I admitted I had. Most of them I didn't believe, though the few that seemed credible could curdle milk. 'So you exploited Chaucer's long friends.h.i.+p with the man to get Simon placed down there,' I said. 'Then why did you send Chaucer back last year? Wasn't that something of a risk, given the circ.u.mstances?'

He grimaced. 'We needed to get a message to Simon, but couldn't risk having Hawkwood capture one of our messengers. So we sent Chaucer down there at the head of a diplomatic company, ostensibly to see about the wool.'

'Wool?'

'Nothing more complicated than that nor more crucial to His Highness's treasury.'

'Wool, the G.o.ddess of the merchants,' I murmured, recalling one of my own French lines.

'Our greatest export,' said the chancellor, 'and the Genoese the only foreign s.h.i.+ppers allowed to bypa.s.s Calais. Thousands of sacks a year from Southampton to Italy. Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of pounds. We're always stepping in to sniff around for smuggling and evasion. Chaucer has been controller of the wool custom for some time, and he was only too happy to make a discreet trip south for a few months, get him away from Philippa. "We need some feathers smoothed," he was told.'

'He contacted Simon on your behalf, then, while in Tuscany?'

The baron scoffed. 'Hardly. We slipped one of our own men into his entourage.'

'Who?'

His look told me I didn't need to know. 'Simon got our message, did what we asked him to do. What he did next, though copy Chaucer's book, pen a treasonous prophecy? That was all Simon, I'm afraid.'

He avoided my gaze, and I felt a sting of remorse, knowing what he must have been thinking. His father's son, apples falling close to trees. Everything I thought I knew about Simon had proved mistaken, as if my own son were a distant stranger, or one of Mandeville's monsters, a three-headed beast perched on the edge of the world. From a counterfeiting traitor to a loyal spy for the realm to a forger and cryptographer for a mercenary, in the s.p.a.ce of a few days.

The chancellor looked at me, not unkindly. 'To be around a man like Hawkwood for that long, it has to rub off on you.' Thinking this would comfort me. 'Chaucer's company returned from Italy in early March. Simon had already been here for weeks, though without showing himself to anyone, including you.' I nodded vaguely, remembering Simon's appearance at St Mary Overey exhausted after the long road from Italy, he had told me. 'Once I learned your son was back in London my intention was to bring him in, hold his feet to the fire. Make him tell us why he had left Florence without warning us.'

'When did you know he had returned?'

'You'll recall our chance meeting on Cat Street, that day you were searching out Strode's clerk. Ralph himself had just told me Simon was back.'

Strode had been feigning ignorance that day about Simon's return, then. Yet another deception. 'You covered well, my lord.'

He waved it off. 'When Simon came in that same week he told me he had simply left Hawkwood's service a few months before. That he hadn't bothered writing in advance of his return but had done everything we asked of him, and more. Then he was overheard having a heated conversation with Chaucer during the Garter morrow feast out at Windsor, telling him he planned to sell his little book to the highest bidder, get him strung up for his treachery. It was only then that we began to suspect Simon's connection to these prophecies.'

'Was that one of Oxford's men, then, at the river inn?' This was the question that had confused Chaucer during our last conversation.

'No. It was my man More. He and Simon had arranged a meeting during the feast, supposedly in order for Simon to hand over the book and reveal everything he knew. They met in the courtyard. But Simon demanded money lots of it and claimed to have offered the book to the Earl of Oxford, with Sir Stephen Weldon acting as agent. I couldn't let that happen. Simon was speaking too freely about it all. I worried that the whole thing would explode in our faces. So, once More reported back to me, we decided to bring Simon in, press him harder this time.'

'Then he was taken.'

'Weldon got to him first. Plucked him right out of your house before your return from Oxford. Took him G.o.d knows where.'

'How did he escape?'

'Don't know. Don't know that he did escape, or that he was even under duress. But it was clear that Simon had been lying through his teeth, both to our man in Florence, to me at Westminster, probably to Hawkwood and Oxford as well. He's been playing us all against each other, and where his loyalties lie is anyone's guess. Chaucer confirmed as much.'

'I thought Chaucer was ignorant of it all.' Until he discovered Seguina's letter, at least the one part of the whole story I had kept to myself.

'Of Simon's role, yes. But he learned more than he wanted to about Hawkwood. It seems Chaucer was digging around in some Genoese s.h.i.+pping manifests, tracking sacks of English wool, when he discovered a large number of commissions from Hawkwood for transport of troops this upcoming summer. It gave him a glimmer of Hawkwood's plans. He never confronted Sir John about it.'

I considered this. 'Chaucer knows more than anyone what the man is capable of, I suppose. Hawkwood would torture his own leg if it was holding out on him.'

'Our man's dispatch reached us a week before his return, though none of us made the connection with the prophecies and Hawkwood's plot against Gaunt until much later. Only Simon knew all of that.' He looked at the three books, still opened on his desk. 'Now you're suggesting the king himself is the real target after all.'

'I believe so, my lord.'

'I'll admit the timing is harrowing. France knows Richard is weak. The Scottish border needs defending. Word is King Richard will march up there this summer, leaving London and Westminster vulnerable.' He puffed his cheeks. 'You have to admire Hawkwood's audacity. Circulate a prophecy incriminating Lancaster, get him hanged, then go for the king. Once they're both out of the picture, swoop in and help install a new sovereign.'

'A kingmaker indeed,' I said, thinking of that line from the thirteenth prophecy, and marvelling at the cold ingenuity of Simon's poetry. I thought of Hawkwood in Florence, still believing all of this was unfolding hundreds of leagues to the north.

Then the chancellor dropped his last surprise. 'Though we won't have to worry about Hawkwood supporting an invasion, whatever happens after the truce expires.'

'My lord?'

'Simon left a little gift for Hawkwood a few days before his departure from Florence. An encrypted message, accusing one of his closest men of betraying his greater ambitions to us all along.'

'What man?'

'Adam Scarlett is his name. Hawkwood's chief lieutenant. A number of months ago we intercepted a rather shocking letter from Scarlett to one of his a.s.sociates in Paris, boasting of Hawkwood's plans to join forces with the French following the truce. Simon was instructed to find some way of scuttling Hawkwood's plans. In the process, he believes, he will have turned the condottiero against his most loyal man.'

'I see,' I said, and I finally did. 'So that was the true purpose of last Autumn's diplomatic mission to Italy. Chaucer's mission.'

'Yes, though again, Chaucer was kept ignorant of Hawkwood's plans until he discovered them on his own. In any case, Simon believes the device he created will convince Hawkwood of Scarlett's disloyalty, and that its discovery will stem any further militant plans on Sir John's part toward England.'

I was incredulous. 'So Simon, despite all he's done, will stay in Hawkwood's good graces.'

'And in ours, to a point,' said the baron, with another of his pragmatic shrugs. 'Our business now must be the king.'

I thought for a moment, trying to push aside all the chancellor had told me in order to focus on the plot at hand. 'Can the festivities be cancelled, or abbreviated in some way? What if the cardinal were to process with the archbishop only rather than with the king and his retinue? I imagine you could come up with an excuse for the royal absence.'

He shook his head emphatically. 'Richard won't hear of it. He regards the abbey as his personal shrine, the embodiment of his invulnerability. You know the places his mind is taking him these days. By now he's convinced himself his survival on St Dunstan's Day was a miracle. That it was G.o.d's hand that shot the butchers.'

I pointed up. 'An angel's, perhaps?'

He scoffed. 'G.o.d, an angel, royal archers all the same to His Highness. In any case, halting the procession and Ma.s.s is out of the question. We've just got through that whole Dunstan's Day business. If Mars himself were to come hurtling at the king I couldn't get him to change course.'

'I understand, my lord,' I said. The chancellor had higher men to please.

He leaned forward, his face lined with concern. 'St Dunstan's Day was one thing. The attempt took place in the Bishop of Winchester's courtyard, a site easily contained and with a few hundred in attendance. But Westminster, between the abbey and the palace yard? With three or four thousand in the crowd and our a.s.sa.s.sin any one of them, any hundred of them? That's another matter entirely.'

I agreed.

He stood, pacing the floor on the far side of his desk. 'We need to know where this originated, Gower. Does this last s.n.a.t.c.h of verse refer to a native plot, another bit of deception by Oxford and Weldon? And "city's blade" what could that possibly mean? Are the mayor's men involved, the Guildhall? But that's unthinkable.'

He looked a bit desperate. I had never seen him in such a state. He said, 'The cardinal's delegation arrives from Windsor this evening, and the Ma.s.s is set for s.e.xt tomorrow. We need more time. Or the answer to this d.a.m.ned riddle.'

I looked down at the book in question, still opened to the final prophecy and the scribbled verse. I thought of the ma.n.u.script's recent history. Where it had been, who had held it, stolen it, read from it, peddled it. As the chancellor had pointed out, the final couplet had to have been written into the book after Clanvowe copied from it which meant what?

I felt a twinge of something. 'There may be another way, my lord.'

The next morning I was at the gates of St Leonard's Bromley at first light, though I had to linger by the almonry until the Prime office had concluded before I could be escorted into the prioress's apartments. Coals glowed on the small hearth, despite the rising heat outside. Eventually Prioress Isabel bustled in from the chapterhouse. The sight of me brought her up short. 'What is it?'

I told her, as quickly as I could, then she sent for Millicent Fonteyn. There was a sober cast to the young woman's face when she entered the parlour. Darkened eyes, nearly expressionless below the close-fitting bonnet worn by the order's laysisters. As I recalled from my prior visit, she was an extraordinary beauty, though I could see what a toll the deaths of her mother and sister had taken.

Wasting no time, I removed the book from my bag and opened it to the final prophecy. I turned it toward her and pointed to the peculiar couplet. 'Did you write these lines, madam?'

Her deep-set eyes widened at the sight of the page. She looked at the prioress, then at me. 'I did.'

'And why did you not tell me this before, when you showed me the cloth?' Not accusatory, but prodding.

'I confess I did not think it was important, Master Gower. With the prophecy of the butchers, the cloth, all the talk in the streets ... these lines seemed a small nothing.'

'I understand why you might have regarded the verse as insignificant, in the light of everything else.' Nodding kindly, hoping to spur her memory. 'Where did you read these lines?'

She shook her head, the loose curls at her nape tossed by her vehemence. 'I never read them, sir. I only heard them, spoken by my sister.'

'Agnes,' I said, recalling the name, and her mother's sorrow. 'The one killed by Sir Stephen Weldon, up near Aldgate?'

'Aye, sir.'

'When I was here before St Dunstan's Day you told me your sister witnessed the murder in the Moorfields, yes?'

She blinked twice. 'She did, sir.'

'Is that where she heard these lines, on the Moorfields?'

She nodded.

'Tell me about it now.'

'The woman was kneeling in the dirt, Agnes said, right in the clearing. The fire was going out. He asked her some questions. She didn't answer them, or Agnes didn't think she did. But she couldn't understand a word they were saying. Then he raised his hammer. That's when she screamed it.'

'Screamed what?'

'The verse, sir. The verse I wrote in the book. Agnes swore it was intended for her, that the girl knew she was still there. She couldn't get it out of her head. For weeks she repeated it, kept blurting it out at the oddest times. She felt sure it meant something, though to my mind we had enough trouble with the prophecies in the book, and they sounded like a minstrel's lines, and what could be the importance of that? I wrote them there on that final leaf, just to calm her down.' Millicent paused for a well-deserved breath.

Something about her account was odd. I closed my eyes, thought it all through, then looked at her again. 'You said the man was questioning the girl, but Agnes couldn't understand a word. And yet she understood this verse well enough to repeat it to you days later. How do you explain the discrepancy?'

She stared at me, confused, then her face relaxed into a sad smile. 'Pardon, Master Gower, I thought that part was clear. They weren't speaking English, you see.'

'French, then?'

'No, Agnes would have said. She'd had enough Calais jakes to ear out French, that's sure.'

'What tongue, then? Did she catch any s.n.a.t.c.hes of it, any words that stood out?'

She thought for a moment, her brow knit. I felt my heart sink. Then her face brightened. 'Indeed she did, Master Gower. Doovay leebro.'

'Doovay leebro?' Something s.h.i.+fted inside me. 'You're sure?'

'Doovay leebro, is what Agnes said.' Feverish nods. 'Doovay leebro, doovay leebro, like he was singing to her. Sounded like a lullaby, is what she said, and he kept at it until he killed her. Doovay leebro.'

Doovay leebro. And then, with a calm astonishment, I knew. 'Where is the cheese?' I whispered. The knowledge balanced me.

'Where is the cheese?' the prioress barked, her voice an incredulous smear. 'What on earth are you prattling about, Gower?'

'Dov'e il formaggio?' I said, the question a delicious taste on my tongue. The talgar at Monksblood's, a s.n.a.t.c.h of Italian, a girl killed for a book.

Millicent Fonteyn stared at me in a kind of rapt confusion. My vision, too, had a clarity it only rarely achieved, and she was in that moment the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I could have kissed her; I could have kissed the prioress for that matter. Instead I bowed and took my leave, the life of King Richard hanging on the speed of my horse.

FIFTY-SIX.

Westminster Even if one avoids London altogether the ride from Stratford-at-Bowe to the city of Westminster is a hard and circuitous one, and as I splashed across the Lea it struck me that I might not make it in time for the procession, set to start shortly before s.e.xt and the Ma.s.s of the day. Pus.h.i.+ng the thought aside, I approached London on the Mile End Road at a swift gallop. Going through town, however direct the route, would slow me down considerably, so I branched off well before Aldgate and circled the city from afar, with the Moorfields to my left and the tower of Bethlem barely visible over a few low trees.

I came into Westminster from the west and posted my horse well up Orchard Street, going the rest of the way on foot at a jog, dodging around the crowds moving to the palace yard. The announcement of the papal delegation had stirred Westminster, London, even Southwark, hundreds of citizens boating up and walking over for a glimpse of the foreign officials. The crowd thickened as I neared the palace, then slowed as dozens crammed through the last feet of the lane.

The wide expanse between the palace yard and the abbey was a churning sea, a great plain of bobbing heads, lifted caps, shouts and cheers. The whole area had been cleared of hucksters and peddlers, all but a few of the fires extinguished. It appeared that the king and the cardinal had not yet left the palace, where a private service was being held in the St Stephen's upper chapel, though judging from the antic.i.p.ation in the air the procession would begin at any moment.

The chancellor would be in his chambers off the hall. He avoided processions like the pestilence. My work, he would always say, is best done out of view, a sentiment I shared.

Two doors, then the lesser hall and the chancellor's rooms. My face must have registered my fear, for when he saw it, Sir Michael de la Pole, usually cool, stood at once. With him was Edward More, his secretary and fixer, a man I had dealt with many times. Broad-chested, commanding, with a head and beard of s.h.i.+ning white, More had a reputation for ruthless partisans.h.i.+p and calm under pressure. 'What?' the chancellor demanded.

'It's Hawkwood,' I said breathlessly, my words barely a wheeze. 'He has a man, in the papal delegation.'

'How do you know this, Gower?'

'There's no time to explain, my lord.' A deep breath, holding my side. 'But believe me, my information is good.'

'Who is he, Gower?' More asked.

'We'll know him when we see him, I suspect. A trained a.s.sa.s.sin. Hawkwood wouldn't take any chances with a middling knife. One of the cardinal's guards, would be my guess.'

The chancellor went to a position by the outer door of his chambers, ducking his head to look out to the palace yard. 'We can't stop the procession. They just left the palace. We're too late.'

'Then we catch them,' said More, belting on his short sword. 'Even if it takes us to the abbey altar, we catch them.'

'Very well,' said the chancellor, arming himself as well. I followed them out of his chambers and across the hall, which was nearly empty as the procession got going from the palace. De la Pole summoned a clutch of pursuivants idling on the west porch, and we all sped together from the hall toward the royal procession, now making its slow way through the palace yard to meet the crowd still pouring in through the abbey gates, overwhelming the guards at the gatehouse.

As I saw immediately, the king and cardinal were on foot rather than mounted, as they would have been on the longer processions from the Tower, and it was nearly impossible to see them over the ma.s.ses between their position and ours. The crowd was at least twenty ranks thick, all elbows and indignation as everyone fought for position. With the chancellor, Edward More, and the pursuivants we were ten men strong, though against so many moving hundreds we could hardly hope to force our way through. The noise was deafening, too, and our shouts could not be heard over the din. The pursuivants headed straight into the crowd, angling toward the king's position. I bobbed along behind the outermost rank of spectators, taking short leaps into the air, feeling useless, attempting to get a glimpse of the princ.i.p.als and those cl.u.s.tered around them.

I stopped for a moment and took in the scene from afar, imagining myself atop the Wardrobe Tower at the far corner of the yard, or the bell tower opposite, and picturing the next few minutes in my mind. I reasoned that the attack, when it came, would happen before the abbey's west entrance, where the procession would bottleneck to move through the great doors. If I could get well ahead of the princ.i.p.als I would have a better angle on any potential attacker, though it wasn't clear to me what I could do about it. I pushed my way toward the abbey and gave two boys a s.h.i.+lling apiece to give up their spot on a column base.

I was now elevated two feet above the yard, but that was enough. Pockets of commotion everywhere, hard to tell what represented danger and what did not. I saw More. He was leading the chancellor and the small wedge of pursuivants toward the rearmost line of the procession. His focus was on the cardinal's guards, a rank of ten Italian soldiers, dressed for the occasion in livery and flounce, with banners and flags held above as they marched. The guard had accompanied the prelate all the way from Rome. Despite the procession's gaudiness these were seasoned, well-armed men. Any one of them would be capable of a.s.sa.s.sinating the king without a thought.