem?’
Timothy scratched his nose. ‘When Robin Avenel and his sister learned – from whatever source – that this Irish sea captain was going to betray Albany and carry him back to Scotland, they were left with the duke on their hands until they could arrange for another ship to take him to Brittany. They must have hidden him somewhere.’
‘Why didn’t they leave him in the Witherspoon house at Rownham Passage?’
Timothy pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘That’s what makes me think that Silas Witherspoon is not of their way of thinking. That he’s still loyal to Henry Tudor. They didn’t dare risk him discovering the true identity of the man they were trying to get to Brittany.’
‘So, you assume they brought the duke back here and have kept him hidden ever since?’
‘Yes, until they can arrange to smuggle him aboard some other ship. And that could happen any day.’
‘How do you know it hasn’t happened already?’
‘To be honest with you, I don’t. Some of the Sheriff’s men have been keeping close watch on all the foreign ships tying up along the Backs, but there are so many of them, it’s impossible to stand guard over each one every minute of every day. But as long as I’m not certain that Albany’s gone, I have to stay and do what I can to intercept him.’
‘And if you were sure he’d gone?’
Timothy eased his thin buttocks against the hard ground. ‘I’d have to return to London and admit defeat to the King.’
‘Would he be angry?’
‘He may not be pleased,’ was the cautious reply. ‘But as I’m to leave Westminster soon, perhaps I’m not as afraid of His Highness’s displeasure as I might otherwise have been. Besides, my own guess is that Albany will himself tire of this charade. He must know very well that his chances of ever becoming King of England are extremely slight, if they exist at all. He’s probably just using Elizabeth Alefounder and her friends to find a way abroad that will fool his brother and all King James’s agents who are hot on his trail.’ Timothy got slowly and, I thought, a little painfully, to his feet. I realized suddenly that in the eight years since I had first met him, he had aged considerably. He stooped and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘So if you hear anything you think I should know, Roger, I rely on you to tell me.’
‘And the murder of Robin Avenel?’ I asked. ‘What do you know of that?’
‘I’ve told you, no more than you do. My one concern is to keep his name separate from my search for Albany. Let matters alone there, lad. Your friend won’t be the first innocent man to swing. In the interests of the State, it’s better that this death is resolved simply and cleanly.’
He pressed my shoulder once again and strode off in the direction of the friary. I sat where I was, watching him until he entered the gate and disappeared from view.
I
was conscious of an overpowering feeling of rage and resentment against the Spymaster General. I had never before actually disliked Timothy Plummer – I had found him pompous, irritating, self-important, yet nothing that was not eventually forgivable, if not exactly lovable – but now I was overwhelmed with hatred, not just for him, but also for his masters. The State? What new concept was this that could so dispose of innocent lives as if they were worms to be crushed beneath our feet? In the old days, men served their liege lords; living, breathing people who listened to pleas for help and clemency, who were open to reason and charity. But
I
had been threatened, my wife and family had been threatened, and now Jenny Hodge was likely to find herself a widow – and all because of this heinous, faceless new monster: the State. The wheel of fate and fortune revolves, my friends, but not necessarily for the better.
I realized that I was hot and very thirsty, but judging by the sun it was not yet time for supper. If I went home now, Adela would want to know where I had been, what I had been doing, and, above all, how much I had sold and what money I had earned. So, like many an erring husband before me – and no doubt like many who will come after – I decided to drown my grievances against the world in drink. I dragged myself to my feet, dried my wet hose as well as I could in the long grasses bordering the river, put on my boots and jerkin, shouldered my pack and set off back the way I had come.
The Green Lattis was full at this time of day, and although I recognized most faces, there were one or two strangers among the people crowded around the tables and seated on benches along the walls. I managed to catch the pot-boy’s eye and ordered a cup of ale before beating a local pieman to a stool that had just that second been vacated. The other occupant of this narrow trestle eyed me approvingly.
‘You’re nippy on your feet today, Master Chapman.’
I stared at him, trying to place the thin, tired-faced man who addressed me as if he knew me. There was something familiar about him, but for the moment, recognition eluded my grasp.
He smiled. ‘My name’s John Longstaff. We met at Rownham Passage a week or so back. You questioned my son, Henry, about two women you said had attacked and tried to drown you … Friday’s the day I sell my vegetables in Bristol market,’ he added, seeming to feel that his presence in the alehouse needed an explanation.
‘Of course! I remember now.’ The pot-boy set my cup of ale before me, slopping its contents as he did so, and departed to serve someone else with an equal lack of grace. ‘How is your mother?’ I asked. ‘She was none too well as I recall.’
Master Longstaff sighed. ‘Much the same, I thank you. Always dying, but never quite dead.’ He looked ashamed of this remark as soon as he had uttered it and continued hurriedly, ‘She’s looking after Henry for me. Or he’s looking after her, I’m never quite sure which.’ He set down his own beaker and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before continuing, a little self-consciously, ‘By the way, there was an odd sequel to your interrogation of my son.’
I raised my eyebrows and waited. He appeared to be faintly embarrassed, although I couldn’t think why, and twisted the half-full beaker of ale between restless hands.
‘When we got home,’ he said, ‘that day, I naturally quizzed Henry further about what he’d seen, just to make sure he hadn’t been making it up.’
‘He hadn’t,’ I interrupted.
‘No, no! I realized that. His story didn’t vary, however many times I made him repeat it. But a day or so later we were visiting my mother yet again and I had to help her to the chamber pot. Henry was in the room at the time, and afterwards he asked me why his grandmother wasn’t made the same as other women. I told him that of course she was. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.’ Master Longstaff took another swig of ale. ‘Finally, I winkled out of him that one of the two women he’d seen pushing you into the river – the one who’d hoisted her skirts up around her waist – had … had … well … had the same thing as you and I and every other man conceals in his breeches. Naturally, I told him this was impossible and that he must have been mistaken, but he swore – and continues to swear – that it’s true. Says he saw it plainly.’ My companion finished his drink in one gulp and rose to his feet, flushing deeply. He really was surprisingly shy. ‘I … I just thought you might be interested to know. I mean, I thought it might have some significance for you. I do hope you won’t take offence at my plain speaking. Well, I must be off, back to my stall. God go with you, Master Chapman. If you’re ever in the manor of Ashton-Leigh, come and see us. Everyone knows where we live.’
He eased his way out of the Green Lattis, now crowded to the point of discomfort, and left me sitting at the table, my mind reeling, while so much that had been a puzzle fell into place. Of course!
Of course!
What was wrong with me that I had been unable to work out such an obvious truth for myself? My wits had gone wool-gathering, atrophied by my brush with death, by my weeks in bed and by the unrelenting heat.
Elizabeth Alefounder’s companion on Saint Elmo’s Day – that person whom Edgar Capgrave had seen riding beside her as she entered Bristol by the Frome Gate, that person in a wet and muddied blue brocade gown – had not been Rowena Hollyns, had not in fact been a woman at all. I ordered another stoup of ale from the harassed pot-boy and ignored all attempts by the pieman, who had seized upon Master Longstaff’s empty stool, to enter into conversation with me.
I knew now that there never had been a third assailant in that room in the ‘murder’ house. The man’s voice I had heard belonged to my attacker in the blue brocade gown.
She
was a
he
, and I had no hesitation in assigning him a name. This surely must have been King James’s brother, the Duke of Albany.
I recollected a question I had meant to put to Timothy Plummer. Who or what was the Midsummer Rose? Now, with my new knowledge, I never doubted but I had the answer. It was the name by which Robin Avenel and his sister referred to their guest in case they were overheard by inquisitive eavesdroppers such as Jess. How Timothy had learned of it, I was unable to guess, although I doubted that anything remained a secret from him and his fellow spies for very long. His network of informers must be formidable. I swallowed some more ale and set my mind to working out what must have been the likely sequence of events.