The Hanged Man

Chapter Seven

There was leek pottage for dinner, heavily laced with garlic to disguise the lack of other flavours at this dead time of the year; but, eaten with thick slabs of oatmeal bread, it warmed and filled the belly. In addition, there was ale for me and verjuice for the women, made from last autumn's harvest of crab-apples. While we ate, I recounted the history of my morning, but said nothing of the Hodges' visitor, nor of my suspicions concerning him.

Instinct told me that I should learn no more if I did. I should be treated to vacant stares and a fiat denial of any such caller at the cottage. And I had been ill enough at the time for the incident to be attributed to my delirious fancy.

I did, however, ask Margaret Walker about her father's return, and to all my questions she answered with apparent frankness.

'His boots were thick with dust,' she said, 'as though he had been walking for days on tile road. But as for getting any sense out of him as to where he had been, I told you before, that was well-nigh impossible. All he would say, when he was able to say anything, was that he had been captured by slavers and taken to Ireland.

Never a word would he vouchsafe about what part of Ireland, how he had escaped from bondage, what ship had brought him home.' She shrugged and gave a sad, wry smile. 'But of course he couldn't. He was never in Ireland.

For that's the conclusion we were all forced to in the end.' I nodded. 'So Alderman Weaver believes, and confirmed your opinion that no one would have wanted to buy an old and injured man. Slavers, he maintained, would not have beaten a captive about the head in such a brutal fashion as to cause him to lose his wits.'

Lillis, who had eaten very little, being too busy watching me with her slanting eyes, asked softly, 'Then where was he? And why should he believe he had been taken to Ireland?'

Margaret put in swiftly, to save me the embarrassment of doubting her father's word, 'Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he knew where he had been and why, but for reasons of his own did not wish anyone else to know. Although,' she added, encountering her daughter's derisive smile, 'I am inclined to the view that he really remembered very little of anything that had happened to him. Even events prior to his disappearance were hazy in his mind, and it was necessary to go back many years before he was able to recall things with any clarity. He knew that he had lived with Lllis and me, in this cottage, which was why he returned here and not to his home in Bell Lane, but that was four years and more ago.'

I finished my stew and laid down my spoon, resisting Margaret's attempts to ladle me out a second helping. I drank my ale, conscious of a sudden thirst, before asking, 'And there's nothing else you can tell me which might shed any light on where Master Woodward had been?' I knew by her expression that something had puzzled her. She sucked her teeth thoughtfully, clearing them of bits of food, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. I waited patiently, content to let her take her time.

'It was his clothes,' she said at last. Her eyes swivelled round to meet mine. 'They weren't his. They weren't any that I'd ever seen before.'

'Someone had robbed him of his, perhaps,' I suggested, when she paused. 'Or his had been torn and bloodied so badly when he was captured that he had to be found new ones to wear. There are probably half a dozen reasons.' She nodded slowly. 'Maybe, but these were good clothes. Rich clothes. The hose were pure wool, the doublet velvet, the shirt and drawers of fine, bleached linen.

Gentleman's garments, every one. The boots, although well-worn and rubbed, were made of Spanish leather, and there was also a hooded cape, lined with silk and scalloped round the edges.'

'Don't forget the cloak,' Lillis reminded her mother.

'Oh yes, the cloak.' Abstractedly, Margaret Walker stirred the remains of her soup around the bottom of her wooden bowl. 'It's true it was made of frieze, but it was fur-lined, and none of your sheepskin or badger or cat! It was squirrel, a delicate grey colour and beautifully soft.'

I was intrigued. 'What happened to them when your father died?'

'I still have them. They were too good to part with and I folded them in lavender and put them away in the chest.' She nodded towards the stout oaken coffer ranged against one wall. 'I'll show you them if you'd like.' She rose, selecting one of the keys from the bunch which hung at her belt, inserted it in the chest's iron lock, and lifted the lid. The room was immediately filled with the sweet intermingled scents of musk and violet and lavender. Having removed her own and Lillis's best gowns from the top, she stooped and brought out, almost reverently, the pile of clothes beneath.

I went to stand beside her. We once more closed the lid of the chest and placed them on top. Gently I picked up each garment, shook it out, and held it up to the light filtering through the parchment of the window. The velvet doublet was a dull amber colour, very rich, but lacking the tightly nipped waist which had become so fashionable among the wealthy in recent years. The drawers and shirt, as Margaret had said, were of fine, bleached linen, the hood and cape lined with scarlet cendal. And the frieze cloak was indeed lined with the soft grey fur of squirrel.

The apparel of a gentleman, and one more reason, if another was needed, to doubt that William Woodward had come by them as a slave in Ireland. But there was nothing else, alas, to suggest where they might have come from, or how William had obtained them. I did notice one thing, however, on closer examination. The seams of the garments were strained and in some places beginning to part.

The boots, also, showed the imprint of feet slightly too large for them. The soiled Spanish leather had been pushed out of shape at the base of each big toe, and the toes themselves had bulged in protest against their too rigid confinement. A well-built man had owned these boots and clothes, but not so well-built as William Woodward.

Beyond that, however, they told me nothing, and I helped Margaret return them to the chest, covering them again with the two women's gowns. There were other things in the chest; I noticed sheets, neatly folded, and a woollen blanket such as the one I used at nights, a pair of old shoes, some spare hose and a cloak of that thick, coarse material we used to call burel. There was also the edge of what looked like a book: I had a fleeting glimpse of rubbed velvet binding and the protruding edges of vellum. But before I could be sure of what I had seen, Margaret had replaced the clothes, slammed the lid of the chest and locked it. Had I been mistaken? I asked, and Margaret Walker laughed, but to my ears there was something forced about the sound. 'What would poor people, who can neither read nor write, be doing with books?' she mocked. 'Why would they spend good money on something that would be of no use to them?' Lillis, who was heating water over the fire in order to wash the dishes, said nothing. A small, contemptuous smile tilted the comers of her mouth, but whether the object of her disdain was myself or her mother, I had no means of knowing. And the more I thought about what I had seen, the less able I was to picture it clearly. As Margaret had pointed out, a book or folio would be an unlikely item to find in such a dwelling. I noted, however, that she did not offer to unlock the chest and solve the mystery. So my suspicions remained, but I had no means of verifying either their truth or falsity,

'What will you do now'?' Lillis asked me.

I put my hand inside my leather pouch and produced the letter. 'Alderman Weaver has kindly provided me with the means of introduction to Edward Herepath. I shall visit him this afternoon and hope to find him at home. If not, I shall return tomorrow.'

Both women were obviously impressed by the fact that my boast to know the alderman had been no idle one. At the same time, I again sensed that uneasiness in Margaret Walker as though, much as she wished to discover the truth behind her father's disappearance, she nevertheless was frightened by what I might uncover. She made no demur, however, at my plans, beyond remarking that Nick Brimble was bringing his truckle bed for me sometime today, and might have been glad of a helping hand.

'Tell me where he lives, and I'll fetch it myself this evening,' I offered promptly.

She shook her head. 'Lillis can aid Nick after she returns from the dyer's with the new batch of wool. And hurry up with those pots, girl!' she scolded. 'I need the room to get on with my spinning.'

Lillis's face darkened angrily, and I could foresee one of those furious spats which enlivened the existence of mother and daughter, but which were so distressing to outsiders. Cravenly I made my escape, thankfully latching the door behind me as, warmly wrapped in my good frieze cloak, I stepped into the street.

In spite of my letter from Alderman Weaver, I knew better than to knock on Edward Herepath's front door, if there were any other entrance. Having ascertained which house was his, I walked the length of Small Street and turned into Bell Lane, where William Woodward had lived. I looked curiously at the two rows of dwellings, one on either side of the roadway, but had no time just then for more than a cursory glance, as I had found what I was seeking. A narrow alleyway, such as served the houses of neighbouring Broad Street, also ran along the back of those in Small Street. High walls enclosed each plot of ground, with stout oaken, iron-studded gates giving access to the gardens.

At the third one, I stopped and tried the latch. It wasn't bolted. I opened the gate and stepped into a garden similar to that of Alderman Weaver. An apple tree raised naked and twisted branches towards the overcast sky, and nothing showed above the hard, brown earth which still bore traces of the morning's frost. In summer, it would be full of flowers and sweet fragrance; now all was as black and dead as the time of year.

Immediately to my left, just inside the gate, was a small stone outbuilding, two of its four sides being the garden walls which separated Edward Herepath's property from the lane and that of his neighbour. The sloping roof was made of good lead tiles and the door, again of stout, iron-studded oak, was set in the short wall which faced me. I glanced towards the house, but the back windows were shuttered to keep out the cold and no one had, as yet, espied me. Cautiously, I tried the door of the outbuilding which, in spite of its keyhole, and greatly to my surprise, I found to be unlocked. Feeling like a thief, I stepped inside.

Within, it was dank and cheerless, the only source of light coming from the open doorway. A few garden tools were ranged along one wall, and there was a shelf holding candlestick, flint and tinder, together with a pestle and mortar. A stool stood in one come,, and there were some withered plant stems on the beaten-earth floor. I emerged once more into the garden.

My knock on what I supposed was the kitchen door produced no immediate response, but a second, louder rap brought the sound of a woman's voice, soil but speaking with authority. 'It's all right., Mistress Hardacre, I will see who it is. There is no need to trouble yourself. The sauce will curdle if you don't keep stirring.'

The door opened and a young woman stood on the threshold. An almost perfect oval face, with the creamiest, smoothest skin and bluest eyes that I have ever seen, stared back at me, the fair brows lifted in inquiry. She wore a blue woollen dress with long loose sleeves, tied at the waist with an embroidered girdle. Her hair, the colour of ripe corn and coiled around the shapely head in two thick plaits, was just visible beneath a white gauze veil. I have seen many women in my life, both before and since, far more beautiful than Cicely Ford, but never one who exuded such goodness and inner beauty. There was a strength and serenity about her which made me long to lay my head on her breast and unburden all my troubles.

'I… I have a letter for M-Master Herepath,' I stuttered, before pulling myself together. 'From his friend, Alderman Weaver.' I took it out of my pouch and handed it to her. 'If you would be so gracious as to take it to him and ask him to read it…' My voice tailed away like that of any green and tongue-tied boy.

'Please come in.' She sounded as sweet as she looked, and I found myself blushing stupidly as I stepped inside the kitchen. A round, plump robin of a woman in a black dress and white hood was stirring the contents of a pan hanging from a hook over the fire. She glanced up, smiling vaguely in my direction, but her task absorbed all her attention and she quickly returned to it with anxious eyes.

If she were the housekeeper, as I supposed she must be, she seemed the very opposite of the dragon who ruled the alderman's household. But I was no more interested in her than she was in me: I was conscious only of an overriding impatience to see and speak to Cicely Ford again.

I realized suddenly that she had not told me her name, but who else could she be? She exactly fitted Margaret Walker's description of her, and such a woman would naturally excite Lillis's derision. One was as fair as the other was dark, as open and sweet-natured as the other was sly and secretive. It was ridiculous! I had known Cicely Ford for only a few moments, exchanged less than three dozen words with her, but I was falling in love.

She returned presently, a slight frown creasing her brow. She regarded me warily, hostility being foreign to her nature, but it was plain that I was not as welcome as I had been.

'Master Herepath will see you,' she said. 'Please follow me.'

She led me out of the kitchen, past the buttery and across the hall to the parlour. The hall was a fine room, hung with tapestries of hunting scenes in rich reds and greens and blues. A fire burned on the big, open hearth beneath the intricately carved stone mantel, which was also picked out in shades of red and blue; and at either end of the long trestle table which occupied the middle of the floor stood two handsomely carved armchairs. The parlour was smaller and snugger, and a second file burned on a hearth which shared the wide chimney of the hall.

A third armchair was pulled close to the warmth, a broad window-seat was strewn with green velvet cushions, a five-branched candlestick of latten tin stood atop a spruce coffer with delicate scrollwork round the lid and, luxury of luxuries, rugs, not rushes, were scattered over the floor.

Edward Herepath was obviously a very wealthy man.

As we entered, he rose to his feet, but I was not foolish enough to imagine that either the courtesy or the smile of welcome were for me. He held out his hand and drew his ward to him. 'Why don't you find Dame Freda?' he asked gently. 'She was complaining only this morning that your embroidery is still unfinished.'

Cicely Ford shook her head decisively. She was a young woman who knew her own mind and quietly, but determinedly, got her own way. 'If this conversation is to be about Robert, then I wish to stay.'

'It will only upset you, sweetheart. Go, to please me.' The sweet mouth set in stubborn lines and she once again shook her head. Tears brimmed in the cornflower blue eyes. 'And why should I not be upset?' her voice was bitter. 'What have I done that I should be spared Ins memory more than you? Did I remain loyal when he needed me most? Did I believe him any more than the jury when he swore he was innocent of murder'? Did I heed his plea to me from prison to go to see him one last time? No!' The cry was that of a mortally wounded animal and pierced me to the heart. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing in great distress.

I realized, as I had often done in the past, that uncovering the truth is a painful process and sometimes can do more harm than good. I was half inclined to turn tail there and then, to return to Mistress Walker and tell her that to pursue the quest would bring unnecessary suffering to one of the sweetest girls I had ever met. My mouth was even open to take my leave, but somehow the words would not come. Some instinct held me silent, and it was not just an unwillingness to face Lillis's mocking smile, nor simply my overwhelming curiosity in these matters.

I was seized once more, as had happened to me twice before, by the conviction that evil was at work and had to be destroyed, or God would never let me rest.

Accepting defeat, Edward Herepath turned his attention to me. Cicely Ford retired to the window-seat, averting her face until she had her features once more under control.

Her guardian resumed his seat by the fire and looked up, unsmiling. 'Well, Master Chapman, you see what a hornet's nest you are stirring up about our ears. But I owe it to my good friend Alderman Weaver at least to hear what you have to say.'