The Holy Innocents

Chapter Four

It was Oliver who led me to a house north of the Shambles, on the opposite side of the High Street, where it curves towards the West Gate. He unlocked the door and preceded me inside, picking his way carefully across the dust-laden floor and wrinkling his nose fastidiously at the musty smell.

‘I suppose I’d better show you the lie of the place,’ he said, a trifle grudgingly, as we stood in the stone-flagged passageway. He pushed open a door to his right. ‘This is the downstairs parlour, where my old friend and client, Sir Jasper Crouchback, conducted most of his business, and behind it is the counting-house. The stairs in the corner here lead to the upper parlour and main bedchambers, none of which need concern you, for if the outlaws come, they will be sure to enter on the lower level. Follow me, and I will conduct you to the kitchens and the outhouses.’

We walked along the passageway to a stout, oaken door at the far end, now bolted and barred. With my superior height, I was able to render assistance in withdrawing the bolts from their wards, and by tugging with all my strength on the iron handle of the latch, I finally managed to loosen the wooden leaf, which, swollen by the recent spell of wet weather, had stuck in its frame. We stepped out into a paved courtyard, enclosed on either side by high stone walls. Ahead of us was another block of buildings, whose upper storey was connected to the one at our backs by a roofed-in wooden gallery, supported on struts and running the length of the right-hand wall.

The kitchen, into which I was shown by Oliver Cozin, was much like all other kitchens I have ever been in, with a table in the centre, a water barrel, shelves of pots, pans and suchlike cooking utensils, and ovens built into the thickness of the fireplace brick. A ladder gave access to the storerooms and sleeping quarters of the servants above, while a door in one corner, through which we proceeded, brought us to the workshops, hen-coops, pigsties and stables. The latter had stalls for two horses which, along with the rest of the outbuildings, were again protected by high walls, and approached by an alleyway running between the house and its neighbour. An iron-studded, oaken gate kept out intruders.

After I had looked my fill, we retraced our steps.

‘I suggest,’ the lawyer said, ‘that you sleep in the downstairs parlour and keep a candle burning all night so that its light can be glimpsed, if necessary, through the chinks in the shutters. As you have seen, the outhouses are empty, and robbers, having discovered as much, will naturally assume the house to be unoccupied as well, and venture around to the front. Signs of life might deter them from forcing an entry.’

‘And if they don’t?’ I inquired ironically. ‘What am I supposed to do then?’

The lawyer eyed me up and down. ‘A great lad like you must be able to defend himself, and is probably used to doing so. You carry a good, thick cudgel and I presume you know how to use it.’

I regarded him straitly. ‘These men are killers, or so I’ve been told. I don’t imagine a cudgel to be of much use against them.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Oliver Cozin grimaced.

‘Chapman, you are, I should guess, a sensible man, and of greater intelligence than is suggested by your calling. You do not believe, any more than I do, that the outlaws will penetrate beyond the town’s defences. Such men do not like enclosed spaces. There is nowhere to run. But my client, Master Colet, who is not a clever man’ – there was a slight note of contempt in the lawyer’s tone – ‘and who is gripped by the general hysteria, fears for his property, and so I do what I can, even if it is just for a night.’

I frowned. ‘I thought you said that this house belonged to your old friend, Sir Jasper Crouchback?’

Oliver inclined his head. ‘And so it did, once. But he has been dead these five years, and now it is in the possession of his son-in-law, Master Eudo Colet.’

There was a reserve in both his tone and manner that deterred me from asking too many questions. Nevertheless, I could not stop myself from probing a little further.

‘Surely,’ I said, ‘even if this Master Colet and his lady, Sir Jasper’s daughter, are not prepared to remain in the house themselves while they conclude the purchase of another property, there can be no shortage of tenants who would be more than willing to occupy it for them. Indeed, such an arrangement would earn them money. So why are they forced to rely on the good offices of a passing traveller?’

Once again, the lawyer’s eyes grew wary, while he tried unsuccessfully to appear frank and open.

‘My client is a widower, and he does not wish to rent out the house. He wishes to sell. It is only the scourge of these outlaws which has made him uneasy about it standing empty.’

I shook my head. ‘That does not answer my objection. As Master Colet, for reasons not known to me, is unwilling to remain here himself, then why does he not sell at once?’

‘Because a purchaser has not yet been found. Now. let that suffice. You ask too many questions about matters which do not concern you. You have free lodgings for the night. Be content.’

I bowed my head in submission and the lawyer seemed relieved. ‘I will leave you now. Here is the key. It fits all locks, should you wish to go out before curfew. You will want food, I daresay. But I saw a supply of candles on a shelf in the kitchen, so you will not need to buy those, at least.’

I thanked him gravely and accompanied him, like any good host, to the street door, but as he was about to step across the threshold, he hesitated and turned back.

‘Master Colet is… a valuable client,’ he said, with some constraint. ‘One that I should wish to please. I wonder therefore …’ He made a determined effort to smile, trying to make his request sound as natural as possible. ‘Would you be willing to remain as a lodger in this house until next Saturday? I am leaving then, for Exeter, and what you do after that is up to you. But I shall have shown myself willing, whilst here, to comply with Master Colet s wishes, and so escape his reproaches.’

‘And earned yourself an even fatter fee,’ I thought, ‘than the one you are charging him already.’ Aloud I said, ‘I must give the idea some consideration before making my answer. I had not intended to stay in Totnes for more than one night.’

‘If… if money is short, I might arrange for… for a small sum to be paid to you.’

I shook my head. ‘My purse is, at present, as full as it will hold, Master Cozin. But it is spring, and I need to be on the road. The confinement of four walls is all very well in the winter, when the wind blows from the north, and there is snow and ice underfoot, but once the thaw sets in and the trees begin to leaf then I like to be on the open road. But I promise that I will think about your proposal and let you have my reply in the morning.’

And with that, the lawyer had to be content. After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘You’re an honest man. I do right to trust you. Very well, I will await your verdict tomorrow. You know where to find me, at my brother’s house. And I shall accept your decision whatever it might be. I shan’t try to persuade you otherwise.’

I watched him walk away, until he disappeared round a bend in the roadway, then went back inside, closing the front door behind me. The bells of the Priory were only just ringing for Vespers, and it would be light for an hour or two yet.

Time enough later to go out and buy myself food and ale before curfew. Moreover, whatever Oliver Cozin might say, I wished to see all of my new domain. But before I did either, I had need to sit quietly and think. I returned, therefore, to the downstairs parlour, where I dusted the large, carved armchair with the sleeve of my tunic and seated myself, face tilted upwards, so that my eyes were not distracted by my surroundings. And thus, staring at the smoke-blackened ceiling, where cobwebs festooned the corners like folds of grey gauze, I considered my present situation.

Even if my suspicions had not already been aroused, this last exchange with the lawyer would have alerted me to something being wrong. No landlord, or his agent, offers to pay a tenant for living in his house, such a proposal is to turn the world of business dealing upon its head. That apart, however, there were other things which intrigued me. Why did the widowed Eudo Colet not wish to remain here, even though he was worried by a possible attack from the outlaws? And why was the assiduous Master Cozin unable to find a native of the town willing to oblige? Was there no neighbour ready to despatch a son, or one of his men, to play the role of caretaker? And why did there appear to be no single person eager to purchase such a handsome dwelling, even if it were solely for the purpose of renting it out to others? There was only one conclusion to be drawn in answer to all these questions. Something had happened here, some event which had given everyone, including its owner, a distaste or fear of the house. I could think of no other explanation which fitted the facts, so I decided that while there was still enough daylight to see by, the sooner I looked it over, the better. I stood up and fetched my cudgel from beside my pack, having left both of them just inside the street door.

The downstairs parlour, which the late Sir Jasper Crouchback had also used for trading purposes – whatever those might have been – I already knew, with its panelled walls, its pair of finely carved armchairs, large table, handsome fireplace, decorated overmantel and flagged stone floor. There was also a cupboard whose shelves had most probably once contained silver and pewter plate, but whose doors now swung wide to reveal nothing but dust. The twisting corner stair, which led to the upper storey, had a delicately carved banister to help with the ascent. Altogether, this was a room whose furnishings were designed to impress.

By contrast, the counting-house behind did no more than serve its purpose. A greater air of neglect hung about it, as though it had been long unused. A table, a bench, two stools and a stout cupboard, secured by a rusting lock and chain, was all that it contained, while the beaten-earth floor showed no drift of mouldering rushes, nor any other sign of recent occupancy. The walls were a greenish-grey colour, but it was impossible to guess, at the first cursory glance, whether this was caused by dirt, or by potash and sulphur mixed with the wash of lime. There was nothing here of interest, and I returned to the passageway.

I stepped into the courtyard, which was rinsed with a pale golden light in the rays of the westering sun. The covered gallery to my right threw long, slanting shadows across the paving stones, where soft cushions of moss and tall stems of nettle and hairy bittercress were forcing themselves between the uneven flags. The well and the pump stood close to the kitchen door, which I unlocked with my key. There being nothing there that I had not already seen in the company of Master Cozin, I mounted the ladder to the storeroom and servants’ quarters above. The same musty odour of damp and disuse met me here as it did everywhere else in the house, and the bareness of the boards, denuded of all hint of human habitation, only served to emphasize the fact that it was surely some months since anyone had slept here. The walls had again been lime-washed, but this time there was no doubt that red oxide had been added to the quick lime to give it a pinkish colour.

A door in the far wall led into the storeroom, which had a faint, lingering scent of apples to sweeten the less pleasant smells. But this, too, was empty except for a sack of grain in the corner. Sharp teeth had torn a hole in the cloth, and corn was spilling on to the floor. A bright-eyed mouse turned to look at me as I entered, then, with a whisk of its tail and a scutter of tiny claws, disappeared into a hole between the boards. In the corner directly opposite me was another door, and this, when unlocked, opened on to the gallery connecting the two blocks of buildings which comprised the whole.

I descended to the kitchen, locked the door from the inside, and returned once more to the storeroom, stepping out on to the covered way and again meticulously locking the door behind me. The planking shook and creaked a little beneath my weight as I walked the length of the courtyard wall, and I was glad of the handrail for support. Nevertheless, the structure seemed safe enough and in no danger of collapsing.

Yet another door at the other end, when unlocked, gave access to the bedchambers and upstairs parlour of the main dwelling.

The room in which I found myself was obviously the chief of the bedchambers, judging by the four-poster bed, hung all around with blue silk draperies. A rich green damask coverlet was draped over what proved, on examination, to be a goose-feather mattress, and the walls were painted with an intricate pattern in red and white which could only have been done at considerable cost and by a skilled craftsman. There were two beautifully carved clothes chests, one supporting a six-branched pewter candelabra, bearing the stumps of pure wax candles, while the floor was still scattered with rushes and dried herbs, now brittle and brown with age. A curtain, drawn across one corner of the room, concealed two chamber-pots and a bathtub.

This room opened on to a short, narrow passage, dark and airless, which offered me the choice of two doors. I opened the one leading to the front of the house, and found myself in the upstairs parlour from one corner of which the stairs twisted down to the lower floor. Three walls were hung with tapestries, now rubbed and faded with age, but once bright with brilliant, jewel-like colours. Their fabric, however, was still intact and I guessed, from knowledge gathered on my journeyings, that they came originally from France. One depicted Tobias being greeted by the angel, Azarias, another showed Judith holding up the bleeding, severed head of Holofernes, the third told the story of Gideon overcoming the Midianites. The roof beams were painted scarlet, blue and green, their ends fashioned into the figures of saints.

The wide stone hearth and chimney stood directly above that of the lower parlour, and the overmantel was even more elaborately carved and coloured than the one downstairs, Indeed, table, chairs, stools and cupboards all displayed superior craftsmanship to the furnishings below. Two rugs on the floor, and glass in the upper half of the windows, were yet further intimations of wealth and luxury.

Having looked my fill, I stepped back into the passage where, with a mere stretch of my arm, I was able to open the second door and enter the other bedchamber. This was furnished in similar fashion to its fellow, but the bed curtains and covering were of unbleached linen, and the mattress I found upon investigation to be stuffed with flock. A ewer and basin stood on top of a clothes chest, and the candleholder contained only a rushlight. A truckle-bed, supporting a palliasse, a rough linen sheet and a couple of coarse woollen blankets, stood alongside the four-poster, evidence that a second or third person had shared the room, most obviously a servant. The window panes were of oiled parchment nailed to the wooden frame, and one of the shutters, folded back against the wall, was in danger of coming loose from its hinges. Not a room on which care or time had been lavished.

As I turned to go, a floorboard creaked beneath my feet and the noise made me jump. I realized for the fast time how deserted the house felt, how eerily silent. Fear pricked along my spine and I began to sweat, aware of the presence of evil.

It was here, in this room, all around me. The hair rose on the nape of my neck and my skin took on the appearance of goose-flesh. I was icily cold and searingly hot at one and the same moment. My legs were giving way beneath me, I felt unable to breathe and I was perilously close to losing my senses…

The terror passed. Propped against the door, my hands clammy with sweat, I was nevertheless breathing naturally and my surroundings appeared perfectly normal. There was nothing and no one here, except myself, and I felt deeply ashamed of my sudden burst of panic. I needed food: it was some hours now since I had eaten my pies down by St Peter’s Quay, and my stomach was crying out for more sustenance.

Pulling myself together, I went back to the parlour and descended the stairs to the lower floor. I had seen everything there was to see of my temporary lodgings, and apart from the highly improbable threat of attack from the outlaws, there was nothing to be afraid of. I told myself firmly that what I had experienced in the second bedchamber was nothing more than bodily weakness engendered by hunger.

Yet I was still left with the unresolved problem of why no one could be found to remain here. There was a general aversion to the house, and, so far, I had not discovered what caused it. Perhaps if I took myself to the local inn, I might obtain some information. So I closed all the shutters and locked all the doors, before letting myself out into the street and directing my feet towards the nearest hostelry.

This I found in the lee of the castle wall – a narrow-fronted, inhospitable-looking dwelling, but whose bunch of green leaves, hoisted on a pole over the entrance, indicated that its occupant sold ale and food. I made my way inside, and when my eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness, I could see a long table down the middle of the room, benches ranged around the walls and a high-backed settle drawn up close to a central hearth, on which a few logs were burning. There were only one or two other customers beside myself, it being, by now, close to the hour of curfew, and doubtless the townsfolk were already making themselves comfortable by their firesides, barricading doors and windows against imaginary attack from the outlaws. I drew a stool up to the table, and shouted for the landlord.

As is often the ease in country districts, the inn was run by a woman. She came into the ale-room from somewhere at the back, by the smell of her, most probably the brewhouse.

At first sight, she appeared to be a large, motherly-looking woman, an impression immediately dispelled on closer acquaintance. Small dark eyes, set in folds of pallid flesh, shrewdly summed me up as someone likely to spend money freely, being in need of copious refreshment. She was therefore all affability, but a pair of brawny arms and a fist, the size and appearance, when bunched, of a ham, were warnings that she would stand no nonsense.

‘Ale,’ I said, ‘and bread and cheese. And plenty of it.’

She nodded, eyeing me appreciatively.

‘A hulking fellow like you could do with some cold, boiled bacon, as well, I daresay. And some buckram, nice and juicy, the first of the season?’

‘Why not?’ I grinned. ‘In my lonely bed, there will be no one to object to the smell of my breath.’

The landlady raised an eyebrow and snorted. ‘Lonely bed, is it? Then it’s of your own choosing. There are girls in plenty around these parts who’d jump at the chance of keeping you warm, if you so much as crooked a finger. I’d do so myself if I were twenty years younger.’ She added a foul-mouthed sally and went away, chortling.

By the time she returned, I was the only customer left. The ale-house was too small to be a hostelry, and there seemed to be no inmates except herself and a long-faced tapster, who came to draw my ale, then vanished, silently.

‘My son,’ she shrugged, nodding in the general direction of his disappearance. ‘A miserable dog, if ever there was one. But I need him. I can’t manage the barrels on my own. Now, eat up.’ She placed a laden platter before me and drew another stool close to the table. ‘And while you’re eating, you can tell me who you are and where you come from. It’s always a pleasure to meet a stranger.’

So, between mouthfuls of bread and ham, cheese and garlic, all washed down with a good strong ale, I gave her a brief history of my life so far, a narration at which I had become adept over the years, because I always seemed to arouse people’s curiosity. I also related, for the third or fourth time that day, news of King Edward’s proposed invasion of France, at which she spat in the sawdust covering the floor, and remarked that men were born fools who, unhappily, never grew any wiser.

‘Always fighting one another, like children. Killing each other for no good reason. Women need more say in the governing of things, Master Chapman, and then we might see common sense prevailing.’ When she saw that I was not to be drawn, she gave a gap-toothed smile and changed the subject. ‘Where are you sleeping tonight? At the Priory?’

I cleared my mouth. ‘Better than that. I’ve been given a house to myself.’ And I explained the circumstances.

I glanced up from scraping the last morsel of food from my plate to find her regarding me oddly.

‘So! Master Eudo Colet won’t be coming back, eh? Not even to protect his property.’ Once again, she spat contemptuously, this time finding her target on one of the smouldering logs on the hearth. The spittle hissed and sizzled. ‘Not to be wondered at, I suppose. Murder’s an evil thing to be touched by at the best of times. But the death of children is particularly heinous. And when there’s also the suspicion of witchcraft…’ She broke off lifting her ample shoulders.

I stared at her, horrified.

‘No one told me… I have heard of two children being murdered by the outlaws, but these, I presume, are not the ones you speak of?’

‘Aye, the same pair. Brother and sister. Rosamund Crouchback’s children by her first husband. Never saw him. Came from northern parts, and after she married him, they lived in London. But when he died, she came back home to her father, bringing her little ones with her. A wild, wilful girl she was, always, and when Sir Jasper himself died, leaving her everything, she said she’d married to oblige him the first time, and now she was going to marry to please herself. And so she did! Going off to London again – Bartholomewtide, it would have been, three years since – and staying away for a month or more, and leaving those pretty ones in the care of the servants. And when she came home, she was wed again, to Master Eudo Colet! An adventurer with an eye for an easy fortune if ever I saw one. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Everyone disliked him and thought him up a no good. But the one who hated and mistrusted him most of all was Rosamund’s cousin, the children’s nurse, Grizelda Harbourne!’