The Prodigal Son (13 page)

‘Does that include Dame Audrea and Master Simon?' I asked.

‘Most certainly.' He also turned his head so as to look at me. ‘You've seen us together, and I'm sure a “curious type” like you will have pieced together something of my family history by this time. There's no love lost between us. Indeed, my mother never had any love for me. She disliked me from birth: I don't know why. But I owe her nothing.'

It being more or less what Alderman Foster had told me, there was really no answer that I could make.

‘It just seems a shame,' I protested feebly, ‘that now you have at last returned home after all these years, there should be so much discord.' He moved restlessly, so I changed the subject. ‘You've been in the eastern counties, I think you said. I've never seen those parts. What's it like?'

‘Flat,' was the brusque reply; then, relenting, my companion added, ‘It's fen country mostly. I missed the hills and valleys of the west. In all the time I lived there, I only ever met the one west countryman.'

‘The one who told you your father had died? I seem to remember you said he has a sister who lives in Bristol.'

‘That's right, he has. In fact, he, too, is a native of the city, for all he calls himself William of Worcester. His real name, he told me, is Botoner.' The name was one I had heard mentioned recently, but I couldn't immediately place it. Anthony continued, ‘As a matter of fact, when I encountered him, he was on his way to Bristol. First time he'd been back in years, but his brother-in-law died recently and there are family affairs that need his attention. And there was a tale about his brother-in-law's brother. He's missing at sea, I gathered. Looking for some island or other.'

Of course! Margaret Walker had mentioned that John Jay, the one who was dead, had married a woman called Botoner. I gave Anthony a brief history of the Jays. Extremely brief: I knew next to nothing about them.

‘What was this William Botoner, or William Worcester, doing so far from home?' I enquired.

‘Oh, he's lived in the eastern counties the greater part of his life. In fact, he regards them as his home, far more than Bristol. He's quite an elderly man. Sixty. Sixty-five. He was secretary for years to a Sir John Fastolfe, who was quite an important man, it seems. Fought at Agincourt – Sir John I'm talking about – was made Lieutenant of Normandy, later Governor of Maine and Anjou. But then he was accused of cowardice when he retreated before the forces of the Great Whore, Joan, at Patay, so he returned home and concentrated on his English estates. I think that was when my informant went to work for him. Sir John was a very rich man by that time. Made a lot of money in the war. Mind, Master Worcester reckoned he'd always been pretty well breeched. Property in London, including the Boar's Head tavern and other premises. And he built himself a castle somewhere in Norfolk. Not the sort of thing you and I would have the money for, friend.'

I laughed and agreed. ‘Does this William Worcester still work for him?'

‘Lord, no! I think Master Worcester said Sir John died more than twenty years ago. But then there was a lot of trouble connected with his will. Litigation with a family called Paston, in which he – Master Worcester, that is – was heavily involved for quite a long time. Don't ask me what it was all about. He did try to explain, but I lost interest, I'm afraid. As you may imagine, I was far more concerned with what he'd told me about my father's death and will, which, of course, was old history to him – over two years old – but was fresh news to me. I knew I had to get home as soon as possible and claim my inheritance. He suggested we rode as far as Bristol together, but I couldn't wait. I didn't want to be hampered by a fellow traveller. Particularly by one who'd let drop that his pet hobby was making notes and measuring the dimensions of every town and village that he passed through.'

‘Sweet Virgin! Really? He wasn't pulling your leg?'

‘He showed me his notebooks, all scribbled in a kind of dog-Latin that would be murder to understand. He plans to map out the topography of Bristol, so he informed me, during the intervals between sorting out his sister's affairs. Besides, he feels he ought to wait until there's news of this missing ship belonging to her brother-in-law.'

This reminded me with a jolt of John Jay's lost carvel, and the reason why my half-brother had come to Bristol in the first place. Had it not been for young Colin Wedmore joining the ship at Waterford, John would still be safely at home in Ireland and not imprisoned in the city's bridewell. For a moment, I was tempted to be honest with my bedfellow about why I was at Croxcombe; to confess that my injured ankle was nothing like as bad as I was pretending and to ask his aid. He had been more than kind to me. True, it was for his own perverted ends – but I felt that I owed him the truth.

‘Master Bellknapp,' I began, but an enormous, rumbling snore cut me short. Turning my head once again, I saw that Anthony was sound asleep, still lying on his back, mouth agape. Another mighty snore followed the first in quick succession. I sighed. I was in for an unquiet night.

It was worse than I had anticipated. I soon discovered that Humphrey Attleborough also snored in a sort of treble counterpoint to his master's deeper tones. Moreover, Anthony was a restless sleeper, tossing and turning until the bedclothes were in a tangle that it was impossible to unravel. Not that I minded being exposed to the air: it had grown infernally hot inside the cocoon of bed-curtains and feather mattress, and the third time I woke in what seemed less than a few minutes – but was probably an hour or more – I could feel the sweat running down my back and the inside of my thighs. I slid quietly out of bed, parted the curtains and emerged thankfully into the cool of the room beyond. The shutters and casement had been opened slightly by the servant before he had retired to his truckle-bed, and moonlight filtered through, laying long stripes of light and shadow across the floor and across my naked body. I breathed in the scents of the nearby woods and heard the chime of a distant bell, borne faintly on a gentle breeze, ringing the hour of matins and lauds, so I knew it must be those witching hours of the night between twelve and dawn. I pushed the shutters and casement a little wider, taking care to make no noise which might disturb my sleeping companions. For a moment or two, I stared at the lacework pattern of trees and the moon, pinned like a brooch high on their shoulder, before a sudden movement attracted my attention and made me lower my gaze to the moat. Someone was standing beside it, on the near bank, apparently looking up at our bedchamber window; although I could not be sure about this, wrapped as the figure was in that ever useful garment, the all-enveloping cloak and hood. (With a sudden surge of irritation, I wished I had a gold noble for every time in the past few years that I had encountered this mysterious, cloaked man – or woman. It was getting monotonous.) As soon as the figure became aware of my scrutiny, it moved away, but whether its gait was male or female, it was at too great a distance for me to tell. I stared after its retreating back for as long as I could, but gained nothing except the shivers as the sweat dried on my clammy skin. Reluctantly, I half-closed the window again and went back to bed, pondering on who it might have been.

I lay awake for some time, remembering the steward's warning to my sleeping (and still snoring) companion to watch his step, and Anthony's childlike enjoyment in courting trouble by affronting almost everyone he could. But then, ignored as a child, banished as a young man from home and his parents' affection, it was impossible that he should have turned out to be a saint. Indeed, he exhibited a far better character than I would probably have done in similar circumstances …

At this point I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next time I woke, I was conscious of having been dreaming for what seemed quite a long time. I tried to recall some of the dreams in case there was a nugget of gold among the dross, but soon realized they were that jumble of meaningless nonsense that comes after a tiring day and badly digested food, and is the product of a restless mind.

The cacophony of sound had abated a little on both sides of the bed-curtains, but was still enough to prevent me from falling asleep again with my usual ease. So, once more, I slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. It was not yet quite light, but the distant horizon was showing the merest rim of fire, the first, faint harbinger of approaching day. Humphrey Attleborough, with the abandon of youth, was sprawled half on, half off the truckle-bed, the covers pushed back, and displaying a set of manly equipment that might well frighten all but the most stout-hearted of maidens. It was obvious that he, too, was having dreams, but not of my sort. He would be remembering his with pleasure.

A slight sound sent me whirling round to face the door, where I could see that the latch was being very slowly and carefully lifted from the other side. For a second or so, I stood, transfixed. Then, limping slightly, I began to steal stealthily towards the corner where I should be concealed from the intruder's view as he entered.

Unfortunately, Humphrey chose that moment of all others to fall out of bed completely, banging his head on the floor and yelling loudly enough to waken the dead. I tripped over his prostrate form and cannoned into the wall, stubbing one foot against the clothes chest as I did so and striking my head a blow that set my ears ringing and stars dancing before my eyes. Anthony Bellknapp, roused at last, erupted from behind the bed-curtains, demanding in outraged accents to know what in the Devil's name was going on.

By the time we had sorted ourselves out, Humphrey and I had examined our various cuts and bruises and I had explained, not just about the lifting of the latch, but also about the figure I had seen earlier from the bedchamber window, there wasn't a hope of discovering anyone still outside the door; although, of course, this didn't prevent our looking. Like the idiots we undoubtedly appeared, we all three jostled out into the passageway, staring up and down its length but, naturally, finding no one. The wall torches had long since burned themselves out, and the darkness and silence were almost total.

Not for long, however. Various sounds – raised voices, the opening of doors, the striking of flint on steel – indicated that we had disturbed other members of the household. Dame Audrea's voice, raised in annoyance to ask what was happening, sent Humphrey and me scurrying back into the bedchamber to hide our nakedness under the sheets. And after a moment's hesitation, Anthony joined us, closing the door behind him.

A polite knock heralded the arrival of George Applegarth, dressed sedately in a rubbed brown velvet gown over his nightshift and a candle in its holder held high in one hand.

‘Master Anthony, your lady mother wishes to know the meaning of this disturbance.'

Anthony pushed the bed-curtains aside and looked his steward up and down. ‘Tell my lady mother,' he drawled insolently, ‘to mind her own business. No, on second thoughts' – he giggled – ‘tell her we were holding an orgy.'

The steward sighed and raised his eyebrows at me, inviting a sensible explanation. I thought Anthony would protest at this flouting of his orders, but he merely lay back against the pillows, still grinning, while I told George Applegarth of the night's events. They seemed to upset him.

‘I warned you, Master,' he said, addressing Anthony in the scolding tone of an old and privileged retainer, ‘to be careful. You've been home less than a day and you've already managed to antagonize all the most important members of the household. Be more conciliatory, do! Or some harm will befall you.' He turned the light of the candle on me. ‘Did you get a good look at this cloaked figure? Did you recognize anything about it?'

I shook my head. ‘It was standing by the moat. Too far away for me to tell if it were a man or a woman, even. It could have been anyone.'

The steward pursed his lips. ‘If it was on this side of the moat, it most likely means that the person is from within the manor. The gates are locked at night and the moat's deep and takes some swimming … Ah well! I'll report to Dame Audrea that the boy here' – he nodded in Humphrey's direction – ‘was riding the night mare and fell out of bed. But I repeat my warning, Master Anthony. Take care. And keep your bedchamber door bolted at night. And you can wipe that silly smile off your face. I mean it when I say that you're in great danger.'

M
orning brought another beautiful day and a feeling that the night's events had been merely the stuff of dreams, part of the ridiculous muddle that had haunted my sleep. But as I lay on my back looking up at the bed-canopy, which, together with the curtains, I now saw depicted the story of Diana and Actaeon, the reality of what had happened began to dawn. I had indeed seen someone staring up at this window, and, later, someone had tried to get into this room. Yet the episode had had its humorous side, and I couldn't avoid a snort of laughter as I pictured three grown men, as naked as the day they were born, struggling to get out of the door all at once, jostling and pushing like overgrown schoolboys. And before that again, the image of myself sent sprawling by the sheer accident of Humphrey Attleborough falling out of bed just at that particular moment contained all the elements of a May Day farce. I let out another snort, while at the same time cursing the ill luck that had prevented us from collaring the would-be intruder.

‘What's making you so merry?' enquired Anthony Bellknapp, raising himself on one elbow and smiling down at me.

I jumped. I hadn't realized that he was awake. I explained and his smile broadened into a grin.

‘All the same,' I went on, growing serious, ‘you should heed what Steward Applegarth told you. Be careful. Either that, or … or …'

‘Or moderate my behaviour,' he finished for me as I faltered to a stop, suddenly conscious of my position as a guest under his roof.