The Holy Innocents

Chapter Fifteen

The first shadows of evening were stroking pasture and garden as I made my way along the track, steadily putting the miles behind me. On the far horizon, black-fingered clouds stretched towards the sun, an intimation that the spell of fine weather might soon be over. There was a chill in the air, and the distant hills were lost behind gathering mist. Here and there, plumes of smoke rose from a cottage roof as the goodwife began her preparations for supper.

I was careful, on this return journey, not to stray into the forest, but to keep to the course of the river and in sight of habitation. It was not yet time for the outlaws to be up and stirring, but there were others who hunted alone, or in twos and threes, lying in wait for the unwary traveller. I had always been capable of protecting myself against these enemies, and my cudgel was my trusty friend, but it would be untrue to say that I had never suffered injury, and I had no wish at present to risk my hide.

The track broadened as I reached the great tidal marsh, just north of Totnes. Golden-headed kingcups were beginning to close with the fading light, and dumps of reeds and grasses were slowly drained of colour as banks of clouds diminished the sun. Lights from the Foregate pricked the gathering darkness and, high on the hill, torches had been lit on the castle walls.

I was nearing East Gate, skirting the fences of St Mary’s Priory, when I heard the rattle of wheels behind me. I had been vaguely aware for some minutes past of a cart approaching, and now, turning my head, I saw a gaily painted wagonette, its wooden sides picked out in yellows, reds and greens, and between its beribboned shafts, a patient-eyed mule plodding decorously over the rough and stony ground. A willow framework supported a canvas covering, and within the body of the cart was a tumble of bedding and brightly coloured costumes.

Three young men walked alongside the wagon, one at the head of the mule, his hand on the bridle, the other two lagging a little, and all of them plainly footsore. Shoes and hose were white with dust, their tunics well worn and, in places, threadbare. A flute and tabor were tied to the slats at one side of the cart, but even without them, I should have had no difficulty in recognizing this little party of vagabonds as travelling entertainers. Early spring was the time when such bands took to the roads, mumming and miming, juggling and dancing, after spending the winter, if they were luck, in the household of some great lord, or, if less fortunate, earning a few pence in the streets of a town. And if all else failed, they had a home of sorts in their covered wagon.

The youngest of the three, the one leading the mule, was a thickset lad with a shock of red hair, blue eyes, turned-up nose and a round, jolly face, peppered with freckles. I recognized him on the instant, and without stopping to think that I had to be mistaken, put out a hand and gripped his arm.

‘Nicholas!’ I exclaimed. ‘Nicholas Fletcher!’

He turned a startled gaze in my direction before giving a good-natured grin.

‘My name is surely Fletcher, sir, for my great-grandsire was a maker of arrows. But my baptismal name is Martin.’ He knotted his sandy brows. ‘Although I do have an older brother called Nicholas.’ The grin widened. ‘A brother twice over in fact, for he’s not only my parents’ child, but also a Brother of the Benedictine order at Glastonbury Abbey.’

‘Of course!’ I said, clapping a hand to my forehead and cursing my own stupidity. ‘Forgive me, but you’re as like as two peas in a pod.’

‘You know him?’ Martin Fletcher asked delightedly, while his two friends crowded round, eager to discover what was happening. ‘You’re acquainted with Nick?’

‘We were novices together,’ I explained, ‘but the cowl and tonsure were not for me, and I never took my vows, unlike your brother.’

I have mentioned Nicholas Fletcher somewhere before in these chronicles, the fellow novice who taught me how to pick locks, a dubious talent learned during his childhood travels with the troupe of jugglers and mummers to which he and his family belonged. Had he ever talked of a brother? Maybe, and I had forgotten.

‘Well,’ beamed that younger sibling now, clapping me on the shoulder, ‘fancy that! We’re on our way to Totnes to try our fortune with the castle garrison. Men get tired, mewed up in barracks, with only themselves for company. Even drinking and whoring can pall, and then they’re glad of other amusement. Are you making for the town yourself? Do you know it?’

‘I’ve been lodging there some days already,’ I answered, ‘and am returning for the night. I’ve… I’ve had a berth of a sort, but now I’ve lost it. I was hoping to sleep in the Priory guest-hall.’

‘Then we’ll join you, if we may,’ said Martin Fletcher. ‘If it’s fine, we sleep in the wagon, but it’s beginning to look like rain.’ He indicated his two companions. ‘These are my friends. Peter Coucheneed, he’s a juggler and a good one, and the other is Luke Hollis, who plays the flute and dances. As for me, I rattle the tabor and mime a little.’

The first named, Peter Coucheneed, was very tall and stringy, with a high, domed forehead, and going prematurely bald. The second man, Luke Hollis, was squat and fat with a pot belly and an unruly mop of thick, dark hair. The contrast between them was ludicrous, and no doubt earned them a laugh before ever a ball was juggled or a note played by way of entertainment.

‘And I’m called Roger,’ I said. ‘A chapman by trade and now by name, although Brother Nicholas would have known me as Stonecarver or Carverson, for that was how my father earned his living. So, shall we go the last short distance together? If you’re ready for some victuals, there’s an alehouse near the castle I can recommend.’

The four of us entered by the East Gate, although the keeper was reluctant to let the wagon through.

‘Mind you keep it off the main highway,’ he ordered, after much negotiation. ‘There’s still a chance that the lord Sheriff might arrive before curfew.’

In reply to my companions’ questions, I explained about the outlaws and the state of fear pervading the countryside.

‘However, I doubt his lordship will be here before tomorrow morning,’ I said, as we climbed the hill towards Jacinta’s tavern, ‘but you’d do well to find a place for the cart where it won’t impede the Law’s progress when he and his sergeants finally appear.’

But this was easier said than done, the wagonette, although not big, was of sufficient width to block most of the alleyways, and the Priory porter expressed strong doubts about allowing it to stand in the courtyard.

‘My Lord Sheriff will be received here, in the forecourt, and neither His Worship the Mayor nor Father Prior will wish to see it cluttered with a mummers’ cart, in however obscure a corner. My advice is to return to the Foregate.’

‘What about the castle?’ I suggested to Martin. ‘After all, that’s where you’re bound.’

But the officer of the garrison was also discouraging.

‘Alas, no entertainment this evening, my friends,’ he said, looking sadly at the painted cart. ‘Any other time but now, and we’d have welcomed you with open arms. But the lord Sheriff, whenever he arrives, will expect to find us fresh and alert, and we’d not be that after a night’s carousal, for what’s an entertainment without drink to go with it? Nor can I offer hope for tomorrow, for we’ll be off chasing these damned wolf-heads as soon as his lordship gives the word.’

‘We’d best get back to the Foregate,’ Peter Coucheneed sighed, ‘and be on our way first thing in the morning. There’s no custom for us here. We’ve picked a bad time.’ Martin and Luke Hoilis nodded in agreement, but I was not so despondent.

‘Folks will be in need of cheering up when the posse has left, and some of the townsmen with it. Stay for a day or two, and I think you’ll have no regrets. There’s good money to be made in a place like this, as I discovered. Many of the Burghers have well-lined pockets. As for the wagon, no call to make up your minds to lie outside the walls just yet. I have a friend in High Street who might let you use the outer courtyard of her house, where there’s also stabling for the mule. The poor creature looks as though it’s about to drop between the shafts.’ And I briefly explained the circumstances, naming no names but that of Grizelda, and leaving unmentioned all that had gone before the burning of her cottage.

My suggestion was received with thankfulness, tempered by doubt that anyone would allow a band of strolling players within her pale, or be persuaded to take their honesty on trust when she knew nothing of them. But I said that my recommendation would guarantee their welcome, adding that with fear of the outlaws hanging over the town like a pall, Mistress Harbourne might well be glad of their company. I was less confident than I sounded, for Grizelda and I had parted on bad terms, but I was sanguine enough to hope that my humble apology would be accepted.

After some discussion, it was felt to be wisest if Martin and I went alone to make the necessary request, leaving Peter and Luke to sup ale in Jacinta’s tavern, where we would rejoin them later.

‘For you’re her friend and Martin has a respectable face,’ Luke said, adding frankly, ‘Peter and I are like to scare her out of her wits if she sees us staring at her out of the dark. God fashioned us both to make men laugh, but together, and at night, I don’t deny we can be frightening.’

Both Martin and I refuted the claim vigorously, but in the end agreed that there might be some sense in the argument.

So, we went together to knock on Grizelda’s door, where a torch in an iron holder at one side of the doorway had been lit, casting a smokey, amber glow across our faces. At least she would be able to recognize me without any difficulty.

It was some moments before she answered our summons, but at last the heavy oaken door swung inwards and Grizelda, a lantern held aloft in one hand, stood before us.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked. ‘What do you want?’ Then the light from her lantern found me out and she stared in astonishment. ‘Roger? What are you doing here? I thought you well on your way by now.’

‘I came back,’ I answered contritely, ‘to beg your pardon. Once my temper had time to cool, I realized that you were only jesting.’

She made no reply and in the silence the lanternlight passed from my face to that of Martin Fletcher. ‘Who’s this?’ she demanded.

I hastened to introduce him and explain our errand. ‘He and his friends need shelter for the night for their mule and wagon. I thought you might be willing to stable both in the outer courtyard.’

‘We’d be no trouble to you,’ Martin assured her fervently. ‘And we’d be gone as soon as the town gates open in the morning. But with these wolf-heads on the prowl, we don’t fancy sleeping in the open ground of the Foregate.’

‘There’s a stockade to the south of the Pickle Moor,’ she retorted.

I had not expected Grizelda to be so ungracious, particularly as she herself had just been a victim of the outlaws.

‘A poor defence, broken in several places. And nothing to the north,’ I reproached her.

She rewarded me with scarcely a glance, for the most part keeping both her eyes and the lanternlight fixed on Martin.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m here alone. A woman has her reputation to think of. To be allowing three strange young men within her walls is to put it at risk, especially in this town, where there are eyes and ears at every casement.’ I was astonished at the coldness of her manner, and realized that I must have hurt her far more deeply than I had imagined. I was about to argue the cause of Martin and his friends, when I became aware of a movement in the passageway behind her. It was tittle more than a shifting of the darkness, the faintest blur of whiteness denoting a face, but enough for me to feel sure that someone was there.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked sharply, starting forward.

Grizelda whirled about, raising the lantern higher, sending long shadows dancing up the walls. But the passageway was empty. She turned on me fiercely.

‘Why are you trying to frighten me?’ she snapped.

‘There was someone there,’ I told her urgently. ‘I saw him.’ Why was I so certain that it had been a man? ‘Martin! You must have noticed something.’

But my new acquaintance shook his head. ‘The tight from the lantern was shining in my eyes.’

‘Nevertheless, there was someone there,’ I insisted. ‘Grizelda, let me come in and search.’

‘No!’ She blocked the doorway with her body, but her voice softened a little. ‘Roger, I know you mean well and that you are concerned for my safety, but you have allowed your imagination to get the better of you, just as you did last night. Oh, it’s not altogether your fault. I accept my share of the responsibility. I should never have encouraged you to inquire into this business in the first place, but I was angry and griefstricken for my little innocents.’

‘And now you are not?’ My tone was icy.

‘How can you ask such a question?’ She reared her head. ‘Do you think anything can ever assuage my grief? But I have come to accept that there is no mystery, that the simple explanation of how things happened is the right one.’

‘This is a sudden conversion,’ I flung at her angrily.

She sighed. ‘Roger, I’m sorry. I suppose I always knew where the truth lay, but it was an indulgence to unburden myself to a sympathetic ear, and one I was unable to resist. Forgive me. But the events of the past night have made me realize how fragile our hold upon our destiny is. I must put the past behind me. Forget it, and look towards the future. So must you. You have a child, and by your own admission, you have been absent from Bristol many weeks. Return to her.’ Grizelda held out her free hand. The harshness had gone from her face and there was a rueful gleam in her eyes. ‘I’m not the woman for you. No, don’t deny that the thought has crossed your mind once or twice during these past three days, as, I must confess, it has crossed mine. But we should not suit. Now, go away, go home, and forget me. I’m sorry I cannot accommodate your friend and his companions, but if I am to find a place as housekeeper in this town, then I dare not let my good name be sullied by even the merest suspicion of disorderly conduct.’

I took her fingers in mine and pressed them against my lips. I was ashamed of myself both for the way in which I had treated her earlier in the day, and for attributing vengeful motives to her.

‘We’ll be off,’ I said, clapping Martin on the back, ‘and trouble you no further.’ But I could not help glancing over her shoulder, peering anxiously into the gloom of the passageway. Had I indeed seen someone lurking there? Or was Grizelda right, and was my imagination beginning to get the better of me? ‘Take care,’ I urged her, pressing her hand before releasing it.

She smiled. ‘I promise.’ She retreated from the threshold and closed the door.

Martin Fletcher turned curious eyes upon me, plainly sensing a story which he would dearly love to explore, but for the moment, his chief concern was for the safe bestowal of his wagon. Peter Coucheneed and Luke Hollis were equally dismayed with the failure of our mission.

‘We must make haste and leave before the gates are closed,’ Martin told them. ‘There’s nothing for it but to sleep in the Foregate. One of the cottagers will give us food and water for Clotilde.’ And he tickled the mule affectionately behind the ears. ‘Rogues and vagabonds like us can’t be permitted to clutter up the streets of a respectable town.’

Meantime, Jacinta had emerged from the tavern to lure us back inside again, custom not being so brisk that she could afford to lose four young men set upon a convivial evening.

When she knew of the mummers’ predicament, she was angry, but could offer no remedy. The ale-house was hemmed in on all sides by houses and the outer walls of the castle. She turned to me.

‘And you, lad, where will you be sleeping, now that you’ve lost your former lodging?’ She eyed me up and down in a manner which made me most uneasy. ‘You’re welcome to find a bed here for the night, if you don’t mind sharing a pallet with my son.’

I hurriedly declined the invitation, dismissing as unworthy the suspicion that the bed I would end up sharing might well be her own.

‘I’ll try the Priory guest-hall first,’ I said, ‘when I’ve seen my friends here safely beyond the walls.’ And I set off downhill once again, walking beside the wagonette.

We were within yards of the East Gate when there was a sudden commotion, and a party of horsemen rode through, showing a fine disregard for the gatekeeper and anyone else who happened to be in their path. The central figure was richly attired and mounted on a handsome black gelding, its jingling harness glinting in the torchlight. Half a dozen other men, in jackets of thick green frieze and helmets of boiled leather, were of only slightly less importance, in their own eyes at least, and one of them shouted for someone to run and fetch the Mayor. Behind these gentlemen, streamed a small cohort of servants. The lord Sheriff, having made all speed from Exeter, had arrived.

‘I’ll not get a bed in the Priory tonight,’ I said to Martin, ‘so I might as well come with you. I’ve acquaintances in the Foregate,’ I added, thinking of Granny Praule, ‘where I might find a welcome.’

He nodded and drove the wagon forward. Its tail had barely cleared the archway when the bell rang for curfew, and the town gates creaked shut behind us.

By the time a sheltered nook had been found for the wagon, food and water obtained for the mule and I had knocked on the door of Granny Praule’s cottage, it was growing late and we were all tired and hungry. I refused Granny’s pressing invitation for us to sup with her, guessing from her granddaughter’s worried expression that they did not have sufficient food on the shelves for four extra people. I accepted with gratitude, however, the offer of Bridget’s mattress for the night, while she shared her grandmother’s.

‘But we’ll away to Matt’s tavern for our victuals.’

‘A pity, a pity,’ Granny Praule mumbled. ‘Four young men together under my roof, that’s a chance I’m not likely to have again in a hurry.’

‘We’ll perform a special entertainment for you and Mistress Bridget tomorrow,’ Martin Fletcher promised, kissing her wrinkled cheek. ‘And no payment asked in return.’ Granny cackled delightedly and told me she would leave the cottage door on the latch. ‘But don’t be long, lad, and mind you push the bolts to, once you’re inside.’

Matt’s tavern was quiet and he was already thinking of locking up for the night as defence against any marauders, but the prospect of losing good money if he turned us away was not to be countenanced lightly. So he sat us down at a table, fetched us bread and cheese and ale and exhorted us to eat our fill, although it was plain that he hoped we wouldn’t dally. After that, he left us to ourselves, disappearing down the cellar steps with his potman, to attend to his barrels.

I was grateful that sufficient time had by now elapsed to blunt Martin Fletcher’s curiosity concerning my friendship with Grizelda, for I had no wish to discuss it. Instead, he and his friends kept me amused with tales of their life as wandering entertainers.

‘The summer’s the best time,’ Martin said, and the other two nodded vigorous agreement. ‘Going from village to village, town to town, the sun shining and the people running out to greet you, that’s as great a reward sometimes as the money you can make. But best of all are the fairs, especially the big ones, like St Bartholomew’s in London. Everyone’s there. You meet up with all your old friends, hear all their gossip, find out how they fared during the winter, whether or not they had a roof over their heads, and so on.’

‘I like the fine ladies,’ Luke put in thickly, without bothering to clear his mouth of bread and cheese. ‘There’s always lots of them at fairs, looking for silks and velvets and ribbons to spend their money on. And in between, they stop to watch the jugglers and mummers. A lady threw me a gold coin once. A very beautiful lady. About three years ago, it would be, come Bartholomewtide. I’ve never forgotten because someone said she was the Duchess of Gloucester, come down from the north with her lord, for a visit. They hadn’t long been wed, only a few months I reckon. Their son, little Prince Edward, hadn’t been born then, at any rate. Whether it was true or not, I don’t know for certain, but it’s sure someone said it was Duchess Anne, and she gave me gold.’ In return for their confidences, I told some of my adventures since I took to the road, but nothing of any consequence.

I kept the stories light and amusing. I was too tired, and the hour too advanced to give details of anything other. The landlord had emerged from the cellar and was hovering nearby, waiting on our going. We took the hint and paid what was due, then went out into the Foregate.

The threatened rain had come to nothing, the clouds moving away southwards, leaving the heavens clear and starry overhead. Moonlight showed us a path leading up from St Peter’s Quay, ribbed by the shadows of tree trunks. The wagon stood on a patch of rough ground not far from Granny Praule’s cottage, in the lee of a cluster of brambles. Martin Fletcher and his two companions climbed in beneath the canvas awning, and, without even bothering to remove their shoes, stretched themselves out on top of the muddle of bedding and costumes. I guessed they would soon be dead to the world, weariness and the ale we had consumed at Matt’s tavern assuring them of a night’s sleep, oblivious to all disturbances.

Granny Praule had left the cottage door unbolted, as she had promised, and, as I entered, I could hear her snoring.

Bridget was nowhere to be seen, having decorously draped a much darned and patched sheet over a string, hung between two walls of the cottage. Her straw mattress, however, was plumped up invitingly and spread with clean linen. I carefully shot home the bolts, stowed my pack and cudgel close to the door, stripped down to shirt and hose and tumbled thankfully into bed. I, too, would sleep soundly.