Part 17 (1/2)

With seven of swords to swing at their will ...

At sovereign of swords in death swoon he must ...

Seven of Swords. Sovereign of Swords. Three of Thistles. The strange phrases from the prophecies referred not to arcane symbols or figures of allegory, but to the suits of the playing cards of the sort dealt by Katherine Swynford.

The faces of the guests gathered around the card table took on a sinister cast. In the front rank stood Robert de Vere, the earl's mouth set in a bemused grin at the sight of his knight losing badly to Lancaster's concubine. Behind him loomed the imposing bulk of Ralph Strode, taking in the game with a slight frown as Thomas Pinchbeak watched over his shoulder, bent forward like a raven at a fresh corpse. Beside him Sir Michael de la Pole, the chancellor, cold in the April evening, arms wrapping his frame. A dozen others surrounded the pair, all transfixed by this unfamiliar game: the cards from Tuscany, the strategies from Lombardy, yet the players wholly English in their allegiances.

I imagined myself watching them from above, these lords, magnates, diverse bearers of the nation's fortune. Had anyone else with knowledge of the De Mortibus made the a.s.sociation with the cards? Or was this my knowledge alone, shared only with those plotting against the king? And, I now wondered, was Katherine Swynford one of them?

'Not if I can help it, d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, and now with all the rest ...' A familiar voice, raised and angry, had barked from the cl.u.s.ter of shrubs at the range-end before fading into a loud whisper. Heads turned.

Chaucer, his features twisted in anger, strode past me without a look. At the sight of the lofty crowd beneath the canopy he recovered himself and affected a tired smile. He bowed to the a.s.sembled company, then without a word shot through the gateyard postern. I turned back to see Simon slinking away from the foot of the range. The light was such that no one else in the vicinity seemed to note my son as the target of Chaucer's wrath.

Later, as we left the palace grounds and rode to the mill inn with a small company of other guests, I struggled for words. I suspected I knew the source of the dispute but wanted to make sure.

'Simon,' I eventually said, my voice low. At my initiative we were riding last in the group and wouldn't be overheard.

'Yes, Father?'

'You had words with Chaucer.'

'I did.'

An owl hooted somewhere behind us.

'We talked about Hawkwood, and my homecoming,' said Simon. 'Chaucer had Chaucer has warm feelings regarding my decision to return to England.'

'What feelings?'

'Hawkwood-' He let out a breath, his head angled skyward. 'Chaucer feels I haven't acted in good faith toward the White Company. That I've made him look terrible in Hawkwood's eyes.'

'Ah,' I said, my suspicions confirmed.

'Chaucer said it wasn't easy to set me up in Hawkwood's service after after what happened,' he said, stumbling. 'Said he had to call in quite a large favour with Sir John in order to obtain a position for me. And that my unexpected return to England suggests that I haven't shown the trustworthiness he would expect. That it smacks of youthful indecision, as he put it.'

'He has a point,' I said wryly. 'Rather a strong one.'

'I suppose he does,' said Simon. 'But I was truthful with Hawkwood about the reason for my departure. He told me he would be happy to accept me into his service again if I return.' He turned to me. 'Have I acted in bad faith?'

I thought for a moment, pleased by this unexpected request for fatherly wisdom. 'Not toward Hawkwood, at least. You have given him two years of good service, and he's invited you to return. But you have acted in bad faith toward Chaucer. The courteous thing would have been to write him in advance, informing him of your decision to return. Seeing you at Windsor while thinking you were still in Italy? That must have been quite a shock.'

He nodded. 'I see that. But what can I do to make it up to him?'

We had reached the courtyard door and now stood in the road. The other palace guests were handing off their horses to the stabler and his boy. 'If I know Chaucer, it should be a simple matter. A letter. Doesn't need to be long. Short and sincere. Once he reads it he'll forget the whole thing.'

'Let's hope so,' said Simon, holding the heavy door.

Simon slept deeply the first part of that night, snoring on his bolster as I thought back through the Garter feast, wondering what I had missed. It had been an evening of tense encounters and interrupted revelations: Swynford's peculiar reaction to the name of Simon's lover, my epiphany about the cards and the prophecies, that ugly spat between Chaucer and Simon. Though I knew more about the prophecies than I had that morning, I felt my ignorance like a bad meal in the stomach. For the first time in my life, it seemed that knowledge, which had always been my privileged coinage, was failing me. There were things I was not being told, knots my mind seemed incapable of unravelling. And always before me the murder on the Moorfields, and the deaths of kings.

It was at some point during the smallest hours when I awoke to the bark of the keeper's talbot in the courtyard. The dog was quickly silenced, and I realized that Simon was no longer in our bed. I sat up, listening intently, and heard a series of low murmurs from below. One of the voices belonged to Simon. The other was too soft to recognize. I could make out nothing of the conversation. I went to the door and opened it a crack.

The hinges threw an angry squeal across the courtyard. The talk ceased abruptly. I crept back to bed and waited until Simon climbed the stairs, then listened as he p.i.s.sed, loudly, from the upper landing down into the courtyard. He cleared his throat, spat. He entered our chamber quietly and slipped beneath the covers.

'Everything all right?' I whispered.

'Just a trip to the privy. That onion soup ...'

'Right,' I said, feeling uneasy.

Hours later I awoke with a start, the sound of Simon's p.i.s.s, and his obvious lie, ringing in my ears.

TWENTY-SIX.

Rose Alley, Southwark Eleanor wedged herself between the barrels, her attention back on the p.r.i.c.king Bishop's alley door. No sign of Agnes yet, but she'd seen Millicent, airing a blanket out the second-storey window. It was only a matter of time before the sisters would make their move. And when they do, she vowed, I'll make my own.

Out of a larger house along the bankside stepped a rail-thin woman, a basket of laundry in her arms. She set it down on the street side of the gutter. A boy followed her out. They walked together toward the high street, leaving the basket of clothing for a servant to wash. Eleanor glanced up and down the lane. She stepped across and pulled a few garments from the basket. In the far alley, bouncing on her toes to avoid the filth, she shoved first her left foot, then her right down the stolen breeches. The grey doublet fit snugly.

It was not an hour later when Edgar finally got what he'd been waiting for. The Fonteyn sisters, their hoods cinched tight, left the p.r.i.c.king Bishop and strode with purpose toward the bridge. Despite the welter of affection and relief he felt at seeing Agnes alive and well, Edgar was also newly furious at her, and he was tempted to jump out and confront her right there, though he remained in place. When they had turned he took a deep breath and walked across Rose Alley.

St Cath sat at her usual place. A loud snore shot from the old woman's mouth. He waited for another, then stepped around her and slipped inside.

He stood in a small antechamber, dim with no windows. As his eyes adjusted he heard the choir: soft moans from the room to the left, rhythmic thumps from above. He crept through the lower level to the makes.h.i.+ft bakery. A squat oven, where Bess Waller's crew baked wastel and other breads for illegal sale across the river in London. A cutting block with an upside-down mas.h.i.+ng bowl. Two high tables with four stools. The heavy door to the rear yard was bolted shut, though the trapdoor to the undercroft stairs was open. From the s.p.a.ce below rose a pale cone of candlelight and two voices.

'Pickled twenty pots and here it be George's week with only two on the shelf?'

'Girls like the leeks and garlic, Bess. Gets the blood up, stiffens the c.o.c.k.'

'Tell them to ease off a bit.'

'Sure.'

'And you'll see about the cod? Half a barrel gone to rot, and the Bishop out good coin. As to the cider ...'

Edgar stopped listening as he surveyed the room. He made his way carefully along the walls, peering into the shelves past the crockery, the warmth of the oven on his skin. On a shelf above the hearth rested a small array of pious items: a copper candlestick, a small pewter cross, both of which he pocketed; a wood painting of the Magdalene, which he left. He had nearly circled the room when his foot struck a pan, sending it to clatter across the floor.

'St Cath! That you?' Bess Waller hollered up the cellar stairs.

Edgar held his breath.