The Midsummer Crown by Kate Sedley

alarmed by the second.
    Suddenly, Timothy’s gaze sharpened and homed in on a small, sandy-haired man struggling through the crowd from the direction of Cheapside. He was wearing the Duke of Gloucester’s livery.
    â€˜Simon! Simon Finglass!’ Timothy bellowed in a stentorian voice which I hardly recognized as his; indeed, until that moment, I would have thought him incapable of making so much noise.
    In spite of the hubbub, it was loud enough to attract the other man’s attention. He lifted his head and stood on tiptoe, trying to locate the source of the summons. After a while he spotted Timothy’s frantically waving arm and fought his way through the mob to our side. A little breathlessly he gripped the horse’s reins to steady himself and looked up enquiringly into Timothy’s face.
    â€˜What’s happening?’ the spymaster reiterated. ‘Treason at the Tower? What are these fools talking about?’
    â€˜You’re back, are you?’ The sandy head nodded approval. ‘Good thing. If half what’s being rumoured is true, I guess you’ll be needed at the Tower. Where’ve you been?’
    â€˜On the duke’s business,’ Timothy snapped, ‘and none of yours! Just answer my question, will you? What is this all about?’
    Simon Finglass shrugged. ‘Don’t know for certain,’ he admitted. ‘Only know what they’re saying.’
    He paused, sucking his teeth. Timothy turned purple in the face and, to save him an apoplexy, I leant forward, gently stroking my restless mount between the ears, and asked, ‘What is it “they” are saying?’
    The cacophony around us was now deafening and, once again, as just a few weeks previously, I sensed the near-hysteria of the crowd, a product of that febrile atmosphere which had lain like a pall over the city ever since King Edward died. I dismounted, indicating that Timothy and Piers should do the same, and led the way into the comparative peace and quiet of St Paul’s churchyard. Here, at least, we could hear ourselves speak.
    Timothy addressed himself to his acquaintance. ‘Simon, what is going on? Tell us, man, for God’s sake!’
    The man screwed up his small russet apple of a face in an apologetic grin. ‘I don’t know for certain. I was at Baynard’s Castle collecting some of the duke’s gear he’d left behind when he moved to Crosby’s Place. I knew there was an important meeting at the Tower this morning – the duke, the Lord Chamberlain, the Archbishop of York and some others – but what it was about I knew no more than the next poor sod who ain’t privy to the councils of the high and mighty.’
    â€˜For Christ’s sweet sake, get on with it!’ Timothy groaned.
    Master Finglass looked hurt. ‘I am! I am! Well, I’m minding my own business down in the main courtyard, packing the duke’s stuff into a couple of saddlebags, when two of our fellows come bursting in from the Thames Street gate, looking like they’ve seen a bloody ghost. The Archbishop, the Bishop of Ely, and some lord or other have all been arrested on a charge of high treason. And also . . .’ He paused momentarily for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘And also arrested is the Lord Chamberlain. Same charge! Treason!’
    â€˜Ah! At last!’ Timothy let out a grunt of satisfaction and nodded at me. ‘We’ve seen that coming.’
    Simon Finglass gripped the spymaster’s wrist. ‘Wait! That’s not all they’re saying. They’re saying that Lord Hastings is dead. That he was rushed to Tower Green and beheaded there and then by one of the executioners who’d been brought to the Tower, special-like, for that purpose. That the chamberlain was barely given time to be shrived and that they didn’t even use the proper block. They used a piece of timber that was lying around after some