The Holy Innocents

Chapter Fourteen

I accompanied Grizelda as far as the Foregate, where we separated just beyond the stockade, she to cross the bridge to visit Eudo Colet at Dame Tenter’s cottage, I to make my way uphill to the East Gate. During our walk together, she had shed a few tears over the loss of her own cottage, a weakness she immediately condemned, and which she attributed to the shock of seeing Innes Woodsman’s charred body.

‘For you must understand,’ she apologized, ‘that I despise women who cry. And Our Lady knows that I have had enough unhappiness in my life to give me practice at controlling my grief. But I cannot help feeling responsible for Innes’s death.’

‘Nonsense!’ I declared stoutly. ‘And as the Novice Master used to tell me, in the days before I gave up the religious life, it’s as great a sin to take too much guilt upon your shoulders as it is to take none at all. Every man and woman must accept responsibility for his or her own actions.’

This seemed to comfort her, and she was calmer by the time we parted company. After seeing her safely over the bridge, I climbed the hill and sought out the keeper of the East Gate.

He, too, was busy, diverting as much of the afternoon’s traffic as he could away from the town in anticipation of the Sheriff’s visit.

‘For you never know,’ he said, mopping his forehead on his sleeve, ‘his lordship might make all speed from Exeter, and the sun’s well overhead. It must be turned midday already.’

‘I doubt we’ll see anything of him much before evening,’ I offered by way of consolation, quoting the cowherd. ‘His Worship’s messenger has to reach Exeter first, and you know how ponderously the law reacts to any situation. Tell me. Did you, by chance, let Master Colet into the town last evening, shortly before sunset?’

The gatekeeper gave a final wipe to his face and sniffed.

‘Aye, that I did, and let him out again first thing this morning as soon as the Angelus sounded. Last in, first out. But I thought you might have know that. Aren’t you the man lodged in his house by Lawyer Cozin? It came to me that Master Colet must have passed the night there.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to answer, ‘And so he did,’ but instead I merely asked, ‘Was he mounted?’

‘No, afoot, now you mention it.’ The gatekeeper sounded surprised. ‘Now that’s strange, for he’s proud of that beast of his and rarely walks anywhere. Odd, but I thought nothing of it at the time.’

I murmured my thanks and made my way through the postern gate, before I could be questioned more closely. So! I had my answer. Nevertheless, I thought it prudent to make inquiries of the Priory porter, for Eudo could have sought a bed in St Mary’s guest-hall. The porter, however, disclaimed all knowledge of Master Colet.

‘But you were here, on duty yesterevening? And you know him?’

The porter, a lay brother, wrinkled his nose and nodded.

‘Yes on both counts. And indeed, I’ve always found Master Color a pleasant enough gentleman, whatever others in this town might tell you different. I’ve spent an evening or two in his company, at Matt’s tavern or the castle ale-house. Mostly he kept to himself, but I’ve known him when he’s been drink-taken, and then he could make a man laugh at his antics. He was never drunk, you understand,’ the porter hastened to add, ‘but on occasions, the ale loosened his tongue a little.’

‘What sort of antics?’ I asked, frowning.

The porter shrugged. ‘He could sing a bit. Ballads, ditties. Quite a few of ’era, the funniest ones, not fit for a lady’s ears, I can tell you. And once, when a strolling flute-player came visiting Matt’s, Master Colet took the instrument from him and played it well enough. He could caper a few steps, too, when the mood was on him. But, as I say, for the most part he was quiet and sober as befitted the husband of Rosamund Crouchback. Now, there was a woman with a fine notion of her own importance. She was always the same from girlhood, though, ruined by her father’s indulgence. I wouldn’t have been a servant or a poor kinsman in that house, not if they’d offered me a free barrel of the best malmsey wine every day for the rest of my life.’

I spared a smile for what seemed to be the porter’s idea of paradise, but was too wrapped up in my thoughts to pay him any further attention. I bade him good-day, continuing my climb towards the pillory on the brow of High Street. I had much to mull over. In the past hour, I had learned that Eudo Colet had spent the night within the town walls, that he had not stayed at the Priory, and that he had sufficiently sweet a voice to entertain fellow ale-house guests without giving them cause to complain of his singing. I supposed it just possible that he had sought out lodgings other than at St Mary’s, but somehow I could not bring myself to believe it. He had entered the East Gate on foot and walked up High Street under cover of the encroaching darkness. Then, he had kept watch on the house until my visit to the castle tavern had offered him the chance to slip along the alleyway and unlock the gate into the outer courtyard. But even had I remained within doors all evening, he must have been able, at sometime or another, to let himself in without being noticed. He had keys to all the locks, and the peculiarity of the Totnes houses made it possible to be in one part of the building without having any idea of what was happening in the other, separated as they were by that inner courtyard.

What Master Colet did next was conjecture on my part, but of sufficient likelihood to make it seem that I had watched him do it. He had taken a knife from the kitchen and hacked through the stay of the gallery, a structure he knew to be already weakened by neglect and decay, he had then returned to the loft to wait until the small, chill hours of early morning, when he had crossed the gallery, treading lightly and with the utmost care, to lure me from my bed with his singing…

But it had been a child’s voice, not a man’s, which had sung those poignant words, a voice which had sometimes been close at hand, and at others, far away. Was it possible that Eudo Colet had not been alone? And if not, who had been with him? I cursed silently to myself. It seemed that as soon as one door opened upon daylight, another closed, leaving me once again floundering in the dark.

I was so engrossed by my thoughts that I traversed the busy market-place and shambles, weaving my way between the throngs of townspeople, without really being aware of anyone. I did not even feel the hand laid upon my arm until the fingers nipped me.

‘Master Chapman,’ said a voice at my elbow, ‘why do you not have your pack with you? I was hoping to buy some ribbon.’

I turned what I’m sure must have been a sleepwalker’s face towards my indignant questioner, to find myself accosted by the child, Ursula Cozin, attended by the faithful Jenny. The grey eyes which regarded me were the same colour as her father’s, but there the similarity ended. Whereas Thomas Cozin’s gaze was calm and a little diffident, his youngest daughter’s was pert and provocative, and the plump features, snub nose and pouting, pretty mouth were all her mother’s.

‘I… I’m sorry,’ I stammered, ‘but my wares are not for sale today.’ I sought desperately for some further topic of conversation, which seemed to be expected of me. ‘Is… Is Mistress Cozin still pleased with the length of silk she purchased?’

‘Oh yes.’ The eyes sparkled with affectionate laughter. ‘Mother’s very vain, you know, and she adores new finery. She even brought it out to show Master Colet, yesterevening.’

‘M-Master Colet?’ I gibbered like an idiot, and Ursula stared at me in some astonishment. ‘Master Colet called on your family last evening?’

The head was tilted consideringly to one side. ‘Indeed. He came to see my uncle on business.’

‘Did… Did he stay long?’

A gurgle of laughter escaped my young lady. ‘I’m glad to know that there’s someone else as nosey as I am. My parents call it my besetting sin, but I say it’s just natural curiosity. How am I to know what’s going on in this town if I don’t ask questions concerning my neighbours? If you really want to know, Master Colet stayed for the night. My father pressed him to do so as curfew had sounded, and he considers it unsafe at present for anyone to walk abroad after sunset. He sent to a neighbour for the loan of a truckle bed, as my uncle is using ours during his visit, and it was put up for Master Colet in the downstairs parlour because he had to leave very early this morning, and so could let himself out without disturbing anyone.’

Within the hour, I found myself confronting yet another of the Cozin household, this time, Master Oliver. And with him came Grizelda.

I had returned to the house after my encounter with the child, Ursula, dazed and confused by this brutal shattering of all my notions. Eudo Colet had spent the night with the Cozins, his movements accounted for by respectable people.

But who, then, had been my nocturnal visitor? I had thought and thought about it, my mind going round in circles, my aching head clutched in my hands, until I suddenly discovered that I no longer cared. By the time Lawyer Cozin presented himself at the door to inform me that my tenure of the house was no longer necessary, I could have shouted aloud with joy and willingly embraced him.

‘Mistress Harbourne, whose holding was razed to the ground last night by the outlaws, has obtained permission from Master Colet to lodge in her old home until she is able to settle her affairs to her greater satisfaction. I believe,’ the lawyer added austerely, ‘that you already know Mistress Harbourne and have no need of my introduction.’ Grizelda smiled and stepped past him into the passageway.

‘Eudo has agreed, albeit with very bad grace, to my tenancy. It suits his purpose as well as mine, otherwise I think he would have been less inclined to oblige me. But my being here will allow you to be on your way, which you must surely wish for soon, whilst I can remain until a more permanent occupant is found for the house.’

The lawyer nodded briskly in agreement. ‘Mistress Harbourne is right. I thank you for your good offices, chapman, but you may now take your leave with a clear conscience. You are absolved from your promise to remain as custodian until Saturday.’

He inclined his head and turned away. I wondered whether or not to mention the broken gallery, but decided against it.

It would involve an explanation of my clumsiness which I was not prepared to give at present, and, possibly, recriminations. He might even demand that I pay for its mending.

So I watched him go in silence. But as soon as he had vanished from sight, I turned to Grizelda.

‘I don’t like leaving you here alone,’ I said, regarding her anxiously, and proceeded to tell her of all my discoveries since parting from her that morning. When I had finished, I added earnestly, ‘You could well be in some danger. I wish you would let me stay here with you.’

‘No you don’t,’ she answered quietly. ‘I can see it in your eyes. You need to be gone. You are straining at the leash, like an animal at the end of its tether. Besides, I have my good name to think of. To be staying with you alone, under one roof, would give rise to more gossip than I care to think of.’ She placed her hands on my shoulders, reaching up to kiss my cheek. ‘I have looked after myself from childhood, and no one and nothing has worsted me yet. Never fear, I shall be a match for whoever, or whatever, haunts this house. Nor,’ she went on, trying to suppress the laughter in her voice, ‘shall I be visiting Jacinta’s tavern.’

I pushed her hands from my shoulders.

‘Is that what you really think?’ I asked furiously. ‘That I was drunk? That I dreamed the voice and the singing? Then let me advise you to examine the broken stay of the walkway, and you will see what I saw, that it has been cut through and is not the result of my drunken blunderings.’

‘Roger–!’ she began, reaching out to me once more, but I pushed her roughly aside and picked up my pack and cudgel.

‘I bid you good-day, Mistress Harbourne. You’re right. I shall be glad to be away from here.’ I lifted the latch and stepped into the street.

‘Roger! Please wait! Don’t go like this, I beg you!’ There was distress in her voice, but I was too hurt and angry to heed it. I thought she had believed my story, but now I could see that she had merely been humouring me, privately considering me a drunken sot, lying to account for my clumsiness. She stumbled after me across the cobbles, clutching beseechingly at my sleeve, but I shook her off and lengthened my stride.

‘Let me be!’ I shouted over my shoulder.

Her steps faltered and stopped. As I rounded the bend in the street, I glanced back briefly. She was standing motionless, desolate, her arms fallen limply to her sides. Just for a moment, I felt an impulse to return, but I had my pride and I had been insulted. I carried on down the hill and passed through the East Gate without so much as a nod to the keeper.

The April afternoon was hot and the roads dusty from lack of rain. Behind me, the little town, high on its hill, sparkled like a jewel in the sunshine, and in a meadow which bordered the Dart, two lambs played, enjoying the unseasonal warmth.

In a walled garden, the gate stood open to reveal fruit trees, vegetables and sweet-smelling herbs. The sky was an unbroken blue, and a flock of starlings flew across the face of the sun, like a cloud of blown petals. Presently, I left the cultivated strips by the riverside and plunged into the woods, dark, yet glowing. Here and there, the dense leaf mould crackled with a scattering of last year’s oak leaves, as yet unclaimed by the earth. All about me lay a forbidding hush, and tree trunks, overgrown with brambles, slowed my progress, bringing me at last to a halt.

With a shock, I realized that I had no idea where I was going.

For the last few miles, I had simply walked without any sense of purpose or direction. My one thought was to get as far away as possible from Totnes. Now, finally coming to my senses, I knew by the position of the sun that I must have been travelling north-westwards and would eventually arrive – if I returned to, and followed, the course of the river – at the great Cistercian abbey of Buckfast. If I reached there before nightfall, I could sleep in the guest-hall or, if it were full with more important travellers, in one of the abbey barns.

After walking some way further, I emerged into a broad ride where, to my right, I caught a distant gleam of water among the trees. I followed it to the river’s edge, and found myself once again among the small settlements and holdings stretched along the banks of the Dart. A narrow ribbon of track threaded them all together, and I walked until I discovered a likely looking cottage with a well-stocked vegetable patch, a fat pig rootling and snorting in its sty, and an equally fat and contented cow in the field behind it. Moreover, a comfortably rotund and well-fleshed goodwife was tending her herb garden. Here, without doubt, there would be food in plenty, and enough to spare for a passing stranger.

I was not disappointed, and was soon seated with my back against the wall of the cottage, a plate of bread, cheese and small, green leeks on my lap, a cup of ale on the bench beside me, while my hostess went eagerly through what remained of the contents of my pack. From the open kitchen doorway came the smell of slow-burning peat, warming the big earthenware pans of milk until the rich, thick clots of cream rose to the surface.

‘Have you been troubled by the outlaws this far north?’ I asked after several minutes of companionable silence. ‘They’re hunting all around Totnes.’

The goodwife’s face clouded with anxiety. ‘So we’ve heard,’ she answered, ‘but as yet we’ve seen nothing of them, God be praised! It’s lawless times we live in, that’s for certain. And what are the Sheriff and his men doing, I’d like to know! Enough pence go into their coffers to keep the highways and byways clear of such evil, if they would only get up from their fat backsides and risk their precious hides now and then. How much for this leather strap? I need a new one for sharpening my knives.’

‘You may have it as payment for my meal,’ I told her, and when she demurred that such simple victuals were no more than she would provide for any wayfarer like myself, I insisted, adding, ‘The lord Sheriff’s been sent for from Exeter by Mayor Broughton, and he’s expected to raise a posse to ride after these devils, and root them out. They struck twice last night, towards Dartington and along the banks of Bow Creek. There was a holding burned to the ground in the latter spot, and a man killed, charred to a cinder, as he slept.’

The goodwife clucked in dismay. ‘My man’s away to pasture, with the sheep. I hope he’s safe.’

‘You’ve nothing to fear in daylight,’ I assured her. ‘That’s when the wolf-heads go to their lair and sleep.’ And I finished my ale.

She brought me another stoup and some pastry coffins, containing apple and honey, together with a clot of fresh cream, before returning to tend her herbs.

‘Sit there as long as you wish, lad. You won’t bother me.’ And she bent once more over the plants, her fingers expertly plucking out the weeds from among them.

I took her at her word. The food and ale had made me sleepy, and the afternoon sun was still warm on my face. I stretched my legs their full length, settled my back more comfortably against the wall and closed my eyes. The varied scents of spring teased my nostrils, and for several long minutes I let my thoughts drift, relaxed and filled with contentment.

This mood did not last, however. Conscience pricked me about Grizelda. I had reacted with unnecessary harshness to her teasing. Most likely she had not meant what she said, and at a time when I should have offered sympathy and understanding, after the loss of her home and the death of Innes Woodsman, I had chosen to be angry with her. Why? Because, whether she believed my story or not, I felt guilty at leaving her to her fate when I suspected she might be in some danger? Because I had needed an excuse to be on my way, having suddenly grown tired and confused with a tangle of facts and events which I found impossible to unravel? It had seemed to me earlier in the day that God Himself was telling me that I was mistaken, that He had not directed my feet towards Totnes, that there was no mystery concerning the disappearance of Andrew and Mary Skelton. They had managed to escape unseen from both house and town and had been killed by the outlaws. But I realized now that I had deliberately deluded myself. In the sweet silence of the warm afternoon, with a quiet mind and a body at rest, God’s voice race again made itself heard, urging me to retrace my footsteps. I sighed, but for the moment stayed where I was, trying to get my reluctant thoughts in order.

Two small children had vanished from their home without being seen by either of the servants in charge of them. Both Bridget Praule and Agatha Tenter swore that this was impossible. But knowing the cunning of the young, and recalling my own youthful shifts and ploys to escape the watchful eyes of my mother, I was perfectly ready to accept that it had happened. More difficult for me to accept, however, was the fact that Eudo Colet, the one person with anything to gain from his stepchildren’s deaths, had been in no way involved in their disappearance and subsequent murder. Yet he had been out of the house, visiting one of his most respected neighbours, at the time they had vanished. They had been there when he left, gone when he returned. Both maid and cook testified to that fact, and would not be shaken.

So, what did I and others know about Eudo Colet? Very little before his arrival in Totnes as husband of the town’s richest heiress. His origins were shrouded in mystery, but his air and manner proclaimed him of lowly birth, a man who had used his good looks to ensnare a vain and wealthy woman. A common enough story, and one told over and over again throughout the ages. Nevertheless it demonstrated Eudo Colet to be a man of few scruples, as all adventurers are, of necessity. Grizelda had pressed me to consider the possibility that he had links with the outlaws, and who was to say that she was wrong? Who knew what dubious connections he had formed in his youth? He might himself have once been a felon. Perhaps some chance meeting with a member of the robber band had renewed an old friendship, and with his wife recently dead in childbirth, and his newly acquired wealth burning holes in his pockets, Master Eudo had seen a way to help himself to an even greater fortune. But this posed me a problem: by what reasoning had he been able to persuade the children to escape secretly into the countryside, where his murderous cronies awaited them?

I jerked upright on the bench, now thoroughly wide awake, and stared around at the sun-dappled garden. The goodwife was still busy about her weeding and had not noticed my sudden start. I sank back once more against the wall, but this time did not close my eyes.

I remained uneasy concerning this notion of Grizelda’s, it seemed too much dependent on chance and luck. But neither could I dismiss it, my experiences of the past night convincing me that Eudo Colet had tried to get me out of his house, either by injury or by playing on my superstitious fears. And his only reason for doing so must be my visit to Dame Tenter’s cottage and my poorly concealed interest in the fate of Mary and Andrew Skelton. Moreover, I had mentioned the lullaby heard by Jack Carter on the morning of the children’s disappearance, which must have suggested a means by which he could be rid of me. The discovery that Master Colet had indeed spent the night within the town wails, confirmed this suspicion, only to have doubt cast upon it by Ursula Cozin’s information. But Mistress Ursula had said that the guest slept on a truckle bed in the downstairs parlour, so that he could be away at first light without disturbing the rest of the household. And now that I had leisure to consider her words, I realized that if Eudo Colet could let himself noiselessly out of the house in the morning, he could equally well have done so during the night. My turmoil of mind following Ursula’s revelation, had merely been the result of tiredness due to lack of sleep. Another excuse for leaving, the belief that I had reached a dead end, was knocked from under me. I had no longer any choice but to return.

I got to my feet, thanked the goodwife for her welcome, added a spool of fine silk thread to my gift of the leather strap, hoisted my pack on to my shoulders and, grasping my cudgel, set off back the way I had come, towards Totnes.