The Green Man (4 page)

‘I don't see that,' I argued. ‘Not if King James wanted him dead. Besides which,' I added indignantly, ‘a year later he was in London, capering around as King Edward's honoured guest. I saw him myself when I was there at Duke Richard's request to solve that business of the young Burgundian … And that's not the only favour I've done His Grace over the years.'

‘The duke is aware of that fact.' Timothy stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked. ‘Which is why the whole affair of Albany's escape from Bristol was overlooked and hushed up. If the king had ever found out … well … that might have been a different tale altogether. However – and here, at last, we come to the nub of the matter – Albany has always remembered you kindly. He trusts you, Roger, as he seems to trust no other person, and he wants you with him on this invasion of Scotland.'

I had to wait a moment or two before replying as the children were, by now, rampaging up and down the stairs like stampeding cattle, but when the game took another direction and the noise faded, I asked tautly, ‘Are you saying that the Duke of Albany is a party to this invasion of Scotland?'

‘We're going to make him king,' Timothy smiled, at his blandest. ‘King Alexander the fourth.'

‘And what about his brother, King James the third?' I demanded. ‘Is he going to stand idly by while the English depose him?'

‘Probably not,' my guest conceded. ‘But he is very unpopular amongst his nobles and in the country at large – or so I've been reliably informed by those who should know. Indeed, members of my own network of spies tell the same story. I believe even his Danish wife isn't over-fond of him.'

‘And hasn't he any children?'

‘Three sons, but all minors. The eldest is, I think, eight. But His Grace of Gloucester tells me that in the annals of Scottish history, there is something called the Declaration of Arbroath which states that an unsatisfactory ruler can be removed by the will of the people and someone else elected to fill his place. The Scots, it seems, do not place so much emphasis on the importance of primogeniture as we do in this country.'

I drew in a hissing breath. ‘And you're telling me that the Duke of Albany wants me – me! – to accompany him on this harebrained adventure?'

‘That is the request he has made of King Edward. And that is the request King Edward intends to grant him. And who are you to decide that it's a harebrained adventure? Some of the wisest heads in the land have decided it's a plan that should be pursued.'

‘Then some of the “wisest heads in the land” have the brains of idiots,' I retorted vehemently. ‘Do they seriously expect the Scots to allow the English to choose their king for them? It hasn't happened in the past, and it won't now.'

For a long moment, Timothy and I stared at one another across the table. Then he lowered his eyes and coughed, but I knew in that instant that he agreed with me, although he would never admit it.

‘That's not for you nor me to say,' he answered in a flat voice, without any trace of emotion. ‘The likes of us obey orders, Roger, my lad. We don't query what we're told to do.'

True enough! But I still raised objections.

‘But why in the Virgin's name does Albany imagine that he needs me? He must surely have retainers of his own, supplied by either King Louis or King Edward.'

‘As a matter of fact, he has his own small household, servants of his brother, Mar, who escaped from Scotland to France after the earl was murdered.'

‘He was murdered then?' I asked swiftly. ‘It's certain?'

The spymaster shrugged. ‘Not certain, no. But there are always rumours, and the more colourful the better. The point is, Albany thinks Mar was killed on the orders of their brother. He's nervous. That, it seems, is the reason he wants you. Not just as a bodyguard, but because he's convinced you'll be able to sniff out any plots against his sacred person.'

‘This is ridiculous!' I exploded. ‘The man will be surrounded not only by his loyal Scotsmen and a whole army, but by the officers of two royal households as well. I am presuming that the king leads this expedition?'

‘That is the intention,' Timothy agreed. But there was a note of reservation in his tone that made me look at him rather sharply. He saw it and once again shrugged. ‘His Highness has been unwell for some time. His health may … just may preclude his taking part in the invasion. It will … It maybe His Grace of Gloucester and my lord Northumberland who will finally – it is hoped – win back Berwick.'

I gathered from these stumbling sentences, from the pauses and qualifications, that King Edward's health was a great deal worse than Timothy was admitting to. It was on the tip of my tongue to make further enquiries, and I would have done so, but for the realization that I was being sidetracked yet again.

‘You still haven't explained why Albany wants me to accompany him. Whether the king leads the army or stays at home, there will still be more than enough men to provide the duke with protection from his enemies. Or,' I added, as a sudden thought struck me, ‘does he not trust these wonderful new allies of his? Surely he doesn't suspect the English – his old enemy – of plotting to double-cross him?'

Timothy was betrayed into a laugh, but all he said was, ‘Your tongue will land you in trouble one of these fine days, my lad.' Then he agreed, ‘Oh, I daresay Albany's sufficiently uneasy to be wary of our intentions towards him once negotiations are opened with the Scots …'

‘That's after we've trounced them in open battle, of course,' I sneered.

‘Roger!' Adela cut in warningly, always frightened that I was going to overstep the bounds of other people's tolerance.

The spymaster nodded approvingly at her. ‘Listen to your wife, my friend. It's never wise to be too free with your opinions.'

‘All I said was …'

‘I know what you said,' Timothy snarled, losing his patience. ‘It's not necessarily what you say, but how you say it. However, to return to Albany and his fears. I gather from what Duke Richard let fall that he – Albany, that is, – is convinced that his life is in danger, not from the English but from one of his own household. From one of the loyal band of the Earl of Mar's retainers who joined him in France. He suspects one of them of being in the pay of his brother, King James.'

‘Why doesn't he get rid of him, then?'

Timothy sighed. ‘No doubt he would if he were sure which one of them it is. But he isn't. In the opinion of Duke Richard – and, I must say, in my own – it's nothing but a mare's nest. Albany is in a highly nervous state, jumping at shadows.'

Understandable, I thought, and was inclined to sympathize with the Scotsman until the full purport of this speech suddenly hit me.

‘You mean,' I demanded hotly, ‘that I'm being taken along simply to protect Albany from his own stupid fears? That is the sole reason for my being torn from my wife and family, simply because Albany doesn't trust his own entourage? If that's all that's troubling him, why doesn't someone provide him with a bodyguard from the levies? A nice, tough, burly foot soldier who'll slit throats first and ask questions afterwards.'

The spymaster peered anxiously into his beaker as though surprised to find it empty. Adela, to my great annoyance, refilled it for him. Timothy raised it in my direction.

‘Try not to be as stupid as you look, old friend.' I was about to remind him furiously that he was drinking my ale, even if he had brought his own victuals, but he gave me no chance, hurrying on, ‘That's just the sort of mindless violence we want to avoid. The chances are that no one amongst his household is trying to kill Albany, but if it should prove that one of them is, then we want the right man brought to justice.'

‘I see.' I recharged my own beaker and took a long, hard swig. I could foresee a rather nasty snag. ‘And if there is such a man, and if he succeeds in his object, but I fail to stop him, where does that leave me?'

Our companion swilled the ale thoughtfully around his mouth. ‘It could affect your popularity,' he admitted cautiously, after a pause.

‘Oh, undoubtedly,' I snapped back viciously. ‘I'd probably have to flee the country and offer my services to King James for having rid him, albeit unwittingly, of this Clarence of the north.'

Timothy gave another spontaneous bark of laughter and once more advised me to watch what I said.

‘But seriously, Roger,' he added, ‘Duke Richard firmly believes that there is no such danger threatening Albany. He holds it as nothing but a nervous disorder of the mind. Nevertheless, he is ready and willing to pander to the duke's wishes, and if it will make him feel any safer to have you along as his personal protector, then Duke Richard has no intention of gainsaying him. I'm sorry, my friend, but however little you may relish the prospect, on this occasion you have no choice but to obey. It's an order this time, Roger, not a request. You must be ready to accompany me to London tomorrow – a mount has already been provided for you – and from thence to Fotheringay Castle for an assembly of all the commanders and their levies on the eleventh of June, Saint Barnabas's Day.'

‘And if I refuse?' I knew it was only bluster, but I was desperate and there was no harm in trying.

‘Then you will come under armed escort, as my prisoner.'

I glanced at Adela. She was looking sick and white with the thought of my going so far from her and the children and with the fear that I might never come back again. I stretched out a hand and squeezed one of hers, trying to speak bravely for her sake.

‘I shall be all right, sweetheart. I'll be home again well before Christmas, you'll see.' I grinned feebly. ‘The months will fly by without me to distract you. You know you always say that it's like having four children to look after when I'm around.'

‘He'll be safe enough,' Timothy endorsed heartily. ‘And both Duke Richard and my lord Albany have sent purses of money so that you'll want for nothing, Mistress, in Roger's absence.'

‘Men!' my wife exclaimed scornfully. ‘You all think money makes up for everything. Well, it doesn't make up for a cold, empty bed or for someone to fetch wood and bring in water. It doesn't make up for someone to talk to after a day of talking to no one but the children.'

I knew this latter statement was something of an exaggeration. If two days passed without Margaret Walker – my former mother-in-law and Adela's cousin – visiting our house, or my wife visiting hers, I knew nothing of the matter! But I made no comment, merely turning my own reproachful gaze on our guest, even though I knew it was in vain.

‘I'm sorry,' Timothy said; and to do him justice, he did manage to sound genuinely regretful. ‘But there's no help for it. Roger must go to Scotland, and that's an end to it, I'm afraid.'

M
y first sight of Fotheringay Castle filled me with foreboding.

A great, grim pile rising out of the flat Northamptonshire landscape, it looked like some prehistoric creature crouched to spring and devour the unwary traveller. A heavy, brooding keep stood stark against the skyline. A double moat guarded three sides of this formidable fortress and a river, which I later learned to be the Nene, made up the fourth side of its defences. Within the massive walls was a huge courtyard, around which were grouped the living quarters, including the great hall, chapel and all the workshops necessary to make such a vast edifice self-supporting. In the event of a siege, it could probably have held out for months.

This, then, was the stronghold of the Yorkist branch of the Plantagenet tree, who now occupied the throne and to whom we all owed allegiance. Here, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, had been born nearly thirty years earlier, and here the bodies of his father, Richard, Duke of York, and one of his elder brothers, Edmund, Earl of Rutland – both killed at the bloody battle of Wakefield – had been re-interred with great pomp and ceremony a mere six years ago.

I have to record that nothing about it alleviated my feeling of deep misery and gloom.

I had left Bristol the day after Timothy's unwelcome appearance and accompanied him first to London where I was reunited – if I may call it that – with His Grace, Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany. The duke was lodged in Westminster Palace in a suite of rooms that did justice to his importance as a future king of Scotland, and one, moreover, who would be grateful enough to do exactly as he was told by his English ally. (A Canterbury tale if ever I heard one. Who was fooling whom? It was impossible to tell.) To do my young lord justice, he seemed genuinely delighted to see me, and made it plain from the start that I was to be accorded preferential treatment and never to stir far from his side. I was to sleep in his bed and to sit at his table, unless, of course, he was dining with the king or any other of his exalted kinsmen and friends. Even then, I was to remain near at hand.

Daunted by the prospect of such close and continuous proximity, I consoled myself with the knowledge that it could not possibly last beyond the first few weeks, when the duke would begin to find my ubiquitous presence as irksome as I would no doubt find his. However, his initial dependence on me was bound to make me highly unpopular with the rest of his personal servants, particularly if they had any suspicion of the reason for my inclusion in Albany's household. Fortunately, although the five of them tended to scowl and mutter whenever they saw me, I had no real idea of what they were saying, for each one talked in a broad Scots dialect that was unintelligible to my west country ears.

The eldest of the five, James Petrie, was the duke's body servant, assisting him with washing, dressing, undressing and all other intimate bodily functions. (I was very relieved to know that nothing of that sort was expected of me.) Although roughly of Albany's own age – the duke was, at this time, twenty-seven years old, two years younger than myself – he looked a great deal older, a tall, emaciated man with lines of care and worry cut deep into his face. His eyes were a fierce, dark blue beneath bushy eyebrows as black as his hair, a combination of colours often to be found in the Celts. He was naturally taciturn, so I was not plagued by his mutterings every time I hove into view, and, indeed, said little to Albany himself. He carried out his tasks quietly and efficiently and even gently, with the minimum of fuss; but whether or not he were fond of his new master it was impossible to say. I felt that he would have behaved in the same way to a stray dog had he decided to befriend one.