The Burgundian’s Tale

‘I’ll take you to the gate,’ Bertram offered, before adding pompously, ‘After that, I must leave you. I expect I’ll be needed.’

I was just about to ask in my most scathing tone, ‘What for?’ when all other thoughts were driven from my head by a brief glimpse of the Duchess’s groom who had been breakfasting in the Voyager that morning.

‘Don’t bother! I’ll find my own way out,’ I flung at Bertram, before plunging into the crowd of ostlers stable boys and grooms, shouldering and elbowing them aside and keeping a sharp lookout for my elusive quarry. Finally, I saw him, leading a handsome bay mare into an empty stall. He kicked the lower half of the door shut behind him.

By the time I was near enough to lean my arms along the top of the half-door and peer inside, my friend was rubbing the bay down with a handful of straw.

‘You are the Dowager Duchess’s groom who’s putting up at the Voyager in Bucklersbury, aren’t you?’ I enquired, more to attract his attention than because I had any doubts on the matter.

The man jumped and turned, straightening his back and advancing into the patch of torchlight near the door in order to see me better. He considered my face thoughtfully for a minute or two, then nodded. ‘I remember you. We were talking at breakfast. But I can’t stop now. You can see I’m busy. It’s like a madhouse here tonight.’

I grinned, but made no attempt to move away. ‘A banquet, or so I’ve been given to understand. All fish dishes, I suppose as it’s Friday?’

The groom snorted derisively and paused in his work. ‘What do you think?’

‘A special dispensation to eat meat – that’s what I think. Plenty of roasted venison, beef, pork, mutton, swan, pheasant, fowl …’

‘Peacock, suckling pig,’ he added, entering into the spirit of the the thing.

We both laughed, and he stood upright again, patting the mare’s rump. ‘Maybe I could do with a rest,’ he conceded. ‘A couple of minutes.’ He forked fresh hay into the manger.

‘We were talking this morning,’ I said quickly, before he had time to embark on any topic of his own, ‘about Fulk Quantrell, who was murdered here in London just over two weeks ago. You said you knew but didn’t like him. When I asked why not, you muttered something about “like mother, like son”. What did you mean by that?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing personal. A lot of people didn’t like Dame Quantrell. Not that they voiced their opinion too loudly, you understand. She could do no wrong in the Duchess’s eyes. She was her devoted childhood friend and servant, come with her from England to make her exile bearable. Mind you, she was always civil enough whenever she visited the stables. Please and thank you, as pretty as you like.’ The groom was now getting into his stride, his arms folded, like mine, on the top of the half-door as he leaned forward confidentially. ‘The boy, though, was a different matter. Arrogant, overbearing and thinking he was God’s gift to an expectant world. Had to be mounted on the best horses, and ran with his complaints to the Duchess if he didn’t get his way. And Her Highness encouraged him with her orders that he was to ride any horse that he chose – just so long as it wasn’t one of hers, of course. But Fulk knew better than to push his luck too far. His demands were always within reason. But he was a sneak and a troublemaker when he was young, and he didn’t improve as he got older.’