Unable to lie still with his thoughts, Arteys rolled off the bed and went to sit on the floor beside the door. Since there was no window and he didn’t want to light the candle stub on the table, setting the door slightly ajar was the only way to have light or see out and he sat there, cross-legged and wrapped in his cloak, watching the flat gray sky and nothing happening in the yard below him. There were children’s voices below him in what was probably the kitchen since what warmth the room had came from there, and sometimes men’s laughter burst up loud from the alehouse. Ordinary sounds of people simply living the lives they expected to live, not people waiting out a desperate time to try a desperate thing and lonely in the waiting.
When finally the abbey’s bells called to Vespers, Arteys nearly started to his feet in relief but remembered the peril of the roof and stood up slowly, watchful of the rafters and his own stiffened body. Bells from the hospitals beyond the walls joined the abbey’s, exciting the afternoon’s end, but he had to wait until the Office had run its course of prayers and psalms and then another hour until he should be at St. Saviour’s. That was still too long a time to wait and he set himself to eat and drink, as Joliffe had told him to do because, yes, he was going to need his wits and strength tonight—his wits to get him into where Gloucester was, his strength to run with if things went wrong.
He ate most of the bread, drank all the ale. The bread was heavy and the ale light, but he felt the better for having them inside him and thought briefly of leaving a coin in payment; but Joliffe was Bishop Beaufort’s man; let Bishop Beaufort pay for it.
In the loft it was dark because outside the twilight was well thickened, and whatever the time, he couldn’t bide here longer. He needed to be out and doing something, even if only walking toward St. Saviour’s. Below him what sounded like cheerful quarreling around a supper table was going on, a woman bidding John eat and not hit his sister with that spoon, and fairly certain of going unseen, Arteys went down the ladder to the yard and along the passageway to the street. Lighted lanterns were already hung outside some doors, yellow-patching the gathering darkness, with enough people still out and about despite the growing dark and cold that he felt safe from being heeded.
He made his way back to Churchgate Street, then rightward down the slope toward the abbey, not hurrying- Bury St. Edmunds’ two parish churches were at the edge of the abbey yard, their west doors opening into the town’s lower marketplace. If there was a way he could tarry unsuspiciously along the market’s edge until people came out from Vespers, he would know he had only an hour more until he could be at St. Saviour’s; but he found as he came into the lower marketplace that he had been more patient than he thought. People were already coming out of St. James near the abbey gate and with relief—tainted by a chill tightening in his stomach that told him how badly afraid he was—he turned aside, with nothing left but to wander through Bury’s streets for the while. Fewer people were about now, all cloak-huddled and hurrying home to suppers and warmth and family, Alleys supposed. Cloak-huddled, too, but without family or home or decent supper, he walked and turned from one street to another to another. Bury was not so big he had any chance of being lost and the moving kept him something like warm until finally he gave up waiting and passed through Northgate with a straggle of other late-goers, trying to hurry no more than anyone else.
He had worried he would not be able to find his way back among the houses, sheds, and fences to St. Saviour’s wellyard wall, especially in the dark, but he recognized the gap between two head-tall fences when he saw it and turned from the road, remembering Joliffe’s warning, “Don’t look around to see if anyone is watering you. Go as if you had the right to and even if someone is looking they likely won’t think twice about it.” As the heavy shadows swallowed him, he slowed, hoping no pits had been dug or other perils laid in the day and a half since he had followed Joliffe through here, and came out unscathed behind a long building where the thumping, the steamy air, and women’s loud talk the other day had told it was a laundry fronting on the river. Tonight everything was silent there. He could even hear the river’s murmur on the far side, peacefully about its own business in the dark. The sound kept him company as he leaned against the laundry’s back wall beside the board fence between it and St. Saviour’s, waiting and trying not to think. So far he had done nothing much— had run away, hidden, let others help him—but once he went back into St. Saviour’s that would change. There would be no one to help him, and no one but himself to get it right or wrong.
He found he was clenched all over—hands, jaw, shoulders, back—and he tightened more at the sudden rattle and bang of a drum and a burst of shouting from beyond the buildings between him and St. Saviour’s main yard. “You’ll know when we’re there,” Joliffe had said. “We come with noise, to jolly up our audience before we start, usually not until we’re inside but tonight I’ll see to it we start in the yard.” And he had. There was no mistaking the signal, and Arteys felt in the dark for the board he wanted, pushed it silently aside, and slid through the gap.
Chapter 15
As Arteys had hoped, the wellyard was deserted at that cold, dark hour. He swung the board back into place and moved away from the fence. “Once you’re in,” Joliffe had said, “move as if you belong there. Try to stay out of the light, where you might be recognized, but don’t skulk. Nobody looks at servants going about their business but they look at skulkers. You understand?”
Arteys had understood; had understood, too, when Joliffe added, “After you’re in, how you come to Gloucester is your trouble. I don’t know inside St. Saviour’s well enough to give you even a guess.”
‘He’s in the rooms he was meant to have?“ Arteys had asked.
‘Yes.“
‘Then if the guards go away, I can reach him.“
If the guards went away as Joliffe had hoped and if nothing had been done about the outside stairs from the warden’s yard to Gloucester’s bedchamber.
But to find those things out, Arteys had to reach there, and remembering Joliffe’s order not to skulk, he walked openly out of the wellyard, across the stableyard, and into the wider yard beyond it. No one was anywhere. A few torches were burning, fretful in the wind, but such people as might usually have been out and about were away to the hall, he guessed, just as Joliffe had said. What had seemed possible when talked of in Bishop Pecock’s chamber began to seem truly probable.
His first pause came at the gate into the warden’s small yard. Keeping to a patch of shadow, he stood still, listening for any sound of someone on guard at the stairs. The red glow of a firepot was reflected on the courtyard’s far wall, telling somebody was or had been there, and he watched for a shadow of a pacing guard across it because the pot’s small charcoal-warmth was enough to keep a man from freezing but not enough to keep him warm. Anyone there would surely, sooner or later, move, shuffle, shift, or pace; but save for an outbreak of large laughter from the hall that told him the players were at work, Arteys heard nothing and slowly he edged his head around the gateway’s corner.
No one was there. He gave himself no time to think about it but rapidly crossed the yard to the stairs, into the darkness under their penticed roof meant to keep rain and snow off them but making welcome shadow tonight as he went up them to the door at the top. They were of wood but gave no betraying creak and at the top the wooden walls that porched the door on two sides to shield against wind gave him more hiding and would serve to keep any light from shining out like a beacon into the night when—if—he opened the door.
Safe from being seen but hardly feeling safe, Arteys leaned his head against the door’s thick planks, listening while he opened his belt pouch and took out the key. He heard neither voices nor movement but that was assurance of nothing. Besides the door being thick, someone there might be simply quiet. With nothing for it but to be ready to run if need be, he slipped the key into the lock, turned it. The grate of metal on metal would alert anyone who was there, and with nothing to gain by waiting, Arteys push
ed the door barely open, slid in, and closed it behind him all in one quick movement.
Nothing happened.
No surprised or angry voice demanded what he was doing. No guard rushed him.
Nothing.
There was laughter again from the great hall, and in the quiet after it he was aware of the fire talking to itself among the remains of logs on the hearth and that there was no sound or movement from the shadows beyond the curtains half-drawn around the bed across the room.
He had had two almost-equal fears. One was of being seen and caught. The other was that his father was already dead. The first had not yet happened and in suddenly desperate need to know the other he took the four needed strides to the bed and pulled back the nearer curtain. From the pillows Gloucester looked back at him with narrowed eyes and one hand raised, holding a book as if ready to throw it.
Fear flowed out of Arteys on a gasp. “My lord father!” he exclaimed in a whisper weak with relief and sat down °n the bed’s edge without being given leave.
Gloucester dropped the book, whispering gladly back, “Arteys!” and reached with both hands to grab his. “Saint Alban be praised.”
Arteys clasped his hands in return, meeting him smile for smile but noting with worry his face’s pale-clay color and shrunken look as, still holding tightly to him, Gloucester sagged into his pillows, saying, “I thought you were someone come to kill me.”
Despite it had been a shadow-fear behind his others, Arteys protested, “They’d not dare!”
Familiar anger, good to see, flared in Gloucester. “Who would have thought they’d dare this much, damn them.” But then he squeezed his eyes suddenly shut, let go one hand from Arteys, and pressed it against the side of his head as if to dig his fingers into his skull, holding his breath in open pain.
Arteys tightened his hold, frightened. “Sir?” he asked, and when Gloucester did not answer, said, more frightened, “What is it? What’s been done to you?”
Gloucester’s hand fell loosely to his chest and he began to breathe again, in quick, shallow breaths now, his eyes still shut as he whispered, “I was in such a… rage… at Beaumont. At Buckingham. I was arguing and something… It felt like something broke. My head. It hurts and it won’t stop.”
‘Won’t they let you have a doctor? Let him give you something for the pain?“
‘There’s been a doctor. One of St. Saviour’s. He gave me something. It made no difference.“
He stirred under the blankets, restless with pain, and Arteys let go a hope he had barely had—that he might get Gloucester out and away from Bury and escape to Wales where there were places no one would easily lay hands on him again. Watching his pain, Arteys knew that wasn’t going to happen and said, “You need a different doctor then. You—”
‘There won’t be any other. I won’t have someone from outside. Not someone of Suffolk’s choosing, the treacherous ape. I’m not dying by poison. Not in that kind of pain.“
‘Someone else then from here. They have to do that much for you.“
Gloucester gave a dog grin, all teeth and no laughter. “They don’t ‘have to’ do anything. ‘In the king’s name’ and ‘we have our orders.’ That’s the most I get out of them. Sir Roger argued with Beaumont over it and that’s the last I saw of him.”
‘He was arrested,“ Arteys whispered.
Gloucester’s face tightened with a different kind of hurt. “I was afraid he was. Anyone else?”
‘Sir Richard, Sir John, Sir Robert, Master Needham.“
Frowning, Gloucester spread one hand over his forehead, thumb digging into one side of his temples, fingers into the other. “That’s bad. What about the duke of York?”
‘York?“ Arteys echoed, not following the shift of thought.
‘Is he still free? Suffolk hasn’t found a way at him yet?“
‘No one has said anything about York.“
‘He’d better be damned careful.“ Gloucester moved his head from side to side, seeking a way away from the pain. ”He’d better damn well watch his back. Tell him that if you see him. If Suffolk gets away with this, there’ll be no stopping him and York is next.“
‘Suffolk won’t get away with this,“ Arteys said fiercely. As if at that, laughter came loudly from the hall. In the cautious back of his mind Arteys was keeping ear to the laughter. It was his safeguard. While there was laughter, no one was likely to bother with Gloucester, and past the laughter he insisted, ”When people have had time to think, he won’t dare go on.“
‘No,“ Gloucester agreed grimly. ”He won’t. And sooner or later he’ll have to bring me to trial. We’ll see what happens then to Suffolk and his treason charges.“ He opened his eyes, still frowning, and added, quarrelous with the pain, Arteys thought, ”That’s why I’m risking no more doctors, no more medicines. I’m not going to die by poison for them.“
‘They wouldn’t dare that,“ Arteys said past the fear lumped in him that, yes, they would.
‘Wouldn’t they?“ Gloucester bitterly echoed his thought. ”Everything would be simpler for them if I was simply dead. I don’t know whose guards are outside for the world to see, but it’s only Suffolk’s men ever come in here, and if I die, who’s to say I didn’t die of natural causes if that’s what they say?“
‘People would know.“
‘What people know and what they can do about it are two different things. As I’ve found out over the years.“ Gloucester shifted with pain and tightened his hold on Arteys’ hand where it lay on the bedclothes. He smiled. ”But you. You got clean away, didn’t you?“
‘I shouldn’t have.“ Arteys’ shame and confusion soured in his voice. ”I should have stayed.“
Gloucester lightly shook his hand. “No, you should not have. Better that you’re free. Better you’re clean away from these bastards.” His face twisted with distress momentarily more of the mind than body. “When I’d won back Henry’s favor, I was going to ask him to legitimate you. Like the Beauforts were. I meant to settle lands on you then, see to it you had something of your own to live on. An income of some kind. Fool that I’ve always been, I’ve waited too long. I’m sorry, Arteys. I’m sorry, sorry…”
It was as much pain as anything talking in him and to quiet him Arteys said quickly, “It’s no matter.”
Gloucester let go his hand, fumbled at one of the three great rings he always wore, slipped off and held out his signet ring, massive and gold and used to seal in wax his documents and letters. “Here. Take this.”
Arteys drew back. “I can’t.”
‘Take it. Better it isn’t here anyway, for them to use against me. Um.“ He flinched his head aside from pain, and held the ring out more insistently. ”If I live, give it back to me. If I die, melt it down for the gold. Either way, they won’t have it to use for any lies they want to.“ As Arteys took the signet ring, Gloucester said, ”And here,“ pulled at a smaller ring, gold, too, but set with a rough diamond, until it came off, kissed it and clenched it tightly in his fist, saying, ”My Lady Eleanor gave me this after we’d first pledged our love. If ever you see her—“ his voice broke on unshed tears—”give it to her from me.“ He thrust it at Arteys. ”Otherwise, keep it for pledge of my love for you.“
‘Father…“
But Gloucester was taking off his last ring, thick gold again and set with a garnet. “And this one. I won’t have—”
Arteys shook his head, completely refusing it. “Not that one.”
Gloucester pulled at it. “I won’t have Suffolk… I won’t have any of those mongrels… so much as… touch it.” He forced it past his knuckle and held it out.
‘You can’t,“ Arteys said despairingly.
And for a moment it seemed Gloucester truly could not. With eyes shut and tears slipping from beneath his eyelids, he pressed his hand and the ring against his heart. “Thirty-four years ago,” he whispered. “Thirty-tour years ago. Hal saved my life at Agincourt. There in the middle of the battle. And that night, afterwards, he gave m
e this. Spoil from some French lord. He gave it to me and said ‘remember’ and I always have. By God and all the saints, I swear I’ve never forgotten.” Gloucester opened his eyes, unashamed of the freely flowing tears, grasped Arteys’ wrist, drew his hand forward, and forced the ring into it. “You remember, too. I’ve told you all this enough times. Swear to me you’ll remember.”
‘I’ll remember.“ Arteys choked on his own tears. ”I swear I’ll remember.“
Pain twisted Gloucester’s face again and he let go of Arteys to take hold on his head again but forcing out, with eyes shut and breath short, “I swear it to the hosts of heaven I’ve never been anything but loyal to him. To my lord the king. To King Henry the Fifth.” He put the lost sound of long-silenced trumpets into his brother’s name. “And to his son.” With a silent heave of his chest he began to cry openly—tears of pain and grief and weariness. “This thing is Suffolk’s doing. God help me, I’ve failed Hal, I’ve failed his son, I’ve—”
‘No!“ Arteys thrust the rings into his belt pouch, forgetting them even as he did it. He grasped his father’s hands and held them tightly. ”You haven’t failed. This isn’t done.“
Gloucester seemed past hearing him. “And you. I’ve failed you. I’m sorry, sorry.”
Beyond the room’s inner door there was the creak of someone heavy-footed crossing the room there.
Gloucester and Arteys both froze. Then Gloucester shoved Arteys away, ordering with a harsh whisper, “Leave. Get out.”
‘Father—“
‘Let me have the pleasure of seeing you away. Go.
Arteys went, crossed the room and eased out the way he had come, into the dark and cold, pulling the door shut after him as he heard a key turn in the lock of the door across the room; but there he stopped. He needed to lock the door behind him and dared not turn the key until whoever was come in had gone again, and he leaned there, his ear to the small gap he had left, listening, wondering who it was. There was still laughter from the hall, louder than ever. Who had left it and why?
12 The Bastard's Tale Page 15
