[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth (30 page)

'Where's Wardroper?' I asked as soon as I found him.

'I saw to it that he was sent off with a party foraging for milk and eggs for His Grace's breakfast.' Timothy lowered his voice and pressed my arm. 'There's talk that we're to spend a second night here, despite the news brought in by scouts at five o'clock this morning that King Louis has raised the Oriflamme and is massing an army at Beauvais.

The chivalry of France, by all accounts, is flocking to his standard. Our lord and some others are champing at the bit in frustration. They can't understand the king's delay. But it makes me feel more certain that you have come to the right conclusion, chapman.'

The day passed uneventfully. Matthew returned with the rest of the foraging party and from then on Timothy and I scarcely let him out of our sight. Both of us were glad of the excuse to avoid the company of Duke Richard, who grew ever more fretful as the hours wore on with no summons to a council of war by his eldest brother. Indeed the king had withdrawn into his pavilion with instructions that he was not to be disturbed; a command easily comprehended when one of the higher-class camp-followers was seen being ushered into his tent. A report to this effect reaching our lord's ears, his thin lips compressed until they almost disappeared and his temper for the rest of the day was extremely short.

I received my share of the duke's displeasure when he told me curtly to get myself a new pair of hose and not to enter his presence again in such a condition. I had forgotten the great hole scorched in one leg by the fire and went off, duly chastened, to find the Livery Sergeant. His Grace was in no better mood by nightfall, when he suddenly emerged, grim-faced, from his tent, two of his Squires at his heels, and headed at a brisk pace in the direction of his eldest brother's pavilion. I glanced inquiringly at my fellow guard, but this worthy merely shrugged and muttered that he would not care to risk the duke's anger by following where he was not bidden.

'Then I must go alone,' I said and, by running after my quarry, was able to catch up the duke and his Squires just as they entered the king's tent, and managed to slip in behind them without being noticed.

In the guttering torchlight which filled the confined space with a veil of smoke I could make out King Edward sitting at a table with some of his captains - Louis de Bretaylle, the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Hastings. The Duke of Clarence was kneeling on the ground playing dice with Earl Rivers and the Marquess of Dorset, while the Duke of Suffolk stood a little apart, swigging wine from a leather bottle. Just inside the tent opening Lord Stanley and John Morton drew aside to allow Duke Richard's unimpeded progress, but neither man could have been flattered by the unseeing way in which he swept past them.

The conversation was turning upon that ever-fruitful topic, Charles of Burgundy.

'Shall I ever forget,' the king was demanding half-laughingly of Lord Hastings, 'his audacity in arriving in Calais with only a bodyguard, as coolly as if he had brought all the troops he had promised me...' He broke off at the sight of his youngest brother and Duke Richard's tense expression. He flung up a hand. 'All right! All right, Dickon! I know you've come to reproach me! But we are on the march again tomorrow. You have my solemn oath.' The duke's set features relaxed a little. 'Not before time,' he murmured gruffly; and a moment or two later, after receiving further reassurances from King Edward, his sudden and unexpected sense of humour reasserted itself.

When Louis de Bretaylle complained that Duke Charles had brought not one man of that vast army which was to have been Burgundy's contribution to the war he said, smiling, 'But my dear Louis, my brother-in-law admitted himself that we don't need him. And what he lacked in men he made up for in encouragement.'

The king and Lord Hastings began to laugh.

'Charles's self-esteem is so great,' the former grinned, 'that it's almost disarming. He had the effrontery to suggest that once I had crushed the French by sheer weight of numbers he would be happy to give me his advice on the trickier aspects of an Italian campaign.'

It was at this moment that I lost all interest in what His Highness was saying. I suddenly realized that Duke Richard had moved to one side of the tent, his back almost touching its silken wall, and was, moreover, standing in the full glare of a branch of candles placed on a small camptable. From outside, his outline must be immediately recognizable to anyone who knew him well; for not only was he small of stature, but the long, swinging curtain of hair brushed shoulders which were not quite equal in size.

(I had been told that as a still-growing child of eleven, fighting for his eldest brother, his right breast and upper sword-arm had developed faster than his left, leaving him with a very slightly lopsided appearance.) These three bodily characteristics, height, hair, shoulders, together made him easy to identify.

Even as I spotted the possible danger the thing which must have unconsciously attracted my attention to it in the first place happened again: there was a faint trembling of the silken wall, as though someone were creeping close to it outside. I plunged through the tent opening into the darkness, startling the king's sentries who were guarding the entrance. Before they had time to gather their wits or challenge me I had raced around the side of the tent and was just in time to see a shadowy figure raise an arm high above its head. I caught the gleam of metal and knew that the descending hand must hold a knife.

I was still too far away to grab our assassin and the only course left to me was to shout. After all these years I have no notion what I said, and probably had no clear idea then.

But whatever I yelled, it was loud enough and fierce enough not simply to deflect our would-be murderer's aim as he plunged his blade through the ripping silk, but also to frighten him into instant flight. I was but vaguely aware of Duke Richard crying out, followed by a general uproar inside the tent, for I was already in full pursuit of my quarry as he stumbled away across the water-logged ground, his feet slithering all ways on the soaking grass.

'I'm going to lose him,' I thought desperately, as my own boots slipped in a patch of mud, nearly sending me sprawling. But I had reckoned without the commotion waking most of the surrounding camp. As men staggered to their feet, blinking owlishly through the gloom, I cried, 'Treason! Stop that man!'

By now, both sentries and most of the occupants of the king's tent had joined in the hunt, haring across the wet ground, cursing as they stumbled over sleeping men, calling for torches to be brought. Others had appeared from all quarters of the camp and I suddenly found Timothy Plummer at my side.

'Duke Richard,' I panted. 'Is he all right?'
 

'A nasty gash in his upper left arm, but nothing to signify. A clean wound, quickly mended.' He gasped in some air. 'Was it Matthew Wardroper you saw?'

'Until we catch him I can't say for sure, although in my own mind I'm certain... There he goes!' I yelled at the top of my lungs. 'There he goes! Heading for the Tramecourt woods. '

But that fleeing figure had already been spotted by others and there was a sudden shout of triumph as the miscreant was brought crashing to the ground. As we all crowded breathlessly around, torches and firebrands were raised to illuminate the heaving, furiously writhing figure, and someone stooped, seizing the chin and twisting the contorted face up towards the light.

Timothy gave a grunt of satisfaction. 'Matthew Wardroper,' he said.

I shook my head. 'No, not Matthew. He's been dead and buried these many weeks.'

Chapter Twenty

Everyone stared. At last Timothy voiced the general question.

'What in God's name do you mean?'

'What I said. This isn't Matthew Wardroper. If my guess is correct, his body lies somewhere in a clearing in the woods near his home.' I stirred the figure on the ground with my toe. 'Am I right? I don't know how you killed him. With a knife, probably, that seems to be your favourite weapon. But he's buried near that empty shrine.'

The brown eyes stared up at me, full of malevolence, but there was no answer.

Lord Hastings, who had arrived with the king and a few other lords, demanded harshly, 'Then if this isn't.., well, whoever you thought he was, who is it?' He glared down at the prisoner. 'Speak up! Who are you? You might as well tell us because we shall get it out of you, one way or the other. Speak up, you miserable traitor!'

'I'm no traitor!' the reply came, hot with indignation. 'I'm Julien d'Amboise. My mother was English, but my father is the Comte d'Amboise and I'm a true liegeman of King Louis!'

'A likely story,' snorted the Duke of Suffolk. 'If that's the case, why are you trying to murder my brother-in-law of Gloucester?'

I had been watching the king closely ever since the young man had revealed his true identity and now saw the sudden half-turn of his head towards his Master of the Rolls, who was standing just behind him. Immediately, John Morton stepped forward saying smoothly, 'This inquisition can surely be conducted elsewhere. His Highness must be wishful of discovering how my lord of Gloucester does - as indeed we all are - so let Monsieur d'Amboise, if that really is his name, be put under close guard and escorted to some safe place where he can be interrogated later.'

The king nodded his approval. 'Put Monsieur d'Amboise in chains until the morning, when I shall send my own men to question him. At once! Now then!' He flung an arm around Lord Hastings's shoulders. 'Let's go and find Dickon.'

I sat with Timothy Plummer in the Duke of Gloucester's tent, the two of us having been summoned by His Grace when the fuss had at last died down and the camp was quieter. On our way there Timothy had whispered urgently to me, 'Whatever other answers you give Duke Richard, you know of no reason why the French should want to kill him - that is, unless you wish to fall foul of King Edward.'

I understood his warning. If the king's future conduct precipitated a quarrel between him and his youngest brother that was one thing, but for a mere underling to cause strife on account of what might still prove to be wild speculation was quite another.

'You can trust me,' I assured him.

Duke Richard, stripped of his doublet, his upper left arm swathed in linen and the wrist supported by a strap, was sitting on the edge of his camp-bed, unattended except for one sleepy page. When Timothy and I were ushered into his presence he bade us draw up stools and make ourselves comfortable. The page was roused from his torpor to pour us wine, then allowed to return to his corner again and doze.

'You see, chapman,' the duke said with a smile, 'that I presume all danger is past, now that you have caught my would-be assassin. Once more, I am deeply in your debt.'

'I am always happy to be of service to Your Grace.'
 

'In that case satisfy my curiosity and tell me how you knew that Matthew Wardroper was dead and that an imposter had taken his place.'

I sipped my wine, warily eyeing the goblet of fine Venetian glass in which it had been served. I was afraid my clumsiness could easily destroy this beautiful object and I sympathized with the packers and porters whose job it was to transport such things.

'In order to answer that question, Your Grace,' I began, 'I must first describe how God directed my steps to Southampton and then to London.' And I filled in the background to my story as best I could. When I had finished the duke nodded and Timothy stirred impatiently.

I went on, 'There were several things, my lord, which should have made me suspect the truth from the start, if I'd had my wits about me. One of these was that the shepherd's dame told me how alike were Matthew and his mother. "Eyes, hair, features," she said. But whereas Lady Wardroper's eyes are blue, those of Julien d'Amboise are brown. Now, although I have never seen Sir Cedric Wardroper, I suspect that his, too, are of that same colour, for Amice Gentle remarked that although Matthew, as she thought him, had his mother's delicate features and dark hair, he had his father's eyes.'

'Continue,' urged the duke as I paused again to drink.

'While I was with Lady Wardroper she sang a few words of
C'est la fin
. She asked me if I cared for music, adding that she knew no man who did. Is it possible she would have said so if her own son both played and sang, as our false Matthew does?'

'Very unlikely,' Duke Richard agreed. 'Proceed.' 'One of the things which always puzzled me was the way Wardroper, or d'Amboise as I suppose we now must call him, sometimes gave the impression of being two different people. Mostly he appeared to be what he was meant to be, a light-hearted, somewhat feckless young man. But there were moments when he seemed quite otherwise: astute and far more worldly wise. I should have thought more about it and asked myself why.'

'I suppose d'Amboise could not prevent his own character from now and then showing through,' said the duke. 'But you judge yourself too harshly, Roger. You could not be expected to guess the reason.'

I shook my head and placed the precious goblet, now empty, carefully on the ground beside me. 'I cannot forgive myself so easily, Your Grace. All these things, together with the fact that I should have suspected him sooner of Thaddeus Morgan's murder, would have prevented you much unease.'

'When did you first begin to guess the truth?' asked Timothy.

I rubbed my chin. 'I think, but without realizing it, it was one evening in Calais, when the man I thought to be Matthew Wardroper and I were sitting drinking outside the inn. Jocelin d'Hiver and one of his Burgundian friends appeared and spoke to him in French, which he perfectly understood and replied to without any difficulty. Yet Matthew Wardroper, according to Master Gentle, the Southampton butcher, knew very little French.' The duke frowned as he finished his wine and twirled the empty goblet between his long, thin fingers. The light of the candles made it glow with myriad rainbow colours. 'But how did King Louis's spy-masters know what Matthew Wardroper looked like?'