The Green Man (12 page)

‘The purple velvet and ermine of course,' Albany snapped. Then, with a shrug of impatience, repeated the words in the broad Scots dialect that I found so hard to follow, in spite of some recognizably English words being embedded in it, like jewels amongst the dross.

James Petrie nodded, apparently satisfied, before adding something else that made Albany yelp in protest.

‘Daybreak?' He turned to me, aghast. ‘Jamie says we're entering the city at daybreak! Dear, sweet God in heaven!'

His henchman smiled grimly.

While the duke was still voicing his disgust, in both English and Scots, with some choice French phrases thrown in for good measure, I escaped from the pavilion and went to cool both my head and my temper amongst the other splendid silken tents, topped by their gaily waving pennants. I had strolled some distance, fascinated by all the bustle of a great encampment – the comings and goings, the toing and froing, the many and varied orders shouted and then almost immediately rescinded – when it occurred to me that I had left Albany alone with one of the men he ostensibly distrusted. Yet he had made no move to detain me; just as, four days ago, he had gone hunting in Sherwood Forest, quite content to leave me behind. There was something odd about it all. It was making me very uneasy.

The Aldermen were resplendent in scarlet. There were also dignitaries in crimson, who, someone said, were the Twenty-four – although the twenty-four what I never discovered. Craftsmen and other citizens sweated in their Sunday best as the common folk crammed the narrow alleyways in a wildly cheering throng. Every house was decorated with some token or another; a bunch of flowers, a tapestry hung out of an upper window, knots of ribbon in the duke's colours of blue and murrey. Women vied to get themselves noticed, flaunting more flesh than was seemly. (Well, not as far as I was concerned. I like the female form, but some, no doubt, objected.)

My lord of Gloucester himself, his face alight with pleasure and happiness, was presented with gifts of a fine milk loaf, ten gallons of wine and a great many very large fish, all of which seemed to be of the extremely pungent varieties. Albany, as guest of honour and future king of Scotland, received a similar offering, but not quite so generous, a fact he acknowledged with a small, ironic quirk of his eyebrow. And afterwards, there were pageants, songs and speeches by the score, and all before the sun had properly gilded the sky above the eastern horizon. For my own part, I groaned inwardly. I could feel in my bones that it was going to be a long, hard day.

Judging by the slightly jaundiced eye that Albany rolled in my direction, he thought so, too. But honour had been satisfied, and vanity appeased, by references to his anticipated kingly status and by the reverence accorded him – although any fool with half a brain would know that these blunt and honest Yorkshiremen were merely buttering him up to please their prince. That Richard of Gloucester was adored – almost worshipped – in these parts was plain to all; the love and warmth radiated towards him everywhere he went was almost palpable. It was doubtful if the king himself, had he been present, could have commanded one tenth of such affection. But not everyone was happy at this demonstration of unbridled loyalty: I noticed my lord of Northumberland, for one, looking as sour as a green apple.

Albany and his immediate entourage, myself included, spent the night at the Augustinian Friary, a favourite lodging, so I was told, of Prince Richard himself when he stayed in York. Tonight, he graciously ceded his place to his guest and withdrew to the Archbishop's Palace, with orders to his generals that they were to be on the march again at dawn the following day.

‘Such energy,' Albany complained in that half-mocking tone I was coming to recognize so well.

He was, I reflected, a difficult man to know, who revealed far less of himself than I had thought in the beginning. My original impression of Albany – both during our brief acquaintanceship in Bristol and earlier this year, in London – had been of a shallow man, motivated by vanity and petulance, envy and overweening ambition. He was not the first man, nor, doubtless, would he be the last, to resent having been born a younger son, and to aim at his brother's crown. But he was less of a George of Clarence than those who so dubbed him (behind his back, it goes without saying) would admit. Over the past weeks, I had come to realize that Albany was not so trivial as popular opinion made him out to be. There was an unfathomable side to his nature that he took great pains to keep hidden; a side of which I had had the barest glimpse just once or twice when his guard had slipped, but so elusive that I could not pin it down. A circumstance that caused me a good deal of apprehension.

‘So, what do you think of the great northern city?' he asked me as we lay side by side beneath the roof of the friary's guest-house, on a deeply filled goose-feather mattress in a bed with richly embroidered hangings. ‘This must be your first sight of it, as it is mine.'

‘A very rich city,' I said. ‘Rich by any standards, north or south. The castle's a bit of a ruin, but otherwise the buildings are well maintained with plenty of gilding and good paintwork. And the mayoral banquet tonight,' I added with a certain amount of bitterness, ‘sported enough dishes to feed the five thousand.'

Albany chuckled. ‘Plenty of rich leftovers, though, or so I should imagine.'

I snorted derisively. I didn't suppose that he had ever eaten leftovers, rich or otherwise, in his life, not even when he was on the run from his elder brother's court or in hiding.

‘Leftovers,' I pointed out with an aggrieved air, ‘are either cold when they're meant to be hot or tepid when they should be cold, and the saucers are usually wiped clean.'

That made my companion laugh outright.

‘Ye're getting too particular, man! Too used to good living. You'll have to get accustomed to common fare again when you eventually go home to your Jenny.'

‘Adela,' I snapped.

He turned his head towards me on the pillow and grinned.

‘I like you, Roger,' he said. ‘When I become king, I've a good mind to keep you with me as a lucky talisman.'

‘You couldn't,' I retorted sharply. ‘I shouldn't stay.'

‘You might have no choice,' was the soft response; so soft that it was like the breath of doom sighing between the bed curtains and gently brushing my cheek and making my blood run cold. I could have sworn that I saw the embroidered hangings stir.

I was seized by a sudden fear of never getting home again; of never seeing my wife and family again; after the fear of death, the most primeval fear of all.

My terror must have communicated itself to Albany for he grasped one of my wrists and shook it.

‘I don't mean a lot of what I say, you know. I was jesting.' He gave a sudden groan and sat up, his knees doubled up to his chest.

‘What's wrong?' I asked.

‘Bellyache!' He groaned once more, clasping his hands around his knees. ‘I knew I shouldn't have had second helpings of everything, especially the peacock. There was something evil about that bird … Ah! … And I thought the pike tasted a bit queer, but you couldn't really tell. The galentyne sauce disguised it … And I had three servings of curd flan and pears in white wine syrup … Eeeh! … For God's sake, where's the night-stool, Roger?'

‘Over here, on my side of the chamber.' I pushed back the curtains and sprang out of bed, hoping desperately that Albany could control his bowels and vomit until he was clear of my side of the sheets. I lifted the lid of the night-stool invitingly.

The duke, who was now heaving most pathetically, flung himself on his knees beside it and I held his head down over the pot, waiting for the inevitable. But although the retching continued, nothing happened, and after several minutes, Albany jerked upright and sank back on his heels, tears streaming down his cheeks, but with nothing else to show for this sudden spasm.

‘I–I don't think I am going to be sick after all,' he announced, wiping his face with the hem of his night-shift and giving me a splendid view of his powerful physical attributes. (In his time, he had probably made a lot of women extremely happy.) ‘The nausea seems to be getting less … Yes … Yes … Praise be! I'm definitely beginning to feel better.'

‘If Your Highness is certain …' I murmured doubtfully, unsure whether or not to replace the night-stool's lid.

‘I'm certain,' Albany replied, getting to his feet. He gave an apologetic smile. ‘At least, I think I am.'

‘Perhaps Your Grace had better wait a moment or so longer,' I suggested, ‘just to avoid a nasty surprise.'

Although the June day had been mild, a fire had nevertheless been lit on the hearth in our bedchamber, and now one of the logs gave a dying spurt of flame as if caught by a sudden draught of air. I remembered the other small draught I had experienced earlier, but which I had attributed to my imagination. I stepped quickly around the bed, but the stout oaken door was firmly shut. I lifted the latch and pulled it open, expecting to see Davey or one of the squires sleeping across the threshold, but saw only a blanket in an abandoned heap.

I became aware of the duke at my elbow.

‘What's wrong?' His voice sounded shrill. ‘And where's Davey? He was supposed to be on watch tonight.'

At that moment, the page appeared round a bend in the narrow passageway that led to the main door of the guest-house.

‘Where have you been?' the duke demanded angrily.

‘Your grace … my lord …' Davey stammered. ‘I'm sorry, but I had to use the privy in the yard. It's my belly, my lord. I was feeling sick.'

Albany was grudingly sympathetic.

‘You, too? Roger here will tell you that I've been suffering likewise.'

‘And were you sick?' I asked the page. ‘And how long have you been out there?'

He shook his head, as though dazed.

‘I don't know. Some little while. And yes, I was sick,' he added resentfully. ‘Why? Has something happened?'

Albany, still clutching his belly, turned to look at me with raised eyebrows.

I was forced to admit that, as far as I knew, nothing actually had. ‘I just thought that perhaps someone had entered the bedchamber,' I explained. ‘Draughts,' I muttered not very intelligibly.

‘Draughts?'

‘Yes, my lord. I was just being careful.'

Albany shrugged, wished Davey goodnight and turned back towards the bed.

‘We'd best get some sleep if we're to be up at dawn,' he advised, pulling back the hangings on his side of the bed, which had so far remained undisturbed.

I heard, almost with incredulity, the long, shuddering intake of breath that became a half-strangled cry of terror, and moved swiftly to his side.

‘My lord? What is it? What's the matter?'

Albany, bereft of speech, could only point with a shaking finger. Sticking out of the bedclothes, its blade invisible, was the haft of a black-handled knife.

We fell into an uneasy slumber eventually, but not before we had both partaken liberally of the wine in our ‘all-night' jugs and sat, huddled in conference, around the dying embers of the fire.

‘You see!' the duke accused me in trembling accents. ‘I have not been imagining the danger that I'm in. Someone has made an attempt on my life and only by the greatest of good fortune – my feeling sick and needing the night-stool – have I avoided being done to death while I slept. And you have been trying to persuade me that I don't need your protection.'

I was too shaken myself to think of pointing out that I, too, could have been asleep and therefore unable to avert the tragedy. My only thought was that Davey's absence from his post had been all too opportune. I said nothing, but the same idea shortly occurred to Albany, who promptly stormed into the passageway, kicking his dozing page awake with a violence that made the poor boy jerk upright, shivering and whimpering with fright.

‘My–my lord?' He blinked in astonishment at his master, but was still more horrified when confronted by an accusation of having deliberately deserted his post in order to leave the way clear.

‘No! No, my lord! I was sick. I told you! Something I ate at supper.'

His tearful protestations sounded sincere enough, and his white face gave credence to his claim of feeling ill, corroborated as it was by the duke's own bout of nausea. But it would have taken a shrewder man than myself to say for certain whether Davey's tale were true or merely a skilful piece of play-acting. The fact remained, however, that whoever had made this attempt on the duke's life could have had no foreknowledge of the page's possible absence from outside the door unless he were in league with Davey himself …

Then I recollected that the boy normally slept on a truckle-bed or pallet inside the bedchamber, and only lack of a bolt on the door had, on this occasion, banished him to the passage. Davey's absence might therefore have led the killer to suppose that such was the case tonight, and he had stolen in to accomplish the fell deed as quickly and quietly as possible.

Yet surely, I thought, as I tossed and turned sleeplessly beside the duke when we had finally decided that nothing further could be gained by continuing our deliberations until morning (and having decided, also, that our assassin was unlikely to chance his luck a second time that night) the man must have heard the noise of Albany's suffering as he retched and strained at the stool. There had been no candle burning: the light of the dying fire had been sufficient for our needs, but the hangings had been drawn back on my side of the bed and it could easily have been seen by the killer. On the other hand, a man intent on murder might well not have noticed the glow until too late. He would, of necessity, only have pulled back the bed-curtains as little possible before plunging his knife into what he imagined was the duke's sleeping form. Realizing his mistake, and that the occupants of the room were both wide awake, he would have withdrawn with all speed to try again another day.