The Burgundian’s Tale

‘Oh, stop grouching,’ Timothy advised brusquely. He was no more pleased to be used as an errand boy than I was to see him. ‘An important guest has particularly asked to meet you again.’

‘Who? And what do you mean, again?’

‘Wait! You’ll find out,’ he snapped, and I could coax nothing further out of him. Something had got under his skin.

As we jogged along the Strand, I cast a frustrated glance at Martin Threadgold’s dwelling. I could see no sign of life except for William Morgan walking up the narrow lane between the two houses. Even as I looked, he scaled the St Clairs’ garden wall with perfect ease, dropping down the other side and out of sight. What, I wondered, had he been up to? He was a man whose every action filled me with disquiet. I was still convinced he had been my attacker of the previous night.

Westminster Palace, when we finally reached it (not without difficulty, I might say, as so many people were making their way there) was a whirlpool of noise and lights – every cresset, every torch, every candle aflame – with servants scurrying all over the place, shouting, issuing instructions, countermanding instructions, falling over their own feet and everybody else’s amidst an overpowering smell of roasting meat. God knows how many swans, peacocks, capons, cows, sheep, pigs had been slaughtered to make this feast. If the Burgundian ambassadors and courtiers failed to be impressed by such a display of grandeur, then they could never be impressed by anything.

Not that I was allowed to share in the occasion any more than I already had. Having seen my horse comfortably stabled, Timothy led me along a number of narrow corridors, up and down various flights of steps until he eventually, and thankfully, left me in a small, but richly furnished ante-room which, judging by the raised voice coming from behind the closed inner door, was part of a suite of rooms occupied by someone of great importance. (Well, judging by the way in which he was browbeating some unfortunate inferior, he thought he was of great importance, which is not, of course, always the same thing.) The voice was vaguely familiar, and yet I could not immediately recognize it. Nor was I able to understand exactly what was being said, although I caught a word here and there. But before memory had time to jog my elbow, the inner door was flung open by a page and a young man swept through, both hands outstretched.

‘Master Chapman! Roger! Naturally you remember me!’

His confidence and vanity were, alas, not misplaced. Although I had last seen him when he was a bedraggled and penniless fugitive, escaping the clutches of his elder brother, King James III of Scotland, I knew him at once: Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany.

‘Your Highness.’ I bowed, and he gave me his hand to kiss. ‘I thought you were in France.’

‘I was! I was!’ he exclaimed exuberantly, moderating the thick Scots tongue for my West Country ears. ‘And very civilly my dear Cousin Louis treated me – that goes without saying. But now, as you see, I’m enjoying the hospitality of my dear Cousin Edward.’ He grinned broadly. ‘There are reasons for this change of venue which I feel sure a clever fellow like yourself will be able to fathom.’

I made no reply except to bow and say, ‘I’m honoured to see Your Grace once again, and in such good spirits, too.’

He punched me on the shoulder (I did wish people would stop doing that!) and said, ‘Of course you are. Just as I’m delighted to be able to call you friend.’ He paused, awaiting my reaction to this signal honour. When none came, he looked disappointed before producing the winning card from his sleeve. ‘But think how far more honoured you will be when it’s the King of Scotland who invites you to his court.’

I had, indeed, guessed which way the wind was blowing as soon as I’d clapped eyes on him. He might have been well received at the French court, but Louis XI, that reportedly shrewd and wily monarch, would do nothing that might upset his Scottish ally, King James, who, with his constant harrying of the northern shires, was distracting English attention from its ties with Burgundy. It made sense, therefore, that there should be some devious scheme afoot, hatched by Albany and King Edward, to replace James III with his renegade brother.

I bowed. ‘I wish Your Grace every success in your enterprise, whenever it may be.’

The Duke beamed, but the eyes above the smile were hard and calculating.

‘A year perhaps,’ he said. ‘Maybe a little more, maybe less. But rest assured that I shall remember you, Master Chapman, when the time comes for me to ascend the Scottish throne, as I shall remember certain of your friends across the Irish Sea.’

I hurriedly disclaimed any such friends and silently suppressed a shudder: the Duke’s promise sounded more like a threat to me, but naturally I couldn’t expect him to see it that way. So like the craven that I was, I thanked him profusely for his interest and, sensing that the interview was at an end, backed out of the ante-chamber just as the trumpets began sounding for the start of the feast. In fact, I backed straight into the Earl of Lincoln, who had arrived to escort Albany to his place at the high table among the rest of the honoured guests.