The Dance of Death Read Online Free

blunt speaking brought Eloise up short and she blenched. She made a sign, but, watching her closely, I would have been willing to swear that it was not of the Cross. Some pagan symbol, perhaps? Timothy seemed to notice nothing: his eyes were fixed on me. I met the lady’s limpid gaze and decided that I might have been mistaken. Surely such a beautiful face could never be a mask for evil: she must have been led astray by her erstwhile companions. And although I was not altogether convinced by this theory, common sense and fairness told me that it could indeed be true. I relaxed a little and Timothy, quick to observe it, permitted himself a brief smile.
    â€˜The fact is, Roger, that during my questioning of Mistress Gray, I discovered that she would be of greater use to us alive than dead.’
    â€˜Us?’
    â€˜To His Highness the King, and therefore, of course, to me. The first news of Hubert Pole’s death, and the early rumours of a possible rapprochement between King Louis and Duke Maximilian reached me while we were still in Edinburgh.’
    â€˜I see . . . And where does His Grace the Duke of Gloucester figure in all this?’
    I saw alarm flicker in the spymaster’s eyes as he said hurriedly, ‘No, no! This mission is for the king. It has nothing to do with Duke Richard. If you thought I said to the contrary, you must have misunderstood me.’
    I knew, and he knew, that there had been no mistake. I was to have an audience with the duke that very evening. What I hadn’t realized until that moment was that it was to be a secret from my travelling companion. Why? Was it that Timothy really didn’t trust her, or was it that this special errand I was being saddled with was so dangerous that the fewer people who knew about it, the better? My uneasiness and sense of foreboding increased and I cast around frantically in my mind, searching for some way that I could escape. What was to stop me from simply leaving Baynard’s Castle and London this very afternoon and melting into the countryside, making my way home to Bristol by all the byways and unfrequented roads that I knew so well as a pedlar? Nothing was the answer, except that I would be pursued, or, most likely, I would arrive home to find myself being arrested on my doorstep and hauled off to prison in front of my wife and children. There was absolutely no possibility of being allowed to flout the might of authority.
    I shrugged and eased myself away from the wall, walking back to the table, where I refilled my mazer with wine and sat down, stretching out my long legs so that neither Timothy nor Eloise Gray could pull up a seat too close to me. Not, I think, that Timothy would have tried. He knew, even if the lady did not, that I was in such a cold fury that he would do well to keep his distance until my anger had abated somewhat.
    Instead, he addressed himself to the task of placating me. He invited Eloise to take his vacated seat and fetched himself a joint-stool from beside the empty fireplace, sitting down somewhere between us. Then he poured wine for the two of them, casting me a reproachful look for my lack of manners.
    â€˜Mistress Gray’s mother,’ he announced, ‘was French. Eloise speaks the language fluently.’
    Well, I supposed that explained some part of her usefulness, although not all by any means. Timothy must have at his disposal a number of people fluent in the French tongue who could just as easily have been despatched on this foray across the Channel. So I waited expectantly, at the same time being careful not to display the slightest sign of interest. I studied the scuffed toes of my boots, waggling my feet up and down.
    â€˜Oh, stop sulking, you great oaf!’ the spymaster roared, his patience snapping.
    Both Mistress Gray and I jumped, and I turned my head to stare at him. He had gone quite red in the face and looked ready to murder me. Something about his appearance