The Hanged Man

Chapter Nineteen

My homeward journey took me only two days, for I had not refilled my pack and therefore had nothing to sell and no diversions to make. The day I left the miners' settlement was a Sunday, and I might, I suppose, have returned to St Oswald's Priory and waited there until the following day to make my purchases in Gloucester docks and market. But I had only one thought in mind by that time; to get home to Bristol as fast as I could and confront the person who had tried to murder William Woodward. And there was also a certain excitement at the prospect of seeing Lillis again; an excitement which, four weeks ago, I would not have allowed to be possible.

I spent my second night on the road in the hayloft of a farm, and by rising while it was still dark and pushing southwards with my longest stride, I saw the walls of Bristol below me by mid-morning. I passed beneath the Frome Gate to find the town in a bustle and a holiday air pervading the streets. It was only then, to my shame, I remembered that it was Candlemas, the Day of the Purification of Our Lady, when Christ was presented by her to the elders in the temple. On this second day of February, the mayor and all the members of the City Guilds would walk in procession through the streets with their lighted candles. The great houses would be decorated with tapestries and streamers and all would be gladness and light.

But the Lollards would keep away on some pretext or another; those who worshipped secretly would plead illness, no doubt, or the illness of a child; for what other excuse would be deemed sufficient? I guessed that there would be a lot of sickness this day amongst the weavers of Redcliffe, for Lollards did not believe in the symbolic representation by candleshine of Our Lord as the Light of the World, or the Light to Enlighten the Gentiles. And, as I made my way beneath St John's Arch and up Broad Street, I recalled guiltily having once given ear to a man who told me that Candlemas was nothing more than the old Roman custom of burning candles to the pagan goddess Februa, the mother of Mars, to ward off evil spirits. Furtively, I crossed myself and hurried on.

At the top of Broad Street, however, I paused, suddenly recalling something Margaret Walker had said, turned to my right and then to my right again, which brought me into the narrow alley behind the Small Street houses. I walked slowly along its length until I was almost in Bell Lane. At the third gate from the end, I stopped and, lifting the latch, stepped softly into Edward Herepath's garden.

Fortunately there was no one about, and I was able to look around me. I regarded the small stone outbuilding thoughtfully, but then let my gaze roam over the rest of the plot. Eventually I found what I was seeking, but had not hoped to find. Indeed, I had not expected to discover anything at all; but there, in a comer, no doubt seeded from the great marsh, was a cluster of tall, purple-spotted stems, which in summer would blossom with white flowers.

As quietly as I had entered, I withdrew, closing the gate carefully behind me. My sense of elation grew with this seeming confirmation of yet another of my suspicions. As I proceeded on my way, I was cheered even further by the cessation of normal work and the festive preparations going on everywhere around me. People were in holiday mood and, in spite of the chill and miserable weather, called friendly greetings from almost every comer. Even across the bridge, there was a feeling of expectation.

Spinning-wheels and looms were silent.

I entered Margaret Walker's cottage with a sense of arriving home. Nothing had changed, and I felt as though I had never been absent. Margaret was stirring the contents of a pot simmering over the fire, and there was a loaf of hot bread on the table, just brought fresh from the baker's oven by Lillis who, still wearing her cloak, was struggling to remove her pattens. Both women looked towards the door as I came in, and there was a moment's disbelieving silence. Then Lillis gave a cry and threw herself into my arms.

'You have come back!' she exclaimed, clinging to me fiercely and sobbing.

'I promised I would,' I answered. 'Didn't you trust my word?'

'We didn't know what to think.' Margaret spoke sombrely, and there was a note of accusation in her voice which made me regard her questioningly. 'Lillis,' she said 'is with child.'

Lillis lifted her head from my chest. 'Mother!' she protested. 'Not now.'

'He has to know sometime,' Margaret answered implacably. 'The sooner the better.' Her eyes met mine. 'You'll have to marry her. I'll not have folk round here calling her a wanton.'

'I've come back to do so,' I said, 'although I didn't know about the child.' Yet even as I spoke, I was aware of a sinking of the heart and a depression of the spirit.

It is one thing to do something of your own free will, but from a sense of duty it is quite another. The old feeling of being trapped returned to haunt me. I pecked Lillis's cheek, ignoring her cries of rapture at my declaration.

Her mother's stern features relaxed, and she heaved a great sigh of relief. 'I'm glad to hear you say so, lad. Sit down, sit down. You must be tired after your journey. Eat first and tell us your adventures after.' She began ladling stew into a bowl. 'Did you find out what you hoped to?' I shed my cloak and put my cudgel and pack in their usual comer. It struck me that I was indeed at home here now, and beginning to form domestic habits. The walls seemed to step a little closer, but I answered all their questions as cheerfully as I could, interspersing them with many of my own concerning Lillis's health. She appeared to be thriving, and it had only needed my return, Margaret said, for her to achieve perfect contentment. I had no doubt this was true, and tried hard to reconcile myself to the change of circumstances. After our meal, and when the pots had been washed and cleared away, we sat around the fire, talking. Lillis, uninterested in anything else, wanted to make plans for our marriage, but Margaret, satisfied now as to my intentions, was happy enough to want to listen to stories of my travels, and curious enough to want to know what I had discovered, if anything, about her father.

'Are you any wiser?' she asked me, and I nodded.

'I know where he was and I think I know why he was there. I also think I know who sent him, and why his life was attempted.'

Margaret Walker thought about this for a moment, then nodded. 'Someone tried to kill Father? Yes, I think perhaps, deep down, I have always suspected that. The beating had plainly been severe, more than a footpad would administer to steal a few trinkets, and certainly more than Irish slavers would mete out if they wished to sell their victim for a reasonable price. You are saying that he was left for dead?' Her interest sharpened suddenly as she realized that I had indeed made some discoveries worth the telling. She continued eagerly, 'You went to Gloucester to find out if Master Herepath was there when he claimed to be. Was he?'

'Oh, yes,' I said. 'So, if you'll listen a while, I'll tell you all I know and all I think I know. But answer me one thing first. You told me that Cicely Ford brought broth to your father when she visited him, after his return. Did he drink it?'

Lillis cut in scornfully: 'The first time he did. But after that, he complained of it tasting bitter. And so it was.

You'd think a man of Edward Herepath's wealth could afford a better cook. Why, even I could make a tastier broth than that!'

I felt that the 'even I' boded ill for my stomach's future well-being, and trusted that Margaret would continue to preside over the cooking-pots when Lillis and I were married.

Margaret hushed her daughter, no doubt reading my thoughts aright, and said quickly, 'There was something wrong with the soup. Tainted meat had been used. The cook probably had instructions not to use the best ingredients, for it was only out of the kindness of Mistress Cicely's heart that she brought us anything. After all, neither she nor Master Herepath had cause to love my father, however little he could be blamed for what had happened.'

I shook my head. 'It wasn't bad meat nor even bad broth, and the cook was innocent of one of the contents.

Now, listen to me, both of you, and I'll tell you what I think really became of Master Woodward.'

It was well after noon when I finally quit the cottage, leaving behind me a dazed and shaken Margaret Walker, who still refused to believe the truth of what I had told her. Lillis had been easier to convince for, in spite of her childishness in some things, she was readier to accept that there was an evil side to human nature than her mother.

She understood the baser emotions of greed and hate and envy because she was a prey to them herself, and therefore did not doubt that they existed also in other people.

As I made my way back to the centre of the town, candles were being lit, processions beginning to form, as Guild members and others assembled to worship at the various churches: the weavers at that of their patron saint — Catherine — in Temple Street; the kalendaries, who tend the sick, provide masses for the dead, and keep the charitable records of a city, at All Hallows; the rich merchants at St Ewen's. But there was one man of wealth and substance who, I suspected, would stay at home if he possibly could, to preserve himself from those 'splendid buildings and gaudy decorations' which, Wycliffe had maintained, 'drew away the mind of the worshipper'.

On this occasion, I approached Edward Herepath's house from the front, and was rewarded by the sight of Cicely Ford and Dame Freda just emerging into Small Street as I turned the corner. Each woman held a lighted candle and a missal.

'Master Chapman.' Cicely gave me her sweet, sad smile. 'Which church are you hurrying away to? Come with us to St Ewen's,' she added, ignoring, as always, her companion's scandalized protest.

'I'm afraid I cannot,' I said, bowing gallantly and recollecting how, a few weeks earlier, such an invitation would have made my heart sing. 'I have business to attend to. Master Herepath does not go with you?'

'No. He is unwell. Something he has eaten, I fear, has disagreed with him.'

'Nor Master Avenel?' I suggested with a faint lifting of my eyebrows.

She laughed. 'He would have escorted us, but I refused his offer.' Dame Freda snorted and Cicely turned towards her. 'Dear ma'am, I know you find me unreasonable in this, but believe me it's for the best. It would be most unfair to Robin to encourage him.'

The older woman looked as though she would burst into tears. 'Sweeting, if only you would rid yourself of this foolish notion of entering a religious order! I can only trust that when Master Herepath knows what you are about, he will forbid it.'

Cicely sighed. 'Poor Edward. It will hit him hard, I know. But he will not change my mind. Master Chapman, adieu. We shall be late if we do not hurry.' I watched them go, continuing slowly in the opposite direction, until they had turned into Corn Street and disappeared from view. Then I retraced my steps to Edward Herepath's door and knocked for admittance. My first summons was ignored, so I knocked again, this time with greater urgency. After yet another delay, the latch was raised and Edward Herepath himself stood on the threshold. This did not altogether surprise me, for I had guessed that the servants would have been given leave to attend church and take part in the processions.

He stared at me in astonishment. 'What do you want?' he demanded angrily. 'There is nothing further we have to say to one another.'

He started to close the door, but I put my foot between the jamb and the leaf. 'There is much we have to say, Master Herepath, believe me. Have you never wondered what happened to William Woodward during those months that he was missing? Well, I can tell you.' I saw his hand tremble on the latch. His face, healthy looking enough before, in spite of his reported sickness, was now drained of colour, his eyes narrowed, half in disbelief, half in fear that I meant what I said. Would he take a risk and dismiss me with contempt? Or would his natural curiosity to discover how much I really knew get the better of him? After a moment, he held the door wide and bade me enter.

I followed him across the hall, with its rich reds and greens and blues, into the parlour beyond, where the green velvet cushions on the window-seat glowed in the firelight, and the polished lid of the spruce coffer reflected the flames of candles in the holder of latten tin. All was as snug as I remembered it from my previous visit.

Edward Herepath cast himself down in the armchair but did not invite me to sit. 'Now,' he snapped, 'what is this nonsense? You weary me, so make it brief.'

'Very well,' I said. 'You killed your brother as surely as if you had strangled him yourself, by arranging the disappearance of William Woodward in circumstances which made it seem that he had been murdered. Is that brief enough?'

He looked at me as though I had taken leave of my senses, then threw back his head and laughed. 'Get out of my house,' he commanded, 'before I have you thrown in prison!'

He was a good actor, and I might have been convinced had I not noticed the nervous twitch at the comer of his mouth. Deep down he was frightened, and was unable completely to conceal the fact. I stood my ground.

'You also attempted the life of William Woodward,' I went on, 'but failed. You left him for dead, but he was found in time by a tin miner from the forest, who took him home and nursed him back to health. Or as much health as was left to him. His mind never recovered, but you couldn't have known a moment's peace during those few months of life remaining to him, in case he suddenly recovered his wits and told the truth.'

'What truth?' Edward Herepath sneered. 'He told the sheriff's officers that he had been abducted by slavers and taken to Ireland, from where he had eventually escaped. Many doubted the story, I know, but I saw no reason to. Meanwhile, my poor unfortunate brother had been hanged for a murder he had not done, though, as Heaven's my witness, no one could be blamed for disbelieving his protestations of innocence. The money — the rents and debts collected on Lady Day by William — was in his possession, and one of the pouches containing it was bloodstained, as was the breast of his jerkin. Furthermore, several days later, William's hat, also bloodstained, was fished out of the Frome.' The sneer became more pronounced. 'Are you claiming that William arranged all these things himself?'

'With your help and guidance, yes. Oh, you couldn't force your brother to steal the money, that I admit. It was the one risk you had to run in your otherwise carefully laid plan. But given Robert's character, the fact that he was wild and constantly in debt, it was a very small risk.

Mistress Walker told me that you admitted to informing your brother that William was to hold the money for you until your return from Gloucester.' It was I who laughed this time. 'You carefully make an arrangement with your rent collector, the whole purpose of which is to ensure that Robert and the money are not under the same roof during your absence, and then you let the information slip? That made me suspicious of you from the very first. It would have been the action of an incompetent fool, and that you most certainly are not.'

Edward Herepath came to his feet with a sudden movement which was surprisingly lithe in so heavily built a man. I was not expecting it and, caught off-guard, lost my balance and fell to the floor, pinned down beneath his weight. His hands found my throat while I was still struggling to free my arms, and had begun to tighten their grip when I managed, using all my strength, to throw him off.

Before I could scramble to my feet, however, he was at me again, his murderous intent plainly written on his face.

He had had time to reflect that I knew too much, that I had at least one witness to William Woodward's being in the neighbourhood of Gloucester when Edward himself was known to have been staying there; sufficient to plant the seeds of doubt in people's minds. I could not be allowed to tell my story, and my death was the only way to stop me. He had, as I well knew, a subtler, surer means of death at his command, but it would not serve his purpose. It had to seem that he had killed me while defending himself, and with only the two of us in the house, he could make up whatever story he pleased to satisfy the sheriff.

The murderous hands were almost at my throat again, but now I was ready and rolled beyond his reach. At the same time, I grabbed the top of the coffer and hauled myself to my feet. Edward Herepath was swiftly up as well and swung his fist in a well-aimed blow at my jaw.

Fortunately I saw it coming, and jerked my head back so that it merely grazed my chin. He lost his balance, clutched at me for support and, a moment later, we were once more on the floor, locked in a lover-like embrace.

Had he been wearing a knife, he would not have scrupled to use it, and it was my good fortune that there was no such weapon to hand. He was a strong man; not so strong as I was when in the best of health, but my strength had been sapped by my illness, and by undertaking my recent journey before I was really well. And he had the advantage that, if he murdered me, he could explain the killing, whereas my salvation rested on keeping him alive.

As I felt my limbs begin to turn to water, I was filled with panic. My senses were swimming and my body was running with sweat. My adversary scented victory and, with a last great effort, he managed to get on top of me and plant one knee on my chest. I clutched desperately at his wrists, but his splayed hands fought their way nearer and nearer to my throat. In another minute, his thumbs would gouge at my windpipe…

The door opened, although neither Edward Herepath nor I was aware of it until a horrified voice exclaimed, 'Stop it! Stop it! Whatever is going on here? Both of you, get up!'