The Saint John's fern

Chapter Eight

Before I had properly assimilated the information, a tall, fair-haired woman came out of the cottage, and, much as Bartholomew Champernowne himself had done, paused to look me up and down. Again, Wilfred was accorded the most cursory of glances.

If this was Gueda Beeman, as I supposed it must be, she was not at all what I had expected. When the wise woman had originally been mentioned, along with the fact that many people thought her a witch, I had imagined an old crone, wizened and repulsive. Later, when Wilfred had told me that she was also the local whore, I had amended this picture, although I don’t know why, to that of a somewhat younger woman, but one still well past the first flush of youth.

Instead, Gueda was not only young but also beautiful, in spite of the layers of dirt that grained her skin, and the filthy, tattered gown that she was wearing. She had huge, grey-green eyes, thickly fringed with lashes the colour of ripe corn, the same shade as her hair — or the shade her hair would have been had it been washed. Her figure, too, was one to make the angels jealous, and her bare feet were as small and delicate as her hands. But when she spoke, the illusion of some fairy princess fallen upon hard times was rudely shattered. Her voice was harsh, her speech coarse, thickly larded with its Devonshire burr.

‘What do you want, then, chapman?’

I noticed that she was jingling some coins in her right hand, and I muttered in Wilfred’s ear, ‘I thought you said she gave her favours free.’

‘So she does usually,’ he muttered back. ‘But perhaps Master Champernowne insisted on paying.’

‘What are you two whispering to one another about?’ Gueda demanded sulkily. ‘If you have anything to say to me, pedlar, say it out loud.’

It was true that I was carrying my pack on my back, but I had the feeling that this was not the only reason that she had so readily divined my calling. I smiled placatingly before replying, ‘I’d be grateful for a few words with you, Mistress, if I may.’

‘Very well.’ She stared at me belligerently, but made no attempt to invite me inside the cottage, for which I was truly thankful.

So I put my question regarding her sighting of Beric Gifford on the morning of the murder, without anticipating any reply but a confident affirmation. I was therefore astonished when she shook her head and answered with an emphatic, ‘I saw nothing.’

‘You mean it wasn’t you who told the Sheriff’s officer that you’d seen Master Gifford riding towards Plymouth on May Day morning?’ I demanded, disappointed.

‘I’ve told you so, haven’t I?’ she spat at me. ‘I never said any such thing. And besides, I don’t know this … this Beric Gifford.’

‘Are you certain of that?’ I queried angrily.

She tossed her head. ‘Yes. I’m certain.’

But I could see by the way her eyes refused to meet mine that she was lying, and I was suddenly struck by the significance of the coins she was still jingling in her hand. Bartholomew Champernowne had not been enjoying the lady’s favours; he had been bribing her to deny her evidence concerning his future brother-in-law in the event of a tall, far too nosy pedlar finding his way to her door and asking questions. But how had he known of me? The answer, of course, was simple: Katherine Glover. He must have been at Valletort Manor when she returned home that morning, and had heard enough of my curiosity concerning Oliver Capstick’s murder to make him determined to try to silence the local witnesses. He no doubt felt that interest in the killing was on the wane after all those months, and the last thing he wanted was for a stranger to revive it with his unwelcome meddling.

Master Champernowne’s interference, however, only stiffened my resolve to seek out the other two who claimed to have seen Beric on the fateful morning: the smallholder who lived near Yealmpton and the friend who had sighted him close to Sequers Bridge. And even if Bartholomew got to them before I did, and was able to command, or pay for, their silence, I hoped I could judge for myself whether or not they were telling the truth, just as I had done with Gueda Beeman.

I thanked the wise woman, (witch, whore, however she preferred to be known) with elaborate courtesy.

‘Please forgive me, Mistress, for wasting your time.’ I added with heavy sarcasm, ‘I can see now that the information I was given concerning you was false. I shall therefore not inflict myself upon you any further.’

She regarded me with deep distrust, for she was not used to such talk and, guessing that she was being mocked, rightly resented it.

‘I didn’t see Beric Gifford!’ she bawled after me as, grasping Wilfred’s arm, I turned to go.

‘She was lying,’ my companion said positively as we made our way along the path leading from the clearing to the Wollaton track.

‘Undoubtedly,’ I agreed. ‘Master Champernowne has paid her to deny her story. That’s why she has money.’

‘Of course!’ Wilfred’s honest face shone with sudden enlightenment. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What will you do next?’

‘Carry on about my business,’ I answered truthfully, even if I was being less than candid. ‘I have a wife and children to support, and although I love a mystery, this one is already over five months old and I fear the trail has gone cold. It’s time for me to be moving on.’ But I was careful not to say where to. There seemed no point in involving Wilfred and his goodwife in my plans.

I walked with him the short distance back to Brixton and the main east-bound track, where, with some regret, we took our leave of one another.

‘God be with you, then.’ My new acquaintance reached up and patted me on the shoulder in a gesture that was affectionate as well as valedictory. ‘You’re wise not to try to cross a Champernowne. They’re a family who make good friends but implacable enemies.’

‘Give my regards to your goody and thank her for the dinner,’ I said. ‘If ever I’m this way again, I’ll look you up.’

‘Do, lad! Do! We’ll be pleased to see you.’ And with that, he smote me again on the shoulder before turning and walking in the direction of his cottage where his wife was waiting for him, woodchopper in hand. I saw her gesture towards the pile of logs, and, smiling to myself, I set out once more on the next stage of my journey to Yealmpton.

* * *

It was little more than an hour’s walk from Brixton to the neighbouring village, and I could have done it in less time had the track not led through some dense woodland, where the afternoon sun could barely penetrate the cathedral-like vaulting of the trees. The going was slow there, and twice I stumbled and almost fell over roots that snaked across the path. It was not easy trotting for horses, either, although the several riders I encountered, travelling in both directions, guided their mounts over the obstacles with all the confidence that familiarity with the ground inspires.

Eventually, however, the trees began to thin and give way to more open pasture. A spiral of smoke in the distance told me that I was nearing a homestead or outlying farm, and that Yealmpton could not be far away. I judged from the position of the sun that it was now about mid-afternoon, and my stomach was telling me that it would soon be suppertime. It was a few hours now since my belated dinner at the home of the goodman and his wife, so I decided to stop at the first dwelling place I came to, where I would try to buy or beg something to eat. I might also, if I were lucky, learn the name of that smallholder who had been on his way to market when he had encountered Beric Gifford returning from Plymouth and his murderous mission. Then I recollected Bartholomew Champernowne, and wondered if he would have been before me, suborning yet another witness into denying his former evidence.

Ten minutes more brought me to the cottage with smoke spiralling through the hole in its roof. It was surrounded by an expanse of comfrey, that useful plant whose root, pulped, strained and packed inside a splint, is invaluable for setting broken bones, and whose juice cleanses wounds, helping them to heal. There was also a bed of coltsfoot, which makes a soothing decoction for all ailments of the chest, and another of coriander, whose seeds disguise the unpleasant taste of physic. Undoubtedly, the owner of this holding sold his produce to the physicians and druggists of Plymouth and other nearby towns; everything was grown in too great a profusion to be merely for his own use or for that of his immediate neighbours.

At the back of the cottage was a small enclosure containing several geese and chickens, and a nanny goat tethered in one corner. A tall, very thin man, with sparse straw-coloured hair and pale blue eyes, was scattering corn from a bucket hooked over one arm. Assuming him to be the cottager, I did not bother to knock at the door, but approached him directly. Before I even had time to hail him, however, he glanced up, saw me and said, ‘Ah! You must be the pedlar I was warned about. I’ve been expecting you.’

I smiled grimly. ‘In that case, you must be the man who encountered Beric Gifford on the morning of his great-uncle’s murder.’ He looked disappointed at my lack of surprise, and I went on, ‘Bartholomew Champernowne has already bribed Gueda Beeman to deny the evidence she gave to the Sheriff’s officer five months ago, as I discovered this afternoon when I went to see her.’

The man upended the bucket to get rid of the last of the corn, then walked across to join me at the fence. He frowned, sucking his yellow teeth consideringly. ‘So, what’s your interest in stirring the matter up again, just when the Law is beginning to lose interest in the killing?’

‘I don’t like villains who get away with murder,’ I answered promptly. ‘Do you?’

He regarded me speculatively for a moment or two before jerking his head in the direction of the cottage.

‘My name’s Jack Golightly. You’d better come in. You can share my supper, if you’re hungry,’ he offered.

I needed no second invitation, and when he had shut the enclosure gate behind him, I followed him indoors as fast as I could, before he changed his mind.

‘I’m a childless widower and I live alone,’ he said by way of explanation, and with a sweeping gesture that embraced the unmade bed, the still unwashed dishes, the plain, beaten earth floor that needed brushing, and the dust lying thick on every surface. But to offset all that, there was the most delicious, savoury smell emanating from the iron cauldron hanging from a hook over the fire in the middle of the room. I could have tolerated a great deal more disorder than I saw about me to sample a plateful of Jack Golightly’s stew.

‘You seem very snug, all the same,’ I answered, slipping my pack from my shoulders and heaving it into a space between the water butt and a wooden rack where some apples were set out, coated with melted beeswax to preserve them for the winter. I looked thoughtfully at my host as he wiped two bowls clean with a handful of grass, then filled them with stew. ‘If you can cook like this, you have no need of a wife.’

He raised his eyebrows but made no comment on this rather crass remark, merely motioning me to draw up a stool to the table and pushing aside the remains of his previous meal, which had not yet been cleared away. He gave me a spoon and a slice of black bread, bidding me ‘Fall to!’ and pulling up a second stool for himself. For several minutes, there was no sound except the two of us eating.

Eventually, however, when I had blunted my appetite with two helpings of stew, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, propped my elbows on the table and said thickly, ‘I guess that Master Champernowne must have been here. And did he try to bribe you to deny the truth of your story concerning Beric Gifford, should I pay you a visit? I think he must have done, or you wouldn’t have been expecting me, would you? Did he give any reason for his request?’

Jack Golightly laid down his spoon and picked a sliver of meat from between two of his front teeth with a grubby fingernail before replying to my questions with one of his own.

‘You say “try to bribe”. What makes you think that he didn’t succeed?’ he asked with a grin. And fishing in the pouch at his belt, he produced three or four coins, piling them up on the table in front of him.

I looked from his face to the little pile of money and back again. ‘You neither act nor speak like a man who is about to tell me a pack of lies,’ I said. ‘And yet … Are those your own coins or his?’

‘Oh, his!’ my host exclaimed cheerfully, picking them up and returning them to his pouch with every indication of pleasure. ‘But you’re quite right. I don’t aim to mislead you, or tell you anything but the truth. I did meet Beric Gifford on my way to Plymouth market. So, what else is there that you want to know?’

‘But…’ I protested feebly, and Jack Golightly laughed.

‘You wonder why I took young Master Bartholomew’s money,’ he said, ‘when I had no intention of doing what he asked of me. Well, for one thing, I’m a poor man and must take my chance where I can to eke out an uncertain livelihood. For another, I made him no promises. It’s not my fault if, in his arrogance, he assumed that I would bow to his demands. But if you want the real reason why I deceived him, it’s because he’s a Champernowne.’ And he uttered the last word with such a weight of loathing that it was almost like a curse.

There was a moment’s silence. Then I said, ‘You obviously dislike the family. Can I ask why?’

My companion got up and poured two cups of ale for us from a pitcher standing on a smaller table where a few more dirty dishes were stacked. When he returned and had seated himself once again, he answered, ‘I don’t mind telling you. There’s no secret about it.’ He took a swig of his ale, which, to my mind, was rather tasteless and flat, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his smock. ‘My family have always been loyal to the Courtenays, and therefore to the Lancastrian cause. The Champernownes are for the House of York.’

I grimaced. ‘In that case, perhaps I should point out that you see before you a man devoted to King Edward IV and all his family.’

Jack Golightly shrugged. ‘That doesn’t worry me, chapman, although I think you’re misguided. But many years ago now, when I was young — that same year, in fact, that Edward of Rouen was crowned in London as our present king — the French sent a force into Plymouth to help our cause. As soon as the Champernownes got wind of it, old William Champernowne sent his men to repel the French, but they were intercepted here, at Yealmpton, by the Courtenays and their followers.’ The strangely pale blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘The Courtenays won the skirmish and the Champernownes were forced to retreat, but not before they’d fired this cottage out of revenge. My father and I managed to douse the blaze, but the shock was too much for my mother. She died not long afterwards. The Champernownes killed her as surely as if they’d put a knife through her heart.’

I don’t know whether or not he expected me to sympathize with him, but I could not bring myself to do so. A great many common people had suffered grievously during the civil war that had torn this country apart for so many years; but, as I had just told him, I was sufficiently devoted to King Edward and, above all, to his younger brother, the Duke of Gloucester, to be unmoved by the plight of their enemies. So I took refuge in silence and buried my face, as far as I could, in my cup as I finished my ale.

‘You see, therefore,’ he continued at last, ‘why I make no bones about serving any Champernowne a backhanded turn if the opportunity arises.’

‘I do, indeed,’ I said, setting down my empty cup. ‘You don’t deny, then, that you met Beric Gifford on the morning of May Day as you were going towards Plymouth and he was returning. Were you on foot?’

My host smiled sourly. ‘Of course I was on foot. I’m not rich enough to own a horse, or even a mule. I have a shoulder yoke from which I suspend my baskets. He was riding, though; that great, black horse of his that he was so proud of. And still is, as far as I know.’

‘Where did you encounter him? Were you close to him or at a distance?’

Jack Golightly repeated the habit he had of sucking his teeth before replying.

‘It was in the forest near here. I expect you came through it. I had to jump aside, into the trees, to get out of his way. He was riding at a great pace, in spite of the roughness of the ground, bent low over the animal’s neck, the reins all bunched up in one hand and the fingers of the other knotted’s in the black’s mane, as though he were scared to death he was going to fall off. I remember thinking to myself: One day, my boy, you’ll break your neck, and serve you right, going at such a speed. But when I arrived at Martyn’s Gate and found Bilbury Street swarming with Sheriff’s officers and people who had just arrived to gawp, and when I learnt of the murder and was told the murderer’s name, I understood his hurry. And I was able to tell one of the sergeants that I’d seen Beric Gifford heading, as far as I could tell, in the direction of Modbury and Valletort Manor. But a posse had already been sent that way after him.’ My companion sounded cheated.

‘You hadn’t met the posse on your journey?’

‘No, for I took the road to the ferry. They’d have gone north to the ford, or further on, to the bridge, if it were floodtide, just as Master Gifford must have done, before riding southwards again to join this track at Brixton.’

I asked, ‘When Beric passed you in the forest, did you notice if he was wearing a jewel in his hat? Gold with a teardrop pearl.

My companion laughed. ‘He was riding too fast for me to take notice of anything he was wearing.’ Nevertheless, Jack wrinkled his brow as he obligingly tried to remember, but after a while he shook his head. ‘If my life depended on giving an answer, I’d say that he wasn’t. But if his life depended on it, I’d have to say that I can’t be certain.’

Beric wasn’t wearing the ornament that was now in my pouch, of course, for it had fallen from his cap in the bedchamber, where it had been lost among the rushes, and my host’s testimony in some part confirmed this. I saw the curiosity in Jack Golightly’s eyes, guessed the question hovering on his lips and made haste to divert his attention.

‘Are you acquainted with Beric Gifford and his sister?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I know them by sight well enough to recognize them when I meet them. And I listen to all the gossip. I know that they’re famed for their prodigality; that they both spent far more money than they could afford until one of them murdered their uncle and the other inherited his fortune. I know that Berenice Gifford is betrothed to that young coxcomb who was here this afternoon, and that her brother is — or was — determined to marry her maid, Katherine Glover, which was the cause of his falling out with old Oliver Capstick. In short, I know as much as most other people do concerning their neighbours.’

‘And what do you think has become of Beric Gifford since he killed his uncle?’

My host shrugged. ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll be miles away from here. France, Brittany, Scotland.’

I thought for a moment, before deciding to take him into my confidence. ‘If I told you that I’m certain I saw him last night, talking to Katherine Glover outside the Bird of Passage Inn at Oreston, what would you say to that?’

Once more, Jack Golightly pursed his mouth and sucked on his teeth. ‘I’d think him the biggest fool in Christendom,’ he answered slowly.

‘You wouldn’t think that he’d eaten Saint John’s fern and could render himself invisible or visible at will?’

My companion laughed. ‘No, I shouldn’t! I’ll tell you something, chapman. I ate the leaves of the hart’s-tongue fern once, when I was a boy — and nothing happened! I waited all day to become invisible, but not so much as a fingernail vanished. If you believe that story, you’re more gullible than I take you for.’

‘I didn’t say I believe it,’ I answered. ‘But I was speaking the truth when I said that I saw Beric Gifford last night. Unfortunately, it was impossible to apprehend him. Where do you think he’s hiding?’

Jack Golightly had stopped laughing and was regarding me earnestly. ‘If what you say really is true-’ he began, but broke off to protest, ‘No! Impossible! I find it hard to accept that he’d be so foolish. Do you have proof positive that it was him?’

‘I have to admit that I don’t know Beric Gifford except by report,’ I confessed. ‘But this man and Katherine Glover — who was spending the night at the inn, as I was — were behaving in a very lover-like fashion. And he was riding a black horse. I could tell that, even in the darkness.’

My host scratched his head. ‘It sounds as though it could have been Beric you saw, I’m bound to agree. But if that’s the case…’ He chewed his nether lip and pondered. At last, he went on, ‘If that’s the case, there’s only one place where he could be lying low with any measure of safety, and that’s in Valletort Manor itself.’