Part 29 (1/2)

FORTY-THREE.

St Leonard's Bromley In the parlour Millicent sat at the prioress's feet, watching John Gower. A tall man, quiet but confident, handsome if somewhat gaunt, with a neatly trimmed beard and a peculiar cast to his aquamarine eyes. These were piercing yet somehow clouded and he blinked frequently at times, as if warding off a troublesome gnat. Millicent had heard the name before, a whisper of disapproval from Sir Humphrey ap-Roger in one of his frequent fits of pique at the vagaries of courtly politics. She could tell Gower was troubled, or else hadn't slept in weeks. Dark crescents smeared beneath those curious eyes, his spine a tired arc. Yet he seemed to have the trust of the prioress.

With her work obscured by Isabel's robes, Millicent listened as the two of them discussed it all. The book, the prophecies, a futile search at Oxford, the fate of his missing son. It was amazing, what he said. For during the same span of weeks in which she had sought to sell the book, this man had been searching urgently for it, and would have been happy to part with a great sum to procure it yet Millicent had never crossed paths with him, nor even heard of his existence. Now here they were at St Leonard's Bromley, neither in possession of the ma.n.u.script, yet both intent on forestalling the threat to King Richard this evil work embodied.

'You haven't seen the book yourself?' Isabel asked him.

'Not the original,' he replied. 'Though I have read the De Mortibus in a copy.'

'And you believe we have this book here at Bromley?'

'No, Reverend Mother. Not the book.'

'You've come about the cloth, then.'

'I was told by a certain well, a certain procuress of my acquaintance-'

'A procuress, Gower?'

'-a bawd of Rose Alley-'

'A bawd?'

'-by a bawd of Rose Alley-'

'Not of your warm acquaintance, I should hope.'

'I only met her yesterday.'

'And she told you what?'

'That I should ask after her daughter, Millicent. That I would find her here, at St Leonard's.'

'And what is the significance of this cloth, Master Gower?'

'I have been told that it is embroidered with the livery of the supposed conspirators against King Richard. That it reveals their ident.i.ty without question.'

'So this cloth must be revealed, to preserve the life of the king against his would-be a.s.sa.s.sins?'

Gower hesitated. 'Or be destroyed. This entire affair, I believe, is a fabrication, an attempt to make an innocent lord appear guilty of the worst crime imaginable.'

'Oxford's doing, of course.'

Gower stared at her. 'How-'

'Oh, you're not the only one with good sources, Gower.' She cast a sidelong look at Millicent.

'Yes, Reverend Mother.' He cleared his throat, blinked those eyes. 'In any case, the feast of St Dunstan is in a week. The king will appear at a great feast at the Bishop of Winchester's palace. The details of the prophecy suggest the attempt on Richard will happen there.'

'When, precisely?'

'The prophecy maintains that the a.s.sa.s.sin will spring forth ”at spiritus sung”. I believe this refers to a processional proper to that day. Evidently the attempt on Richard's life will take place during its performance. At ”Prince of Plums”, so the prophecy reads.'

'A curious phrase, Prince of Plums.'

'I believe it refers to a game of cards.'

'Cards.'

'Playing cards, Prioress. They're all the rage at court. Swynford herself owns a deck, and is known for inventing new games. The plums, thistleflowers, hawks, and swords are suits with cards ranging from one to nine in each suit, and face cards ordered as princes, dukes, queens, and kings.'

Seven of Swords, Millicent thought with a thrill, finally understanding the strange symbols positioned around the centre of the cloth.

'So then.' She tightened her habit, spreading the material tautly across her knees. 'It all comes down to the cloth.'

'The cloth is the key to the book. If we can-'

'We have it.'

A pause. 'I suspected as much, Prioress.'

'Allow me to present Millicent Fonteyn, one of our laysisters. She brought the cloth here several days ago. Millicent, explain how it came to you.'

Millicent stood and Gower raised his chin, watching as she haltingly began her account. She watched his face in turn, noting the flickers in his eyes, the changes in his colour as he heard her story. He interrupted her to ask questions, probe the details, and it was in those moments of heightened attention that his eyes remained open and unblinking. He was taken with her intricate memory of the prophecies, which seemed to match his own knowledge. When she had finished she bowed her head and waited.

Isabel said, 'Show him the cloth.'

Millicent reached for her work.

'The other one.'

She turned to Isabel's great chair and lifted the original cloth from the back. She held it out for Gower's inspection, seeing through his eyes the violent scene of treason limned in thread of so many hues: the boyish face of a crowned prince or king, his brows knit together, his mouth opened in a cry of surprise; the long knife pointed at his heart; the bearded face of the attacker, scowling as he aimed the weapon at the royal breast; the heraldry of England's greatest magnate, poised against the royal livery of his victim.

Gower slowly shook his head. 'Lancaster, of course. The obvious suspect.'

'Quite,' said Isabel. 'The cloth is clearly an attempt to incriminate Gaunt, to make him seem the prophesied slayer of his nephew.'

'Though-'