The Burgundian’s Tale

It was another fine day and the Saturday traders were out in force. The usual vociferous crowds thronged the streets and flooded in and out of the Lud Gate, where there was even more delay because of decorations being erected over the arch. Evidently, the Dowager Duchess and her train were due to pass that way some time today.

By paying an early-morning visit, I had counted on finding all three of the Jolliffes at home, and I was not disappointed. They were still at breakfast when my arrival was announced.

Lydia Jolliffe, whom I had particularly requested to see, received me – somewhat ungraciously, I thought – in the upstairs parlour where we had previously met.

‘Well? What now, Master Chapman?’ she demanded.

Today, she was dressed in yellow silk: a fortuitous choice, yellow being the colour of hostility. This gown was cut lower over the breasts than the green one she had worn previously, decorated with amber beads and clasped around the hips by a chestnut-brown leather girdle. She looked magnificent, and knew it. I glanced at the wall hangings behind her. They, too, were magnificent in their way.

Lydia seated herself in the armchair, but today made no suggestion that I should pull up the stool, leaving me to stand.

‘Well?’ she repeated. ‘You’ve interrupted my breakfast. I beg that you’ll say what you have to say and go.’

I was silent for a moment, staring thoughtfully at her, which, I could see, she found unnerving. Then I said abruptly, ‘Your son, Brandon – he’s not much like your husband, is he?’

She flushed angrily. ‘He takes after me.’

‘A little,’ I conceded. ‘But the person he most resembles is Lionel Broderer. In fact, my assistant mistook him for Lionel only yesterday. He also resembles a young lad, Roger Jessop, who used to work for Mistress St Clair in her garden.’

The flush became a deep, angry red. ‘What are you suggesting, chapman?’

‘I’m suggesting,’ I answered steadily, ‘that these three young men had one and the same father: Edmund Broderer. And there may be others, for all I know. I think Edmund Broderer was fond of women. And women were fond of him.’

I held my breath. If Lydia chose to deny my allegation, I was unable prove it, and she could, and probably would, have me thrown into the street. I’d still believe it to be the truth, but I would have preferred confirmation of my suspicions.

Slowly the angry tide of red receded from her cheeks, to be replaced by an appreciative smile. ‘Very astute of you, Roger,’ she said at last. ‘I hope you’re not intending to blackmail me by threatening to tell my husband, because it wouldn’t do you a bit of good. He already knows. In fact, he encouraged my affair with Edmund. Roland’s impotent, you see, and he wanted a son. He’s perfectly happy to acknowledge Brandon as his.’ She turned to glance at the embroidered wall hangings. ‘He bought me these as a gift after Brandon’s birth. From Edmund’s workshop. Appropriate, if somewhat ironic, don’t you think?’

I smiled. ‘Very appropriate,’ I agreed. ‘But I don’t suppose all the husbands were as complaisant as yours, Mistress Jolliffe. Martha Broderer’s, for instance.’

Lydia Jolliffe shrugged. ‘But he wasn’t likely to find out, now, was he? He was Edmund’s cousin, so a family likeness was unremarkable. As for the boy who used to work next door, his mother was a widow.’

‘But I don’t imagine these three are the only bastards of Edmund Broderer, are they?’

The word ‘bastard’ brought the blood back to her face for a moment, but then she shrugged and laughed.

‘You believe in calling a spade a spade, my friend. No, I don’t suppose they were Edmund’s only by-blows. He was a very virile man. He enjoyed … copulation.’ Lydia looked me up and down provocatively. ‘Where is all this leading, chapman? I can’t believe you’re intending to tell my son. You’re not that sort.’

‘Certainly not,’ I assured her.

‘So?’

‘Was Judith St Clair – Judith Broderer, as she must have been then – aware of her husband’s – er – activities?’