13 - The Midsummer Rose (21 page)

‘A Midsummer hangover, more like. Especially Luke,’ I said, and told him what had happened.

‘Bloody fool,’ the landlord remarked dispassionately. ‘Picking on a law officer is never a clever idea. You can’t win. But these hot-headed young fellows won’t learn. Cuckoo-foot ale, was it? Usually is at these Midsummer feasts. Now, what can I do for you, chapman? I’ll have to get back inside soon. I can’t leave it all to the boys. It would be chaos if I did.’

He seated himself on an empty barrel and indicated that I should do the same. Hercules sat disconsolately at my feet, dreaming, presumably, of a lost opportunity to display his sexual prowess.

‘Yesterday,’ I began, ‘a beggarman came in here. A stranger. He’s been hanging around the city for weeks.’

I had no need to proceed any further. ‘Oh, him!’ the landlord exclaimed knowingly. ‘He’s been in here a couple of times, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that he’s no beggar.’

I didn’t enlighten him. ‘What about the man he met?’

‘Huh! Shan’t forget him in a hurry, because I had the Devil’s own work to understand what he was saying. Got the hang of it in the end if he spoke very slowly and distinctly. He was a Scot.’

‘A Scot?’ I echoed in disbelief.

But if that were true, Jack Hodge would have been none the wiser, even had he been able to overhear the man’s conversation with Timothy Plummer. For the speech, not only of Scotsmen, but also of our own countrymen from the wild wastes in the north of England, is as incomprehensible to a Wessex man’s ears as our way of talking is to them. Bristolians are attuned to the way Irishmen, Frenchmen, Bretons, Castilians, Aragonese, Portuguese and any other nationality whose ships tie up daily at our wharves mangle our tongue. But Scotsmen are a mystery, their country as remote as the moon. Presumably Timothy had been able to understand this man; but then, Timothy was a part of the court, which was constantly on the move, travelling the length and breadth of the country and in communication with all sorts and conditions of people.

But what on earth was a Scot doing in Bristol?

Without realizing it, I must have voiced the question aloud, because the landlord of the Full Moon shrugged and said, ‘All I know is there’s been some sort of trouble between the Scottish king and his brothers. Pretty much like our lot when you come to think about it.’

I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘How do you know?’

He eased himself further back on his barrel, so that its raised rim cut into his ample thighs at a different angle.

‘Some weeks back, a Dominican friar stopped here on his way to the friary in the Broad Meadows. He’d come from way up north – Durham or some such godforsaken place.’ We’re nothing if not biased down here in the west. ‘They’re nearly as close to the Scots there as we are here to the southern Welsh. Apparently, the rumours from across the border are that King James has accused both his brothers of treason and the younger one, the Earl of Mar, has been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The older one, the Duke of Albany, has vanished. Wise fellow! No one knows where he is, but the odds are on him having fled to England with a view to making his way across the Channel to France.’ That made sense. The French and the Scots have always been as thick as thieves. The landlord heaved himself off his barrel. ‘Now, I must be getting back,’ he went on. ‘I’m sorry not to have been of more help. When you next see Jenny Hodge, tell her I think Richard Manifold’s a fool, if that’s of any comfort to her.’

I nodded. ‘Do you mind if I stay out here for a while? Just to give myself time to think.’

‘By all means.’ The landlord spread his hands. ‘You’re not disturbing anyone. I’ll send a lad out with a mazer of ale.’

I thanked him and he vanished indoors, where I soon heard his voice raised in anger at one of the pot-boys. I stared ahead of me, deep in thought, impervious to Hercules’ tugs on his lead. The dog gave one final disgruntled yap before settling down, but he let me know he wasn’t pleased by cocking his leg and peeing all over my ankle. But even that didn’t bother me; at least, not for the moment. I was too deep in thought. Later, I might find time to get annoyed.

Trouble in the Scots royal family was probably as commonplace as it was in our own, and recalcitrant brothers were no novelty for any ruler. All the same, if the Dominican friar were to be believed, this sounded a little more serious than most fraternal disagreements. Accusations of treason were being levelled by King James, and one of his brothers, the Earl of Mar, had already been found dead in dubious circumstances. The Duke of Albany was probably in hiding somewhere in this country, trying to find a ship to carry him to France.

So, who would be looking for him? King James’ agents for a start, hoping to drag him back to Scotland to face almost certain death. Secondly, our own king’s spies would be scouring the country, needing to discover him before the Scots did if King Edward were to gain a valuable hostage and a pawn in the bargaining game. Or they might be working together.

And where would these gentlemen be searching for their quarry? Common sense suggested the harbour towns and ports of south-east and southern England as the likeliest places. Dover. Rye. Sandwich. Portsmouth. Plymouth.

So why were Timothy Plummer and a mysterious Scotsman meeting secretly in a Bristol alehouse?

‘Y
ou’re late,’ Richard Manifold said as I presented myself in the Councillors’ Hall beside Saint Ewen’s Church.

‘How can I be late?’ I countered. ‘You set no specific time. Afternoon, you said. It’s afternoon.’

‘Don’t be obstructive.’ He beckoned forward his clerk, a sour-faced man with a scrawny throat and a sharp little nose that quivered in constant anticipation of trouble. ‘Master Peters will take down your statement.’

I looked around me, pointedly ignoring the clerk’s raised quill as it hovered above the inkwell.

‘Where’s the beggarman?’ I asked. ‘Or has he been and gone? If so, I’d like to hear exactly what he had to say.’

I noted the flicker of a glance between sergeant and clerk before Richard said firmly, ‘You’re here to give
your
statement. Nothing else need concern you.’

‘He hasn’t made one, has he?’ I asked, hazarding a guess.

But it didn’t need second sight to work out that Timothy had never intended to present his evidence formally. Having directed Richard’s attention towards Burl Hodge and away from the Avenel family and their activities, he would make himself scarce. If he did reappear in his beggarman’s disguise, which I somehow doubted, he would steer clear of the law as much as possible.

‘I know where to put my hand on our friend when I want him,’ Richard boasted, but I could see by the shifty gleam in his eyes that he was lying. ‘You just give me your version of Burl Hodge’s attack on Robin Avenel yesterday evening. I’ve told you: that’s all you need worry about.’

I thought of refusing, but there had to be other witnesses beside Timothy and myself who had observed the quarrel. What was to be gained by landing myself in the bridewell?

So I told the clerk what he needed to know, mitigating Burl’s part in events as far as possible, but without much success. On Richard’s command, whole sentences were struck from the record as being irrelevant. At last, however, I was free to go; which was just as well because by this time I was in a towering temper. I untied Hercules’ string and dragged him downstairs and out into Corn Street, where I crossed to the Green Lattis. A cup of ale would speed my recovery. I wanted to think.

I had proceeded to the Councillors’ Hall directly from the Full Moon, having decided to get the unpleasant business of the afternoon over and done with before considering the fresh knowledge with which the Full Moon landlord had presented me. But while walking across the Frome Bridge, I had recalled the man I’d heard in the ‘murder’ house at Rownham Passage; remembered the accent I had been unable to place. Could its owner have been a Scot? Yet his words had been clear enough. ‘What are we going to do with him? Toss him in the river?’ And then, ‘I’ll use my knife. Finish him off.’

I sipped my ale thoughtfully. So … A Scot whose way of talking was not totally incomprehensible to my Saxon ears. An educated man, therefore; one who was accustomed to mingling with Englishmen and to modifying the thickness of his speech for their understanding. I recollected the ring I had found embedded in the mattress and which now reposed in my secret hiding place at home; the rich chasing of the gold band and the two letter As carved into the roundel. A for Albany, perhaps? But if that were so, it brought me full circle to my original question. What would the king of Scotland’s fugitive brother be doing in Bristol? And what possible connection could he have with Robin Avenel and his sister? There was no explanation that made any sense.

I abandoned the riddle, for the time being at least, and started looking about me in the vain hope of spotting Timothy, but to no avail. I therefore finished my drink and considered what to do next.

After some reflection, I decided to call at the Avenel house in Broad Street and offer my condolences, but second thoughts told me I was unlikely to be a welcome visitor. However, I had never found this an insurmountable difficulty in the past: I simply took my pack and went to the kitchen door instead of to the front. And servants were very often a more valuable source of information than their masters. I doubted if Robin Avenel’s servants would be mourning his death with any great sense of loss; at any rate, nothing that the prospect of a yard or two of ribbon or a cheap pair of laces wouldn’t cure. He had never really been popular with any of them.

I stepped out of the cool shadows of the Green Lattis into the blazing heat of the busy street, dragging a reluctant Hercules behind me. For many people the Feast of Saint John the Baptist was a holiday; but as happens so often on these occasions, some are forced to work, some choose to work, and others, like myself, who ought to work because they need the money, use it as an excuse to loaf around and do nothing. So Adela, who had returned home from Redcliffe with the children some time before, was pleasantly surprised by my sudden appearance and my declared intention of collecting my pack.

‘But what about Burl?’ she demurred.

I could tell, however, that her enquiry was half-hearted. I muttered something indistinguishable, adding, ‘I’ll leave Hercules with you,’ and slipped quickly out of the street door in case she should protest. I poked my head back in just long enough to shout a request that we had the rabbit pie for supper, then was gone before there could be any argument on the subject.

I retraced my steps to Corn Street and turned into the narrow lane that runs along the backs of the Broad Street houses, unlatching the gate of the Avenels’ walled garden and letting myself in. Here, at least, very little had changed since Alderman Weaver’s day. The pear and the apple trees still flourished, as did the bed of herbs and simples, although the border of flowers had disappeared. The lean-to privy looked somewhat more dilapidated than I remembered it, but that was only to be expected with the passing of the years.

My knock on the back door was answered by one of the kitchen maids, whose eyes brightened when she saw me.

‘It’s the pedlar,’ she hissed over her shoulder. ‘Shall I let him in?’

Three more girls crowded round, giggling. ‘We ought not,’ said a freckle-faced beauty with sapphire-blue eyes. ‘Haven’t you heard, chapman? Master Avenel’s dead. Murdered.’

‘That’s why I thought you might need cheering up,’ I lied.

After a whispered consultation, they decided that perhaps they had better not let me in. The housekeeper, who it seemed was at present closeted with Mistress Alefounder, was a dragon who would probably dismiss them on the spot if they did. But they showed no signs of wanting me to leave, and three of them jostled for position in the open doorway, having detailed the smallest and youngest girl to keep watch for the dragon’s return. I crouched down and spread my open pack on the ground, although I guessed they had little money to spend.

‘How is Mistress Avenel bearing up in these fearful and tragic circumstances?’ I enquired. ‘It must be a terrible day both for her and for Mistress Alefounder.’

The freckle-faced girl sniffed. ‘Well, I suppose it was a shock for them both when Sergeant Manifold called round this morning to break the news. It was a shock for all of us if it comes to that. Dame Dorothy couldn’t speak for a full ten minutes. Longest any of us can remember her holding her tongue.’

Her two companions sniggered. The snub-nosed girl with a cast in one eye remarked nastily, ‘The old dragon fancied ’im, you know – the master, I mean, though ’eaven knows why. It’s more ’n the mistress did.’ There was another explosion of laughter, hastily suppressed.

‘Not a happy marriage, then?’ I suggested.

The tallest of the maids, a plain, dour girl with a small, set face, who smelled faintly and pleasantly of lavender, snorted her agreement. She had a brighter, more intelligent look than her companions, and giggled less.

‘According to my mother, it was a marriage arranged by their fathers,’ she said. ‘But Ma always reckoned it was never going to work. She says Master Robin could never put up with a wife who’s prettier than himself … Who
was
prettier …’ she amended, her voice suddenly tailing off.

Her companions laughed, then sucked in their breath as the realization of their master’s death began to sink in. But the pause was only momentary. The next minute, they were rummaging in my pack, searching for something they could afford to buy. I let them get on with it and addressed myself to the tall girl.

‘Mistress Avenel isn’t as upset as she might be, then, about her husband’s murder?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she whipped back at me. ‘Murder’s a shocking thing, when all’s said and done.’

‘Very true … So how has Mistress Alefounder borne the news?’

The girl looked uncomfortable, plainly wondering if she should even be discussing the matter, let alone advancing an opinion. She cast another glance across her shoulder, but the little kitchen maid called Bet indicated that there was as yet no sign of the housekeeper’s return. Reassured, Jess made the decision to take me into her confidence.