Chapter Eleven

By the evening, my mother-in-law was in a high fever which lasted several days and which, at one point, I thought would be the death of her. As it was, it left her debilitated and bedridden for weeks afterwards, and she did not fully recover her health and strength until the beginning of April.

Adela came daily to the cottage and nothing was too much trouble, either for her or for our neighbours. Mistress Burnett, on hearing of our difficulties, sent and paid for the services of the physician from Bell Lane, who dosed Margaret with lozenges of dried lettuce juice, in order to reduce the fever, and a distillation of rosemary and rue which, he assured me, had a purging effect upon the body. All in all, I was the recipient of more kindness that I would have thought possible, and probably of far more than I deserved. Even so, a great deal of extra work fell upon my shoulders.

I had previously had no notion of how demanding, and what hard work, a child of two years old could be. My mother-in-law had seen to all Elizabeth’s needs, and when my daughter woke in the night, which seemed an all too frequent occurrence, had roused herself to dance attendance. Now it was my turn, and I was no longer assured of unbroken sleep. In addition, during the early stages of Margaret’s illness, she was in need of constant nursing, and there were no willing helpers during the small hours on whom I could call. I often started the day as tired as I finished it.

As I said, Adela came every morning to see how the patient did and to perform those more intimate female tasks which delicacy forbade me attempting. Nevertheless, she could not stay longer than an hour or two, for she now had a living to earn for herself and Nicholas, and was unable to neglect her spinning. This also applied to those other neighbours who dropped in and out during the short winter afternoons; but one or other of these good women would arrange to sit with my two womenfolk, so that I was able to get out of the house and peddle my wares from door to door.

I could not go far, however, even had I wished to. The weather was equally as bad, if not worse than, the preceding winter, with hard night frosts freezing the closely packed snow, and then more snow falling during the day. The dirty white mounds at the roadside grew steadily higher, wells froze over (including the great Pithay well near Christchurch with Saint Ewen), and, worst of all, the great cistern of the Carmelite Friars, filled by a stream which flowed downhill from the heights above the city and which was now reduced to the merest trickle, began to dry up. Water from this cistern was piped across the Frome Bridge and fed the conduit by Saint John’s Arch, so it meant that yet another burden was added to the hardships of the season with the necessity of melting lumps of frozen snow before anyone could wash or drink. Even the rubbish set solid in the open sewers, but at least it did not stink so much as usual.

In these circumstances, my life was reduced to getting through each day as best I could, with no spare time to pursue my promise to assist in the mystery of Clement Weaver.

‘When my mother-in-law is well again and the better weather comes and I can travel abroad once more,’ I assured Mistress Burnett, meeting her by the High Cross one bleak morning in late February, ‘then you may be certain that I shall resume my enquiries.’

Her nostrils were pinched, her lips blue with cold and she was shivering uncontrollably in spite of her fur-lined cloak, but she paused politely to hear me out. ‘I understand,’ she said, adding that she had no expectations from me as matters stood at present. Greatly daring, I asked her how her father was faring in these icy conditions, only to be fixed with a basilisk stare. ‘I neither know nor care,’ was the embittered answer.

‘And Master Burnett,’ I continued hastily, ‘has he quite recovered from the attack?’

‘He is perfectly himself again, thank you, Chapman,’ she said and walked on down High Street. After a few paces, however, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘But I shall expect to see you, and hear of your plans, when it grows warmer and Mistress Walker has regained her strength.’

I reassured her for a second time, and went on my way along Broad Street and across the Frome Bridge to Lewin’s Mead, to see if Adela had enough wood chopped to last her for the next few days. It was no surprise to discover Richard Manifold there, for he was to be found visiting the cottage as often as not. I had become inured to his constant presence, and no longer resented it as I had done in the beginning. Nothing had been made by him or his fellow officers, or even by the sheriff himself, of the secret hiding place under the floor and the silk threads caught on the iron bar which lifted the flagstone. They had all settled it in their minds that the murderer of Imelda Bracegirdle was a chance thief who was unlikely ever to be brought to justice; not, that was, unless some other villain, jealous of his friend’s sudden wealth, revealed his name and whereabouts to those in authority. As for the unknown’s knowledge of the hiding place, Richard Manifold had argued that those kind of secrets were bound to reach somebody’s ears eventually. So interest in the mystery had gradually dwindled from being a nine days’ wonder to being no wonder at all, and by the beginning of March the killing was rarely mentioned.

I saw Irwin Peto once or twice around the town, and a couple of times drinking in the New Inn, but for the most part he kept within doors and the shelter of the Alderman’s house, not even emerging for the great Candlemas procession. He needed no further excuses, of course, for this shadowy existence than the atrocious weather and his own impaired health; and I guessed he was relying on the fact that by the time spring arrived, people would have grown so used to the idea of Clement Weaver still being alive that all speculation concerning him would have ceased. I should have liked to speak to him again, but in spite of calling at the Broad Street house on several occasions to sell my goods, I saw neither hide nor hair of him, nor heard even a distant echo of his voice. I had the impression that Dame Pernelle had been told to confine me to the kitchen quarters, so that there was little danger of our meeting. I had served my purpose by confirming to the doting Alderman that the young man’s story of his survival could be true.

By the beginning of April Margaret was fully recovered, putting the lethargy of the past six weeks or so firmly behind her and bustling about the cottage as though she had never been sick, in full command once more of her own domain and resentful of any interference, however well-intentioned. Neighbours were discouraged from doing anything other than enquiring after her health, and I was given to understand that, during the day at least, my absence was preferred to my presence. I was only too happy to oblige; and now that I was a free man again, I could turn my thoughts to Alison and William Burnett and my promise to them.

A sudden thaw, mid-March, had brought heavy flooding in its wake, causing the Friars’ cistern to overflow and several of the pipes conveying the water to Saint John’s Conduit to burst, but it had also been the harbinger of sunnier, milder weather. By the beginning of April, trees were a haze of green, primroses starred the woods with constellations of creamy-yellow blossoms, and purple-veined, honey-scented white violets trembled at the ends of their fragile stalks. Wild arum was starting to thrust its hooded head above the earth, dwarfing the wood sorrel and ground ivy, while along the river banks, the marsh marigolds’ great golden cups were reflected in the rippling water. And as the hardships of winter receded and the balmier weather of spring brought the long-delayed promise of summer, my dreams were once again haunted by a vision of two blue eyes set in a delicate, tragic face, surrounded by an aureole of pale, corn-coloured hair.

‘Can you and Elizabeth manage without me for a night or two?’ I asked Margaret one morning at breakfast.

‘I should think so,’ my mother-in-law answered drily. ‘We’ve managed without you for years. Why should it be any different now? I’m fully recovered.’ She eyed me thoughtfully across the table. ‘When you say a night or two…’

I tried not to look guilty. ‘Maybe a week. I have to go to Frome on business for Mistress Burnett. The Alderman’s cousin-by-marriage lives at Keyford.’ I knew I must sound self-conscious when I said the last word.

Happily for me, the name of the village meant nothing to Margaret, for I had made light of the events of last summer when recounting them to her after returning home. Indeed, I doubted if my story had lodged in her memory for the length of time that it had taken me to tell; and I had not dwelt on the fact that I had delayed my return still further in order to escort Rowena Honeyman from Keynsham to her aunt’s house at Keyford, for fear of giving myself away. For until I had set eyes on this beautiful girl, robbed of her father in such a painful and tragic fashion, I had never believed in love at first sight, nor had I had much interest in romances and the great lovers of history; Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Abelard and Eloise. Now, however, their stories were meat and drink to me. I lived, when left to myself, on what seemed a higher plane than the rest of my unfortunate fellow beings; I dreamed of doing impossible feats of chivalry which would win me the love and adoration of this lovely creature. In short, I was behaving like the most callow of youths, although at the age of twenty-four I should have known better.

Over six months had passed since I had last clapped eyes on the lady, and I hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for her to have put behind her the sad circumstances of our first and, so far, only meeting. If the coincidence of Baldwin Lightfoot also living in Keyford had not occurred, I should soon have made an excuse to visit the village. As it was, I could, with a clear conscience, combine my own most fervent desires with my promise to the Burnetts; and I set out at the beginning of April, in the direction of Frome, with a light heart and a spring in my step.

*   *   *

I have already written, earlier in this history, that while I was to play no active part in the political events which were unfolding in the country at large, I was, nevertheless, to be a close spectator and to have an intimate knowledge of them, simply because I chanced to be in the right place at the right moment. I had been at Tewkesbury in January, where I had learned from my old friend, Timothy Plummer, of what were thought to be the Duke of Clarence’s marital intentions, now that both his wife and Charles of Burgundy were dead; but after reaching Bristol, the gossip had gradually faded from my mind, there having been too many, and more personal, matters to absorb my attention. And as I approached Keyford on a seemingly quiet and uneventful morning, some three days after leaving home, nothing could have been further from my expectations than to witness another chapter in this sorry saga of royal brother versus royal brother.

My chosen route had eventually brought me out on to the high ground south-west of the old Saxon settlement of Frome, where the village of Keyford looks down on its larger neighbour. I had spent the previous night very comfortably on the kitchen floor of Nunney Castle, where I had begged admission just as it had been growing dark. Sir John Poulet, its present tenant, was from home, at his principal seat of Basing, in Hampshire, and the servants left to man the castle in his frequent absences had welcomed me in with open arms, glad of a fresh face and voice to break the monotony of existence. This morning, I had been up betimes and, fortunately for me, so had the cook. I had been feasted on buttered eggs, wheaten – not oaten – cakes and small beer flavoured with honey and cinnamon. Long before sun-up, I was walking steadily north-east to Keyford which I reached round about midday, having stopped for my dinner at a wayside cottage, where the goodwife, as well as feeding me, had also bought some things from my pack. Added to all this, I had the prospect of seeing Rowena Honeyman again. Small wonder then that I was whistling as I approached the huddle of houses whose roofs I could just make out ahead of me.

‘You’re very cheerful, Roger,’ a voice said reproachfully out of this seemingly empty landscape.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and whirled around, raising my cudgel, ready to strike.

‘For God’s sake, softly, man! Softly!’ urged the voice, which I now recognised as that belonging to Timothy Plummer.

A moment later, I saw him sitting beneath an ancient oak, some of whose branches reached out to spread across the road.

‘By the Virgin, you gave me a fright,’ I protested, clambering up a little knoll to join him and throwing myself down by his side. ‘What on earth brings you to this part of the world?’

‘You’re a great gawky fellow,’ he complained, forced to shift himself so that I could lean my back against the tree trunk. ‘What did your mother have in her milk to make you so big?’

‘Never mind that. You haven’t answered my question. What brings you here?’

‘Information,’ was the uninformative reply.

‘All right,’ I said, gathering up my cudgel and pack. ‘If you don’t want to tell me…’

He pushed me down again. ‘Don’t get offended.’ He nodded towards the sleepy houses, basking quietly in the sun, and I realised that from this vantage point, we could plainly see the whole of Keyford laid out before us. ‘It looks peaceful enough, doesn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not here on a wild goose chase, after all.’

‘What are you expecting to happen?’ I asked curiously, adding, ‘Nothing much ever does here.’

The Duke of Gloucester’s Spy-Master rubbed the tip of his nose. ‘I don’t suppose much news of what’s been going on in the outside world has reached you in Bristol, has it? No, I thought not,’ he continued sourly, when I shook my head. ‘I never knew such a city for being so engrossed in its own petty affairs or in those of its immediate neighbours. The inhabitants always know more about Wales and Ireland than they ever do about London, let alone France.’

‘Tell me, then,’ I invited. ‘What has been happening in this great outside world of yours that’s so important?’

Timothy Plummer grimaced. ‘The Duke of Clarence, my boy! He’s what’s been happening.’

‘Brother George?’ I frowned. ‘I remember now that when we met in Tewkesbury, you told me that Duke Richard was afraid he’d offer for Mary of Burgundy’s hand in marriage … He didn’t, did he?’

‘Almost at once. And, of course, Dowager Duchess Margaret lent him all her support. But by God’s grace, and as Duke Richard had predicted she would, Mary refused him.’

‘But that wasn’t the end of the story?’

My companion shrugged. ‘Knowing Clarence, would you expect it to be?’

I reached into my pack and produced two apples that the goodwife had given me from her winter store, to sustain me during the remainder of my journey. I handed one to Timothy and we munched for a moment or two in silence.

‘I also seem to remember, ‘I said at last, ‘that at that same meeting, you prophesied Duke George would blame the Queen and her family if Duchess Mary did refuse him.’

Timothy took another bite of his apple and nodded gloomily. ‘Which is precisely what he has done. But then, you don’t need to be an astrologer to forecast Clarence’s reactions. All his life he’s been like a spoilt child, stamping its little feet and screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!’”

‘I know he’s always hated the Queen and the rest of the Woodvilles. But be fair! The marriage must have come as a nasty shock to him.’

‘It came as a nasty shock to everyone,’ snorted Timothy. ‘Duchess Cicely ranted and raved at the King for days, and even went so far as to hint at his bastardy. But it’s all a long time ago now; thirteen years since the wedding, and everyone has learned to make the best of it. Or, at least, to dissemble their feelings.’

‘Except the Duke of Clarence,’ I murmured. ‘So, what has he been up to?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘So far he’s contented himself with being as unpleasant as possible. He’s absented himself from court without the King’s permission on a number of occasions. Then, when he does deign to put in an appearance, he makes his Chief Taster taste every morsel of food and drop of drink before it passes his lips, the inference being, of course, that the Queen and her relations are trying to poison him. His manners, even towards his elder brother, are atrocious, while he treats Earl Rivers as though he isn’t there at all. Still, the King must take some share of the blame for that. His Highness put the cat among the pigeons as far as his brother-in-law’s concerned.’

I was intrigued. ‘What did he do?’

Timothy regarded me in exasperation.. ‘You really don’t hear anything down here in this western fastness, do you? Or is it simply that any news that doesn’t concern trade and market prices isn’t interesting to the people of Bristol?’

‘Just tell me a plain story,’ I begged. ‘I must move on soon.’

‘The King,’ Timothy explained, and grinned with sudden pleasure at the recollection, ‘offered Earl Rivers as England’s official candidate for the new Duchess of Burgundy’s hand. He guessed, naturally, that Mary would refuse Anthony Woodville – which she did, even more peremptorily than she had Clarence – but he knew how the offer would infuriate his brother, and I suppose he couldn’t resist cutting George down to size. The trouble is,’ my companion added, the grin fading, ‘there was an almighty row, and Duke Richard is being forced, as usual, to play piggy-in-the-middle. His health is suffering accordingly, and he looks thinner and more careworn than ever.’

This I could well imagine, for the Duke of Gloucester seemed to have spent the whole of his adult life acting as peacemaker between his two remaining elder brothers. That he appeared to love them both equally was his misfortune, for his loyalty still lay as it always had done, with King Edward.

‘So, what has all this to do with your being here, in this out-of-the-way spot?’ I asked yet again.

Timothy took the last bite from his apple and threw away the core. ‘This out-of-the-way spot,’ he reminded me, ‘is part of Clarence’s holdings in this county, and Farleigh Castle can’t be many miles distant. One of my spies in Duke George’s household thinks mischief may be brewing here, but he’s unable to discover exactly what. All he’s heard so far is the merest whisper, the merest breath of rumour. He’s one of my very best men, which means that if there is any truth in the story, the Duke must, for once, be keeping the details extremely close – which in itself is a worrying sign. Clarence usually can’t keep his mouth shut.’

I was still nonplussed. ‘But there’s nothing and no one of any importance here,’ I protested. ‘What harm could he – or she or it – possibly do either to His Highness or to the Woodvilles in Keyford?’

‘It might not necessarily be physical harm,’ Timothy demurred. ‘Insult, insinuation, both are grist to Clarence’s mill in trying to stir up popular support and sympathy on his own behalf. Howbeit, I’m here to keep watch for a day or two. If nothing comes of it…’ Once again, he shrugged. ‘Like you, I’m baffled by my man’s report, but I trust him enough not to ignore any of his information.’ He glanced along his shoulder at me. ‘Now it’s your turn to tell me what brings you here.’

I knew he would be interested in my tale, for our friendship – if that is not too strong a word for it – had started during my hunt, six years earlier, for the missing Clement Weaver, and to some extent the search had involved both him and his master, the Duke of Gloucester.

He heard me out in silence and then laughed. ‘Come and work for His Grace, Roger, as he’s asked you to do on more than one occasion. You’d be invaluable to him – and to me. Your nose leads you straight into the thick of any mystery that’s in the offing, and your natural curiosity won’t let you rest until you’ve solved it.’

I scrambled to my feet, tossing my apple core into his lap, which he brushed clear of his excellent woollen hose with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m happy as I am, being my own master. I must be going. How long do you intend to remain here?’

‘Until tomorrow perhaps, but no longer. Whereabouts does this Baldwin Lightfoot live?’

I nodded towards the scattering of buildings. ‘Mistress Burnett says his house stands a little apart from the others, with a high-walled orchard adjacent, and I can see only one that answers that description. In any case, if I should prove to be wrong, an enquiry or two should soon locate him.’

I did not add that a cottage in the foreground, with pens for hens and geese, and a small pond behind it for ducks, was the most urgent object of my attention. However, I had already decided that pleasure must come after business, and therefore, with Timothy’s eyes still upon me, I made my way along the street, pausing only to confirm from a passing stranger that Baldwin Lightfoot’s was indeed the house with the orchard.

My informant was a local man, a woodsman judging by the billhook that dangled from one hand and the axe slung across his opposite shoulder. ‘Ay, that’s where Master Lightfoot lives all right. And next to him is the Widow Twynyho’s, she as used to be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the poor young Duchess of Clarence, God rest her soul.’ There was evidently some pride in this royal connection.

I thanked the man and walked on through the quiet of the afternoon towards Baldwin’s house. As I approached it, I heard, very faint and as yet some miles distant, the rhythmic pounding of horses’ hooves; and, every now and then, so still was the air, the jingle of harness.