water. Sometimes her father would go on such nightly expeditions. Under cover of dark, as the barrels and corpses were unloaded on to the friary carts, he would hurry ahead to Greyfriars to secretly meet the Lancastrian lords, Stafford of Buckingham and, above all, Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset. Such meetings were necessary. Beaufort could no longer move openly in the city, so strong was York’s growing grip. Moreover, rumours that Queen Margaret’s son was Beaufort’s, not the King’s, had caught the attention of the songsters, balladeers and minstrels, though none would dare proclaim such scandal in the Roseblood.
Others would also attend tonight’s consilium juratorum, including the two priests. ‘I hope, Melisaunde,’ whispered Katherine, flicking at the scraps of bark on her smock, ‘that Father Roger has stopped crying. He went to Colchester recently to bury his poor mother, and since his return he has not been the same. But there again, that’s what I love about the Roseblood. Like Avalon, all is shrouded in mystery and intrigue.’
She fell silent as she heard servants pass by to collect herbs – mint, parsley and sorrel – for the kitchens and buttery. Once they’d gone, she returned to her musing. Father swirled like some knight clothed in a magical mist confronting his enemies, be it on the city council or along the filthy maze of Queenhithe’s alleyways. Strangers came and went in the dead of night. Courier pigeons were dispatched, messages attached in thin copper sheaths. The grotesques of London, her father’s gangs organised into their various companies, slid in and out of the tavern with a host of others who looked to Simon Roseblood for sustenance and protection: relic sellers, pardoners, tinkers and traders, moon people and mummers, quacks and conjurors, pimps and prostitutes, beggars and rifflers. He greeted all these with open hands. No one who begged for a platter of food or a black jack of ale was ever turned away.
Other visitors remained mysterious, such as a present guest, Master Reginald Bray, who professed to be on pilgrimage to the house of St Thomas of Becket’s parents in Cheapside. Perhaps he was, though Katherine had noticed how he was most observant about all that happened in the tavern. Even more mysterious was the small, rather plump lady who had visited the tavern all hooded and visored at least once a fortnight over the last few months, arriving just before the Vespers bell on Friday. She was always given the Medlar, a spacious bedchamber on the second storey overlooking the Great Cloister, and would move straight up the private staircase, clinging to the balustrade. No less a person than the trusty Ignacio would escort her and take care of the little baggage she brought.
Curious, Katherine had set up close vigil on this enigmatic lady, who was visited by various young men in their padded jerkins and tight-fitting hose, hair all coiffed, jewellery glinting at throat, chest and wrist. Ignacio would always bring up a jug of white wine, together with some sweet subtlety such as marchpane, prunes and syrup, or succade of lemon peels. The mysterious woman would leave long after dark, and Katherine had heard the squeals and cries of lovemaking from the chamber; very similar to those she heard whilst hiding in the Great Tithe barn, when she was forced to witness one of the grooms tumble a maid in a flash of white flesh and threshing legs on the straw below. ‘I asked Father, only once, who our mysterious woman was, Melisaunde. He just grasped me by the shoulder, tapped me on the nose, called me his little squirrel, and told me to be careful of the circling hawks. Now what could that mean?’
A blackbird darted from the arboured trellis below in a flurry of wings, to be joined by the gang of sparrows that frequented the flower beds around the carp pond. Katherine tensed: the oak tree was not yet in full bloom and did not offer a thick green canopy as in midsummer.
Others would also attend tonight’s consilium juratorum, including the two priests. ‘I hope, Melisaunde,’ whispered Katherine, flicking at the scraps of bark on her smock, ‘that Father Roger has stopped crying. He went to Colchester recently to bury his poor mother, and since his return he has not been the same. But there again, that’s what I love about the Roseblood. Like Avalon, all is shrouded in mystery and intrigue.’
She fell silent as she heard servants pass by to collect herbs – mint, parsley and sorrel – for the kitchens and buttery. Once they’d gone, she returned to her musing. Father swirled like some knight clothed in a magical mist confronting his enemies, be it on the city council or along the filthy maze of Queenhithe’s alleyways. Strangers came and went in the dead of night. Courier pigeons were dispatched, messages attached in thin copper sheaths. The grotesques of London, her father’s gangs organised into their various companies, slid in and out of the tavern with a host of others who looked to Simon Roseblood for sustenance and protection: relic sellers, pardoners, tinkers and traders, moon people and mummers, quacks and conjurors, pimps and prostitutes, beggars and rifflers. He greeted all these with open hands. No one who begged for a platter of food or a black jack of ale was ever turned away.
Other visitors remained mysterious, such as a present guest, Master Reginald Bray, who professed to be on pilgrimage to the house of St Thomas of Becket’s parents in Cheapside. Perhaps he was, though Katherine had noticed how he was most observant about all that happened in the tavern. Even more mysterious was the small, rather plump lady who had visited the tavern all hooded and visored at least once a fortnight over the last few months, arriving just before the Vespers bell on Friday. She was always given the Medlar, a spacious bedchamber on the second storey overlooking the Great Cloister, and would move straight up the private staircase, clinging to the balustrade. No less a person than the trusty Ignacio would escort her and take care of the little baggage she brought.
Curious, Katherine had set up close vigil on this enigmatic lady, who was visited by various young men in their padded jerkins and tight-fitting hose, hair all coiffed, jewellery glinting at throat, chest and wrist. Ignacio would always bring up a jug of white wine, together with some sweet subtlety such as marchpane, prunes and syrup, or succade of lemon peels. The mysterious woman would leave long after dark, and Katherine had heard the squeals and cries of lovemaking from the chamber; very similar to those she heard whilst hiding in the Great Tithe barn, when she was forced to witness one of the grooms tumble a maid in a flash of white flesh and threshing legs on the straw below. ‘I asked Father, only once, who our mysterious woman was, Melisaunde. He just grasped me by the shoulder, tapped me on the nose, called me his little squirrel, and told me to be careful of the circling hawks. Now what could that mean?’
A blackbird darted from the arboured trellis below in a flurry of wings, to be joined by the gang of sparrows that frequented the flower beds around the carp pond. Katherine tensed: the oak tree was not yet in full bloom and did not offer a thick green canopy as in midsummer.
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