by K. E. Martin
Almost from my first arrival at Plaincourt I had wondered how Mistress Blanche the humble waiting woman had come to be the master’s intended wife. Now, though many of the details remained unclear, I thought I understood how the unlikely match had been brokered. Unlikely not only on account of Blanche’s birth but also her dismal lack of fortune.
“Plaincourt heirs are allus born knowing ‘tis their duty to wed a fortune,” Rolf had told me earlier, yet Blanche St Honorine de Flers could bring nothing to her future husband but her beauty and her wits.
Plainly, she had found some other way to win her man. I remembered that William, Geoffrey’s father, had married his Philippa for love. I had wanted to believe that Sir Stephen had succumbed to the same malady when Blanche had been given a place at the manor through the connivance of Jacquetta of Bedford. Improbable as it seemed, I had just about been able to entertain the notion until I witnessed the coldness of Plaincourt’s manner with her. Such behaviour was clearly at odds with the idea of a man so besotted that he was prepared to overlook her woeful lack of fortune.
Now I could only conclude that a bargain had been struck before Blanche ever set foot at Plaincourt. She had been sent to Plaincourt to perform some great service for Sir Stephen and in return he agreed to make her his wife. The nature of that service I had suspected for some time although I confess I had been reluctant to think her capable of such heartlessness.
I was considering all this when I heard my name called by Rivers. It was no small surprise to find myself addressed by the great man and my first thought was that he had suddenly recalled having seen my face before. Yet when I looked at him his expression was benign.
“This is a handsome lute that you have, master minstrel” he said, his voice smooth and rich as butter. “I can’t think I have ever seen a finer example save at Court.”
His interest made my skin prickle but I managed to keep my composure as I answered him.
“As to that I cannot say, my lord, but ‘tis certain it cost a pretty penny,” I laughed with all the nonchalance I could summon.
“Then how came you by it?” he returned. “Forgive my curiosity and my bluntness but you pique my interest. You dress according to your station yet your instrument was crafted for higher purpose.”
Luckily I had been prepared for such a question and had an answer ready to hand.
“You have the right of it, my lord. My poor lute deserves a master far greater than I, and had not my old mother died and left me her pie shop, I should never have afforded it.”
On the surface Rivers seemed to accept this, yet still I was aware of his close scrutiny. He knows me, I thought with alarm, it can only be that he knows me.
“So you sold the pie shop to pay for the lute?” he asked. “Whatever would your old mother have said to that?”
“Why, that a minstrel cannot play pastry!” I quipped nonsensically, and to my enormous relief Rivers appeared amused.
“Perchance a fishmongery would have been a bequest more to your liking,” he observed, glancing with meaning at my dish which I had emptied of sturgeon at indelicate speed.
“Ah,” I countered, “but playing gives a man a great appetite, my lord. Why, when I sat down to eat, I was so famished that I would have gladly devoured anything, even one of mother’s miracle pasties.”
“A curious sounding delicacy,” Sir Stephen interjected. “Pray tell why were they so named?”
“With pleasure, my lord. Because for any that ate them, ‘twas no less than a miracle if they survived.”
It was a foolish joke but Rivers gratified me by laughing loudly. For a heartbeat I felt safe and then he fixed me again with his alert green gaze.
“The musicians at Court are passing skilled,” he remarked conversationally, “yet I feel it is always well to keep things fresh by bringing forth new talent. You have skill and you amuse me, Cranley, so I think I will help you find your place at Court. You will ride with me when I leave for London and I shall see what can be done. Mayhap Her Grace my sister could use you.”
Now I was really concerned. Rivers was showing far too much interest in me and it could only mean that I had been found out. I was not for a moment taken in by his offer to get me a position with the Queen. If I was fool enough to leave Plaincourt in company with Rivers and his men, I did not fancy my chances of reaching London unharmed or even alive. More than likely I’d end my days in a roadside ditch with a knife sticking out of my back. Yet why did he toy with me in this fashion instead of revealing my true identity to the assembled company? I could not fathom his motive.
Another worry was that Plaincourt was suddenly glaring at me with evident hostility, all trace of his former cordiality quite vanished. This led me to the suspicion that his earlier amiability had been naught but a ruse to catch me off guard. I had a strong inkling that this did not bode well for my safety.
I was endeavouring to think of a strategy to extricate myself from this mess when Sir Stephen rose, indicating that the meal was over. As he and Rivers retired to the solar for some private discourse, Blanche mumbled to no one in particular that she had matters to attend to in her chamber. I had little doubt that these matters would involve weeping furiously over the blow she had just been dealt.
Out of courtesy I accompanied her as far as the buttery, commenting delicately as we walked that she seemed less indisposed than when I’d seen her earlier.
“You forget my training,” she said, sounding weary and low in spirits. “One of the first things I ever learned from Mistress Margery was how to remedy wine fever with an infusion of milk thistle.
“Now it would please me if you would be silent, Francis,” she continued. “In truth I crave solitude for the nonce.”
“Then I will bid you farewell,” I said, sketching her a small bow and heading back towards the kitchen where I hoped to find some answers. The time for treading daintily had past, now I must find a way to ferret out the truth.
Chapter 10
Cranley in Peril
I found the kitchen servants taking their ease at the table. Cuckoo leapt nervously to her feet when I entered but after glancing up and seeing it was none more important than I that disturbed them, Flood and Matthew remained as they were, legs sprawled out in front of them.
“You dost find us taking a short respite from our labours, Master Cranley,” Flood called out to me by way of greeting.
“And why not, for it is most well-deserved. Lord Rivers was exceeding gracious about the pike. I overhead him compliment Sir Stephen on the excellence of his kitchen,” I lied smoothly.
I ventured this flattery in the hope that it would encourage the fellow to overcome any resentment he might still harbour towards me for taking control of the dinner arrangements earlier when he had lost his head. Although my quick thinking had saved him from Sir Stephen’s ire, I knew better than to expect any gratitude. No cook will suffer gladly to be ordered within his own domain.
As I had hoped, the flattery worked and I was asked to join Flood in a mug of ale. At once Cuckoo raced to fetch it for me, tripping over the hem of her greasy flannel gown as she ran. It struck me that whenever I saw the wench she was either motionless or making unnecessary haste – it seemed there was nothing between the two extremes.
When she placed the ale before me I thanked her for her trouble and, thinking to be kind, remarked that hurrying agreed with her for it had brought a lovely bloom to her cheeks. Her eyes widened and she turned her head away from me but not before I noticed a small smile light up her face. In truth she really was a pretty little thing, or could have been in happier circumstances. Too pale and bony for my taste, yet fairer all the same than many heiresses I knew who were named beauties solely on account of their fat dowries.
I supped my ale in companionable silence for a minute or two, smacking my lips to demonstrate my appreciation. When the cup was drained, Flood ordered Cuckoo to refill it and to bring more for him, also. Matthew declined a second cup and I was unaccountably pleas
ed to see that the lad was abstemious in his habits.
“You do well to take your ease when you can.” I remarked to Flood. “Know you that Lord Rivers has stated his intention to spend Yuletide, or at a least part of it, here at Plaincourt? With all these extra mouths to feed and a noble lord to gratify with fine dishes, I fancy you’ll have little enough time for leisure. Think you the steward will take on extra hands to help?”
“Rolf dost say that steward’s biding at the master’s manor of Ringthorpe for the by, seeing to some repairs. But we’ll do well enough,” he continued comfortably, “the village dost have plenty of lads that’ll gladly take a turn in my kitchen for no more’n a full belly and a sup of ale.
“Thee dost not need fret on my account, Master Cranley, ‘twas only the unexpectedness of the master’s arrival, and with such noble company, that didst throw me and have me a-fluster. Since I didst have time to order my thoughts some I dost know how I shall manage. There are three more days of fish to go and then I dost mean to prepare the finest feast Plaincourt didst see in many a-year. Venison, coney, peacock and partridge, I dost have them all in hand, aye and subtleties too, so cunning and tasty Lord Rivers’ll likely think himself back at Court.”
His talk of feasting gave me the opportunity to raise the subject uppermost in my mind.
“Will not the recent death of Sir Stephen’s nephew put a curb on such festivities?” I enquired innocently. “I heard the boy was full young to die. It seems a tragic case.”
“So it were,” Flood agreed hurriedly, “so it were. But if thee dost ask me, it were better for him had he died when still a bairn, for all the joy he didst have out of life. Poor Geoffrey never were strong, and as he didst grow older he didst become ever more maungey and didst have to keep to his chamber. I didst hardly see him after that, none of us did, but I didst hear it said his illness made him suffer greatly, God rest his soul.”
At mention of Geoffrey’s name both Matthew and Cuckoo looked grave and I wondered if this was out of simple respect or because they remembered that the lad had been their half-nephew.
“Who tended the boy if none of you ever saw him?” I ventured to ask.
“An ugly great brute name of Pretty Will,” Flood answered, “a stranger to these parts. Master didst take him on to be young Geoffrey’s body servant. Will Yorke’s his given name but Master didst bid us call him Pretty Will, why I dost know not save that it tickled him to hear the ill-favoured man so-called.”
“Who knows why fine folk do anything?” I asked philosophically. “Their ways are different to the ways of ordinary folk like you and I, Jem Flood.”
Flood nodded his head in absent agreement but Matthew broke urgently in to the conversation.
“Aye, but we all dost know for why Pretty Will were hired. Master didst think to hurry him into his grave by landing him with such a one.”
I looked at the kitchen boy in alarm, concerned that he had spoken too freely and would suffer for it. Yet the ale had unbent Flood and he at once lent credence to the boy’s words.
“Matthew dost have the right of it,” he said. “‘Tis common knowledge that Master were eager for Geoffrey to be gone but it wouldst not do for him to dirty his hands by harming the boy himself. Job didst need to be handled in such a way as wouldst earn him no reproach. I dost fancy it were his notion that a spell of rough-handling from Pretty Will would bring about the boy’s end soon enough.”
The cook snorted with contemptuous laughter.
“That didst backfire on him right an proper, for it didst turn out that great ugly beast has a heart soft as butter. ’Stead of hastening Geoffrey’s death it is my view he didst prolong his life by treating him kinder than the little scrap didst ever get treated afore.”
Cuckoo nodded her head in fervent agreement.
“‘Tis true,” she put in hurriedly. “Only times Pretty Will ever didst talk to any of us it were to seek some comfort for poor Geoffrey.
“No little matter were too small for his attention, he were allus badgering folk with his wants. Old Dulcy were to be sure to air Geoffrey’s sheets most careful-like and sprinkle them with the lavender water he didst favour. Pa here, he were told to make for Geoffrey a special kind of strengthening posset. Why even the grooms didst not escape his commands, for they were bid to exercise the pretty brown mare Geoffrey liked ’neath his window so he might look upon it.
“I tells thee, master, we were all sore afeared for Geoffrey when Pretty Will first come to us but we didst never dare say nothing. Then when we didst see that he didst mean him no harm we were right glad for it didst mean that Geoffrey had a friend to look out for him.”
It was the longest speech I had heard Cuckoo make since my arrival at Plaincourt. Mostly she just said yes and no; for her to speak out now and at length about Geoffrey must indicate she felt strongly about his murder, I thought. Yet I remembered what Fielding had said about all of the manor servants apart from Matthew seeming indifferent to the boy.
I decided to test if this was a tender spot.
“Did not any of you look out for him, then?” I asked, and the girl had the grace to redden and look at her feet.
“It weren’t no place of ours to interfere,” Flood interjected angrily. “We didst not like what we saw happ’ning but we didst know there were nowt could be done to help it. It were different for Pretty Will, not being a Plaincourt man he weren’t bound to please the master like we are. I dost tell thee, master minstrel, twould’ve been the worse for us if ever we’d tried to aid young Geoffrey.”
I saw that he had a point and in any case realised I would achieve nothing by alienating the man so I made a placatory remark and then continued with my questioning.
“How then did the boy come to die, with such a tender servant to care for him? Did his sickness finally break him?”
“No,” Flood replied, “it were not the sickness that didst take him. Geoffrey were murdered most foully in his bed. And Pretty Will, he didst take the blame. Sir Stephen didst have him bound and locked up quick-smart. ‘Tis well for him he didst find a way to escape else the poor devil would’ve hanged for it. I say poor devil for all I didst not care for the man, since none of us at Plaincourt dost believe in his guilt.”
“Then who?” I asked eagerly, too eagerly perhaps, for Flood’s face took on a wary expression.
“Who can say, Master Cranley, who can say? But I’ll give thee some advice as a kindness to thee. At Plaincourt ‘tis not healthy to ask so many questions, if thee dost take my meaning. Not if thee’s a wish to keep that handsome face of thine.”
Disregarding this advice - and unsure as to whether it had been issued as a threat or a friendly warning - I pressed on with my next question.
“What say you to talk I’ve heard that this Pretty Will had carnal knowledge with Mistress Blanche?” I enquired, incautiously revealing that I had already heard of the man before beginning my questions. Fortunately, what I’d said occasioned Flood so much mirth that he all but choked on his ale and in his distraction failed to note my slip. It was some moments before he could speak.
“Who’s been peddling thee that doggerybaw? Whoever ‘twas, they didst make jest with thee or else they dost have lost their wits! Why, I’ll wager dainty Mistress Blanche would sooner fornicate with old Rolf than with that gargoyle.”
He laughed again but I noticed that neither Matthew or Cuckoo joined in. Then Cuckoo spoke up, rushing her words to get them out before the cook could silence her.
“I didst spy Mistress Blanche a-sneaking back to her chamber the night Pretty Will got free. She dost sleep over the buttery, see, and I could not rest easy on account of being troubled about poor Master Geoffrey, so I didst leave the fireside to take some air. I saw her then, and though it were dark I didst know it were she for she didst carry a lantern and I could see her wicked face clear as day.
“Not wishing her to see me, for she dost frit me something dreadful with her strange ways, I didst slip into the shadows as she didst p
ass me by. Then I didst go back to the kitchen and thought no more of it ’til the alarm were raised that Pretty Will had fled.”
Quickly, I asked her if she had spoken to anyone of what she had seen but Flood cut off her reply.
“Hold thy tongue, thee stupid little bitch!” he yelled at the trembling girl. “Thee’s said more’n enough already. Wants thee to end like Master Geoffrey, eh?”
The terrified chit sobbed and slowly backed away from Flood. Then it was my turn to be on the receiving end of the cook’s aggression.
“Now, Master Cranley, I dost think I’ve had a bellyful of thy snooping,” he snarled at me. “I’ll thank thee to be gone from my kitchin for thee’s welcome here no longer.”
He rose to his feet and moved towards me, as if intent on ushering me out with physical force, then stopped as he caught my eye. He’s a big fellow, I thought, not taller but broader than me but I could best him in a struggle and he knows it. Matthew rose also, his fists clenched and his face tense. As he met my gaze he moved his eyes imperceptibly towards the doorway. I realised he was advising me to make myself scarce lest Flood should become more agitated.
I was unwilling to go, for I felt I had made progress and was, perhaps, on the verge of discovering something significant. Yet little would be gained now Flood had his hackles raised. Gathering my dignity, I stood up, filched a handful of raisins from a bowl on the table and then, as casually as possible, ambled from the room whilst bidding them good day through a mouthful of the sweet fruit.
At first I considered retiring to my chamber in order to contemplate all I had learned that day but on reflection decided that some clear air would benefit my thinking. Thus I ignored the passageway leading to the hall and chose instead to go outside to the kitchen garden. There I stood for some time, breathing in the mingled aroma of cabbage and mud and going over in my head the strands of information I had gleaned.
One thing in particular puzzled me. Flood had been speaking freely until Cuckoo mentioned seeing Blanche moving mysteriously about the manor the night of Will’s escape. Thereafter he had erupted into anger. I had little doubt the anger had been provoked by fear but of whom was the volatile fellow afraid?
