14 - The Burgundian's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

sat down and waited patiently for Timothy Plummer.
    In fact, Timothy appeared only briefly before handing me over to a young officer of the Gloucester household named Bertram Serifaber – a stocky, curly-haired young man, as friendly as he was bright and quick-witted.
    ‘I’m to assist you in any way I can,’ he told me. ‘I’m at your disposal for as long as you need me, and all my other duties are to be subordinated to your demands.’ He smiled happily at the prospect and his brown eyes sparkled. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ he admitted candidly. ‘These state occasions can be a bore. There’s such a lot of standing around, just twiddling one’s thumbs. Trying to track down a murderer will be much more fun.’
    ‘Only trying?’ I teased. ‘You should have more confidence in me, my little locksmith.’
    He blushed, then quickly forgot his embarrassment and grinned. ‘You’re right. My father, grandfather and great-grandfather were, or are, all serifabers, but mending and fitting locks didn’t appeal to me. When my father did some work in the royal palace at Westminister a year or so ago, I accompanied him, which is how I met Master Plummer. He was in the service of the King at the time, as I expect you know.’ I nodded. ‘Well, he took a liking to me, thought me bright enough to be trained as a future spy and persuaded my father at least to let me try. Mind you,’ my new young friend added with a sigh, ‘I didn’t bargain on Master Plummer returning to the Duke of Gloucester’s household and having to go with him to Yorkshire.’
    He spoke the last word with the kind of scorn reserved by all Londoners for anywhere outside the capital, but I was used to that. My lips might have twitched, but I hid my amusement and said bracingly, ‘Well, you’re back home now.’
    ‘But not for long. It’ll be Scotland next,’ he added gloomily, ‘if all the rumours are true.’ Then what was plainly his natural buoyancy shone through and he gave me a blinding smile. ‘However, anything’s better than locksmithing, and you do get to see a bit of the world. And now that I’m trying – oops! sorry! –
going
to solve a murder with you, perhaps I’ll be noticed by the King and My Lord of Gloucester and Duchess Margaret.’ He didn’t add, ‘Things are looking up!’ but the words were implicit in his general demeanour. He was an optimist and nothing could alter that fact.
    ‘Then we’d better make a start,’ I suggested. ‘As we’re not far from Fleet Street, you can show me first where this Fulk Quantrell was murdered.’ I had a moment’s misgiving. ‘You do know all about this killing, I suppose? Master Plummer has explained everything to you?’
    Bertram Serifaber nodded vigorously. ‘He’s told me all that he knows, yes. But it’s not very much now, is it?’
    I laughed and agreed.
    We left London by the Lud Gate, under the raised portcullis, past the guards whose job it was to turn back any lepers who tried to enter the city, and across the drawbridge that spanned the ditch. I had forgotten how much bigger, dirtier and noisier London was even than Bristol, the second city in the kingdom; and long before we reached our destination my head was aching from the incessant cries of the street vendors, the chiming of the bells and the effort of pushing my way through the jostling crowds. The screech and rattle of carts, many driven at breakneck speed, was the inevitable prelude to being splashed with mud and refuse from the central drain. I cursed loudly and openly wished myself at home; but at the same time, there was a vitality, a sense of urgency about life in London that I secretly found exhilarating.
    I remembered Fleet Street from my previous visits to the capital: a road leading from the Lud Gate at one end and merging into the Strand at the other. The River Fleet ran at right angles to it, as did Shoe Lane and the Bailey, and the houses that flanked it on either side were three-storeyed