The Lammas Feast

Ten

It had always been a puzzle to me how my quondam mother-in-law and her friends knew something for a fact, for a certainty. But on this occasion, it seemed that Margaret was right to be positive. Adela confirmed the story she told.

The preceding autumn, while I was in Devon — solving, I may say, one of my most difficult cases, but, according to my womenfolk, shirking my parental responsibilities and escaping from the shackles of my recent marriage — Walter Godsmark had had his first brush with death. He had been standing on one of the city wharves, intimidating some poor innocent with the direst consequences if he didn’t pay Jasper Fairbrother protection money, when the poor innocent foolhardily pushed Walter into the Avon. It was a couple of minutes, apparently, before the cheering onlookers realized that Walter couldn’t swim; and, even when they did, there was no one prepared to jump in and save him. What would have happened if John Overbecks had not come along at that particular moment was a matter of speculation, but the baker had immediately plunged into the river and towed the hapless bully ashore amid the jeers and boos of the populace at large. So, if not exactly everyone, a great many of his fellow citizens knew for a fact that Walter Godsmark could not swim.

But this story, far from reassuring me that the young man’s death was the purest accident, a fate lying in ambush for him and simply waiting to happen, only made me uneasy. The idea that Walter’s and Jasper’s deaths were somehow linked had no basis in fact as far as I could see, but I could not rid my mind of the notion. And I had learned to trust my instincts. The trouble was, of course, that if the deaths were connected, then Walter’s drowning was not an accident, but murder.

I kept my own counsel, however. To persist in my theory could only provoke an argument, and I had had enough aggravation for one evening. I was, moreover, extremely tired and could foresee a disturbed night’s rest ahead of me. So I thanked Margaret for her information, asked her to turn her back while I stripped and tumbled in beside Nicholas, then hid my head beneath the blanket while the two women, in their turn, got ready for bed. Adela finally blew out the rushlight. Darkness and blessed silence descended on the cottage. But not for long.

By morning, great strapping lad though I then was, I was still so tired that I was hard put to it not to have a fit of the vapours like any overwrought young girl.

For a start, I had forgotten how loudly Margaret snored, something I must have inured myself to during the years that Elizabeth and I lived with her in Redcliffe. Secondly, I discovered that Nicholas was not just a restless sleeper, but also a kicker. (Elizabeth probably managed to avoid his flailing legs, but I was a much bigger target.) Then Hercules, unused to being confined at night, decided to explore his new territory, and kept licking my face, just to make sure that I knew he was there. He was so delighted to find me that he was all for sharing the mattress and snuggling in beside me. By the time I had persuaded him to return to his pile of straw and old rags, Adam had woken up, and as being awake and being fed were one and the same thing to him, he began bawling loudly. This led to an acrimonious exchange between Adela and myself as to whose fault this was, mine or the dog’s, and whether having a dog was a good idea in the first place. Eventually, as the first light of dawn pierced the shutters, I fell into the sort of stupefied doze that bodes ill for the coming day.

Breakfast was a silent meal, everyone, even the baby, already worn to the bone. I said goodbye to Margaret, secure in the knowledge that, by the time I returned home, she would be gone, back to her own cottage, and as relieved at the prospect as I was.

‘Where are you off to?’ Adela demanded as I kissed her cheek.

‘First to Saint Michael’s Hill to find Richard and report Walter Godsmark’s death. I doubt Richard had time to get back last night before curfew. In any case, he would probably wish to remain until the stranger recovered consciousness. After that, I shall visit Timothy Plummer at the castle.’

‘All of which should bring you comfortably to dinnertime,’ said my wife caustically, returning my kiss. ‘Can I assume that this afternoon you will be earning us some money?’

I made no reply, but as I went out of the door, I grinned at her over my shoulder, just to show that I hadn’t taken umbrage at her remark. But there was a spark of friction between us; inevitable I suppose after such a night.

The number of people crammed into Cicely Ford’s tiny cottage made ours seem underpopulated. As well as Cicely, Marion Baldock, another sister from the nunnery and the stranger lying in the narrow bed, Richard Manifold was asleep in his hostess’s solitary armchair — a handsome piece I recognized from happier days in the Herepath household — while Jack Gload and Peter Littleman were stretched out, also asleep, on the floor, in some measure obstructing the doorway. The physician, who had obviously been unable to find other accommodation, was slumped on a stool, his head pillowed on his arms, which were resting on top of the table.

Cicely and her two assistants looked harassed, as well they might, and at the sight of me, the younger nun obviously decided that enough was enough. She murmured something to Cicely and slipped unobtrusively out of the cottage. Cicely sent me a welcoming smile, but she was too tired and careworn for it to radiate much warmth.

As I stepped over the sleeping forms of Jack Gload and Peter Littleman, I nodded towards the stranger and asked, ‘Has he come round yet?’

Cicely shook her head. ‘But the doctor has hopes of his doing so before very long. He took a look at him an hour ago and said that he’s beginning to breathe more normally.’ She indicated the patient. ‘He opened his eyes once, but closed them again almost immediately. Since when, he hasn’t stirred. But it seems it’s a promising sign. Are you all right, Roger? You look terrible.’

‘A bad night,’ I said briefly, and shook Richard Manifold’s arm. ‘Sergeant, wake up! Walter Godsmark’s dead.’

Cicely exclaimed in horror, and her hand flew to her mouth, but it took Richard a minute or two before he managed to rouse himself sufficiently to absorb my words.

‘G-Godsmark’s dead? How? When? What are you saying?’

‘Walter Godsmark’s dead,’ I repeated loudly and clearly. ‘He was found drowned in the Frome yesterday evening.’

‘Who — who found him?’

‘I did.’

Richard groaned and held his head in his hands.

‘Oh no! Oh no! Dear God in Heaven! I might have guessed.’ He turned on me fiercely. ‘Can’t you keep your nose out of my business just for one day?’

I thought he was being unnecessarily offensive, and told him so. He told me he didn’t care a fig for my opinion.

‘Where’s the body now?’

‘At the Dominican friary in the Broad Meads. It was after curfew when I made the discovery, while I was bathing. As far as I can see, there are no marks of violence, but I thought you’d want to see it before it was moved. Somebody will have to inform Goody Godsmark. Unless Walter made a habit of stopping out all night, she must be getting worried.’

Cursing and grumbling, Richard dragged himself to his feet. Cicely brought him a beaker of her home-made ale, which he swallowed manfully (although the expression on his face warned me to refuse politely if she offered any to me). Then he roused Jack Gload and Peter Littleman to give them the news.

‘I’m going down to the friary now. You pair stay here and keep a close watch on the prisoner. As soon as he’s conscious, one of you remain with him, the other come and get me. Is that understood?’

His henchmen nodded glumly. They were hungry, aching all over, unwashed, unshaven (the last two probably didn’t worry them unduly) and wanted to go home. They went outside to relieve themselves before coming back to stand morosely at the bottom of the bed. I offered to accompany Richard Manifold, but his response was so discouraging that I judged it wise to loiter for a few minutes, then follow him down to the city at a safe distance. Consequently, it was another half an hour before I crossed the castle barbican and entered the outer ward.

I skirted the keep to the constable’s quarters on the south side, where I was hopeful of finding Timothy Plummer. I was not disappointed, but was only just in time to waylay him as he emerged, disgruntled, into the stifling air of another hot morning. He led the way back inside the crumbling guardroom, giving vent to a litany of complaints.

‘Look at this place! Falling down around their ears! But I suppose the city fathers are too mean to spend money on it. Bristol is one of the richest cities, if not the richest, outside London and the skinflints won’t maintain the castle properly. And Saint Martin’s Chapel, over there! I’m told that a brother from Saint James’s Priory is supposed to be in attendance every day of the week to say the Holy Office and hear confession. But is there one? No! And why not? Because the monks have decided among themselves that three days a week is quite enough for the heathen population of the garrison. A brother comes Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Today being a Thursday, there’s nobody there. And to cap it all, the damn sergeant assigned to me by the sheriff, to put me in the picture, has disappeared. Left here yesterday evening, and hasn’t been back since.’

‘And I’m quite pleased to see you, too, Timothy,’ I grinned, sitting down at the guardroom table and nodding to one of the guards, who moved away quickly as soon as he recognized my irate companion.

Timothy Plummer returned my grin reluctantly. ‘Well. .!’ he grimaced, seating himself opposite me and calling loudly for ale.

He was just the same; a little older, a little fleshier, a few more grey hairs, but still the same small, restless, wiry creature that I had known for the past seven years since my first meeting with him in London, when I rescued him from the importunate clutches of an overenthusiastic shopkeeper.

‘So!’ he said, when our ale had been brought by an orderly, who had also beaten a smart retreat. ‘I have to thank you, I believe, for thumping two of my men and nearly preventing the capture of a dangerous spy.’

‘Me! You mean the stupidity of your two roughnecks and the reticence of Sergeant Manifold!’ I answered with asperity. ‘Anyway, your spy is still alive, or he was when I last saw him half an hour ago.’ And I told Timothy where to find the stranger. ‘But Sergeant Manifold has had to come down to the Dominican friary. There’s been another death. A drowning.’

Timothy raised his eyebrows, but once in possession of the details, he shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me. My business is to wait until the spy recovers sufficiently, then take him back to London.’

‘You’re sure this is the man you’re after?’ I demurred. ‘It seems you don’t even know his name.’

‘True. But all will be revealed in due time. Our agent at the Tudor court is the best we have, but even he could pick up no more than a rumour of this man’s mission and his probable port of arrival, so much secrecy has surrounded him.’

‘And if he isn’t the man?’

Timothy stretched his arms until the bones cracked. ‘So much the worse for him. He won’t be able to end his agony when he’s put to the torture.’

I shivered. ‘What are you doing working for the King?’ I asked. ‘Why have you deserted Duke Richard?’

‘I haven’t deserted him!’ My companion was indignant. ‘I’m only on loan to King Edward. But since Clarence’s death, the duke and duchess have retired to the north, to Middleham and Sheriff Hutton, and there His Grace intends to stay. He won’t go near the court in future, unless he has to. His hatred of the Woodvilles is now so intense that he can barely tolerate being in the presence of any one of them. But I can’t stand that sort of rustic existence. Unlike His Grace, I don’t like the north. I’m a Londoner, born and bred. I told the duke so, and he quite understood. He wrote and offered my services to the King’ — Timothy’s chest swelled by at least half an inch — ‘who readily, eagerly, I might say, accepted.’

I pushed aside my empty ale cup and folded my arms.

‘Then tell me, as one who is deep in the King’s confidence, what was the truth about Clarence’s death? Drowned in a butt of malmsey wine was the nonsense we heard. There were other versions, of course, just as wild and foolish, but that seemed to be the one most widely reported.’

‘You think it nonsense, do you?’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, it’s the truth.’ I tried not to look incredulous. Timothy leaned over and tapped the table. ‘Think about it and you’ll see it makes sense.’

I thought about it, but without much success. ‘It still sounds like a mare’s nest.’

Timothy sighed. It was a habit he had when talking to me, as though forced to deal with a peculiarly dim-witted child.

‘Put yourself in the King’s shoes. On the one hand’ — mixing his metaphors — ‘you know that fratricide, even when it’s legal, is generally abhorred by most right-thinking people. On the other, you’re desperate to pacify your queen and her family, who are all baying for Clarence’s blood. And on the third hand — well, you know what I mean — you’re pretty desperate yourself to get rid of a brother who knows too much.’

‘What did Clarence know?’ I interrupted.

My companion gave me a pitying look. ‘Even if I knew — which I don’t — I wouldn’t tell you. The less people like us know, the better. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes! As the King, you don’t want to offend your subjects too openly, by a properly staged execution. But your troublesome, scheming brother has been tried and sentenced to death, the death warrant signed. So you warn him today is the day he must die. He attends Mass, offers up his Mass penny, makes his confession and his peace with God and his enemies. Then he’s left alone. Some kind friend has sent him a cask of his favourite malmsey wine. If you were Clarence, what would you do?’

‘Oh, I’m Clarence now, am I? All right, I’ll play. I’d get drunk. Stinking, out of my head, out of my mind, blind drunk.’

‘Exactly! And if, then, a couple of turnkeys — acting under orders, of course — popped into your cell and held you head-down in the cask of malmsey until you drowned, isn’t that a better way to go than with your head on the block, at the mercy of some blundering butcher of an executioner?’

‘And better for the King, as well,’ I murmured, ‘because no one knows for certain what has happened to Clarence. There are rumours, but no one knows whether or not to believe them. By the time we know for a fact that Brother George really is dead and mouldering in his tomb in Tewkesbury Abbey, we’ve all got used to the idea. The King’s got rid of him without suffering any wave of popular revulsion. Clever. Is that what really happened?’

Timothy looked offended. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

I sucked in my bottom lip. ‘It’s feasible, I suppose. It has a certain irresistible logic to it. And there’s one thing for sure,’ I added, tapping the tabletop in my turn, ‘we’re never going to be told anything different, not now, nor in the future.’

‘You’re a hard man to convince,’ Timothy snorted, rising to his feet. ‘Well, I suppose I must be away to this woman’s cottage you’ve told me about, to see my prisoner for myself. Do you want to come with me?’

I hesitated. ‘I would,’ I said, ‘if I were sure that Sergeant Manifold has sent to inform the Widow Godsmark of her son’s death. But I think I must satisfy myself on that point before I do anything else. She lives very close, within sight of the castle walls, so I’ll go there now. If you truly don’t object to my company, I’ll catch you up.’

Timothy grinned. ‘By all means. Your company, Roger, is akin to an old nagging toothache that comes back every now and then, when the wind’s in the wrong quarter, to plague me. Irritating, but familiar, and I know it will go away again.’

I returned the grin. ‘Admit that you and His Grace of Gloucester owe me a lot.’

‘I wouldn’t deny it,’ he answered handsomely, but took the gilt off the gingerbread by adding, ‘I wouldn’t dare to.’

We left the guardroom by a door that looked as if its hinges might give way at any minute, and my companion promptly tripped over a block of fallen masonry.

‘You see what I mean,’ Timothy snarled.

I concealed a smile and we proceeded across the barbican bridge to the town beyond. My companion was immediately hailed by Richard Manifold, who, as luck would have it, was passing at that very moment, accompanied by four of the brothers from the friary, carrying Walter’s body on a makeshift bier.

‘Master Plummer! Grant me a minute or two’s grace and I’ll conduct you to Mistress Ford’s cottage. Our suspect’s there. With luck, he’ll have recovered consciousness by now.’ He noticed me and his expression changed. He looked suddenly like a man who had just been poked in the stomach with a very sharp stick. ‘What are you doing here, Chapman?’

‘Renewing acquaintance with an old friend,’ I answered blithely. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

He was about to tell me in no uncertain terms what I could do with my offer, when he had second thoughts.

‘You can accompany the brothers to Goody Godsmark’s and break the sad news to her, while I take Master Plummer to Mistress Ford’s. The sooner we get back to our prisoner the better.’ He enjoyed equating himself with an officer of the King.

I managed to hide my annoyance and gave him my most disarming smile. ‘Of course. I’ll join you both later.’

Before Richard could cavil at this proposal, Timothy clapped me on the back and said, ‘Yes, do that, Roger. We’ll be pleased to have your company.’ He nodded abruptly at Richard. ‘Lead the way, Sergeant.’

They strode off in the direction of the Frome Bridge. I joined the sad little procession bound for Goody Godsmark’s cottage.

The widow took the news of her son’s death as badly as I had feared she would. At first, she was struck almost dumb, white and trembling and refusing to believe it was Walter on the bier, until one of the friars removed the sheet that covered him. Even then, she stared at the discoloured, bloated face for some moments before giving a high-pitched scream and throwing herself on her knees beside the bier, which had been lowered to the floor. After that, her grief increased in volume until the neighbours were crowding in to find out what was going on. The brothers didn’t wait to enlighten them — cravenly leaving that to me — and disappeared with a practised rapidity that said very little for the Christian virtues of comfort and compassion.

To my relief, once I had explained the facts of Walter’s death, the women began to take charge as, thank God, they always do in such circumstances. The men were worse than useless, standing about and getting in the way, the more charitable amongst them murmuring that they weren’t at all surprised, the rivers claimed the lives of too many drunkards, while the rest muttered darkly that anyone who did Jasper Fairbrother’s dirty work for him deserved all he got.

After a decent interval, I decided that I, too, could slip away without being missed, leaving Goody Godsmark in the hands of her capable neighbours. But as I inched towards the cottage door, she noticed me and gave an ear-piercing shriek. Strong men flinched.

‘You!’ she cried, one of her long, bony fingers stabbing the air in front of her. ‘You! Chapman! I told you you shouldn’t have started my boy thinking! I knew no good would come of it! It weren’t natural to him. But you would encourage him! Brooding he was, all Tuesday, after you’d gone. Went out, but wouldn’t say where he was going. Came back. Brooded some more. Then went out a second time.’ Her voice rose to a banshee wail. ‘It’s your fault! Your fault! You started him thinking!’

I paused, no longer so desirous to escape. I felt her words had some significance that was eluding me, believing as I did that Walter’s death might not have been an accident. But at present the cottage was too crowded, the widow herself too upset for me to make any attempt at interrogation.

‘She’s hysterical,’ one of the women said. ‘You’d better go, Chapman. Your presence seems to be disturbing her. And you’re doing no good here. You and that pack of yours are just taking up room.’

I know when I’m not wanted. I left, several of the men sniggering behind their hands at the sight of a great lout like myself being bullied by a very small woman. But I would be back later, when Goody Godsmark had had time to bury her dead and get over her first overwhelming shock and grief.

Outside, I ran into Maria Watkins, Bess Simnel and a cohort of other goodies from Redcliffe, a sure sign that Margaret had returned home and spread the news of Walter’s death. I was instantly surrounded and bombarded with urgent demands for details, but managed to extricate myself by saying that, while they dallied outside the cottage, they were missing the action. The goodies hastened indoors to offer their condolences to the bereaved widow and add their voices to the general chorus of woe. Had they not always foreseen that some such tragic accident would happen to Walter one day?

I went home in order to leave my pack before climbing Saint Michael’s Hill to join Timothy Plummer and the others. Adela was out. Also missing were the children, the dog and Adam’s little cart on wheels, so I guessed that my family had probably accompanied Margaret part of the way home to Redcliffe and then gone shopping in the market. The day was still hot and getting hotter. I thought guiltily of my wife now having to cope with Hercules in addition to her other burdens, but resisted, without too much difficulty, the temptation to seek her out and offer my help. I also reflected that, now Margaret had left us, I no longer had an excuse to postpone my confession about kissing Cicely Ford. I had promised Cicely I would make it, and intended to keep my word. Nevertheless, it seemed more and more to be much ado about nothing, and my irritation rose accordingly. I glanced around the cottage’s one room and, empty though it was, felt stifled and hemmed in. The knowledge that I had brought my troubles on myself — if troubles they were — only exacerbated my feelings. I should never have let a stray dog acquire me; I should never have fathered another child; I should never have married a widow with a little boy; nor, going right back to the beginning, should I have let myself be seduced by Lillis and then inveigled into marrying her. For ten minutes or so, I wallowed in self-pity.

Then, suddenly, I caught myself up short. As the holy scriptures tell us, there comes a time when you have to put away childish things and take responsibility for your life. I gave myself a mental kick, swilled my face in the water barrel, treated myself to a quick glimpse of my two gold pieces in their hiding-place under the floor, seized my cudgel and set off for Cicely Ford’s cottage.

The forest of stalls and booths around Saint James’s Priory was now almost complete, with only one or two people still hammering away at last-minute preparations for Saturday’s grand opening. Goods were beginning to arrive, brought on mule and horseback, to be stored and locked up in the back of each stall, and the sellers of hot pies and meats were making sure that they had enough fuel to heat their ovens. The activity was frenetic, and I was virtually ignored as I made my way towards the stile and climbed over into Prior’s Lane.

It was far too hot to hurry, and I walked up Saint Michael’s Hill with leisurely strides. I was within sight of Cicely Ford’s cottage when I heard voices raised in anger and what sounded like dismay. I recognized the strident London tones of Timothy Plummer above the rest, and reached the door in time to hear him shout, ‘How, in God’s name, did this happen? Call yourself a physician, sir? You assured the sergeant here that this man was in no danger! That he would make a full recovery! But he hasn’t, has he? Take a closer look at him, Doctor! I think you’ll find that he’s dead.’