14 - The Burgundian's Tale Read Online Free Page A

nestling, as Timothy had said, among the sweet-smelling grocers’ and apothecaries’ shops, I found the inn of St Brendan the Voyager still with its sign of the saint and his disciples in their skin-covered coracle, being kept afloat by the good offices of a sea monster.
    I thought Reynold Makepeace might have forgotten me after more than two years, but he greeted me as though I were his long-lost brother, enquired solicitously after Adela and the children, and generally made me so welcome that I even began to enjoy this unsought and begrudged visit to the capital.
    ‘As luck would have it,’ he said, ‘you can have the same chamber that you shared with your wife. It was vacated only this morning by a merchant from Nottingham who had business in the city. And when I talk about luck, I mean it. London’s seething at the moment with people pouring in to catch a glimpse of Duchess Margaret. Many of the larger, more important inns have been commandeered for members of her retinue. Your guardian angel must be watching over you, guiding your footsteps here.’
    The room was exactly as I remembered it – small, but spotlessly clean, opening off a gallery that ringed three sides of the Voyager’s inner courtyard. The bed, which took up most of the space, still sported the same goose-feather mattress and down-filled pillows. There were no other furnishings, but my wants were modest, having no luggage except my pack and the cudgel I had insisted on bringing with me despite Timothy’s reservations.
    ‘You won’t need your cudgel,’ he had objected. ‘You’ll be under royal protection. The Duke’s armourer can supply you with any weapons you might need to keep you safe in the London streets.’
    But I preferred my own trusty ‘Plymouth cloak’ and my knife, both of which I was used to handling, and in this argument, the Earl of Lincoln, who had happened to overhear the altercation, had backed me up.
    ‘Better the weapons you know, Master Plummer, than those you don’t,’ he had said gaily, but decidedly; and I noted with amusement that Timothy gave in at once. The young man might parade and boast of his de la Pole and Chaucer blood, but he was a Plantagenet at heart, and expected to be treated as one.
    The horse that had been hired for me from the Bell Lane stables, in Bristol, Reynold Makepeace readily agreed to house and feed for the duration of my stay in London at a slightly increased cost, to be added to the price of my room. I was happy to agree, and having donned a clean shirt and hose, brushed down my leather jerkin and combed my hair, set out for Baynard’s Castle as I had been instructed.
    It seemed to me that I had stood in that room only yesterday, instead of nine years earlier. There was no fire of scented pine logs on the hearth, it was true, but everything else was surely just the same: the table against the wall supporting silver ewers and goblets of the finest Venetian glass; the armchairs with their delicately carved backs, depicting birds and trailing, interwined vine leaves; the tapestries, slightly more faded perhaps, showing Hercules’s fight with Nereus; and the copper chandelier with its scented wax candles, all lit because of the overcast day and the general gloom of the chamber.
    But the dark-haired young man (exactly my own age for, according to my mother, we had been born on the selfsame day) who rose to greet me was older and far more careworn than he had been on the occasion of our first meeting. Lines of suffering and sorrow were deeply scored into the thin, olive-skinned face. Sadness lurked behind a smile that had once been sweet and gentle, but which, now, could suddenly transform itself into a kind of rictus grin. Once described by the Countess of Desmond as ‘the handsomest man in the room after the King’, Richard of Gloucester’s good looks had been eroded by the twin evils of great grief for the death of his brother, George of Clarence, and his hatred for those he considered