Chapter Twelve

Baldwin Lightfoot’s house was solidly built of local stone, too small to be a manor, but a substantial dwelling place, nonetheless. There was a capacious undercroft for storage, a paved courtyard in front and a garden behind. Alongside was the orchard, the tops of the trees just visible over the high wall that enclosed them.

I crossed the courtyard and knocked at the door. It was answered by an elderly woman in a gown of dark blue homespun and a bleached linen hood and apron, both of which were slightly soiled and crumpled. The bunch of keys jangling at her belt proclaimed her Baldwin’s housekeeper.

‘Is your master in?’ I asked.

She took one look at my pack and said, ‘Not to pedlars he isn’t. But the girl and I might be interested if you’ll come through to the kitchen.’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been sent with a letter to Master Lightfoot from his cousin, Mistress Burnett of Bristol.’

The housekeeper eyed me doubtfully, disinclined to believe my story, but at the same time recognizing a certain ring of truth about it. ‘Why would she send a chapman?’ she demanded.

Fortunately, before it became necessary for me to embark on any sort of explanation, I heard a door open somewhere, and the next moment a man strolled into view. ‘Who is it, Janet? Who is this person?’

He was tall, almost certainly over fifty, heavily built with what had once been a well-muscled frame now running to fat. In his younger days he had probably been very handsome, but his face had grown soft and flabby, melting into a travesty of its former good looks. The thinning brown hair, liberally streaked with grey, had receded far enough to reveal a high, domed forehead, and only the eyes, a clear, curiously light grey, retained any spark of youth. There were food stains on his clean-shaven chin, and an unpleasant, faintly sourish odour emanated from his clothes. Yet in spite of all this, he had a cocksure bearing and an air of self-satisfaction that instantly conveyed to the onlooker his pleasure in himself and in all his works.

‘This pedlar claims he’s been sent to you with a letter from Mistress Burnett, Master,’ the housekeeper said, confirming, if confirmation were necessary, that this was indeed Baldwin Lightfoot.

‘From my Cousin Alison?’ He frowned, unable, in common with Dame Janet, to understand his kinswoman’s choice of messenger. But the next moment, his attention, the attention of the three of us and indeed of the whole of Keyford, was distracted by what was taking place less than a hundred yards from his door.

While I had been standing there, the pounding hoofbeats had been growing ever louder, the jingle of harness more intrusive upon the ear, until now, suddenly, riders and mounts burst into view and were all about us in a flurry of plunging, rearing horses and shouted orders. Within moments of dismounting, armed men in the livery of the Duke of Clarence were smashing their way into a nearby house, not bothering to knock or wait for an answer to their summons, dealing summarily and brutally with anyone foolhardy enough to get in their way. From inside the walls there arose a terrible screaming, a female voice, hysterical with fear. A few minutes later, a woman, her arms pinioned, her face bleeding, was dragged outside and thrown across a saddle-bow with no more consideration than if she had been a sack of grain. Neighbours, lured from their houses by all the noise, stood petrified with terror by what was happening; by that constant and unseen danger which lurks in wait for all of us, and comes out of the blue to shatter our peaceful lives, even on the sunniest and quietest of days.

I turned, horrified, to Baldwin Lightfoot. ‘What are they doing to that woman? Who is she? What has she done? For pity’s sake, we must try to stop them!’ I gripped his arm.

‘Leave well alone, man! Leave well alone!’ He dislodged my hand from his sleeve. ‘It’s none of our business. Come away! Come indoors!’ And he fairly dragged me across the threshold, displaying an unexpected strength when roused.

It was my turn to fight free of him as I made once again for the door. ‘We can’t let her be abducted without raising a finger! If you and I and the rest of the men in this village stand together…’ I did not stop to finish the sentence, but lifted the latch and ran across the courtyard, heading for the street.

But Baldwin Lightfoot lived up to his name. He was nimbler and speedier than I would ever have credited him with being, and was after me in a trice, throwing his arms around me in a vice-like grip. ‘These people mean business,’ he hissed in my ear.

I struggled furiously. ‘Let me go! If you won’t come with me, let me do what I can on my own. No need for you to be involved.’

‘You’ve involved me already by being within my pale,’ he retorted, his arms tightening about my waist. ‘It will be noted that you came from this house and that will stand as a mark against me. Besides,’ he added on a triumphant note, ‘you’re too late. They’re on their way.’

He was right. The men-at-arms, having securely bound and gagged the unfortunate woman, and one of the bravos having mounted behind her, were off down the street as fast as they could gallop, and were soon nothing more than a cloud of dust on the horizon, a thudding of hooves growing ever fainter as they receded into the distance …

Silence seeped back again into Keyford, birds resumed their singing, sunlight dappled the grass and the rutted track, the delicate scent of apple blossom drifted over the orchard wall. The recent violence might have been no more than a bad dream but for the shattered door of the neighbouring house. It had all happened so fast and so unexpectedly that the inhabitants were wandering about in a daze, unable at first to speak. But gradually, they began to gather in little groups, muttering to one another, embracing one another for comfort, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Baldwin, releasing me, joined a knot of people gathered outside his gate.

‘Why,’ he asked no one in particular, ‘would the Duke of Clarence send to arrest Widow Twynyho? She was lady-in-waiting to the late Duchess and a member of his household.’

There was a mumble of agreement, and one of the women added, ‘Ankaret’s such a gentle soul. What can she possibly have done to incur the Duke’s displeasure, let alone be treated like that?’ She shuddered. ‘And we all stood by and did nothing.’

‘What could we have done?’ someone else demanded angrily.

But it was becoming obvious by the way in which people suddenly avoided one another’s eyes, that a feeling of guilt was beginning to plague them. Yet it was sadly true that there really had been nothing that any of us could have done against armed men, not even if we had all banded together and acted in unison; and the element of surprise had robbed us of even that forlorn hope. Who, in any case, would dare to brave the wrath of the mighty Duke of Clarence, when his retribution was so terrible and swift? Whatever it was that Ankaret Twynyho had done to offend Brother George, nothing, surely, merited the sort of treatment meted out to her.

Brother George … The slightly derogatory title brought Timothy to mind, and I realized that I had, for the last fifteen minutes or so, completely forgotten his presence here. I glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and was rewarded by seeing him skulking on the fringes of the crowd. I left Baldwin Lightfoot, still talking in low, incredulous tones to his neighbours, and made my way to his side. Timothy, however, saw me coming and withdrew even further apart, as though hoping to deter me. But I was not to be put off.

‘Well, is this what you were waiting for?’ I asked. Taking his silence for assent, I went on, ‘What can it mean? I understand that the poor creature arrested, the Widow Twynyho, was lady-in-waiting to Duchess Isabel, and therefore presumably trusted by both her and the Duke. And why use her with such violence? Why does it need God knows how many armed men to arrest one defenceless woman?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘To impress the incident on people’s minds, maybe. To make sure it’s talked about, that it’s heard of well beyond the confines of Keyford and Frome. To publish the fact that this woman is a dangerous criminal. To make the world aware that George of Clarence is a very important person and that no one lightly invites his displeasure. Your guess is as good as mine at the moment, Chapman, but time will very quickly tell. In a week or two, probably less, we shall have the answer to this riddle. And now I have to return to my inn and collect my horse. I must be on my way to London within the hour. Duke Richard has come down from the north again to try to keep the peace between his brother, and I was ordered to report to him there as soon as possible should anything happen.’

He moved off briskly, not even pausing to say goodbye, and I stared after him for a moment or two before rejoining Baldwin Lightfoot. The latter seemed not to have noticed my absence, so engrossed had he and his neighbours been in a discussion of the last hour’s events. An air of unreality still hung over them like a pall; their eyes and movements were those of sleepwalkers, but sleepwalkers who were afraid to wake up. Their small, cosy world had been shattered by a terror they did not understand, and it would never be the same again.

I had been looking for another face in the little knots of people that had gathered, but could not see it, although I fancied that one of the elderly dames was Rowena’s aunt. I could not be sure, however, my memory of her being unclear; and in any case, I had promised myself to complete my business with Baldwin Lightfoot before seeking her out. I touched him on the arm and he jumped as though I had pricked him with a knife.

‘Good God, man, don’t do that!’ He was white and shaken, his face the colour of uncooked dough. He added defensively, ‘I didn’t see you there. You startled me.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to be leaving soon, and I still have to deliver the letter from your cousin.’

For a moment Baldwin looked bemused, recent events having driven everything else from his mind, but then he recollected and nodded. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We need some wine to settle our stomachs.’ He glanced towards his housekeeper, but she was so deep in conversation with two other women that he shrugged and obviously decided not to disturb her.

The house struck chill after the warmth of the April sun outside, and we both shivered. My host ushered me into a parlour hung with tapestries, all of which had seen better days. One, depicting the Judgement of Paris, had a great rent in it, while another was so faded that it was almost impossible to determine its subject matter without closer scrutiny. The room’s one armchair had a broken leg that was propped up by a block of wood, and a carved chest, ranged along one wall, was badly splintered around the lock. An air of poverty and decay was all-pervasive.

Baldwin, who had briefly disappeared into the back of the house, returned with two beakers of wine, one of which he handed to me with the loud-voiced assurance that it was a good Bordeaux. I knew as little then about wines as I do now, but I had sufficient knowledge to recognize an English verjuice when I tasted it, and to be certain that its grapes had never been ripened by the hot southern sun. I took one unwary sip, almost choked and put the beaker down on the window seat beside me. Baldwin, happily, was still too bewildered by recent events to take much notice.

‘Too potent for you, eh?’ he asked. ‘I thought it might be.’ He sat down in the rickety armchair, passed a hand across his sweating forehead and took a gulp of wine. ‘Ah!’ he breathed. ‘That’s better.’ He looked at me. ‘Now, where’s this letter?’

I took it from the pouch at my belt and handed it to him, observing him closely while he broke the seal and began to read. But if he was already aware of what it might contain, he gave no sign, and his amazement when he had finished it seemed genuine enough.

‘Mother in Heaven!’ he muttered, taking yet another swig at his cup, like a parched soul desperate for water. He got up and started pacing up and down the room. ‘What a day this is turning out to be! First Widow Twynyho arrested and now my cousin writes to tell me that Clement has reappeared.’ He sat down again abruptly and referred once more to the letter. ‘No, that isn’t exactly what she says … She says it is someone pretending to be Clement, and that Alfred has cut her out completely from his will … I’m at a loss. I don’t understand it … Ah! But she does write that you will explain everything to me.’ And he glanced up expectantly.

I did my best to satisfy his curiosity, and to do him justice, he was a good listener, such questions as he asked being both pertinent and necessary. Nor did I need to repeat myself, for he had a ready grasp of all the details, surprisingly so, perhaps, for one who had just suffered a severe shock and was now consoling himself with an ample draught of wine. When I had finished, he drained the dregs from his beaker, stared regretfully for a moment into its depths and then sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his paunch.

‘A sorry affair! A sorry affair, indeed, and I don’t wonder that my cousin is suspicious of this – what did you say his name is? – this Irwin Peto! But what help she thinks I can be to her in the matter is beyond my comprehension. My interference would only make things worse. Alfred never liked me, nor I him. I always thought the man a fool, and his present actions only serve to confirm my opinion. No one but an idiot would have accepted this young man at face value, simply because he bears a passing resemblance to Clement.’

I took another sip of verjuice, but its sharpness set my teeth on edge and I hurriedly put it down again. ‘You think then,’ I suggested, ‘that Mistress Burnett might be right in considering it a plot to rob her of her inheritance?’

‘I should say it’s more than likely, wouldn’t you? But what a couple of crass blunderers Alison and that husband of hers must be to make bad worse! Between them, they seem to have ensured that she’ll get nothing at all, when she might at least have hung on to half of Alfred’s money. Half a loaf is better than none. But there!’ he added bitterly. ‘I’ve no doubt that William Burnett really has no need even of that, being the sole inheritor of his father’s fortune. “To those that hath shall be given…’” His voice tailed away, and he sat, staring before him, wrapped in thoughts of his own.

I was at a loss how to break the silence, for the purpose of my visit – to see and talk to Baldwin Lightfoot – had been accomplished; and I thought it unlikely, were he the instigator of the plot, that he would give anything away. He was a much shrewder man, with a much sharper mind, than first impressions had led me to believe, and he had obviously seen better days. It was a combination to make me pause and wonder if he were indeed our man – always provided, of course, that Irwin Peto really was a fraud.

Baldwin’s voice, cutting across my thoughts, echoed them uncannily. ‘Has my cousin considered,’ he asked, tapping the letter, ‘that this man may, after all, really be her brother? As far as I can tell from your story, while there’s no proof that he is Clement, there’s no proof either that he isn’t. And you haven’t answered my other question yet. What help does Alison imagine that I can be to her? And why does she feel it necessary to write to me with this news when we’ve neither seen nor communicated with one another for years!’

I feigned ignorance. ‘Mistress Burnett didn’t confide in me, sir. She knew I was visiting an acquaintance in Keyford and merely asked me to deliver the letter.’

It was a mistake. Baldwin shot upright in his chair, fixing me with those pale grey eyes, which were now as cold as steel.

‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that? According to what you’ve just told me, you’ve been a part of this business from the very beginning. Alfred himself, you say, has turned to you for assurance that this Irwin Peto’s story could be true. And you want me to believe that you’re not deep in Alison’s confidence?’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘Do you think me so stupid?’

There was nothing left of his earlier geniality, no trace of the bonhomie with which he had treated me in the beginning. The flint-like eyes were brimming with hostility, and I cursed myself for having made such a silly mistake.

He went on, leaning forward and stabbing the air with his forefinger, ‘I know why my cousin sent you! So that you could probe and pry into my doings in the hope that I might reveal myself as the instigator of this plot to defraud her of half her fortune. Well, I’ll tell you something, Chapman! Even if I’d met someone who resembled Clement, and even if I’d recognized the likeness after all these years, I doubt if I have sufficient cunning to have seen how to turn the opportunity to my advantage. I may be poor, but I’m not a rogue.’

His scorn was lacerating, but although it made me uneasy, I was not convinced by it. My feelings about Baldwin Lightfoot was that he was perfectly capable of concocting such a plot, and that if he was not the culprit, then his anger was directed more against a fate which had denied him the challenge than against me for suggesting it. But I had handled the matter badly and should get no more from him now.

I stood up. ‘I’m sorry to have offended you, Master Lightfoot, and I assure you that Mistress Burnett had no thought but to apprise you of what had happened. She felt that as a kinsman you had a right to know.’ This was to a certain extent true, for Alison had never seriously regarded Baldwin as a villain, and would have dissuaded me from wasting precious time visiting him if she could. She would have preferred, once the warmer weather came, that I should set out straight away for London, being convinced that that was where I was most likely to discover the truth. ‘I must be going now, if you’ll forgive me. I’ll see myself out.’ And I picked up my pack and cudgel from the floor.

He heaved himself to his feet, but his aggression seemed to have abated. ‘I daresay I’ve been over-hasty,’ he said. ‘If so, I must apologize. The day’s events –’ he waved a hand towards the window – ‘have been most upsetting. Widow Twynyho was an excellent neighbour.’ Tears welled up, and I had no doubt that his distress for her was genuine.

But that didn’t mean he was incapable of trying to cheat his cousin. I asked abruptly, ‘Were you in London, sir, at any time last autumn?’

I half-expected another spurt of anger, but although his eyes regained their steely expression, he answered mildly enough, ‘I haven’t been to London for nearly four years. The last time I was there the Archbishop of York had just been arrested, and there was a great deal of speculation as to what would happen because the Earl of Oxford had landed on the Essex coast. So you can tell what a time it’s been.’ He added, in a bid for my sympathy, ‘I don’t get about as much as I did once. Old age, you know. I’m not as spry as I used to be.’ He smiled ingratiatingly, showing the gaps in his teeth.

I found myself wondering about this abrupt change of mood. Why was he so anxious to placate me all of a sudden? I let my glance stray to my surroundings. Baldwin Lightfoot could certainly do with money. I asked as casually as I could, ‘When did you last see your Cousin Clement?’

He answered, equally casual, ‘Not for a decade or more. He may have been – oh, let me see! – fourteen, fifteen years of age when I last clapped eyes on him. Alfred brought Clement with him when he attended my mother’s funeral. I used to see a lot of both children when they were young, but after my mother died we somehow lost touch. The Alderman and I never cared greatly for one another. So, I repeat, I doubt very much that I should have recognized Clement, even at the time of his disappearance. Boys can alter a lot between fifteen and twenty. I heard that he’d vanished, of course, but only by roundabout means. There was no word from Alfred. Later, it was reported to me by an itinerant friar from Bristol that Clement had been murdered, and that the rogues responsible had been brought to justice. Since then, there has been little news. I was told that Alison had married, and the name of her husband, but again, not because of any direct communication from Alfred. You can understand, therefore,’ he added with a mocking smile, ‘how surprised I am to receive a letter from my Cousin Alison now.’

His version of events tallied with what Mistress Burnett had told me, and I felt that there was nothing more to be gained by staying longer. But I had at least met Baldwin Lightfoot for myself, and was able to form some sort of judgement concerning his character and circumstances; and I thought him quite capable of alleviating his poverty by underhand methods should the chance present itself. But had that opportunity occurred?

I took my leave of him, promising to convey his spurious condolences to his ‘dearest cousin’ and to assure her of his constant goodwill. He would pray, he said unctuously, for a happy outcome to her present dilemma. I thanked him, tongue in cheek, on behalf of Mistress Burnett and hastened on my way, free at last to seek out that other dwelling where lived the most beautiful creature on earth.

People were still standing around in little groups, their heads turning every now and then in the direction of the Twynyho house with its shattered door. But I hurried past them, intent only on reaching a cottage at the end of the street which I remembered from my visit the previous autumn. I could see it. I was almost at the gate in the paling which surrounded its modest plot. I was there and, miracle of miracles, a girl with brilliant blue eyes and a thick mass of fair hair was walking down the path from the cottage door towards me. My heart gave a great leap – before I suddenly realized that she was not alone.