11 - The Lammas Feast (17 page)

‘Exactly! And if, then, a couple of turnkeys – acting under orders, of course – popped into your cell and held you head-down in the cask of malmsey until you drowned, isn’t that a better way to go than with your head on the block, at the mercy of some blundering butcher of an executioner?’

‘And better for the King, as well,’ I murmured, ‘because no one knows for certain what has happened to Clarence. There are rumours, but no one knows whether or not to believe them. By the time we know for a fact that Brother George really is dead and mouldering in his tomb in Tewkesbury Abbey, we’ve all got used to the idea. The King’s got rid of him without suffering any wave of popular revulsion. Clever. Is that what really happened?’

Timothy looked offended. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

I sucked in my bottom lip. ‘It’s feasible, I suppose. It has a certain irresistible logic to it. And there’s one thing for sure,’ I added, tapping the tabletop in my turn, ‘we’re never going to be told anything different, not now, nor in the future.’

‘You’re a hard man to convince,’ Timothy snorted, rising to his feet. ‘Well, I suppose I must be away to this woman’s cottage you’ve told me about, to see my prisoner for myself. Do you want to come with me?’

I hesitated. ‘I would,’ I said, ‘if I were sure that Sergeant Manifold has sent to inform the Widow Godsmark of her son’s death. But I think I must satisfy myself on that point before I do anything else. She lives very close, within sight of the castle walls, so I’ll go there now. If you truly don’t object to my company, I’ll catch you up.’

Timothy grinned. ‘By all means. Your company, Roger, is akin to an old nagging toothache that comes back every now and then, when the wind’s in the wrong quarter, to plague me. Irritating, but familiar, and I know it will go away again.’

I returned the grin. ‘Admit that you and His Grace of Gloucester owe me a lot.’

‘I wouldn’t deny it,’ he answered handsomely, but took the gilt off the gingerbread by adding, ‘I wouldn’t dare to.’

We left the guardroom by a door that looked as if its hinges might give way at any minute, and my companion promptly tripped over a block of fallen masonry.

‘You see what I mean,’ Timothy snarled.

I concealed a smile and we proceeded across the barbican bridge to the town beyond. My companion was immediately hailed by Richard Manifold, who, as luck would have it, was passing at that very moment, accompanied by four of the brothers from the friary, carrying Walter’s body on a makeshift bier.

‘Master Plummer! Grant me a minute or two’s grace and I’ll conduct you to Mistress Ford’s cottage. Our suspect’s there. With luck, he’ll have recovered consciousness by now.’ He noticed me and his expression changed. He looked suddenly like a man who had just been poked in the stomach with a very sharp stick. ‘What are you doing here, Chapman?’

‘Renewing acquaintance with an old friend,’ I answered blithely. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

He was about to tell me in no uncertain terms what I could do with my offer, when he had second thoughts.

‘You can accompany the brothers to Goody Godsmark’s and break the sad news to her, while I take Master Plummer to Mistress Ford’s. The sooner we get back to our prisoner the better.’ He enjoyed equating himself with an officer of the King.

I managed to hide my annoyance and gave him my most disarming smile. ‘Of course. I’ll join you both later.’

Before Richard could cavil at this proposal, Timothy clapped me on the back and said, ‘Yes, do that, Roger. We’ll be pleased to have your company.’ He nodded abruptly at Richard. ‘Lead the way, Sergeant.’

They strode off in the direction of the Frome Bridge. I joined the sad little procession bound for Goody Godsmark’s cottage.

The widow took the news of her son’s death as badly as I had feared she would. At first, she was struck almost dumb, white and trembling and refusing to believe it was Walter on the bier, until one of the friars removed the sheet that covered him. Even then, she stared at the discoloured, bloated face for some moments before giving a high-pitched scream and throwing herself on her knees beside the bier, which had been lowered to the floor. After that, her grief increased in volume until the neighbours were crowding in to find out what was going on. The brothers didn’t wait to enlighten them – cravenly leaving that to me – and disappeared with a practised rapidity that said very little for the Christian virtues of comfort and compassion.

To my relief, once I had explained the facts of Walter’s death, the women began to take charge as, thank God, they always do in such circumstances. The men were worse than useless, standing about and getting in the way, the more charitable amongst them murmuring that they weren’t at all surprised, the rivers claimed the lives of too many drunkards, while the rest muttered darkly that anyone who did Jasper Fairbrother’s dirty work for him deserved all he got.

After a decent interval, I decided that I, too, could slip away without being missed, leaving Goody Godsmark in the hands of her capable neighbours. But as I inched towards the cottage door, she noticed me and gave an ear-piercing shriek. Strong men flinched.

‘
You
!’ she cried, one of her long, bony fingers stabbing the air in front of her. ‘You! Chapman! I told you you shouldn’t have started my boy thinking! I knew no good would come of it! It weren’t natural to him. But you would encourage him! Brooding he was, all Tuesday, after you’d gone. Went out, but wouldn’t say where he was going. Came back. Brooded some more. Then went out a second time.’ Her voice rose to a banshee wail. ‘It’s your fault! Your fault! You started him thinking!’

I paused, no longer so desirous to escape. I felt her words had some significance that was eluding me, believing as I did that Walter’s death might not have been an accident. But at present the cottage was too crowded, the widow herself too upset for me to make any attempt at interrogation.

‘She’s hysterical,’ one of the women said. ‘You’d better go, Chapman. Your presence seems to be disturbing her. And you’re doing no good here. You and that pack of yours are just taking up room.’

I know when I’m not wanted. I left, several of the men sniggering behind their hands at the sight of a great lout like myself being bullied by a very small woman. But I would be back later, when Goody Godsmark had had time to bury her dead and get over her first overwhelming shock and grief.

Outside, I ran into Maria Watkins, Bess Simnel and a cohort of other goodies from Redcliffe, a sure sign that Margaret had returned home and spread the news of Walter’s death. I was instantly surrounded and bombarded with urgent demands for details, but managed to extricate myself by saying that, while they dallied outside the cottage, they were missing the action. The goodies hastened indoors to offer their condolences to the bereaved widow and add their voices to the general chorus of woe. Had they not always foreseen that some such tragic accident would happen to Walter one day?

I went home in order to leave my pack before climbing Saint Michael’s Hill to join Timothy Plummer and the others. Adela was out. Also missing were the children, the dog and Adam’s little cart on wheels, so I guessed that my family had probably accompanied Margaret part of the way home to Redcliffe and then gone shopping in the market. The day was still hot and getting hotter. I thought guiltily of my wife now having to cope with Hercules in addition to her other burdens, but resisted, without too much difficulty, the temptation to seek her out and offer my help. I also reflected that, now Margaret had left us, I no longer had an excuse to postpone my confession about kissing Cicely Ford. I had promised Cicely I would make it, and intended to keep my word. Nevertheless, it seemed more and more to be much ado about nothing, and my irritation rose accordingly. I glanced around the cottage’s one room and, empty though it was, felt stifled and hemmed in. The knowledge that I had brought my troubles on myself – if troubles they were – only exacerbated my feelings. I should never have let a stray dog acquire me; I should never have fathered another child; I should never have married a widow with a little boy; nor, going right back to the beginning, should I have let myself be seduced by Lillis and then inveigled into marrying her. For ten minutes or so, I wallowed in self-pity.

Then, suddenly, I caught myself up short. As the holy scriptures tell us, there comes a time when you have to put away childish things and take responsibility for your life. I gave myself a mental kick, swilled my face in the water barrel, treated myself to a quick glimpse of my two gold pieces in their hiding-place under the floor, seized my cudgel and set off for Cicely Ford’s cottage.

The forest of stalls and booths around Saint James’s Priory was now almost complete, with only one or two people still hammering away at last-minute preparations for Saturday’s grand opening. Goods were beginning to arrive, brought on mule and horseback, to be stored and locked up in the back of each stall, and the sellers of hot pies and meats were making sure that they had enough fuel to heat their ovens. The activity was frenetic, and I was virtually ignored as I made my way towards the stile and climbed over into Prior’s Lane.

It was far too hot to hurry, and I walked up Saint Michael’s Hill with leisurely strides. I was within sight of Cicely Ford’s cottage when I heard voices raised in anger and what sounded like dismay. I recognized the strident London tones of Timothy Plummer above the rest, and reached the door in time to hear him shout, ‘How, in God’s name, did this happen? Call yourself a physician, sir? You assured the sergeant here that this man was in no danger! That he would make a full recovery! But he hasn’t, has he? Take a closer look at him, Doctor! I think you’ll find that he’s dead.’

T
he door was open, so I entered without knocking. Timothy Plummer and Richard Manifold were standing on one side of Cicely Ford’s bed, the physician on the other. Jack Gload and Peter Littleman were watching from just inside the doorway, shuffling their feet among the straw, their small, dark faces expressionless; although that was a normal state of affairs with them. Cicely herself and Marion Baldock, looking belligerent, flanked the doctor, evidently having appointed themselves his bodyguard and champions. But it was the supine figure on the bed that attracted and held my attention, its unnatural stillness immediately proclaiming the truth of Timothy Plummer’s words.

The stranger was undoubtedly dead.

The doctor was justifiably angry, both at losing his patient and at being accused of incompetence.

‘The man was on the road to recovery,’ he flung back at Timothy. ‘I told you what I saw. He opened his eyes a second time just half an hour or so ago. But it’s not my fault, sir, if God and nature decided to intervene! I cannot possibly be blamed for that, and I’ll thank you to keep your libellous innuendoes and your snide inferences to yourself! I’ve worn myself to the bone trying to keep this poor fellow alive. I’ve forgone a proper night’s sleep and a decent meal just to stay at his side. And all I get by way of thanks is unwarranted abuse! Well, I’m off! I’ll not remain any longer to be insulted!’

He grabbed his bag of instruments from a stool at the foot of the bed and stumped from the cottage, even forgetting, in his annoyance, to take his leave of Cicely and Marion Baldock. As he passed me, he snarled, ‘You got me into this, Chapman. If you ever find someone else who’s taken a beating, don’t bother to call me!’

Suddenly made aware of my unwelcome presence, Richard Manifold’s already unhappy face grew even longer. Timothy, by contrast, seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He beckoned me forward.

‘Come and look at our Breton, Roger. What do you think?’

I bent and peered closely at the stranger. He looked peaceful enough and was not long dead, being still warm to the touch. His face bore the cuts and bruises of the previous evening’s assault, but there was something more; a bluish tinge around the mouth and a pinched look about the nostrils, which, together with the congested appearance of the features in general, aroused my suspicions.

‘I would guess he’s been suffocated,’ I said, ‘probably with the pillow. Look how it’s lying askew, as though it’s been pushed back under his head in a hurry.’

Timothy nodded agreement, but Richard Manifold protested angrily and with a hint of panic in his tone.

‘He can’t have been murdered. My men had strict instructions not to leave his bedside.’ He turned threateningly on his two lieutenants. ‘Was this man left alone at any time, without one or the other of you being here, in the room?’

I think it was what, in legal terms, is known as a leading question. Jack Gload and Peter Littleman may have been slow on the uptake, but they weren’t completely stupid. They could sense trouble in the same way that animals can sense a rising storm. Of course, they vehemently denied the charge. At no time had they left the stranger unattended: one or the other of them had always been in the cottage with him. They could have appealed to the two women to support their claim, but they didn’t. I wondered why not. Perhaps it just did not occur to them.

Timothy, however, thought of it. ‘Mistress Ford, Sister Jerome, is this true? Think back carefully over the hour or half-hour before Sergeant Manifold and I arrived this morning.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ Marion Baldock answered. I only arrived myself some ten minutes before you did. I was here throughout the night, but I returned to the nunnery at about seven o’clock for Prime, after which I had my chores to do, followed by a period of prayer and meditation alone in my cell.’

‘Who was in the cottage when you came back?’ I asked.

She frowned. ‘Let me see . . . Yes, Cicely was here, fast asleep in the armchair, and that fellow’ – she indicated Peter Littleman – ‘was seated on a stool, his back propped against the wall, facing the foot of the bed. His companion came in a few moments later.’

‘Call of nature,’ Jack Gload explained coyly, obviously not wishing to offend sensitive female ears with his customary forthright language.

‘You’re sure of all this, Sister?’ Timothy demanded bluntly.