“Her husband also had useful connections in Flanders,” Francois added.
What could Jamie’s offer of undying devotion be next to that?God in heaven, how much longer did he need to remain in this stifling room?
“Where is Gloucester?” he asked Francois. “I should pay my respects before I leave to visit the bishop.”
Not that he felt much like seeing the bishop either. From the frying pan into the fire, that was.
“Gloucester? I expect he has some lady with her skirts up behind a door.” Francois turned his head from side to side as if he expected to spot Gloucester’s bare behind in the midst of a tryst right in the hall.
“But, is that not his mistress just over there?” Jamie said, tilting his head in the direction of Eleanor Cobham.
“Eleanor is far too clever to censor Gloucester.” Francois leaned closer. “But God help the lady should Eleanor find out who she is. Rumor has it she poisoned the last woman he dallied with.”
Jamie had no trouble believing it of Eleanor. “I heard nothing of a murder.”
“Not for lack of effort,” Francois said in a low voice. “The woman was in bed a month—long enough to cool Gloucester’s interest. They say she still can eat nothing but porridge.”
“Good Lord.”
“Of course,” Francois said, “there is no proof Eleanor did it.”
They stood side by side, scanning the crowd in silence for a time. Jamie was looking for Pomeroy—the swine had yet to respond to his challenge to meet in single combat. Though Jamie was itching for the fight, he was relieved not to see Pomeroy here today. He did not want Pomeroy anywhere near Linnet.
Jamie noticed Eleanor had moved into a dark corner, where she was talking with four men in clerics’ robes.
“Is Eleanor conspiring with churchmen now?” he asked.
“They do look as if they are up to no good, don’t they?” Francois said with a laugh. “Gloucester and his mistress have some interesting acquaintances.”
“Who are they?”
“That one with the high forehead and exceedingly long nose is a famous alchemist from Oxford,” Francois said. “Gloucester is a great supporter of philosophers, as well as artists.”
“Is not alchemy art?” Jamie asked. “The art of deception?”
“Aye, they turn your silver into their gold,” Francois said, and they both laughed.
“The man with the pointed beard standing next to Eleanor is Roger Bolingbroke, an Oxford scholar in astrology,” Francois said. “The one next to him is Thomas Southwell, a physician and canon of Saint Stephen’s Chapel here at Westminster Palace. And the last one—the one who looks like a weasel—is John Hume, a clerk in Gloucester’s household.”
It did not surprise Jamie that Francois knew everyone. If Francois was swept ashore in a strange land, he’d know half the criminals and be invited to sup at the king’s table within a week.
“Gloucester and his mistress have a fascination for all the ancient mystic arts.” Francois leaned close to add, “I hear they even consort with necromancers.”
“Conjurers of the dead? You cannot mean it.”
In an all-too-familiar gesture, Francois lifted one eyebrow and shrugged his shoulder.
“You share too many mannerisms with your twin,” Jamie said. “ ’Tis irksome.”
“Just so long as it annoys you, rather than makes you want to kiss me,” Francois said and puckered his lips.
“Good God, Francois.” Jamie punched his shoulder, hard.
From the corner of his eye, Jamie saw Eleanor walk quickly out of the hall with a furtive glance over her shoulder, as if she hoped no one noticed her leave. One of the clerics she had been talking with appeared to catch someone’s eye across the hall. Then, in quick succession, the four clerics left the hall.
Francois swore an oath under his breath. Jamie forgot the clerics as he followed Francois’s gaze to Linnet. She was surrounded by a circle of men, wealthy merchants by the looks of them. As he watched, she took the arm of a short, well-fed man in an orange-and-violet-brocade tunic and matching hose that made Jamie’s eyes hurt.
“Not the alderman,” Francois muttered. “I swear, she’ll be the death of me…”
