The Devil in Ermine Read online

  ‘I have four. The youngest is still in swaddling. My oldest boy is a young rascal but I love him dearly and I miss my Bess.’ Something in my voice spurred pain into her face.

  Was she missing her children? No, there was more. Some hurt there to be pricked further.

  ‘Sweet Meg, is that what Poyntz calls you?’ I set my winecup down and watched her green eyes cloud like a stirred pool.

  ‘Surely it is none of your business what he calls me, my lord.’

  ‘Does he tell you that you are the loveliest woman in England and your eyes are the green of emeralds? No? Oh, that is truly sad. What did he receive for marrying you? The castle on the Isle of Wight?’ She was looking down at the cloth. ‘Or perhaps it was your father who said you were the prettiest child in England as you sat astride his leg and played at galloping. No? Then, Meg, life has given you the short straw.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘Daughter to the Queen’s brother! Why, you should become one of the princesses’ ladies.’

  ‘I am well cared for, I thank you. I do not need to beg.’

  ‘Today you did and the time may come when you may again. England is facing civil strife because of your father’s foolishness at Northampton. Your family is on the nose, Meg.’

  ‘You are married to my aunt, my lord,’ she countered. ‘Doesn’t that give you some obligation?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Cat prefers shawms to my presence. We blow the candle out when we couple. Is that how it is for you, Meg? Come, eat some more.’

  ‘I have had plenty, thank you. I should go home now.’ Was I treading on the rotting stairs of a marriage? I tried another step.

  ‘You should.’ I agreed. ‘I don’t suppose your father or your husband would want you to eat in my company.’ And then memory struck me. ‘Jesu, I think I recall your husband now. He was sticking like a burr to my lord of Dorset’s mantle last time I saw him.’

  ‘That might be so.’

  ‘So would he be in my lord marquis’ company at the moment, do you suppose?’

  The telltale tightening of her lips betrayed her.

  ‘The Isle of Wight,’ I murmured, sitting back. It was a guess.

  ‘No.’ The protest in an instant, too prompt to leave doubt.

  ‘I think you need someone to protect your interests, Meg, and keep your manor house safe from act of attainder.’

  She swallowed. ‘Just what is your meaning, my lord?’

  ‘Clear as day, I should have thought. To be frank, since your husband is conspiring with the Marquis of Dorset, are you going to compete for Lord Hastings’ bed or will mine suffice?’

  ‘Is that a true offer?’ she scoffed.

  ‘Cross my heart. Think about it, Meg, and run home now to your lonely mattress.’

  Her hackles were still up but she did have manners as she took her leave. ‘Thank you for supper.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ I kissed her hand like an adoring gallant. But next time…

  HOW do you make an uncle king in place of the nephew when the uncle is too busy signing despatches and all you have against the brat are rumours about his grandmamma?

  The morning after Meg had supped with me (don’t mistake that I longed to lie with her but I had to be wiser than Hastings and tread carefully), I finally stumbled over the key to the future. The occasion? Mass with the Prince, my cousin and his lady at St Paul’s, followed by a banquet at Westminster Hall. Swarms of important folk crawled out from under their stones to dine in the royal presence including Bishops Alcock and Stillington, still glued to one another’s company.

  I caught Uncle Knyvett’s eye where he sat on a lower table and excused myself from the high table to go to the garderobe. He met me in the passageway.

  ‘Uncle,’ I whispered. ‘I need a discreet inquiry on the Bishop of Bath and Wells.’

  ‘Hoo, I can tell you about Stillington, Harry. Remember I was one of Duke George’s affinity.’

  ‘Ah, I had forgotten that! We’ll talk further. Wait up for me.’

  I returned to the feast. The boy king was merry and Richard’s Anne was laughing. It must have seemed perfect to the commoners stuffing their noses into the doorway to gawp and salivate. It was never so perfect again. A bush of wondrous flowers while in amongst our roots the insects gnawed – the Woodville grubs turned out of their holes by the Lord Protector's spade, the Lancastrian worms who hated the Yorkists, and above it all on the leaves I sat like an insatiable young caterpillar ready to nip off the young shoots.

  When I returned to my house, Nandik begged an audience with me. He had been showing a popinjay hunger since we had arrived in London, and that eve he was flaunting a blue fustian jacket and matching stomacher beneath his dark mantle. He was shaving more regularly now but with his crow black hair and swagger, and despite his learning, he still looked a desperate knave.

  ‘Your grace, at Northampton, you showed some interest in astrology. With your grace’s consent, if I had the exact date and time of his grace of Gloucester’s birth, I could—’

  ‘That is very generous of you, Nandik, but I should point out that you could have your balls cut off and stuffed down your throat for such a deed, and I truly have no wish to see your left shoulder in York and your right leg in Southampton, nor distribute your ashes after the bonfire. Have I made myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, your grace.’ He bowed and backed towards the door. ‘I just wanted to let your grace know, however, that the current position of the planets is in the Lord Protector’s favour.’

  Oh, Nandik was so hungry for a sinecure.

  ‘Thank you.’ I could have consulted a bawd from a Southwark alleyway and heard the same. To content him, I drew out a rose noble from my purse. ‘Here, buy yourself some boots to go with your new clothes. On your way out, tell Pershall that I am ready to disrobe, and ask my uncle to attend me.’

  ‘Is that all, my lord?’ He seemed astonished that I had not asked him about my own future. I did not need to. I had it already planned.

  ‘WHY this sudden curiosity about Bishop Stillington, Harry? Thinking of becoming Archbishop of Canterbury and need a recommendation?’ Uncle Knyvett sat down on the bed while Limerick lifted off my collar of sunnes and roses and Pershall removed my shoes.

  ‘It’s those lizard eyes.’ I slid my rings off into a coffer while my points were unfastened.

  ‘Savin’ your pardons, my lords,’ butted in Pershall. ‘Wasn’t he that bishop what got tossed into the Tower when George of Clarence was shoved in a barrel?’

  ‘The duke did not get shoved in a barrel, Pershall. He was privately executed and you are talking about one of my cousins so show some respect.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Oh, go and charm your way beneath a cookmaid’s skirts, Pershall. Out! I’ll manage now, Nick, sleep well!’

  I checked the door after they had gone to make sure none of the servants might hear our conversation. Limerick had taken on new men to cope with all the extra feasting and there was a fair chance some of them had been bribed to spy on me.

  ‘So what’s gnawing at you, Harry?’ asked Uncle Knyvett, yawning.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about George’s death all day. Is it possible that he discovered indisputable proof that Dead Ned was an archer’s by-blow?’

  ‘Well, you heard all the evidence in the treason trial, my lad.’ Uncle Knyvett’s sour expression told me he did not want to dredge up the sludge, but my mind was buzzing.

  ‘But I didn’t hear everything. That is just the point.’ I paced, tapping my fist against my palm. ‘All along, it was the King who made the accusations. I was just a cipher. Truly, it was…it was as if there was some hidden grievance between them that was never aired.’

  ‘There was a sackful of plaguey differences between ’em. The duke drank too much to keep his jealous thoughts to himself. Can’t we stow this until morning?’ He slid off the bed.

  ‘But did you not think it curious that his execution was done p
rivily, not on a scaffold before a crowd of his peers? Since I sat in judgment on him, I surely should have witnessed his death.’

  ‘Aye, so you should have, but I reckon King Edward was ashamed of killing his own brother.’

  I quickened to my argument. ‘Or maybe he wanted to make sure George made no final speech.’

  ‘They usually order the drummers to drown ’em out, but you could be right. Do we still need to chew the cud on this one, Harry? I am heading for bed. All I can tell you is that I was not in George’s confidence, thank God, else I’d be under a slab by now.’

  I could understand his reluctance but I could not let go the matter. ‘Wait, please think back, it is important. Who did George trust the most?’

  He shrugged. ‘Tom Burdett, of course. Poor devil, hanged, drawn and quartered.’

  ‘So he cannot blab. Anyone else? Bishop Stillington, for instance?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘As Pershall said, the King did shove him in the Tower for a while.’

  ‘True.’ He digested that and then said, ‘So what’s to be done?’

  ‘Well, I am resolved to meet with him. And since he knows you, be a good fellow and arrange it.’

  ‘Hang about, that might not be so easy. He is boarding at that fat slug Alcock’s house. In fact, I’ve never seen the pair of ’em apart.’

  ‘And Alcock is the Queen’s man to his backbone. You know what, uncle,’ I purred, ‘I feel like some serious religious discourse after all this carousing. I believe I shall invite Bishop Alcock, Bishop Kempe and Chancellor Russell to supper.’

  ‘Ha! Not Stillington?

  Of course not, I shall be seeing him while the other three are here. But, dear me, who is to entertain the bishops while I am indisposed?’ I offered my best smile.

  ‘No, Harry,’ he groaned, raising his palms to ward me off.

  ‘But there are just two weeks to the coronation, two weeks to play at kingmaking.’

  ‘Play! That’s an ill word for it.’ He swallowed and ran a finger beneath his collar. ‘Blessed Christ! I shouldn’t be encouraging you. They’ve still got some barrels at the Tower, Harry.’

  ‘It will not be the Tower, I swear to you.’

  AT four o’clock next day, the three bishops arrived to sup with me but by the time dear old Knyvett explained that I was in bed with stomach cramps, the cooking smells from the kitchens had them salivating, and they willingly stayed to enjoy the feast without me.

  At Clerk’s Well, the bells of the tower of St John’s were competing with the neighbouring priory to ring out five o’clock as I arrived for my assignation with Stillington. With Bannaster, Pershall and Nandik following somewhere behind me, I felt utterly at ease and rather relived to be free of my full entourage.

  The footpaths across the fields at Clerk’s Well were full of people. It was a fine summer evening and there was plenty happening: guildsmen rehearsing interludes, young men practising their wrestling for the August bouts at Smithfield and maidens kicking up their heels to timbrels. It is a district wholesome to the nose and more accessible than Southwark.

  Stillington was already waiting beside the stone curb that ran squarely round the famous well. He was clearly used to dukes misbehaving. If he was surprised to see his grace of Buckingham in a chaplain’s second best habit, then he gave no sign of it, but fell in beside me. No one took notice of a pair of drab clerics as we strode in the direction of Skinners Well. Judging by his sour expression, winkling information out of this wary churchman might prove as hard as getting a mother superior to roll in the hay.

  ‘You had no trouble slipping the leash, my lord bishop?’

  He scowled. ‘I have a friend I visit at the priory. Will this take long?’

  ‘As long as we like. After all, there is no need for Alcock to restrict you any more since the Woodvilles have lost their cudgels. I daresay you are feeling more secure about your future now.’

  ‘My future is in God’s hands.’ Oh no, not piety as a buckler!

  ‘Then you have changed your stripes, bishop,’ I clucked. ‘I thought your major sin was speaking out. Since when have you become so meek?’

  He folded his lips tightly. Well, it was a daft question so I offered to buy him a beef pie.

  ‘No, I do not want a beef pie,’ he said tersely. We walked in silence until he finally said, ‘Perhaps you would like to come to the point.’ Ah, that was a show of interest at last.

  Because I was missing supper and my belly was gurgling, I rebelliously stopped a pretty pie peddler. The bishop averted his eyes from the wholesome charms above the tray.

  ‘Here.’ I thrust a pie into his hands. ‘Let us just say my guilty conscience is prompting me to look after you and at last I have the opportunity to do so.’

  Stillington glared at the pastry crust and then at me.

  ‘You must understand that I was ordered to proclaim a death sentence upon your friend the duke,’ I explained to him. ‘A verdict I bitterly regret. But for his sake, I should honestly like to make amends.’ A lie, I am afraid, but I hoped it might thaw this stubborn cleric.

  ‘Aye, by the Blessed Virgin, it should not have come to that,’ he muttered, his eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the path and he bit into the pastry.

  ‘But now we have a change of government, my dear bishop. Our Woodville bitch is muzzled but, of course, there is not the slightest doubt that if she regains her authority she will have you murdered.’

  He choked. His eyes watered and his thin lips were flaked with crumbs by the time I had thumped him back to normal breath. Still distressed, he wiped a hand across his mouth and cast the remainder of the pastry to a stray dog. I unstoppered the leather flask from my belt and passed it over to him.

  ‘King Edward shielded you, is that not so, bishop? He did not trust you enough to give you high office again, but he wouldn’t stoop to your murder. I hope you say a daily prayer for him.’

  ‘I pray for all of them.’ He handed back my bottle and we walked on. His head was bowed, his clasped hands, like Pontius Pilate’s, writhing in the generosity of his sleeves.

  Time for pressing my seal on this softening wax.

  ‘The dead are dead, Stillington. It is the living that need you. Pray for Richard of Gloucester. And if you want to save your own skin, by Heaven, you had better make sure Gloucester stays in power, and there is only one way to be sure for all time.’ I took a deep breath and a guess. ‘Give him the proof he needs, Stillington. The apple from the Tree of Knowledge. God’s mercy, you helped him when he was courting Lady Anne. Why won’t you help him now? He needs to know for his safety. For his son’s safety. He’s not a jealous drunkard like his brother was, but honourable and just. Things need not go wrong this time.’

  Stillington did not answer.

  ‘For the love of Christ!’ I almost shouted, clapping my fists to my temples. ‘You did not hesitate to give the apple to George, pips and all, though the damned fool did not deserve it. God’s truth, bishop, why do you wait now, when the occasions is so ripe?’

  He continued walking, his eyes on the path before him, and the stray dog danced backwards in front of us, slobbering for further dainties. I began to think that any secrets were an illusion on my part and that I had been punching into thin air.

  ‘My lord.’

  At last! I glanced down at the old man, my fingers crossed. He was running his tongue over his thin lips like a reptile. But when he spoke, it was not the assurance I sought.

  ‘Am I to pray for you as well, my lord duke?’

  ‘Certainly, if you can spare any.’ I answered with brittleness and not a little astonishment. ‘What is the matter? Do you not trust me? Heaven preserve me, do you think this is a snare set by Bishop Cock-and-Balls?’

  He swallowed, clearly discomforted. ‘You are married to the Queen’s sister and… and you are the heir to the House of Lancaster.’

  ‘Yes, and I have been behind Gloucester like a loyal shadow ever since King Edward died. If you doub
t me, ask him. In any case, I do not want your secrets, Stillington, take them direct to him. I’m not a messenger boy.’

  ‘No, but you want the Bohun inheritance and only a king can give it to you.’

  For an instant, I was struck to stone like Lot’s wife and then realising we were standing on the path like quarrelsome lovers, I shook myself back to civility and turned on my heel.

  THE three bishops were still consuming some of my best Rhenish and malmsey when I slunk through the postern gate as stealthily as any cutthroat. My head was still reeling. I was confused, afraid and exposed, as though Stillington had peeled back the skin of my face to show the ugly mess beneath. I walked into my bedchamber, my palms to my eyes. The urge to scream and kick shook me.

  ‘Your grace? Harry?’ A pair of slender arms encircled my waist and a woman’s cheek nestled against my back.

  ‘Meg?’ I whispered, turning, my heart lifting like a lark. ‘Meg! Oh, my darling, you should not be here.’ My fingers touched her soft hair where it blessed her cheekbones and I feasted on her loveliness like a weary pilgrim come at last to kneel and wonder.

  ‘I was careful, my lord. No one saw me. I hid when your servants came back to turn back the bed covers.’

  ‘Oh beautiful, beautiful Meg.’ I kissed her then, savouring each caress of her lips on mine, and it was some time before either of us spoke again.

  ‘Your grace.’ She surfaced from our depth of ocean first.

  ‘Harry to you,’ I whispered, drowning in the green deep of her gaze.

  ‘Harry.’ She tugged at my sleeve. ‘Look.’ A strange mournful sound broke through the enchantment.

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘No, that was not I. Look!’ She turned me and I cursed.

  The skinny dog had followed me home. It had nosed open the unlatched door and stood halfway in, head and tail downcast. Only its eyes were raised in hope. I stared back and the beast’s tail gave a faint, questioning wag.

  Meg put a knuckle to her lips, reeled away and collapsed laughing on the chest at the end of my bed. The dog regarded her with reproach and fixed its baleful look once more on me and I began to laugh, too, and suddenly the world seemed good and wholesome again.