The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Chapter Two

The afternoon was well advanced by the time I approached Chilworth Manor. This lay a mile or two east of the ford, close to the banks of a small stream, tributary to the River Itchen.

It was a beautiful day, the wind blowing fresh and sweet across the meadows. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys iridescent as a rainbow and the sky was a swimming lake of deepest blue, smudged here and there by soft white clouds. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer sounded a joyful carillon of anvil blows and the rise of pasture, away to the west, was rinsed by blue-veined shadows. The stream flowed softly between its fringe of rushes and I could see clear down to the bed of gravel underneath. Daisies and the golden cups of celandine starred the straggling grasses.

Suddenly the flow of water began to diminish until it dwindled into the merest trickle. Rounding a bend by some willow stumps, I came upon the reason. A shepherd had dammed the stream in two places to form a pool and was washing his flock, assisted by a stout lad with hard red cheeks and a surly, disgruntled expression. It was the boy’s job to drag the reluctant animals one by one into the water, where the shepherd stood thigh-deep, removing the foul and loose wool from around the udders and thoroughly washing the fleece. When he had finished examining the beast’s mouth and ears, the sheep scrambled up the opposite bank to join its fellows, where it dripped and shivered miserably, regarding him with a wide and baleful stare for having been subjected to such indignity. The lambs, separated from their dams, cried piteously.

I greeted the shepherd and his assistant cheerfully. ‘God be with you both! Am I on the right path for Chilworth Manor?’

The lad made no reply, but the older man paused in his work and nodded. ‘You are that. You’re on demesne land now. The house is about half a mile further on from here. Are you a chapman?’

‘I am. And hoping to sell some of my wares to Lady Wardroper, who was recommended to me as a likely patroness by a butcher’s wife in Southampton.’

The shepherd laughed. ‘Mistress Gentle, I’ll be bound. A good woman, always willing to help others. Her daughter, Amice, did some sewing and embroidery for my lady at one time, before she went away from home.’ He turned back to the ewe he was washing and began to prise her jaws apart. The animal, justly incensed by such treatment, tried to rear up and place her two front feet against his chest, but the man moved closer, skilfully frustrating the attempt. ‘Got to watch this one,’ he said. ‘She’s old and up to all the tricks. Many’s the soaking I’ve had from her in my time, when she was a bit younger and spryer than she is today.’ When the ewe was done and had proceeded, stately with outrage, to the opposite shore, the shepherd signalled to the boy to halt a moment and turned to face me. ‘My cottage is close by here. Before you go on to the Manor House, do you have time to visit my wife? She was complaining only yesterday that we’ve had no pedlar pass this way for several weeks, and as a consequence she’s short of various items. She’s broken the blade of her kitchen knife and she’s also in need of a pair of good, stout laces, if you’ve such a thing in your pack.’

‘I have and will willingly sell them to her if you’ll give me more precise directions.’

‘The boy can show you,’ was the answer. ‘There’s only these two old tups left to wash and I can handle them well enough on my own. Jed, take the chapman to my cottage, there’s a good lad. But mind you return here afterwards,’ he continued on a minatory note, as the boy abandoned his job with an alacrity which his master plainly found ominous. ‘These beasts will need careful watching until their fleeces are dry and the yolk gets back into the wool. The natural grease,’ he added for my benefit, noting my puzzled look.

I followed my guide along a narrow track which led upwards to higher ground, where the close-cropped turf would have indicated the presence of sheep even had I not already known of it. The shepherd’s cottage, a rough, stone-built, one-storey dwelling, stood in the lee of a clump of trees, all now wearing their delicate, early-summer green.

‘That’s where Jack Shepherd lives,’ the boy told me, dragging his feet at the prospect of returning to his work once his errand was done. Inspiration struck him. ‘I’d best come and make you known to the goodwife, you being a stranger hereabouts.’

I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘My pack will speak for itself. You’d best run along before Master Shepherd accuses you of skiving and recommends to Sir Cedric Wardroper that he employ a new boy.’

The lad looked sullen, but finally, with a heart-wrenching sigh, thought better of any gesture of defiance which might cost him his place. He set off down the slope again and vanished from sight, with just one last, yearning glance over his shoulder. I went forward and rapped on the cottage door.

My knock was answered by a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman, wearing a dress of grey brocella, together with an apron and hood of coarse, unbleached linen. My first impression was of someone of a slightly sour disposition; which only served to demonstrate how deceptive appearances can sometimes be. For on closer acquaintance the shepherd’s wife proved to be a pleasantly spoken, friendly woman about the same age as her husband, who welcomed me in with a smile.

When I had told her of my conversation with her man she urged me to one of the two seats in the room, a three-legged stool uncomfortably close to the hearth, and pressed me to take refreshment.

‘I’ve just this moment finished baking a fresh oatcake,’ she said and began scraping away the hot ashes from around an upturned pot. When she had removed the pot, she took a clean cloth and lifted the cake from the hearth-tiles, placing it carefully on the table. Then she produced butter, wrapped in dock leaves to keep it cool, filled a wooden cup with ale from the barrel in one corner and bade me draw up my stool and eat.

‘And while you do so,’ she said, ‘if it’s acceptable to you, I’ll look through your pack.’

I readily agreed and spread out its contents on the other end of the table, just as I had done that morning for Mistress Gentle. The shepherd’s wife, too, fondled the violet leather gloves with the same mixture of longing and regret.

‘I was advised to show them to Lady Wardroper,’ I said, and the woman nodded.

‘Ay, she’ll buy them, no doubt, and be glad of the chance, for she likes fine things and we’ve had no pedlar pass this way for weeks and weeks, as my husband told you. But we’re off the beaten track a little here and can easily be missed by travellers. That’s not to say that no one penetrates as far as Chilworth. We had a travelling musician here only last month, who entertained Sir Cedric and my lady and spent the night in the guest hall. They were especially pleased, I remember, because Master Matthew was still at home, kicking his heels and waiting to take up his new appointment in the Duke of Gloucester’s household.’

‘I know all about that,’ I said, washing down a piece of oatcake with some ale and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. And in answer to her inquiring lift of the eyebrows I added, ‘Mistress Gentle, the butcher’s wife in Southampton, told me.’

My companion laughed, much as her husband had done. ‘Well, that explains it. She enjoys a good gossip, does Joan Gentle.’ She threw up her hands. ‘But who am I to point a finger? I’d be a rich woman if I had a groat for every time my goodman’s said to me, “Millisent, your tongue will swell up and turn black one of these fine days if you don’t curb your appetite for pushing your nose into your neighbours’ affairs.”’

I grinned sympathetically. ‘My mother used to tell me much the same thing when she was alive, God rest her soul! “Your long nose will be the undoing of you, my son,” she used to say.’ I wet my forefinger and gathered up the last crumbs of oatcake from the board. ‘That was excellent, Mistress.’ Millisent Shepherd smiled and refilled my cup from the pitcher of ale which she had earlier thought to place on the table. She was still examining the contents of my pack, so I settled myself comfortably on my stool and prepared to slake not only my thirst, but also my curiosity. ‘How did young Master Wardroper come to enter the service of the Duke of Gloucester, then?’

The woman paused, her fingers hovering above a length of silk ribbon, which it was obvious that she would dearly love to have purchased instead of a knife, but did not dare to do so for fear of her husband’s displeasure.

‘I don’t know exactly all the details of the appointment,’ she admitted a trifle shamefacedly, as though it were her bounden duty to be aware of everything pertaining to Chilworth Manor, ‘but I believe my lady has a distant kinsman already well established within the Duke’s household. I forget what position he holds, but Mary Buck, the laundress, told me that it was of some importance. And when it became necessary to find a new place for Master Matthew Lady Wardroper naturally thought of this Lionel Arrowsmith and sent a message to him. Up north somewhere. Wherever it is the Duke lives when he’s not in London.’

‘Middleham Castle, probably,’ I said. ‘It’s high on the Yorkshire moors, or so I believe, and it’s where Duke Richard spends most of his time. Where the duchess and their little son live.’

Millisent Shepherd looked at me with sharpened interest. ‘You know a lot,’ she approved admiringly. ‘But then, in your line of work you hear a deal of gossip I dare say.’

‘A certain amount. Tell me, why did it become necessary for Matthew Wardroper to find a new place? Surely, at his age, his future must have been already secured?’

‘Ay, it was. He was sent away young, as all boys of his sort are, to be brought up by a friend of Sir Cedric – Sir Peter Wells, I believe his name was. It was a fair bit up-country, a long way from here, at any rate. Near Leicester, I think I heard someone tell. But last Christmas this Sir Peter dies with neither chick nor child to succeed him. His wife retires into a convent and the household’s disbanded. Master Matthew returned home to Chilworth and there he was, seventeen years old and no place in the world.’ The goodwife grimaced and hunched her shoulders. ‘Well! Sir Cedric’s not the man to want a high-spirited boy kicking his heels around the manor. He’s older than my lady by a good twenty years, if not more, I’d reckon, and it wasn’t long before he and young Master Matthew were at loggerheads over one thing and another. Or so my friend the laundress informs me. Not surprising, really. From a baby, Matt was always the spitting image of his mother: eyes, hair, features. And they do say that people who look alike are alike in other ways, don’t they?’

I cautiously acknowledged this theory. ‘Although I have known cases where even twins, identically matched, had differing natures.’

Mistress Shepherd waved this observation aside as an irrelevance. ‘Maybe, but in this particular case I assure you that it’s true. Sir Cedric’s a humourless man, while my lady has always liked a laugh and a giggle. She’s had to school her ways, of course, over the years, to suit her husband’s humour, but Master Matt felt no such need to appease his father. So it became necessary to settle him as soon as maybe and away from Chilworth. My lady therefore conceived the notion of sending to this cousin of hers in the Duke of Gloucester’s household, and after a few weeks, back came the messenger with an offer for Master Matt to join the Duke when His Grace came south to London – for we’re off to fight the Frenchies again I understand. Ah well! That’s men for you! All they think about from the cradle to the grave is brawling and fighting. Women, now, they’ve more sense. Girls soon learn there’s better ways to go on than clawing each other’s eyes out. Women generally don’t like violence.’

‘I’ve known several exceptions,’ I answered grimly; but once again I did not enlarge upon the subject. ‘Have you found anything that takes your fancy?’ I asked to divert her.

My hostess sighed. ‘It’ll have to be this bone-handled knife and this pair of hempen laces. It’s what I need and we’ve little enough money to spend on gewgaws. Tell me the price and I’ll settle with you, then you can be on your way to the manor. Those gloves’ll find a good home there, for Sir Cedric, for all he’s so stiff-backed and can’t stand levity, is an indulgent husband.’ She sighed a second, more gusty sigh. ‘Some women, chapman, are luckier than others.’

I laughed and, not wishing to be the recipient of marital confidences, said hurriedly, ‘I’m sure your goodman would do the same by you if it were possible.’ I named as reasonable a sum as I could for the knife and laces, put the money in my purse and made the shepherd’s wife a present of a reel of thread, which she accepted with gratitude.

‘You’re a good lad. I could see that the moment you walked through that door. Now, be off with you, for you’ve eaten my man’s supper and I’d best make another oatcake before he comes home and demands his victuals.’

Nevertheless, in spite of the need for haste, she accompanied me to the cottage door and stood there, waving, until I had turned a bend in the downhill track and was lost to her view.

Beside the stream, the shepherd had finished his work. The boy was seated on the grass of the opposite bank, yawning with boredom and scratching his flea-bitten neck while he waited for the animals’ fleeces to dry. The shepherd himself was driving the lambs across the little ford he had created to reunite them with their mothers.

‘Mind you,’ he told me, chuckling, ‘they won’t all find ’em. Stupid creatures, sheep, but it’s a good thing, really. It helps to wean the little ’uns.’ He picked up a spade and began to demolish the dams he had made, and the stream, which higher up had been threatening to overflow its banks, now came rushing through its proper channel. ‘Did my woman find what she wanted?’

‘She did,’ I assured him. I thought it wisest not to mention the fact that I had eaten his supper. ‘I’m off, then, to the Manor House. I’ve some gloves Lady Wardroper might wish to buy.’

‘Good luck to you,’ the shepherd said. ‘Follow the bank on this side of the stream for a while until you come to a willow whose branches lean over almost to the opposite bank. Strike inland there. You’ll see the track across the meadow, and on the other side of a little rise you’ll see the house.’

I thanked him heartily, he bade me God speed and even the boy managed to raise a hand in valediction. On this amicable note we parted.

I had been ushered into Lady Wardroper’s solar as soon as news of my presence had been conveyed to her by one of the maids. The steward, a tall, emaciated man with grey hair and a watery, suspicious eye, had looked disapproving; but my guide, who had informed me in a giggling undertone that her name was Jennet, said that wouldn’t deter her mistress.

‘For my lady doesn’t care two pins for Master Steward, and she’s as bored as she can be, stuck down here in the country all summer. Sir Cedric had promised to take her to London, but he’s gone back on his word now that the King is away to France. Master says London won’t be fit for a decent woman with all those men there. He says licentiousness’ll be rife.’ Once again she giggled. ‘Don’t think Mistress would have minded. She’d’ve been well looked after in any case, but when Sir Cedric says “no” ’e means it.’

I ducked my head beneath an arch and followed the girl up a shallow flight of steps.

‘He’s probably worrying unnecessarily,’ I agreed, ‘for most of the levies have been marshalling in Kent, at Barham Down near Canterbury. Or so I’ve been informed by several people coming from that direction. But Sir Cedric probably knows his own business best.’

‘Ay, like I told you, no one’ll budge him once ’e’s made up his mind.’ Jennet paused outside an iron-studded door. ‘And the fact that only three days since, this Monday past, his own son rode off to London to join the Duke of Gloucester’s household there is enough to convince the Master as ’e’s right. For the Duke’s off to France ’imself in a couple o’ weeks.’ She knocked on the door.

A sweet voice bade us enter.

Lady Wardroper was seated in a carved armchair beside the empty hearth, a piece of embroidery lying idly in her lap. She was a pretty woman with soft blue eyes and a delicately bowed mouth, at present pouting with discontentment. A strand of dark, almost black hair had escaped from the back of her cap and lay curling gently across one shoulder. She had very pale skin, so pale that it needed none of the white lead which fashionable ladies used to lighten their complexions. But her forehead was shaved to a high, arched dome, indicating that she had not abandoned all pretension to modishness in spite of her seclusion. She wore a loose-sleeved gown of deep-blue silk, gathered at the waist with a belt of cinnamon-coloured velvet, the tips adorned with sapphire-encrusted tags of silver-gilt. She had rings on almost every finger and an ivory rosary hung about her slender neck.

She looked up as Jennet ushered me into the room and laid aside her embroidery. Her face, a moment ago so discontented, was suddenly wreathed in smiles. She had, I noticed, the most engaging dimple.

‘Chapman!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together and seeming a little taken aback, as people so often were, by my size and youthfulness. She laughed uncertainly. ‘Goodness! How tall you are. Pray sit down, there, in that chair opposite, or you’ll quite overwhelm me. Now,’ she went on a trifle breathlessly, ‘what do you have in your pack?’

For the third time that day I emptied its contents and laid them out for inspection. Lady Wardroper carefully scrutinized every item, but I could see that her eyes were drawn back time and again to the violet leather gloves. At last she put out a hand and fingered them.

‘They’re not new,’ I informed her quickly, before she had time to make the point herself. ‘You’ll note that the left thumb is somewhat rubbed on the tip.’

She gave me a smile. ‘I had noticed, and wondered if you’d be honest enough to tell me, especially as the mark is so slight. So how did you come to acquire them?’ When she had listened to my story she nodded understandingly. ‘Many people have felt the pinch of raised taxation this year, I know. Happily, Sir Cedric – my husband – has been able to weather the storm without any fear of drowning, but others less fortunate than we are have been unable to keep their heads above water.’ She studied me thoughtfully. ‘You look an honest fellow so I trust you gave this poor gentlewoman a fair price?’ I named the sum and she seemed satisfied. ‘More than sufficient. Very well! What will you ask of me, if I decide to buy?’

We haggled a little, but in the end she professed herself happy to accede to my price. She rang the small bell at her elbow and, when Jennet appeared, instructed her to conduct me to the counting-house and tell the treasurer to pay me. And while I put the rest of my goods back into my pack Lady Wardroper picked up the gloves and put them on, holding her hands away from her so that she could admire the effect. At the same time she hummed a snatch of song, finally breaking into verse with the words, ‘It is the end. No matter what is said, I must love.’ She gave me a coquettish glance and asked, ‘Do you like music, chapman?’ adding regretfully, ‘I know no man who does.’

‘Unhappily, my lady, I’ve no ear for it at all, but the words sounded… sad,’ I finished lamely, unable to offer any greater appreciation.

She laughed. ‘It’s beautiful. French. A Trouvère song and, as you say, rather sad. It’s called C’est la fin, and if accompanied by the Breton bombardt, very affecting.’

When the door had closed between us Jennet let out a snort of laughter. ‘Full of airs and graces, she is! You’d think she’d be past all that nonsense at her age, wouldn’t you?’

‘How old is Lady Wardroper?’ I asked, mildly curious. Jennet tossed her head. ‘With a son of seventeen years she can’t be that young, can she? It stands to reason. Besides, you can see it by the wrinkles on her neck and the backs of her hands. Mind you, I don’t say she was much more’n sixteen when Master Matthew was born. Or so I’ve been told. I’m too young to remember.’

‘But Sir Cedric’s much older?’

‘By twenty-five year I’d reckon. He dotes on her, but strangely enough he don’t get on that well with Master Matthew.’ She led me down a narrow, twisting stair to a small, dark landing at the back of the house. ‘And yet,’ Jennet went on, ‘the young Master’s the spit and image of his mother. To look at, anyway. And he seems to have her sunny, happy-go-lucky nature. Not that I’ve seen that much of him, mind you. Only these past few months since he returned from up-country. Somewhere near Leicester.’

‘So I was told,’ I answered. ‘But I suppose what appeals in the wife doesn’t necessarily recommend the son. Sir Cedric probably hoped that his only child would be more in his own mould than his mother’s.’

‘That’s possible,’ Jennet agreed, coming to a halt a foot or two distant from a curtained archway. ‘The Master’s a bluff, hard-drinking man who would wish his son to be the same.’ She indicated the leather curtain. ‘Through there’s the counting-house.’ She laid a hand on my sleeve. ‘It’s getting late. Do you need a bed for the night? I could persuade Cook, I dare say, to find you a corner in the kitchen.’

‘I should be very grateful,’ I told her, smiling. ‘I had hoped that I might find a billet here. And if you could speak for me …’

‘Consider it as good as done,’ Jennet replied demurely.