London (78 page)

He felt a little nervous, nonetheless, as he took a spare dagger and concealed it under his tunic.

To make sure that nothing was suspected, he next went to the house on London Bridge, where he received a friendly welcome. Nothing in Tiffany’s eyes suggested that she had heard anything about him. On his way out, he met Bull, who was as affable as usual. “I wonder, sir, if we might fix a day for the wedding,” he ventured. “Certainly, before June is out,” the merchant agreed.

When Silversleeves reached the Cheap, Ducket and the grocer were just taking down the stall. He hovered at a distance, considering his next move.

How did one kill a man? He had never done such a thing before. Clearly he must not be seen: he would need a private place, perhaps after dusk. It would probably be best to come at him from behind. But then, what to do with the body? Leave it? Hide it? Drop it in the river? Without a body, no one would even be sure there had been a crime. It would all depend on what chances he could get, he supposed; with some apprehension he began to follow him.

The two men started off as usual, pulling the handcart along the Cheap. They passed along the Poultry and headed across to Lombard Street, which would take them towards the bridge. But just as they reached Lombard Street, a squat figure, obviously a craftsman, hailed them and came over to speak to Ducket. After a few moments, the man and Ducket started to walk back towards the Cheap, while Fleming continued home with the handcart. Following carefully once again, Silversleeves found himself retracing his steps until the couple dived down the lane behind St Mary-le-Bow and went into the tavern there.

Luckily the place was crowded. Though he saw them at once, sitting together at a table, they did not notice him. He bought a jug of wine and watched them thoughtfully. The craftsman seemed unusually happy, even excited; he was calling for more ale. Just after it arrived, glancing around him with a trace of furtiveness, he handed a package to Ducket. A present of some kind, judging by the expectant look on his face. Ducket began to open it.

Very carefully Silversleeves edged closer.

It was a book. He could not quite read it from where he stood. Ducket had turned the first few pages. Both men’s heads were bowed over it now. For a moment, Ducket tilted the book. And, though he was nearly ten feet away, Silversleeves could see the single, large word that ran across the top of the page: GENESIS. It must be a Lollard bible.

He drew back quickly. A Lollard tract. What use could that information be to him? His clever brain considered it rapidly, from every angle. Then he smiled: a delicious smile. It might not be necessary to kill Ducket after all.

The evening was well advanced when Ducket strolled down towards the bridge. The Book of Genesis, safely in a bag, bumped on his shoulder. He did not want it, really, but had not had the heart to tell Carpenter. The solemn fellow had given it to him with such pride.

When he saw the two men advancing towards him, he took no particular notice. The first he recognized as one of the city sergeants who maintained law and order; the other was Silversleeves, whom he decided to ignore. Only as they drew close did he realize that they meant to speak to him.

“I’ll see what’s in the bag, please,” the sergeant said. Ducket hesitated, then shrugged. Apprentices did not disobey a city sergeant. Reluctantly he handed over the bag and the sergeant pulled out the book, handing it on to the lawyer. “What does it say?” he enquired.

It only took Silversleeves a moment to examine it.

“This is the Book of Genesis,” he declared. “And it is accompanied by a Lollard tract. It is all heresy,” he added gravely. “I think you ought to hold on to it.”

“You can’t do that,” Ducket burst out. “I’ve broken no law.” He saw the sergeant look at Silversleeves.

In fact none of them knew whether the possession of this material was technically legal or not. But there was no doubt about the danger of Lollard apprentices. “You should keep it,” the lawyer stated firmly, “until we know whether he’s to be charged or not. It’s evidence.” And the sergeant nodded.

“Where did you get this book, lad?” he asked.

Ducket considered. If the wretched thing was really illegal, he did not want to get poor Carpenter into trouble.

“I just found it.”

“Evasive reply,” said the lawyer. “Guilt.”

“You rogue,” cried Ducket in exasperation. “What are you up to?”

“Upholding the law and Holy Church,” Silversleeves replied blandly. It was too much.

“You devil,” Ducket cried. “You necromancer!”

“Ah,” Silversleeves smiled. “Necromancer. You Lollards say that the Mass is nothing but magic. Note that, sergeant.”

“I shall know where to find you, lad,” the sergeant said.

When Bull heard what Silversleeves had to say, he was very angry indeed. “Of course you did right to tell me,” he declared.

“I was not sure,” Silversleeves explained. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all, but I know Ducket is connected to you, and I feel he may be being led into evil ways. Could you not help him? Personally,” he added, “I think the young fellow is entirely harmless.”

“No,” Bull cried, “you are wrong. There’s been too much. Theft. Insurrection. Now Lollardy. If you’ve a fault, Silversleeves, you’re too kind. And you say he slandered you too?”

“Necromancer.” Silversleeves laughed. “A meaningless word. The heat of the moment. I thought,” he added, “that if it should come to arrest, you might speak up for him.”

“No sir.” Bull shook his head. “Not after this. In fact, I may have to take sterner measures.”

“Oh dear.” Silversleeves looked concerned.

“He is due to receive a sum of money when he completes his apprenticeship,” Bull explained. “I no longer think I should give it to him.” He sighed. “Bad blood, my dear boy. Bad blood.” Then he clapped the lawyer on the back. “To happier subjects. Marriage in three weeks. Get ready.”

That night, very carefully, Benedict Silversleeves destroyed all evidence that he had ever attempted to turn base metals into gold.

Fleming had gone out. There was no one to talk to. As Ducket sat in the George the following morning, it seemed to him that there was an inevitable order in the universe. You could not make gold from a base metal; and a low-born foundling could never rise above his sphere.

He was penniless: cut off completely. Bull had not even troubled to tell him in person but sent a message to Dame Barnikel who had broken the news to him. A young grocer with no money. What could he do? The Grocers Guild sometimes gave reputable young members some capital to help them get started; but what sort of reputation had he now?

“All is not lost,” Dame Barnikel had said. But she had said it with neither great friendliness nor conviction.

He was greatly surprised therefore, a little before noon, to see Tiffany. She was wearing a pale violet gown and a little ruffled cap. Her breasts were just covered and he noticed how charmingly she had filled out. She sat down beside him.

Dear God, how downhearted he looked. She had never seen him like this before. And it’s we, she thought, my own family who have done this to him.

“You probably shouldn’t be seeing me,” he said.

“Probably,” she replied. “But I’m always going to. Always. No matter what.” And she took his hand.

To his embarrassment, he cried. They sat together for an hour. She persuaded him easily enough to explain how he was given the Lollard bible – though he still refused to say by whom. But how Silversleeves had come to know, Ducket had no idea.

“I’m sorry,” she frowned, “that it should have been Silversleeves. I am sure,” she explained, “that he only meant to help you. I will have him speak to Father again and make it all right. We are to be married, you know,” she added, “in three more weeks.”

“You are? When was that arranged?”

“Last evening. Just after he encountered you.”

And now Ducket understood. Of course. The cunning lawyer had broken their bargain; but first, how neatly he had discredited him. Nothing he said now would be believed, because it would be set down to malice. He could be sure the lawyer had covered his tracks, too. Yet he must save Tiffany.

“Would you believe me,” he said at last, “if I told you that Silversleeves was not what he seemed?” And he began to talk.

He told her, without mentioning Fleming by name, how he had discovered Silversleeves. He told her that the lawyer had defrauded people, and that he was a most accomplished liar. He told her all he could. He watched her bow her head and look deeply thoughtful. At last she spoke.

“You say terrible things about the man I am to marry. Yet you don’t say who his victims are. You give no proof.” She looked up at him with distress in her eyes. “How can I believe you?”

How indeed? Why should she? What had he ever done to make her trust him more than Silversleeves? And if she doubted him, what possible chance had he of convincing Bull or anyone else? As he gazed at her now and remembered that day when he saw her with Silversleeves on the bridge, he realized with a force which smote him so hard it hurt, that he loved this girl, completely unattainable though she was to a poor boy like him, more than anyone else in his life.

“If you come here tomorrow,” he said, “I will give you proof.”

Yet could he? This question occupied his thoughts as soon as she had gone. Silversleeves clearly had gambled that the grocer would not talk. He had to persuade him. If he swore Tiffany to secrecy, would Fleming talk? Surely he’d see he must save the girl from Silversleeves. But even that might not be enough. Bull would demand explanations. Would Fleming be prepared to tell him too? And would Bull believe him? There was no doubting Silversleeves’s bland ability to lie. He sighed. Just now, he could not think of anything better.

He waited for Fleming to return.

It was exactly noon when Fleming finished the letter he had been writing. It was not long, but he was satisfied with it. He placed it on the box of peppercorns, then went to the door of the storeroom and fastened it. The other piece of private business he had to conduct required some care and he did not wish to be disturbed.

He smiled. With luck, it seemed to him, he might have found a solution to everybody’s problems.

They found Fleming that evening, when Dame Barnikel and Ducket had tried to get into the storehouse. He was hanging by a rope he had tied to a rafter. His letter was very simple.

I am sorry about the Poll Tax money, and all the other money too. It was me that stole it. I was trying to make more for you and Amy. Please don’t ask any more.

I want young Ducket to take over the business. He has been a good friend to me, and very loyal. He tried to save me but it’s too late. You can trust him.

When Dame Barnikel read the letter she only glanced briefly at Fleming. Then she turned to Ducket.

“You understand all this?”

“Yes.”

“He says he stole the money.”

“He didn’t really mean to. I promised him I’d never tell.”

“I thought you stole it,” she said honestly.

“I know. I didn’t, though.”

“He didn’t have to do this,” she remarked. But Ducket understood that he did. For though the rope around poor Fleming’s neck was the visible cause, the apprentice knew that in truth his sad little master had died of shame.

“You’d better take over, then,” Dame Barnikel said gruffly.

None of this was any help to Ducket, the next morning, when Tiffany arrived. “I’ve lost the person who might have convinced you,” he told her simply. “I’ve no proof.”

“So I have to take your word for it?”

He nodded. “I’ve nothing else,” he said.

After Tiffany departed, he did not move for some time. He did not know what she would decide. But one thing he did know. He would never let her fall into the clutches of Silversleeves. If necessary, he thought, I shall have to kill him.

Dame Barnikel was not often contrite; but the next morning, as she sat on her great bed and talked to Amy, she was.

“I can’t get over how wrong I was about that boy,” she growled. “He’s a little hero. Look at what he’s done. Saved Carpenter’s life. Suspected of theft. Took the blame for your father. Tried to save him too, apparently. Then Bull cuts him off. I bet there’s a good explanation for that too. And never a whimper. He’s a plucky, loyal fellow,” she concluded warmly. “Loyal.” And she noticed that Amy did not disagree.

She rose. “I’ve got to see about your poor father’s funeral, now,” she said. But at the door, she paused. “I know you want to get away from me,” she said quietly. “But don’t marry Carpenter. You know you don’t love him.”

The preparation for a wedding is a joyous thing. There were the dresses to be made, and nightdresses too. There were trunks of linen to be aired. Though it was still two weeks away, the cook and the fat girl had already started their preparations in the kitchen. Bull and Silversleeves had just taken a pleasant house on Oyster Hill, near the bridge, where the young couple would commence their married life. Even Chaucer had been pressed to use his influence at court to secure the promising lawyer a lucrative position.

Yet for Tiffany, though she smiled, the days went painfully. What conflicting emotions she felt. Could it really be that her childhood friend, the brave young fellow she loved like a brother, was lying? When she looked at the calm face of her future bridegroom, Ducket’s charge seemed impossible. Yet would Ducket invent such a slander? Was it in his nature? Or was that nature, as her father believed, fatally flawed after all? Which of them did she really know – the foundling or the clever lawyer who had courted her?

She had thought of telling her father about Ducket’s accusation, but she knew what his response would be. And wasn’t his judgment sound? Few men in London had a better reputation.

Yet, every day, as she watched the preparations for the marriage, something else still troubled her. Even if everything they said about young Ducket was true – that he was a liar, and Silversleeves a paragon of virtue – the question still came to her: what did she feel for Silversleeves? She admired him of course. He was pious, kindly, everything he should be. He seemed devoted to her. Yet despite this, her mind kept returning to that other conversation she had had with her mother long ago, when she had asked her: were there no perfect knights to marry? You’ll never meet one, her mother had said. So that was it: she was marrying Silversleeves and her parents were pleased.