The Saint John's fern

Chapter One

Clouds were gathering on the horizon, the first indication of a squall rolling in from the still distant sea, and a sharp tang of salt was borne on the freshening breeze. All about me lay the low curves of the moor, rising steeply in places to rocky outcrops of granite, poised between heaven and earth like mysterious elfin castles. Patches of fern and bracken glowed faintly bronze-coloured in the fluctuating light, a reminder of autumn, in spite of the warmth of the October morning.

Looking back now from the safety of old age — and seventy-five is a good ripe age for a man to reach — I can see myself clearly as I was then: young, vigorous, healthy, having just achieved my twenty-fifth birthday. And I marvel how unafraid of life I was. It never worried me what that fickle jade might have in store for me, for I had the utmost confidence in my ability to extricate myself from any and every untoward situation. (This is a slight exaggeration, perhaps, for I put my faith in God as well; but then, it was usually He who landed me in all my difficulties in the first place.)

Those of you, my children, and, maybe, grandchildren, who have taken the trouble to read these chronicles of mine so far, will know that when I flouted my dead mother’s wishes and forsook my novitiate with the monks at Glastonbury for the freedom of the open road, it seemed that God had determined to make use of me in some other fashion. He wasn’t going to let me escape my obligations quite so easily, and decided to employ my talent for unravelling those mysteries which had defeated the powers of other people, to bring various evil villains to book. That may sound somewhat conceited, but I believe we all have a special aptitude, an accomplishment not shared by everyone, and the ability to solve knotty problems was mine.

Mind you, I can’t pretend that I was always, if ever, a willing tool in the Almighty’s hands, and I had a good many one-sided arguments with Him, which, naturally enough, He totally ignored, simply giving me the choice to do His will or not — which, of course, as He knows full well, is no choice at all. And I had an uneasy feeling, as I made my way along the ancient ridge-road running across the great empty spaces of Dartmoor towards the town and port of Plymouth, that some agency other than my own free will was directing my footsteps.

To begin with, in this early October of 1477, I had been less than four months married — and very happily married — to my second wife, Adela. With her little son, Nicholas, now only two weeks short of his third birthday, and my daughter, Elizabeth, a mere four weeks younger again, I found myself, for the first time since early childhood, at the centre of a warm and happy life. The one-roomed cottage that I rented from Saint James’s Priory in Lewin’s Mead in the city of Bristol was undoubtedly cramped, partly because of my great height and girth, but we failed to notice it, unaware that we were treading on each other’s toes or that we were falling over one another. The two children had been friends from their very first meeting, while my love for Adela grew deeper by the day, as I had every proof that hers did for me. In addition, my mother-in-law from my first marriage was a kinswoman of my present wife, and was more than content to play grandmother to us all, visiting us from her home in Redcliffe at least two or three times every week.

In these circumstances of domestic bliss, with no sense that they were about to pall or grow stale, why had I suddenly been seized with my old, familiar restlessness? Why had I felt a terrible urge to visit Plymouth once again? My mother-in-law — for, having no other, I should always think of Margaret Walker as that — made no effort to hide her disappointment and disapproval, understandably regarding my desire to be off on my travels as a typical attempt to shirk my husbandly and parental responsibilities.

‘Put your foot down,’ I had overheard her advising Adela. ‘Start as you mean to go on or you’ll find yourself bringing up Nick and Elizabeth all on your own.’ I had imagined her lips folding themselves into an almost invisible line. ‘I know. Haven’t I raised Bess here practically single-handed since Lillis died? There’s plenty of money to be made peddling his wares hereabouts if Roger would only put his mind to it. No need for him to be wandering off to foreign parts.’

But Adela had only laughed. ‘Margaret, he’s not my prisoner. Roger knows that he’s free to come and go as he pleases. It was part of our bargain when we married, and, besides, I enjoy my own company now and then.’

No more had been said as the two women had, at that moment, become aware of my lurking presence, but I realized even more fully what I had known all along, that I had married a woman in a thousand; and I shuddered to remember how nearly I had let her slip through my fingers. Nevertheless, the desire to escape in no way abated, and at the beginning of August, a mere eight weeks after my wedding to Adela, I set out southwards, with Plymouth as my destination. But it wasn’t until that warm October morning, the goal at last within reach, that I suddenly began to question this strange urge that possessed me. Why, in spite of my happiness with my wife and children, had I felt impelled to leave them? And why had the town of Plymouth, which I had visited only once before, four years earlier, sprung so insistently and vividly to mind?

I stopped in my tracks, in the grip of a deep and most unwelcome suspicion. ‘Lord,’ I demanded aloud, ‘is this Your doing? Tell me! Is it?’ There was, unsurprisingly, no answer, but I had no need of one. I dropped my pack — now considerably lighter than when I had left home — to the ground and leant heavily on my cudgel in order to ease my aching shoulders. ‘Very well!’ I muttered angrily. ‘That’s that! I’m retracing my steps. You can’t force me to continue.’

The unexpected sound of wheels made me jump and glance around, and there at my elbow, blowing gustily through its nostrils, was an old brown cob harnessed to a cartload of peat. The driver, perched on his box and looking down at me with a pair of smiling blue eyes, was almost the same colour as his horse, his deeply tanned face surmounting leggings and tunic of coarse brown homespun, a piece of sacking draped over his head to protect it from all weathers.

‘I’m going as far as Plympton Priory,’ he informed me. ‘If you’d care for a ride, chapman, jump up.’

He must have thought me a great gaby for I had neither seen nor heard the cart approaching until it was alongside me, and consequently I stood goggling at its driver for several seconds in open-mouthed astonishment.

‘Th-thank you,’ I stammered at last, and before I had time to recollect my resolve to proceed no further, I had clambered up beside him, my pack and cudgel lodged uncomfortably at my feet.

‘Where are you making for?’ the carter enquired, as, in response to a flick of the reins, the old brown cob moved sluggishly forward.

‘Plymouth. Er — that is,’ I faltered, ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind.’

‘Know the town, do you?’ my companion asked, ignoring my indecision. ‘Been there before, perhaps?’

‘Once,’ I acknowledged.

‘Get around a lot in your trade, I dare say. Where have you come from?’

‘Bristol. My wife and family are there. But I was born and brought up in Wells.’

My companion shook his head. ‘Don’t know the place. Nor Bristol, though I know of it, of course. What’s the news in that part of the country, then? You must have plenty of truck with London. What’s happening there?’

I eased my cramped legs. ‘Word is that all’s quiet in the capital at the moment. The Duke of Clarence is still a prisoner in the Tower. Do you know about that?’

‘A rumour or two has reached us,’ said the carter, nodding, ‘even in Tavistock, where I live, but that was some time ago. What’s the upshot?’

‘At the moment, there is none. It seems the Duke has neither been released nor yet brought to trial, and what will be the outcome no one can say for certain. The King’s forgiven his brother so often in the past that the general opinion is that he’ll do so again. But for the time being, at least, while Clarence is imprisoned, we’re spared the threat of further civil war.’

My new acquaintance grimaced. ‘As bad as that, was it? We heard that the Duke had been making mischief again, but not how serious it was. Well, well! But I don’t suppose it’ll affect us much down here, whatever happens.’ And the conversation drifted towards more trivial matters: the bad state of the roads the unseasonable warmth of the weather, the rapidity with which the nights were already drawing in.

As we approached Plympton Priory, my companion suddenly asked, ‘Do you have anywhere to stay in Plymouth?’ And at the first shake of my head he added, ‘I’ll give you my daughter’s direction, in Bilbury Street.’

‘That — that’s very kind of you,’ I stammered. ‘But as I said just now, I haven’t really decided-’

‘Better still,’ he interrupted, ‘if you care to wait for me while I deliver this load of peat to the priory, I’ll take you on to Plymouth myself. My wife was saying only last night that neither of us has seen Joanna for quite some time, nor our son-in-law and the grandchildren, and that one of us — meaning me, of course — ought to make the effort to find out how they’re faring. So here’s my chance. I’ve no more deliveries today and if you’ll be so good as to give me your company, it’ll make the journey that much less tedious, and you’ll be fixed up with a comfortable billet into the bargain. What do you say?’

What could I say in the face of so much kindness and goodwill? God was forcing my hand and there was nothing I could do about it unless I wished to appear worse than churlish. Suppressing a sigh, I gave in with as much good grace as I could muster and thanked him with a spurious heartiness.

‘If you’re certain it’s not too much trouble-’ I added, but my companion cut me short.

‘No trouble in the world. That’s settled then.’ He spoke with undisguised satisfaction.

Plympton Priory is an Augustinian foundation, and I was interested to note that the canons wore little black birettas on the crowns of their heads, which, upon enquiry, I was informed was because they were untonsured. Their cassocks were mainly woven from a very fine wool, and the whole place exuded wealth and luxury. I was reminded of something that I had either read or been told a long time ago, probably during my years at Glastonbury, to the effect that the Augustinian Black Canons were always well-shod, well-fed and well-clothed; that they went abroad in the world, mixed with whom they liked and talked at table. I recalled my youthful envy of an order whose rules were so far removed from those of the Benedictines, and my dissatisfaction with the life that my mother had chosen for me had increased.

‘Well, let’s be on our way,’ said the carter, whose name I had by now learnt was Peter Threadgold, climbing up on the box seat of the empty cart and indicating to me that I should do the same.

We had been given a dinner of soup and bread and cheese in the priory kitchen, during which time, by the greatest good fortune, the squally shower that I had earlier noted on the horizon, had passed over Plympton and was now moving further inland, towards the heart of the moor. The spears of stinging rain had given place once more to a hazy, autumnal sunshine that made every leaf, every blade of grass sparkle with a myriad rainbow drops of moisture. The track was rutted and green with weeds, revived by their sudden drink, and the smell of the river running broad and deep on our left, was, for a furlong or two, all-pervasive. But then the salt tang of the sea assaulted my nostrils and other scents were lost as I experienced yet again the old, familiar prickle of excitement.

I’m not a good sailor and I’m far happier with my feet planted firmly on shore, so I don’t know why I respond in the way that I do to the smell of the sea. But I’ve noticed throughout my life that I’m not the only confirmed landsman to do so. I can only suppose that it’s because here, in this island, and in neighbouring Ireland, whichever way you travel, the sea is at the end of so many journeys, and has a meaning, a significance, even for those people who have never seen it. The mere thought of it quickens the blood, and the sight of it sends a thrill of anticipation coursing up and down the spine. I think all islanders must have a little salt in their veins, for I noticed that Peter Threadgold also raised his head and sniffed appreciatively as we passed through the Old Town Gate.

‘Here we are then,’ he said, as we traversed the main street of Old Town Ward before turning left into Bilbury Street, where his daughter lived.

This, as both the name of the gate and ward made obvious, was the oldest part of Plymouth, many of the houses and cottages in Bilbury Street having been built, so Master Threadgold somewhat apologetically informed me, well over a hundred years earlier. I had to admit, although not aloud, that most of them looked it, quite a few being almost derelict and others hovering on the brink of decay. One or two, however, were well maintained, the outside walls being washed with that mixture of potash and sulphur which turns them a delicate greenish-grey, and holes in the thatch having been patched with iris leaves, a plant which grew in abundance in some of the gardens.

To my relief, it was in front of one of these better-kept cottages that we finally drew up, having driven almost the entire length of the street.

‘Whoa, boy!’ my companion exclaimed, pulling on the reins, although the cob’s pace was so steady that the order was superfluous, the lightest of touches being sufficient to stop him in his tracks.

Immediately ahead of us was another of the town gates — Martyn’s Gate, Peter Threadgold said — which, as I was to learn later, gave access to the east-bound road that passed the Carmelite Friary just beyond the walls. The cottage before which we had halted was separated from the gatehouse by only one other dwelling, a two-storeyed edifice in excellent repair, its wooden frontage painted red and gold, and with a tiled roof from which no slates appeared to be missing. It was far superior to any other building in the street, money having obviously been lavished upon its upkeep, and no expense spared to ensure that it was at once recognizable as the residence of a gentleman. There was something not quite right about it, however, but it took a moment or two for me to realize just what it was. Then it dawned on me that every window in the house was shuttered in spite of the warmth and brightness of a sunny afternoon, and that the door was not only inhospitably shut, but the knocker had been removed, leaving merely the iron hook from which the clapper had been suspended.

Peter Threadgold, whose eyes had followed my gaze, remarked, ‘That’s strange! Master Capstick must have gone away, although at his age, I shouldn’t have thought-’

He was interrupted by the emergence from the cottage of two very excited small boys, one about five, the other, I judged, a couple of years younger, and, hard on their heels, a woman whose plump, smooth face was wreathed in smiles.

‘Grandda! Grandda!’ The children reached up their little arms, trying ineffectually to drag their grandsire from his seat, while their mother laughingly admonished them.

‘Robin! Thomas! That will do! Behave! Father, what a lovely surprise. Come down before the boys do you a mischief.’ She caught sight of me. ‘And … and your friend, also,’ she added uncertainly.

Peter Threadgold leapt nimbly to the ground, catching up the two boys in turn and tossing them, squealing with delight, into the air. Then, as I was by this time standing alongside him, he turned to introduce me.

‘Master Chapman, this is my daughter, Mistress Cobbold, and these two young imps of Satan are my grandsons. Joanna, my dear, our friend here is looking for a bed for the night, being more or less a stranger to these parts, and I thought you might be able to find him a corner.’

Joanna Cobbold dimpled. ‘If he doesn’t mind sharing a bed with one of the children, he’s more than welcome. Now, come along inside, the pair of you, and Father, I can’t wait to hear all your news. How is Mother and when can we expect to see her again?’

The interior of the cottage was as clean and neat as the exterior had led me to believe it would be, and I was soon settled at the table with a cup of Mistress Cobbold’s home-brewed ale in my hand. And in order to draw off the boys’ overwhelming attentions from their grandfather, I opened my pack and allowed them to rummage through its contents, while Peter Threadgold and his daughter talked, uninterrupted, exchanging all the latest family gossip.

Later, as we were sitting down to a meal of savoury-smelling rabbit stew, followed by pippin tarts and goat’s-milk cheese and chives, the master of the house returned, greeting his father-in-law with genuine affection and adding his voice to his wife’s, urging Peter to stay with them overnight.

‘No, no, lad, I daren’t.’ The carter shook his head regretfully. ‘I told Martha I’d be straight home after I’d delivered my load at the priory. She’ll have me overturned at the bottom of a ditch as it is. I must be going, I’m afraid, as soon as I’ve finished eating. But you’ll oblige me by looking after my friend Roger Chapman here.’

John Cobbold made no further attempt to persuade his father-in-law to remain, and for the rest of the meal the conversation turned on the present parlous state of the wine trade in Plymouth, my host being employed, as I gathered, by a vintner who had a shop near the market cross. The expulsion of the English from Bordeaux twenty-odd years before, and the subsequent edict forbidding any Englishman to take up residence in that city, had, I learnt, started the rot; and now the trade was fast becoming the monopoly of the hated Flemings and the even more detested members of the Hanseatic League.

‘In fact,’ John Cobbold added gloomily, ‘trade is generally bad altogether at present. Fishing isn’t what it was. Even the hake business is losing money, and you know how plentiful hake’s always been in the waters off this coast.’ He sighed. ‘There aren’t any fortunes to be made from it nowadays, not like old Master Capstick’s, next door.’

‘May God rest his soul,’ Joanna added, making the sign of the Cross.

Peter Threadgold clicked his tongue. ‘He’s dead then, is he, old Oliver Capstick? I noticed when we arrived that the house was boarded up and the knocker removed.’ The carter rubbed his nose. ‘I must say, I’m surprised. He was getting on in years, it’s true, but he was always so healthy and active that I can’t imagine him succumbing to illness. But there, it happens to us all sooner or later. When our time comes, it comes and there’s no escaping it. Poor old fellow! A bit cantankerous and difficult, by all accounts, but he was very polite to me whenever I was here and we happened to meet in the street. And that isn’t always the way of the rich towards the poor, as we very well know. What did he die of?’

I saw John and Joanna Cobbold exchange glances, then the former said, ‘You two boys can go and play, if you’ve finished eating. I can hear some of your friends outside.’ Robin and Thomas needed no further encouragement to leave the table and the tedious conversation of their elders to join the other boys and girls in the street, and were gone like a shot from a bow. But their father waited until the cottage door had closed behind them before answering Peter’s question. ‘Master Capstick didn’t die of any illness. He was murdered — and very brutally murdered — last May.’