thrust into an embroidered scabbard. ‘Master Roseblood?’ The figure stepped closer. Simon glimpsed the insignia on the left shoulder of the blood-red jerkin: a crow in full flight against a blue field. ‘My name is LeCorbeil—’
Roseblood started forward. ‘My brother!’ he protested. ‘My brother mentioned you the night he died. You meddle in our affairs, a constant refrain—’
‘Monsieur, I beg you. Your men are some distance away, whilst I…’ LeCorbeil gestured at the crossbowmen, three in number, now standing behind him. ‘I believe,’ he continued, his melodious voice tinged with a French accent, ‘that the time is opportune for me to introduce myself yet again.’
‘Yet again? We have met before?’
‘Oh yes, many years ago.’
‘You are York’s creature?’ Simon demanded.
‘Monseigneur of York has his part to play in this, but so do you, Master Roseblood.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you remember, Englishman? You should, for I am LeCorbeil, come for vengeance!’ And the mysterious figure, protected by his henchmen, disappeared into the noisy jostling crowd.
Katherine Roseblood
London, April 1455
‘A nd we shall all go to Avalon, kiss the Holy Thorn and peer into the golden Eternal West.’ Katherine, daughter of Simon Roseblood and Rohesia, now departed, whispered her mythical incantation as she gingerly climbed the massive ancient oak. The tree stood in the furthest corner of the great garden of the orchard that lay to the west of the magnificent Roseblood, a three-storey tavern built of gleaming honey-coloured Cotswold stone. The sloping roofs of the tavern, which Katherine glimpsed as she climbed, were tiled with gleaming slates, its chimney stacks firmly constructed to withstand the gales that swept along the nearby Thames.
The Roseblood was a monument to English victories in France and the vast profits accrued from them. The old timber and plaster tavern had been torn down, and Master Simon had hired the finest artisans, stonemasons, carpenters, plumbers and tilers. He had imported stone by road and river from Cotswold quarries, paying his bills from the treasures and ransoms he had collected fighting in France under the Beaufort banner. The tavern, built in squares, could equal any stately manor house. Its northern arched gatehouse opened up on to the city; its southern to that stretch of lonely riverside carpeted by grass, briar, bramble and sandy shale that swept down to the busy port of Queenhithe.
The Roseblood imitated the great courtyards of France. The Great Cloister, as the central square enclosure was called, did not contain stableyard, washroom, bakery or slaughterhouse like other taverns. Instead it was modelled on the enclosure of an abbey: a rich grassy garth in the middle, with flower beds along its four sides. In the centre of the cloister garth rose an elegant fountain carved in the shape of a kingfisher standing over a deep bowl of water where lily pads bobbed, reeds thrust up long, lovely and lush and small golden fish darted. Each corner of the garth contained a shady arbour with turfed seats and stone benches. The air was constantly sweet with the perfume of plants and flowers: holly and ivy for Christmas; yew and hazel to be carried as palms during Holy Week; birch boughs for Easter, sweet woodruff for chaplets and garlands at Corpus Christi and white lilies and red roses for the Great Lady days. The bailey – the working courtyard with stables, well, smithy, bakehouse and other storerooms – lay to the east of the Great Cloister, connected by an arched gateway. On the west, a similar gate led into the tavern’s various gardens and orchards; a true paradise, with stew ponds, dovecotes and even a small warren.
Katherine, garbed in a russet smock, stout boots on her feet, pushed herself further up the oak tree to what she and her brothers always called Merlin’s Nest, her greensward bower, a great tangle of ancient branches that provided a canopied
Roseblood started forward. ‘My brother!’ he protested. ‘My brother mentioned you the night he died. You meddle in our affairs, a constant refrain—’
‘Monsieur, I beg you. Your men are some distance away, whilst I…’ LeCorbeil gestured at the crossbowmen, three in number, now standing behind him. ‘I believe,’ he continued, his melodious voice tinged with a French accent, ‘that the time is opportune for me to introduce myself yet again.’
‘Yet again? We have met before?’
‘Oh yes, many years ago.’
‘You are York’s creature?’ Simon demanded.
‘Monseigneur of York has his part to play in this, but so do you, Master Roseblood.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you remember, Englishman? You should, for I am LeCorbeil, come for vengeance!’ And the mysterious figure, protected by his henchmen, disappeared into the noisy jostling crowd.
Katherine Roseblood
London, April 1455
‘A nd we shall all go to Avalon, kiss the Holy Thorn and peer into the golden Eternal West.’ Katherine, daughter of Simon Roseblood and Rohesia, now departed, whispered her mythical incantation as she gingerly climbed the massive ancient oak. The tree stood in the furthest corner of the great garden of the orchard that lay to the west of the magnificent Roseblood, a three-storey tavern built of gleaming honey-coloured Cotswold stone. The sloping roofs of the tavern, which Katherine glimpsed as she climbed, were tiled with gleaming slates, its chimney stacks firmly constructed to withstand the gales that swept along the nearby Thames.
The Roseblood was a monument to English victories in France and the vast profits accrued from them. The old timber and plaster tavern had been torn down, and Master Simon had hired the finest artisans, stonemasons, carpenters, plumbers and tilers. He had imported stone by road and river from Cotswold quarries, paying his bills from the treasures and ransoms he had collected fighting in France under the Beaufort banner. The tavern, built in squares, could equal any stately manor house. Its northern arched gatehouse opened up on to the city; its southern to that stretch of lonely riverside carpeted by grass, briar, bramble and sandy shale that swept down to the busy port of Queenhithe.
The Roseblood imitated the great courtyards of France. The Great Cloister, as the central square enclosure was called, did not contain stableyard, washroom, bakery or slaughterhouse like other taverns. Instead it was modelled on the enclosure of an abbey: a rich grassy garth in the middle, with flower beds along its four sides. In the centre of the cloister garth rose an elegant fountain carved in the shape of a kingfisher standing over a deep bowl of water where lily pads bobbed, reeds thrust up long, lovely and lush and small golden fish darted. Each corner of the garth contained a shady arbour with turfed seats and stone benches. The air was constantly sweet with the perfume of plants and flowers: holly and ivy for Christmas; yew and hazel to be carried as palms during Holy Week; birch boughs for Easter, sweet woodruff for chaplets and garlands at Corpus Christi and white lilies and red roses for the Great Lady days. The bailey – the working courtyard with stables, well, smithy, bakehouse and other storerooms – lay to the east of the Great Cloister, connected by an arched gateway. On the west, a similar gate led into the tavern’s various gardens and orchards; a true paradise, with stew ponds, dovecotes and even a small warren.
Katherine, garbed in a russet smock, stout boots on her feet, pushed herself further up the oak tree to what she and her brothers always called Merlin’s Nest, her greensward bower, a great tangle of ancient branches that provided a canopied
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