The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [49]
“Is Percy all right?” Thomas asked.
Rawdon nodded. His gilt crown bobbed, and he made a grab for it.
“I keep forgetting the damned thing,” he complained, looking as gloomy and cadaverous as Henry VI probably had looked most of the time. “Apparently the drug was in some vile fruit drink the boy habitually consumes. Did you see his room? Stocked like a shop! Biscuits, sweets—even the fruit is deadly unless it was organically grown, which is unlikely. Insecticides—”
“It would have been easy for someone to drug him, then,” Jacqueline interrupted the diatribe.
“Oh, quite. The unfortunate boy never stops eating. If I had him under my care—”
Thomas had heard enough.
“I wonder what’s going to happen now. Will Dick want to go on with the banquet?”
Weldon answered the question himself. He appeared in the doorway with his arm around the shoulders of a swaggering Percy.
“Here we are,” he said. “Ready to take up where we were—er—interrupted. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones will join us later on.”
For a moment Thomas didn’t think Weldon was going to get away with it. The room rang with unspoken questions. But Weldon stood firm, his dark eyes challenging; and no one spoke.
Liz was the first to respond. Like someone in a trance she walked forward, and Sir Richard moved to meet her. He offered her his arm, in the old courtly gesture; she placed her hand on his. The candles flickered in a sudden gust of wind; the two slight figures, robed and crowned, seemed to flicker too, like the unsubstantial fabric of a dream.
Thomas heard a voice remark softly.
“Stands the wind in that quarter? ‘Nay, do no pause; for I did kill King Henry, But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young Edward, But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.’ ”
The voice was Philip’s, of course. Thomas turned. “I hope your quotation does not constitute an accusation.”
“Did you see Weldon’s face when she took his hand?” The actor’s face was covered with a faint sheen of perspiration.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thomas said shortly. “At any rate, you’re in the clear. The comedian appears to have skipped you. I’m inclined to agree with Sir Richard. It was Percy.”
“After this last episode?” The lines in Philip’s forehead smoothed out. “Yes, I see. A typically juvenile attempt to remove suspicion from himself.”
“Sir Richard lectured him—accused him of perpetrating the tricks. This would be a predictable reaction.”
“I wish I believed it,” Philip muttered. “I can deal with Percy.”
“Come along,” Thomas said. “To the feast! Begone, dull care!”
Philip laughed hollowly.
II
The Great Hall was alive with ruddy, shifting light. A fire roared in the hearth, and along the wall torches set in iron brackets sent up streams of orange flame. The long table on the dais was covered with snowy linen. The floor was strewn with rushes; they were semi-dry and rustled underfoot, giving out a sweet scent as the herbs and flowers among them were crushed by the feet of the guests. Along the walls, stiff as statues, stood rows of servants in full medieval costume. Thomas was reassured to see the snout of a portable fire extinguisher poking out from under a tapestry. It was still raining outside, but Weldon was taking no chances.
Weldon led his lady into the Hall as a blare of trumpets assailed the ears of the guests. Waiting for them near the dais was the stoical figure of Wilkes, in the uncongenial role of the medieval marshal. With his small gilt baton he indicated the chairs each diner was to occupy. As Weldon took his place, the trumpets died. Thomas let out a breath of relief. The musicians did not lack ardor, but at least one of them had to be tone deaf as well as untrained.
The unfortunate Wilkes now reappeared in the role of the medieval butler, the mandatory white napkin draped around his neck. Thomas watched with amusement as he poured wine into the cover of Weldon’s cup and raised it to his own lips. He hoped the butler didn’t have to go through the rest of the taster’s ritual; it would take forever,