The Burgundian’s Tale

I was suddenly awake. The ‘fly trap’ was open and Bertram was bending over me. The bedchamber beyond appeared to be extraordinarily full of people: men-at-arms, wearing the blue-and-murrey livery of the Duke of Gloucester, and Sheriff’s officers.

‘What … What’s going on?’ I murmured dazedly, and a voice I thought I recognized said, ‘Thanks be to God. He’s alive. Carefully, now! Carefully! Carry him out and put him on the bed.’

It was the Duke of Gloucester.

I would have struggled to my feet, but was told peremptorily not to be a fool and lie still. Someone – Bertram? – brought wine and held it to my lips while I drank greedily.

Meantime, all around me chaos reigned. Sheriff’s men – there were probably only some three or four of them, but to my still disordered senses it seemed like a cohort – went in and out of the bedchamber as Duke Richard issued his orders. A bewildered Godfrey St Clair and an equally bemused Jocelyn and Alcina were summoned into his presence, but had little to contribute by way of answers to his questions. Paulina Graygoss and the two maids arrived, breathless and scared half out of their wits from the kitchen regions, but had equally little to say, except that William Morgan had disappeared. According to Nell, he had run into the garden and heaved himself over the wall into the alley as soon as the first loud, authoritative knocks on the outer door had heralded the arrival of officialdom. (‘’E buggered off out the garden an’ over the wall as soon as ’e ’eard that there banging,’ were her precise words, but we all knew what she meant.)

Judith, too, seemed to be missing, to the great distress of her husband, who found it impossible to comprehend what was going on, and was overwhelmed by the invasion of his house by the King’s brother and various representatives of the law. I whispered to Bertram, who, following my instructions, slipped inside the ‘fly trap’, emerging a few seconds later with Judith’s confession. This he handed to the Duke, who read it without comment, before passing it to Godfrey St Clair.

Godfrey’s whole body was shaking so much that Duke Richard ordered a stool to be found for him, and, when this had been brought, he read his wife’s confession with Alcina and his son looking over his shoulder. Of course, all three refused to believe it, but there was a desperation in their denials reminiscent of people spitting against the wind. There was no refuting, either, that the confession was written in Judith’s own hand, no matter how much they would have liked to prove it a forgery. Even so, they would have continued to express their doubts, had not one of the Sheriff’s men brought word that Mistress St Clair was to be seen sitting beneath the willow tree at the bottom of the garden, apparently either asleep or gazing out across the Thames. At this information, Godfrey gave a great cry and, oblivious to protocol, rushed from the bedchamber without so much as glancing at the Duke or asking his permission. He had guessed the truth, of course: Judith had taken her own life.

Duke Richard glanced at me with raised eyebrows. I told him about the lettuce and poppy juice potion that she took for her headaches.

‘She must have seen Your Highness’s approach along the Strand,’ I suggested, ‘and realized that the game was up. But, My Lord, how did you know where to look for me?’

The Duke, who could be extremely haughty if he wished, merely grinned like a schoolboy and perched on the end of the bed, smoothing the beautiful, embroidered coverlet with a long-fingered, appreciative hand.

‘First things first,’ he reproved me gently. ‘Are you fully recovered after your ordeal? If so, I should be glad to know the details of these two murders. My sister, the Duchess Margaret, will be shocked beyond measure and it will be hard to convince her of Mistress St Clair’s guilt, in spite of her confession. I need to know all of the facts.’

So, I told him.

When I had finished speaking, I lay back against the pillows, exhausted, my recent experience in the ‘fly trap’ having sapped my strength. Bertram handed me another beaker of wine and, over its rim, I met his reproachful gaze.

‘If only you’d kept me informed,’ he chided, ‘instead of trying to keep me in the dark all the time, you wouldn’t have ended up almost dead meat.’