The Holy Innocents

Chapter Seventeen

Before leaving Totnes, I again made my way uphill to the East Gate. The gatekeeper assumed a resigned expression when he saw me.

‘What is it this time?’ he sighed. ‘Or do I wrong you, and you’ve finished asking questions?’

‘My mother always said I had the longest and most inquisitive nose in Christendom,’ I apologized. ‘One more answer, if you will, and then I’m done.’

He shrugged. ‘If I know it. Very well.’

‘When the Sheriff and his men arrived last night, the mummers and I were just leaving the town.’ The gatekeeper nodded in agreement. ‘I would have sworn we were the last ones out before the gates were shut, but I have to confess I didn’t glance behind me. Did anyone else follow in our wake?’

‘Now that I really couldn’t say.’ The man pursed his lips. ‘I remember your departure, because a cart’s a cumbersome thing, however small and light, and sticks in the memory. I closed the main gates after you, but someone could have sipped through the postern without me noticing. It was a good few minutes later I secured that door. Yes, it’s possible someone might have gone out on foot without being seen.’

‘Thank you.’ I doffed my hat. ‘I shall pray for you and yours. And now I’m off on the road again to sell my wares.’

‘Leaving us, are you?’ The gatekeeper pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Can’t say I blame you. Things are growing too dangerous around here for those who don’t have to stay, to linger. I’d not stop if I were a stranger. First, those two innocent children murdered, then Grizelda Harbourne’s cottage burned down and some poor woodsman charred to a cinder, and now two lads with their throats cut while they slept! These are wild times, I grant you, with our betters squabbling like stray curs over who wears the crown, but this has always been a law-abiding township, and now three slayings in as many months, and the last right on our doorstep. Yes indeed, I’d be on my way if I were you. Let’s pray that the lord Sheriff and his posse can track these wolf-heads to their lair and smoke them out!’

I heartily endorsed this sentiment, thanked the man once more for his patience and settled my pack on my back, shifting its weight a little from left to right. I then set out, taking the Exeter road, which I had travelled yesterday and which skirted the grounds of the Priory and the edges of the tidal marsh.

It was by now the middle of a morning which had fulfilled its promise of a sweet, warm day. All about me were signs that spring was blossoming into an early summer, but it would need only one sharp frost to blacken the burgeoning shoots and shrivel them into nothing. Too much sun too soon in the year could prove a mixed blessing.

As I walked, swinging along with an easy stride, the words of the gatekeeper went round and round in my head. ‘Two innocent children murdered… cottage burned down… woodsman charred to a cinder… throats cut while they slept …’ And all three crimes attributed, without hesitation, to the outlaws. Yet the first two were linked, however tenuously, in the person of Grizelda Harbourne, and each time she had suffered great loss and distress. She had been deprived of two people she loved, and then of her home and livelihood.

The last murder, the wanton slaying of Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis, seemed, at first sight, to be unconnected, and yet… and yet… Was I foolish to believe that I could see a link between it and the others? Well, foolish or not, that conviction had set my feet on the road to London. If I was right, I should return to Totnes in two or three weeks, if not, I would have to let things be and make my way home to Bristol.

In the latter case, it was unlikely that I should ever set eyes on Grizelda Harbourne again. I felt a tug of the heartstrings and a profound regret that we had not parted the best of friends, but at the same time, a sense of regained freedom surged through me. As I had told myself on several occasions, it was far too soon after Lillis’s death to think seriously of another wife, and I did not believe that Grizelda would allow herself to be wantonly seduced. There was too much dignity, too much sense of destiny, about her to permit of her giving herself lightly to any man. She had been right when she said, last night, that she was not the woman for me, that we should not suit. Yet, on her own admission, she had considered the idea, and only dismissed it after much careful thought. She had felt, as I had, the pull of attraction between us: the older woman, the younger man – very often the recipe for a sound and settled marriage. (Had it not proved so in the King’s case, when he wed the widowed Lady Grey, five years his senior?) But in the end, Grizelda had recognized, as I had, that I was not ready again for such a tie, that I needed to be my own man a while longer. If nothing else, my childish display of temper the previous day, my inability to be laughed at, must have dispelled any lingering doubts she might have harboured. She could not be doing with someone so immature. It was time we parted.

But supposing I did return to Totnes, that I was able to prove to her that her suspicions and her dislike of Eudo Colet were well-founded, what then? Might not some spark be rekindled between us? On the other hand, was that what either of us really wanted? How could I possibly tell, here and now, with the outcome of my pilgrimage still uncertain? Only God and time could give the answer.

The afternoon was already some way advanced when I heard the rumble of wagon wheels on the track behind me. The circumstance reminded me so forcibly of the previous day’s events, that I hesitated for a moment to look over my shoulder, lest I should behold a phantom. But when a voice hailed me in familiar tones, I turned with a smile to greet Jack Carter.

‘Leaving us, are you?’ he asked, echoing the gatekeeper’s words. ‘Very wise, too. I’m off to Exeter myself with this load of wool bales. If you care to ride with me that far, I don’t deny I’ll be glad of the company. But don’t let me prevent you from peddling your wares.’

‘I’ll be happy to join you,’ I said. ‘I shan’t stop to do any selling today, and I’d be thankful to find myself in a safe haven by nightfall. Moreover, I need to replenish my stock, which I can do tomorrow, in Exeter market.’

The cart drew to a halt beside me. I threw my pack and stick in among the bales of wool and clambered up beside Jack Carter. He jerked the reins and the grey mare resumed her plodding gait.

‘You’ll not be sorry to be away from Totnes yourself for a night or two, I daresay?’

‘And that’s the truth.’ He touched the mare’s rump lightly, with his switch and she quickened her pace a little. ‘It’s a peaceful enough town in the normal way, but there’s been too much excitement these past few months for my liking.’

‘Since the outlaws came to this part of the country?’ I suggested.

He nodded vigorously. ‘Aye, that’s the truth of it. Just after Michaelmastide, last year, we first heard of stealing and looting in one or two of the outlying villages, and it’s been going from bad to worse ever since.’

There was silence for a few minutes while Jack forced his mare up a difficult incline, the poor beast labouring so desperately that I felt obliged to get down and walk. When, however, I was able once again to take my seat in the cart, I ventured, ‘Of all the townspeople, Grizelda Harbourne seems to have suffered the most. She’s lost her home, her living and her two young kinfolk, to whom she seems to have been devoted.’

‘Oh, aye, she’s been unlucky,’ Jack conceded, ‘but then misfortune’s dogged her all her life. The stars were out of conjunction when that one was born, all right?

‘Indeed?’ I murmured, leaning forward and clasping my hands loosely between my knees, my face turned inquiringly towards him.

The mare had settled down to a steady pace across a broad, flat, open stretch of country. Jack could afford to relax his concentration for a while, and, like most people who spend long hours with only their own company for solace, was pleased to have a gossip. And I was a willing audience.

‘It’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Her mother died when Grizelda was little more than a child, some nine or ten summers, at a time when girls most need a female hand to guide them. And although she’s grown into a handsome woman, she was plain enough when she was younger. Almost a man’s face she had, as I recall her, and a mannish way to go with it. No feminine wiles or graces. And then Sir Jasper, whose wife was distant cousin to Ralph Harbourne, took her to live with him as companion to his daughter.’ Jack Carter laughed. ‘Leastways, that’s what he called it, but servant would be nearer the truth. If Mistress Rosamund had been of a different disposition, it might not have been so bad, but she had a spoilt, mean and vicious nature. And to make matters worse, she was as pretty and rich as Grizelda was poor and plain.’

‘But Grizelda told me that she and her cousin were the best of friends,’ I interrupted.

The carter snorted. ‘She’d be too proud, poor soul, to have you, or anyone else, think otherwise. Pride and the ability to mask her true feelings were two of her greatest virtues. She never complained, however badly she was treated. You’ve no doubt noted that scar on her face? In some lights it shows more than in others.’

‘She told me she fell out of a tree as a child.’

‘Or was pushed by Rosamund. My Goody was a servant in the Crouchback household at that time, and she swore that she saw what happened, that Mistress Rosamund deliberately shoved her cousin from the branch on which the two of them were sitting. Grizelda caught her check on a lower branch and ripped it open, but she always maintained that it was her own fault, that she had grown dizzy and fallen. Oh, there was affection between those two, all right, but it was Grizelda’s affection for Mistress Rosamund.’

‘Are you so certain that the younger girl felt nothing in return?’ I queried, although I could see that Grizelda’s fierce pride would make her conceal the truth, perhaps even from herself. Perhaps most of all from herself. As a connection of a wealthy and well-born family, she would never be able to admit that her kin treated her with perhaps less respect than they would have shown a servant.

Jack Carter shrugged. ‘I only tell you what my Goody told me at the time, and the evidence of my own eyes over the years. I’ll cite you one piece of proof, if you want it. Grizelda never had many clothes. She’d wear the same dress, the same cloak year in, year out, until the things were almost threadbare. Now, granted, she and Mistress Rosamund were not of a size, but there was not that much difference between them, and Grizelda was always good with her needle. A seam let out here, a hem let down there, and she could have worn many of Mistress Rosamund’s cast-offs. And the saints know that that spoilt madam had more shifts and gowns and coifs laid by in her coffers than she knew what to do with. Any mistress worth her salt would have passed one or two of them on to her maid, let alone a kinswoman. No, no! I tell you Grizelda was only valued in the Crouchback household as long as she could be useful.’

‘And was she useful?’

Jack Carter’s eyebrows mounted his forehead and nearly vanished into his thick, dark hair.

‘Of course she was useful! When she was younger for taking the blame, and often the punishment, for pranks which her cousin had played, and, later on, as nurse to the two Skelton children. Children were too much trouble for Mistress Rosamund. She couldn’t be bothered with them, and that’s a fact, particularly when there was no husband to see that she performed a mother’s duties. Grizelda doted on those little ones. They were more hers than their dam’s which was why, when they were murdered, her agony was so great. And before that, of course, she had found a new enemy in Eudo Colet. Yes, I tell you, chapman, that woman has had more than her fair share of trials and tribulations.’

‘What will become of her now?’ I asked him. ‘She talks of keeping house for some Totnes worthy.’

The carter grimaced. ‘If she can find a place, though that may not be so easy. A pity she and Master Colet dislike one another so much, or she might have got her feet beneath his table, at this manor house of his, which common gossip has it he’s obtained out Dartington way, where the succession’s foundered. I recognize Lawyer Cozin’s hand in that particular pie. A man with a great deal of influence, not only in this shire, but also in London. As it is, it seems Agatha Tenter will carry the keys at her girdle. Or so my Goody reports, and it’s a brave man who’d contradict her, for she’s rarely misinformed. She has a nose for other people’s business that I’d back against all comers.’

I laughed, and would have been happy to be entertained by more of his prattle, but the track had dwindled to a narrow path between two belts of woodland, and he needed all his wits about him to make sure that the mare didn’t stumble.

Moreover, the sun was getting low in the sky, and we were both growing hungry. It was time to think of our night’s lodging, and by mutual agreement, we pressed on to the Abbey at Buckfast, where we were given food and shelter.

The following day, we finished the journey to Exeter, and Jack Carter left me close to St Mary Steps Church, wishing me well.

‘For I doubt our paths will cross again,’ he added cheerfully.

I made no comment. ‘The Lord be with you and yours,’ was all I answered.

I reached London a week later, having been fortunate enough, a few miles east of Shaftesbury, to fall in with a wagoner who was going all the way to the capital, and who was willing for me to ride with him to journey’s end. Like Jack Carter, he was as glad of my company as I was of his, and of the shared conviviality of bed and board at the various religious houses we stopped at along the way. As we got closer to our destination, the traffic increased, for apart from the usual people to be met with at that time of year – pilgrims, friars, pardoners, lords and their ladies moving from one castle or manor to another, knights riding to Shire Day meetings with friends and tenants – the roads were clogged with the levies now being mustered for the invasion of France.

I finally alighted from the wagon close to the Chère Reine Cross and made my way along the Strand and Fleet Street to the Lud Gate. Here, the press became even thicker, with tradespeople swelling the throng passing in and out. The beggars, who congregate around the main entrances to any large city, rattled their cups and bowls, and those who were not maimed, and were nimble enough on their feet, shouldered a path between the crowds, laying greasy, imploring hands on sleeves and jackets. Some gave, and were blessed for their generosity, others threw them off with an imprecation and were roundly cursed for their pains. None of the beggars bothered me, however, sparing only a cursory glance before deciding that I was unlikely to have anything to give, being as poor and needy as themselves. Long years of practice had taught them not to waste their time if they wished to claim the lion’s share of alms.

I had not been in London for a long while, and felt a sudden sense of exhilaration at all the hustle and bustle going on around me. For me today, now that I am an old man, settled in the quiet and peace of my native Somerset, the city holds no attractions, but then, I was young and vigorous, and London was like a tray full of sweetmeats, each tempting delight waiting to be sampled, my mouth watering as my fingers hovered, not knowing which to choose first. For the present, however, I had work to do, my time was not my own. But later, if this mission should prove abortive, or when, with God’s help, it was successfully concluded, I promised myself that I would return to the capital and sample the many temptations it had to offer.

Pausing in the shadow of St Paul’s, I cudgelled my brains to remember something Grizelda had told me over a week ago, when we were talking in her cottage. Three years since, Rosamund Skelton, by then a widow and living in Totnes, had come to London to visit an old friend who lived in Paternoster Row. ‘A Ginèvre Napier and her husband, Gregory. Gregory Napier is a goldsmith with a shop in West Cheap, between Foster Lane and Gudrun Lane.’ I thought carefully for a moment or two, satisfying myself that those had indeed been Grizelda’s words, then asked directions of a fellow pedlar, who was selling his wares just inside the churchyard.

He eyed me suspiciously, and was inclined to be unhelpful, until I assured him that I had no intention of setting up a rival pitch anywhere near at hand. Then, he was pleased to assist me.

‘Go along Old Dean’s Lane, and to your right, on the opposite side of this churchyard, is Paternoster Row. At its other end, by the church of St Michael at Corn, you’ll come into West Cheap. You’ll find most of the goldsmiths there.’

I thanked him and followed his directions, walking slowly the length of Paternoster Row and wondering which of the gaily painted houses belonged to Gregory Napier. He must, I reflected, be a very wealthy man if he and his wife did not live behind the shop, but in a separate dwelling. But this was to my advantage, for if I could speak to Ginèvre Napier on her own, free of her husband’s presence, I fancied she might talk more frankly. But first, I must make sure that Gregory Napier was busy at his work.

I accosted a small street urchin who, together with a flock of kites and ravens, was scavenging among the refuse piled up on the cobbles. Having watched him drive away several other boys who had ventured into this part of the Cheap, I judged it to be his patch, which he would defend against all comers. He would be sure to know which shop belonged to which craftsman, just as the owners, in their turn, would know him, by sight, if not by name.

I opened my palm to disclose half a groat and at once a dirty hand reached out to snatch it.

‘Not so fast,’ I protested, caging the money within my fingers. ‘Does one of these goldsmiths’ shops belong to Gregory Napier?’

The blue eyes narrowed with suspicion: the urchin was protective of his benefactors, who no doubt left him titbits from time to time, among the festering rubbish. I thought at first that he would refuse to answer, and that I should have to ask elsewhere, but the thought of the half-groat concealed in my palm proved to be too great a lure. He nodded towards a shop in front of whose booth no less than three capped apprentices called and toted their master’s wares.

‘That’s Master Napier’s,’ he grunted, and shot out his hand again for the money.

But I still clenched my fist. ‘And is he working there, inside?’

This time, the eyes widened and the gaze became malevolent. ‘What’s that to you, pedlar?’

‘What’s my business to you?’ I retorted. I relented a little. ‘I give you my solemn promise that I mean Master Napier no harm.’

The urchin hesitated, then decided I was honest.

‘’E’s there,’ he said. ‘You can see the smoke comin’ out the chimney. Workin’ on a very delicate piece for my lord ’Astings, or so I ’eard, an’ ’e won’t trust anyone but ’imself to work the bellows.’ The boy nodded knowingly. ‘Right temp’rature’s everythink in such cases.’

I laughed and released the coin into his eagerly waiting palm, before reaching into my pouch for a second. I held it up between finger and thumb, and the lad’s eyes sparkled. A whole groat in one day was unlooked-for beneficence. He could scarcely believe his luck, and was by now ready to tell me anything I wanted to know without further quibble.

‘Master Napier doesn’t live behind the shop, I understand, but has a house in Paternoster Row. Can you tell me which it is?’

‘’Course I can!’ he answered scornfully. ‘’Ere! Follow me!’ He led me back past the church of St Michael at Corn, where it stood at the junction with the Shambles, into the narrow, cobbled Row, made gloomy by its dozens of overhanging roofs. My lad pointed a grimy forefinger, indicating a house some four storeys high, the carved timbers of its gable picked out in scarlet, blue and gold. The windows of the lower two floors had wooden shutters, at present standing open to the warmth of the afternoon, but the upper ones were made of glass, a sure sign of riches, the top three showing a leaded trefoil, the lower three circles within a triangle, both signs of the Trinity of God.

‘Tha’s it. Tha’s the one.’ The urchin once more extended his open hand and I placed the half-groat in it.

‘Will Mistress Napier be within, do you think?’ I asked, and heard the boy suck in his breath on a respectful whistle.

‘Like that, is it then?’ His teeth showed suddenly white in his dirty face. ‘I’ll keep a watch on the shop for you, if you want,’ he offered.

I cuffed his ear. ‘You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head and put a curb on those lecherous thoughts of yours!’ I told him severely. ‘I know nothing of Mistress Napier, but have no doubt that she’s a virtuous lady. And she certainly has nothing to fear from me.’

The urchin sent me a sidelong glance, full of meaning.

‘You might ’ave nothin’ to say in the matter, chapman.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve ’eard stories about ’er as ud make your ’air curl.’ He nudged my ribs. ‘Eats the likes of you fer ’er brekfust.’

I sent him on his way with another box on the ear, but as he was accustomed to such treatment, I doubt it had any effect. He looked over his shoulder, grinning cheekily, as he made off, back to the Cheap to resume his scavenging. I, in the meantime, hesitated to knock on the door of the Napiers’ house, wondering if there was any other entrance. While I did so, I became aware of someone watching me from behind one of the open, lower windows. A moment later, the door opened and a young maidservant made her appearance.

‘My mistress bids you enter, chapman, if you’re selling your wares. She has need of some new silk ribbons.’