The boy looked very frightened. “Did I do something wrong, milord?”
“Perhaps you did, but I will not punish you for it nor will anyone else. But I need the truth from you. Did someone pay you to fire the Salamander?”
“Aye, milord.” The boy nodded his head. “ ’Twas a priest, and he gave me a silver penny to do it. He said the king’s mother wished to play a jest upon him.”
“A silver penny?” the artisan exclaimed. “Where is it, you little turd? The penny should be mine for all the trouble you’ve caused me.” He glowered menacingly at his nephew, and thrust his hand in the boy’s face. “Give it to me!”
“I gave it to my mother,” the boy shouted back at his uncle. “You have paid me nothing since you took me as your apprentice. My mother needs to feed her children.”
The artisan cuffed the boy angrily, but the earl put a hand on the man’s arm.
“Leave the boy alone,” he said. “I may need him to identify this priest, and if he can there is something in it for you.”
“What is this about?” the artisan suddenly asked, now nervous of this tall Englishman.
“There has been a plot against someone in a high place, and your nephew was duped into lighting the Salamander which was to be the signal for the assassins,” the earl answered.
The fireworks artisan crossed himself nervously, murmuring, “Mother of God!”
“The boy is innocent of any wrongdoing,” the earl told the artisan quietly. “He was offered a chance to gain a silver penny, and he took it. No one was harmed, because the conspiracy was discovered in time. But I will want the boy to identify the priest for the proper authorities. You must both come with me.”
“Who are you?” the artisan asked.
“My name would mean naught to you, but you should know I am in the service of Cardinal Wolsey You will be rewarded for your cooperation, I promise you.”
The artisan shook his head. “Very well, we will come with you,” he said. He might be French, but everyone knew of the great cardinal who some said was the real ruler of England and the English. He reached out and grabbed his nephew by the collar of his shirt. “Come along, Piers, and tell the truth, you worthless piece of merde!”
The earl led the way from the field where the fireworks display was set up, through the English encampment to the cardinal’s pavilion. Recognized by the guard at the entrance, he was allowed to pass into the tent with his companions. Inside he saw the trio of miscreants on their knees before Wolsey, now returned from the mass.
“That’s him!” the boy burst out without even being asked. “ ’Tis yon priest who paid me a silver penny to light the Salamander before I should.”
Cardinal Wolsey beckoned them forward. “Explain, Witton,” he said.
“Remember that Philippa said ‘the salamander’ was to be the sign for the assassination. The lad is the fireworks artisan’s apprentice. He was paid a silver penny to light the Salamander when the sun reached its zenith this morning. The fireworks, of course, are not until this evening. The Salamander was to be the signal for the assassination to commence. The boy knew nothing of that, of course. He said a priest paid him, and said that the king’s mother wished to play a jest on her son.”
“And you see that same priest here in my pavilion, lad?” the cardinal said.
“Aye, your grace. He kneels before you there.” The boy pointed directly at the guilty man.
Cardinal Wolsey nodded. “Thank you, lad. Kneel, both of you, and I will give you my blessing.” The cardinal was known to be parsimonious. When he had blessed the pair he surprised the earl by reaching deep into a pocket hidden in his robes and drawing forth two coins. The larger of the two he gave to the artisan, the smaller to the boy.
The earl saw the glint of silver, and almost smiled. This information must have meant a great deal to the cardinal that he would part with silver.
“You,” Wolsey said to the artisan, “will return to your fireworks, for the display tonight must be a fine one. I will send the boy to you before evening. I need him to remain for now. He will have to tell his story to another.” The cardinal turned to one of his servants. “Have my litter prepared and brought forth. I am going to pay a visit upon the dowager queen herself, and see what she has to say about this plot.” Now he focused his gaze upon the earl of Witton. “You have done well, as you have always been wont to do, Crispin. Now go and find your wife, and enjoy the rest of this spectacle. One more interminable banquet filled with over-rich foods, a show of fireworks, and we may all finally go home again to our perfect English summer. Provided, of course, that it does not rain for weeks on end, but then after this unbearable heat and all this dust I think I will welcome the rain. Go! Go!” He waved his beringed hand at the earl.
Crispin St. Claire bowed to the cardinal. “Thank you, your grace,” he said. “I am glad to have once again been of service, but it is really my wife to whom the glory should go. If she had not overheard these three, their wicked plot might have succeeded.”
Comprehension dawned upon the face of the largest prisoner. He looked to the man called Michel and said, “I told you we should have strangled the bitch. She understood every word we said that day”
“Aye, she did,” the earl told them. And then, laughing, he left the cardinal’s pavilion to find Philippa and tell her all that had transpired.
Chapter 18
They came home to Brierewode on a warm summer’s day. A bluish haze hung over the hills, and the greenery had that lush, perfect summer fullness about it. When the Field of the Cloth of Gold had ended, the king and the court had retired to Calais where Henry dismissed most of his entourage, sending them home. He and the queen then rode to Gravelines to meet with the Emperor Charles and the Regent Margaret. The four returned to Calais where a treaty was signed between Charles and Henry in which England agreed not to sign any new treaties with France for the next two years. King Francois was not pleased, but there was nothing he could do. Crispin and Philippa had arrived home even before these events had transpired.
They had made the brief voyage from Calais to Dover in the vessel Lord Cambridge had hired for them, along with a dozen minor courtiers who had begged passage in order to return to England quickly. Most were Oxford men that Crispin knew, and he was glad to aid his neighbors. Their trip was even swifter than the last one, for the summer winds blew briskly. Philippa and Lucy sat out upon the deck, for being in the small cabin seemed to encourage seasickness. Crispin and their fellow passengers played at cards and diced to pass the time.
They had departed before dawn, and watched the sun rise over the receding French coast. In Dover their horses were unloaded from the ship, and they began their ride home to Oxfordshire. Something was happening, Philippa realized almost at once. The careful friendly and mannerly relationship she had built up these past two months with her husband seemed to be changing. It had begun in France when he had come upon her after she had heard the assassins. She didn’t understand it. He was more attentive. She caught him gazing at her more times than not now with a tender look in those silvery gray eyes of his that could turn so cold at a moment’s notice. What was happening? Did he love her? Was such a thing even possible between them? And did she love him? She thought she did, but she wasn’t really certain just what being in love with someone entailed. And she could not tell him. If there was one lesson she had learned well at the court, it was that a woman never declared her affections until a gentleman did first.
