[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth (18 page)

Matthew moved away again, leaving me to study the two young men. Jocelin d'Hiver was small and thin, with sharp, birdlike features in which brilliant black eyes darted here and there with an avian swiftness, watching everything and missing nothing. Geoffrey Whitelock, on the other hand, was as fair-haired as the other was dark; tall, slim and comely, with an attractive air, easy manner and a regularity of feature that was almost patrician. Of all the Squires of the Household on duty that evening, he seemed most at ease with his master, his head bent gracefully over the back of the duke's chair, his full lips curled in appreciation of whatever it was that His Grace was saying.

Humphrey Nanfan gave me a nudge as the servers filed on to the dais, and it was time once again to present the duke and his guests - who, tonight, were only the senior officers of his household - with pike in galentyne sauce and a side-dish of onions, garlic and borage. (I could not help thinking that the latter would produce such a blast of stinking breath as would put paid to all but the most ardently amorous advances during the coming hours of darkness.) This time I managed to keep my mind on what I was doing and discharged my duty without error.

Finally the meal was over, the covers drawn and the tables removed, so that the duke and his mother could better enjoy the evening's entertainment. Tonight the talent was home-grown, with the household minstrels providing music for dancing and the duke's own troupe of acrobats causing the seven-year-old Lady Katherine to double up with laughter until, loudly protesting, she was carried off to bed by her nurse and two attendant nursemaids. Berys Hogan, however, was not one of them and I noticed that she remained in the hall with the rest of us.

Duchess Cicely, still, at sixty, displaying the remnants of a beauty that had in youth earned for her the nickname of the Rose of Raby, was speaking to her son. The duke listened, nodded, kissed her hand and turned to scan the ranks of his retainers. Finally he found the face that he was seeking.

'Ralph!' he called. 'A song. Her Grace particularly wishes to hear again the one you sang the other night. The Trouvère song from northern France. Do you have your instrument there or do you need to fetch it?' 'I have it with me, Your Grace.' Ralph Boyse beckoned to one of the pages who hovered close at hand, probably hoping to be sent on some errand or other in order to alleviate the tedium of inactivity. The boy advanced and handed Ralph his flute.

I immediately ceased to take any interest in the proceedings for, as I have stated before, I have no ear for music. To me it all sounds much as a tomcat does when serenading his lady-love on the roof-tops; a sad loss, I've no doubt, for they say that music is the food of the soul, in which case I've known only a lifetime of starvation. But there again, they also say that what you've never known you never miss and I can testify to the truth of that observation. I leaned my back against the wall, closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift once more to that sibilantly whispered, definitely sinister sounding, overheard conversation.

Like a bubble forcing its way to the surface of a pond a single word now rose and burst among my crowding thoughts. 'Demon.' I let it float for a moment or two inside my head, considering it from every angle; but in the end it failed to convince me that that was what I had really heard.

Who would be talking so urgently about a spirit of darkness? Or was the word 'demesne'? Had my whisperers been discussing something to do with demesne lands and the disposition of property? Or was my mind simply playing tricks on me, feeding me false information so that it could get some rest from my incessant probing?

Instinct warned me that Ralph Boyse's song was coming to an end and I readied myself to join in the general applause. Even my unreceptive ear, now that I gave him my full attention, could tell that he had a fine and powerful voice, interspersing the words of chorus and verse with echoing runs of notes upon his shawm. He played a final trill upon the pipe, then his voice soared, clear and unaccompanied.

'It is the end. No matter what is said, I must love.' There was a moment's silence before the Duke of Gloucester and his mother led the outburst of enthusiastic clapping. I joined in as a matter of course, but with furrowed brow, for I had just been presented with yet another puzzle. Why were those last words familiar to me? Where had I previously heard them?

Chapter Twelve

Of course! Lady Wardroper had hummed that same tune and sung those very words to me three weeks ago at Chilworth Manor. It was a Trouvère song, she had told me, called
C'est la fin
. Was it coincidence that I had also heard it again this evening? Perhaps. But perhaps not, in which case there was probably more than one perfectly reasonable explanation for such an occurrence. Matthew Wardroper could have taught the song to Ralph Boyse since his arrival in London. On the other hand, the greater chance was that Ralph, being half French, knew it already.

It seemed that the entertainment was drawing to a close, with the duke and his mother debating whether or not to recall the tumblers or to request the minstrels to play one last melody in order to round off the proceedings. In the event, however, it was decided that enough was enough and Duke Richard, always concerned for the welfare of his servants - a fact largely responsible for the majority's unswerving devotion to him - reminded us that tomorrow would be busy and that we should take what repose we could this evening. He then rose and escorted Duchess Cicely from the hall, leaving the rest of us to go about whatever remained of our duties, before seeking the sanctuary of our beds.

Once the senior officers of the household had dispersed, however, the younger ones were less inclined for sleep, indulging in some general horseplay and working off high spirits still unquenched by a hard day's work. Humphrey Nanfan and one of the duchess's Squires began to wrestle, while the onlookers each backed his favourite and bet excitedly on the outcome of the contest. In duty bound, I felt obliged to wager on Humphrey and cheered him lustily as he and the other lad fought amongst the rushes, both, with a great deal of grunting and groaning, striving to get the upper hand.

'More bottom than science, the pair of them,' said a voice behind me and, turning, I saw Ralph Boyse standing at my elbow. He swooped suddenly as they rolled towards us and I saw that his pipe had toppled off the chair, where he had placed it for safe-keeping, and fallen among the rushes. 'You young fools,' he shouted angrily, 'watch what you're doing! You could have broken my bombardt!' A bombardt! Lady Wardroper had referred to such an instrument, and in the very same breath as she had discussed the song which Ralph had so recently sung. A second coincidence? How could it be otherwise? Yet coincidences always make me uneasy, in spite of the fact that they do happen, and that, frequently.

Nevertheless, I could not resist turning to Ralph Boyse with a question. 'Surely,' I said, I'm not mistaken in thinking that to be a Breton bombardt? It's smaller than our English shawms.'

He nodded, but made no attempt to return my smile. 'It has, for me, a sweeter sound,' he answered. His interest momentarily quickened. 'Do you have some knowledge of music?'

'No, indeed! I've no ear for it at all. But I thought I recognized the instrument. In fact, I heard it mentioned recently in connection with that self-same song you entertained us with this evening.'

He shrugged, stared, then narrowed his gaze. 'Aren't you the new Yeoman of the Chamber? The one who used to be a chapman, but who has now been given a place in His Grace's household in return for some service he once rendered the duke?'

I gave a little bow. 'I have that good fortune. I didn't realize, however, that my fame had spread.' Ralph Boyse merely grunted, subjected me to another penetrating look, then turned to speak to someone else.

Meantime, the wrestling bout between Humphrey Nanfan and his opponent had come to an end without producing an outright winner and several other couples were engaged in similar trials of strength. But people were beginning to drift away, either to their beds, conscious of the extra work to be done on the morrow, or to take a stroll in the soft summer twilight. For my own part, I felt a quiet walk in the upper air might help to clear my head, so when I had mounted the stairs to the Yeomen of the Chamber's dormitory I continued upwards until I reached a door set in the outer wall, giving access to a narrow walkway between two towers.

Below me I could see the river with all its traffic, still thick despite the lateness of the hour. Ships careened and skimmed across the shimmering water whose surface was stained now pink, now orange in the rays of a dying sun. A long ridge of emerald downs bounded the horizon, veined by trailing blue shadows. Clouds sailed serenely above me, their underbellies iridescent, pearled by the fading light. I leaned against the cold, grey stones of one of the towers and closed my eyes, thinking with pleasure of the night ahead and the peace of that little death which God sends at the end of every day, so that we can face afresh the trials and tribulations of the next.

I was so tired that I nearly went to sleep where I stood, only jerking into full consciousness again when my chin fell forward on to my breast. Forcing myself away from the wall, I walked over to the opposite side of the parapet and found myself looking down into a small inner courtyard where the castle bakery was housed.

Smoke poured through the holes in the roof and lights blazed in every window. While most of us took our rest, the bakers were preparing tomorrow's loaves; and tonight they would also be preparing the cakes and tarts, the pastry coffins and sugar subtleties for the next day's banquet.

It was almost dusk by now, the summer's day drawing gently to its end. A movement in one corner of the courtyard suddenly attracted my attention and from out of the shadows there emerged Lionel Arrowsmith and Berys Hogan. She was supporting him around the waist, carefully avoiding his broken arm, while on the other side he bore most of his weight on the crutch and his uninjured leg. As they made their slow and painful progress towards a door set in the courtyard wall they stopped every now and again to exchange a lingering kiss and to embrace as well as they were able. I could not but admire the Body Squire's single-minded determination, which made him surmount all personal difficulties in order to keep an assignation with Berys Hogan.

I continued to watch, drawing back a little behind the parapet, in case either of them glanced up and saw me. I need not have worried, however; the lovers seemed far too absorbed in one another to care what was going on around them. Finally, they reached the door in the wall, but before Berys lifted the latch, she and Lionel said a fond farewell, both her arms entwined about his neck. Freeing her lips, she laid a cheek against one of his, so that she was looking backwards, across his shoulder. Suddenly, she stiffened, rearing up her head as though she had seen someone lurking in the shadows. Avoiding another attempt by Lionel to kiss her, she opened the door and urged him through it as quickly as she could, then carefully latched it shut behind her. I dared not abandon my cover to obtain a better view and could only wait in the hope that the mysterious watcher, if there was one, might eventually show himself.

For a moment or two the courtyard appeared to be devoid of human life, except for the occasional baker's boy, who came to one or other of the bakehouse windows to cool himself and inhale some of the evening air. I was just about to abandon my vigil and return to the dormitory, having decided that I had misinterpreted Berys's actions, when a man prowled forward into my range of vision, crossed the courtyard and disappeared, like the other two, through the door in the wall.

I recognized the man immediately. It was Ralph Boyse.

Once again, as four nights earlier at the Saracen's Head, I lay wakeful and restless on my pallet, while all around me my fellows snored and muttered in their sleep.

Vainly I tried to interpret what I had seen that evening.

Ralph must have been a witness to the meeting between his betrothed and Lionel Arrowsmith, yet far from being consumed by jealous rage and rushing headlong to separate them, he had seemingly been content to do nothing. But why? And had he happened upon them by chance, or had he suspected that he was being betrayed and set himself to spy on Berys? Furthermore, if I were right and she really had observed him, what would she do now? Would she seek him out and try to excuse herself? Make up some story about being sorry for Lionel in his present injured state? (But no man would be foolish enough to believe such a blatant lie! No, no! She could, and probably would, do better than that. In my experience women are cleverer at deception than men.) Maybe Berys had seen nothing, only sensed that she and her lover were being watched, in which case she would most likely hope for the best, eventually convincing herself that she had imagined the whole. As for Ralph, it could well be more satisfying to dream up some deep-laid plan of revenge rather than to take instant action.

I must try to warn Lionel, put him on his guard, and persuade Timothy to knock some sense into his head about Berys Hogan. Tomorrow, I reflected, tossing and turning, might well prove to be an interesting day, provided I could stay awake long enough to play my part.

I resolutely closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, with such success that the next thing to wake me was the head Yeoman of the Chamber beating loudly with his staff of office against the wooden door and shouting, 'Every man rise! Every man rise! Daybreak! Daybreak!' And indeed he was right. Dawn was already filtering through the narrow, unshuttered slits of windows.

All around me, fellow Yeomen pulled themselves reluctantly to their feet, stretching their arms until the bones cracked, or rubbing the sleep from their still half-closed eyes. There was much cursing as we groped around in the semi-darkness for boots and shirts and tunics, coaxing into them limbs which felt as though they were made of lead. As always, there were arguments as to which garment belonged to which man, and accusations of taking one another's property, but in the end it all got sorted out with surprising amity and we were ready to face a new day. But as we waited in line to use the castle privies, then descended to one of the inner courtyards to douse our heads beneath the pumps and hack the night's growth of beard from our chins as best we could with icy water, I was recalling a dream which I must have had just before waking, and which still clung about me with the persistence of a cobweb.