The Lammas Feast

Thirteen

‘Wait a moment!’ I exclaimed, holding up one hand.

‘The story I had from Margaret Walker, and the story she had from Marion Baldock, was that Marion had killed Jane’s attacker. And there was no suggestion that either of them took any pleasure in the deed. Afterwards, both sisters ran, and never stopped running until they reached Bristol.’

Cicely looked puzzled. ‘You must have made a mistake, Roger. Perhaps you didn’t understand what Mistress Walker was saying.’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t misunderstand. I’m certain.’

‘Then maybe your mother-in-law misunderstood Sister Jerome.’

‘I don’t think so. Margaret is a good listener, and, if someone was talking about something as dramatic as a stabbing, it’s highly unlikely that she would confuse the words “I” and “my sister”. No, Marion Baldock was lying, either to Margaret or to you.’

Cicely thought about this for a moment or two, before coming to the conclusion that I had already reached.

‘She lied to Mistress Walker, then, to protect Jane. She needed to open her heart to someone, but balked at telling her the whole truth. But by the time she confessed the incident to me, she had taken her vows, and would have been ashamed to lie.’

I asked curiously, ‘When were you told the story?’

Cicely rubbed her forehead. ‘I can’t remember. A little while ago, not long after Sister Jerome entered the nunnery. I think Master Overbecks had brought his wife to see her, and Jane had behaved even more peculiarly than usual. Marion had begun to have serious doubts about her sister’s sanity, and wanted to talk to someone. I was here. She had come to the cottage on an errand for the Reverend Mother, and was obviously distressed and worried. I persuaded her to confide in me. But she has never mentioned the subject since, nor encouraged me to do so.’

‘Did she explain why she’s never told John Overbecks this story?’

‘Hasn’t she?’ Cicely pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I didn’t know that. As I say, we have only discussed the matter once, and afterwards, Sister Jerome may well have regretted telling me. But I should guess that she doesn’t want to prejudice his feelings against her sister. She thinks John a good man, someone who will provide for, and look after, Jane, someone who is devoted to her happiness and well-being. The knowledge that she had killed a man, for whatever reason, could make him uneasy.’

‘With good reason,’ I commented drily.

Cicely rose from her seat and came to stand beside me. ‘Roger,’ she said, taking one of my hands in hers, ‘I’ve told you this in order to make you see that Adela’s instincts are not misplaced. Whatever your own inclinations, you would do well to keep your distance from Jane Overbecks.’

I sighed deeply. ‘You’re right. I must go home and make my peace with Adela. She’s not a fanciful woman, and I should have listened to her point of view with greater sympathy. But I’ve always been selfish. And the cottage is so crowded now, it would have been heaven on earth to have had more space.’

‘Listen!’ Cicely gave my hand a little shake. ‘Under the terms of Edward’s will’ — this was Edward Herepath, her late guardian — ‘I inherited all his wealth and property, including the house in Small Street. Had I entered the nunnery, as I intended, it would have formed a part of my dowry, but when I decided to become merely a lay sister, I retained the house. Part of its rent is what I live on; the rest I give to the nuns. The house is occupied at present, but when the tenants leave, which I believe they have every intention of doing quite soon, would you and your family consider replacing them?’

I felt like a condemned man who has suddenly been given the hope of a reprieve. I lifted Cicely’s hand to my lips. She saw the answer in my eyes long before I breathed an ecstatic, ‘Yes, please.’

She smiled, looking happier than I had seen her in a long time. ‘That’s settled then. Now, go home and make things up with your wife. You don’t deserve her.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ I grinned. ‘So does she.’

As I was leaving the cottage, I met Marion Baldock coming in. We nodded politely to one another and I stood aside to let her pass. I heard Cicely’s voice, raised in pleasure. ‘Sister Jerome, you’re very welcome.’

I went on my way.

Adela and I made up our quarrel so satisfactorily that, after the children were all asleep that night, we made love for the first time since Adam’s birth. She still found it somewhat of an ordeal, but, as I told her, thanks to my manly skills it was not as uncomfortable as it might otherwise have been. She was forced to stifle her derisive laughter in the pillows, while trying to hug and kiss me at the same time. It wasn’t easy.

‘Oh, I do so hate fighting with you,’ she said. ‘Sweetheart, if Mistress Ford keeps her promise, and we eventually do get the house in Small Street, we shall need more furniture. Those gold pieces are going to come in very handy.’ I groaned and she laughed, giving me yet another squeeze. ‘When will you tell John Overbecks?’

‘What shall I tell John Overbecks?’ I countered gloomily. ‘That’s more to the point. I can hardly tell him the truth.’

‘You’ll think of something,’ my wife murmured sleepily. ‘You always do.’ Her confidence in my powers of persuasion was amazing. I just hoped it wasn’t misplaced. ‘Shush now! We’re both tired. What we need is a good night’s rest.’

She shouldn’t have said that. Fate found it too great a temptation to resist. Adam promptly woke up and screamed the place down.

The following morning, with a splitting headache and feeling far from my best, I visited the baker. Somewhat to my surprise, he was more upset by my refusal of his offer than I had expected. After all, I thought, he could now sell the High Street property, simply and without fuss, to the highest bidder. He had made Adela and me a generous offer, which, after talking it over, we had politely and regretfully declined on the grounds that it was too risky an undertaking. As an excuse, it could have sounded a little feeble, and may have had a false ring to it, but it certainly did not warrant his bad temper and abuse.

‘I never took you for a fool, Chapman, but that’s what you are! You’ve allowed that wife of yours to talk you out of the best offer of domestic comfort you’ll ever receive. You’re henpecked! And a man who can’t control his womenfolk is no man in my judgement. Nor in that of anyone worthy of the name! Well, get along with you! I haven’t the time to stand here talking all morning. I’ll make your Lammas loaves this time, because I’ve promised, but don’t come begging favours of me ever again.’

I left the bakery still dazed and a little battered by his unlooked-for ill will, but the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I began to feel there was something sinister about his anger. It seemed to confirm that Adela’s fears had been justified: that John Overbecks had wanted us close to him so that Jane might have a surrogate baby. Which just went to show that Adela was more astute in her understanding of other people’s motives than I was. But then, she could have told me that.

In order to recover from this unpleasant encounter, I went to the Green Lattis and sat at my favourite table. While I drank my stoup of ale, I considered what to do next. Should I pursue my investigation into the three deaths of the past three days, or should I let the matter rest? I really knew the answer before I asked myself the question, but I also realized that the enquiry had, for the moment, ground to a halt. I needed to talk to Goody Godsmark, but that would be an intrusion just at present. Until Walter was buried and she had had sufficient time to mourn him, there was nothing I could do. Another, even more important consideration was that I must get back to work. I had sold nothing for almost two days, and with Saint James’s Fair starting the following day, I could not afford to let myself be distracted any longer. As everyone was so fond of reminding me, I was now a family man.

Saint James’s Fair got bigger and rowdier with every passing year. Beginning on the twenty-fifth of July, Saint James’s Day itself, the original charter had been for just over a week, but nowadays it invariably lasted for more than a fortnight. It was, and probably still is for all I know, one of the biggest fairs in England, and people came from all over the country, as well as from Wales, Ireland and even as far afield as Scotland, to buy and sell. Cattle traders, sheep dealers, drapers, skinners, upholsterers, basket makers, weavers, ironsmiths, you think of a trade and name it, they were all there, touting their wares. There were purveyors of woollen goods from Yorkshire, silk merchants and goldsmiths from London, wood carvers from the valleys of south Wales. And, of course, the sellers of food and wine made money hand over fist, while the city’s many whorehouses never closed their doors except on Sundays; and even then there were ways of getting in if a desperate client crossed the brothel keeper’s palm with silver. (This was simply hearsay, not first-hand knowledge, you understand!)

Unfortunately, it goes almost without saying that a second army of cutpurses, cut-throats, pickpockets and thieves in general arrived in the wake of the genuine traders, with every intention of returning home richer than they came. And undoubtedly amongst their number were more sinister characters who preyed on children, seizing them and carrying them off, never to be seen by parents and family again. As a result, Adela was afraid to let either Nicholas or Elizabeth out of her sight; and, because they were both now at an active age, they grew daily more fractious at being confined within the cottage’s four walls.

Margaret, who ate her dinner with us on the first day of the fair, anticipated the problem, and on Monday, sent word by Jack Nym that she was willing for the two older children to stay with her in Redcliffe for the duration of the fair. After some discussion, Adela and I agreed that we would let them go until the end of the week, but that I would fetch them home on Friday, the day before the Lammas Feast. I duly informed Jack Nym that I would myself take Elizabeth and Nicholas to Redcliffe after dinner, later that same morning, and he promised to pass on my message.

Consequently, when we had finished our meal, Adela packed a basket with a change of clothing for each child, their night shifts and a couple of toys — a ball for Nicholas and Elizabeth’s favourite doll — and I set off with them through the town, both too excited to speak. In a few years’ time, when they were older, they would probably object roundly to being removed to safety and missing all the fun of the fair. But at present, the milling crowds frightened them; they felt threatened by the hordes of unfamiliar faces, and were only too happy to spend a few days being thoroughly spoilt and pampered by Margaret, the centre of attraction for once, instead of Adam. Whatever Adela might say to the contrary, I knew they still resented him.

Earlier that morning, between sunrise and dinnertime, at ten o’clock, I had spent a profitable few hours at the fair, selling the goods I had bought from the Spanish ship some five days before. I had sold the leather gloves for twice their purchasing price; one pair to a very fine gentleman who had claimed to be secretary to the Dean of Wells Cathedral, and who was intending to give them as a birthday gift to his master; the other to a wealthy Yorkshire merchant, whose way of speaking was so strange that I couldn’t understand him any more than he could understand me, and we were forced to conduct the entire transaction in sign language. The tooled leather belt tags were just as quickly snapped up, while the silver and coral rosary was bought for his wife by a Welshman, who offered me in exchange three exquisitely carved wooden loving spoons. I kept one as a present for Adela and sold the other two. The length of black lace, which I had planned to sell for three times what I had paid for it, went for four times as much to another rich north-countryman, under much the same conditions as I had sold the second pair of gloves. (I reflected that if my travels ever took me to the northern shires, I must remember to take an interpreter along with me.) As for the fake jewellery, I got rid of that faster than all the rest, and there must have been many a young man that evening trying to persuade his sweetheart that he had spent a small fortune on her, and that the chain around her neck, or the ring on her finger, was genuine gold.

Not unnaturally, I was feeling extremely pleased with myself and, as a reward, was taking the rest of the day off. So I was free to spend half an hour or so with my former mother-in-law, listening to her complaints about the heat, her neighbours and the poor quality of the sermon that had been preached the previous day at Saint Thomas’s Church, all the while nodding sympathetically. In return, I told her of John Overbecks’s offer and of the subsequent outcome, watching in amusement as her face registered the conflicting emotions of horror at what she saw as a golden opportunity thrown away for a scruple, and relief that Adam would not, after all, be living too close to Jane Overbecks. In order to ease her dilemma, and to escape a homily on the necessity of finding somewhere to live other than our present cramped accommodation, I disclosed Cicely Ford’s subsequent offer of her house in Small Street. I could see that Margaret was secretly delighted by the way she sat up straighter in her chair and relaxed the tight, disapproving expression round her mouth. But all she said was, ‘I suppose that’s something. Especially now you have that mongrel cur to feed and house, as well.’

I decided it was time to be on my way. I kissed the children, exhorting them — as all parents do, but without much hope of being attended to — to be good and do exactly as they were told. They nodded impatiently and continued with the game they were inventing, which seemed to centre on lining up Margaret’s billets of firewood and making Elizabeth’s doll jump over them. I glanced enquiringly at my companion, but she only shrugged.

‘They make up their own games.’

‘I’ll call for them sometime on Friday,’ I said, stooping to peck her cheek. ‘And I’ll bring the dog to see you.’ She shuddered.

I walked briskly across Bristol Bridge, stopping only to buy Adela a length of ribbon at one of the shops — having sold all my own supply that morning — and was crossing Saint Nicholas Backs towards High Street, when I heard my name called. I recognized Cicely Ford’s voice and paused at once, searching the crowds for her familiar figure. I saw her at last, making her way along the Backs from the direction of the Marsh Gate, and raised a hand in greeting. She smiled in return, but it was a tired smile, and her feet dragged as though she was ineffably weary. It struck me for the first time that she might be ill, or that the life of poverty and self-denial that she now chose to lead was sapping her strength. Her delicate, flower-like face was pale, in spite of the continuing days of relentless heat. Everyone else, including myself, was red and sweating. She looked cold.

As she drew abreast, I proffered my arm. She accepted it gladly, almost with relief.

‘Are you going home?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I’ve been visiting Master Hulin, my lawyer,’ she explained, adding, ‘He must be John Overbecks’s lawyer, as well, because I met Master Overbecks going in just as I was leaving. Master Hulin lives in Back Street.’

‘I know,’ I said.

She didn’t ask how I knew; indeed, I doubt if she heard me. Her weight on my arm was becoming heavier with every passing minute as we fought our way up High Street through the midday crowds. Three seagulls were perched on top of a pile of offal in the central drain, and as we passed, one of them rose up screaming, a piece of bloody entrail hanging from its beak. Cicely jumped and clung tighter still. I could feel her trembling.

‘I–I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘The bird startled me.’

‘Are you unwell?’ I asked, concerned that she might be about to faint. I could already feel a prickle of embarrassment as I visualized the scene. (As my womenfolk will tell you, men are such cowards!)

‘I’m perfectly well,’ she assured me, lifting her face to smile at me. She gave a little chuckle as though guessing my thoughts.

Nevertheless, when we eventually crossed the Frome into Lewin’s Mead, I insisted that she rested a while in our cottage, where Adela fussed over her and gave her a cooling drink of sweet nettle wine and let her nurse Adam until her arms grew heavy. Our son was clean and on his best behaviour, having just been fed and had his napkin cloth changed, ready to delight any stranger discerning enough to admire him and tell him what a beautiful boy he was.

‘You shouldn’t be wearing yourself out in this heat,’ my wife scolded our visitor. ‘It has been a little cooler these last few nights, but now there’s all the din of the fair to keep honest folk awake. Mistress Ford, are you safe in that cottage on your own? Couldn’t the nuns find you a bed until the fair is over? They must have somewhere you could sleep.’

Cicely gave her gentle, tired smile. ‘I don’t notice the heat and the noise,’ she replied softly. ‘I prefer to be on my own. And after all, who would want to harm me?’

‘Plenty of men,’ I told her roughly, trying to disguise my concern. ‘The fairground’s full of evil characters. Adela’s right. You ought to move into the nunnery. Speak to Sister Jerome. She seems fond of you. She’ll do something about it.’

Cicely gave an obstinate shake of her head. ‘I’m all right,’ she repeated.

I said no more, indicating to Adela that neither should she. I could guess what was going on in Cicely’s head. She felt that if anything untoward happened to her, it would simply be what she deserved for abandoning the man she had loved to his fate, for failing him when he had most needed her, for not believing him when he had protested his innocence. I suspected that she might even welcome death as an end to her unhappiness.

She stayed with us for about an hour, maybe a little longer, but it was early afternoon when I escorted her home, taking the long way round in order to avoid the worst excesses of the fair. Even so, we encountered a fight between a party of drunks in Horse Street, just by the Virgin’s shrine, and I had to shepherd Cicely past this lively brawl, keeping my head carefully averted in case one of the contenders decided to take exception to my face. All the same, I saw enough of the warring parties to suffer a jolt of recognition. I felt I knew one of the men, but slunk by so fast, propelling Cicely along with an arm about her waist, that the impression was fleeting. By the time we were approaching Saint Michael’s Hill, I was convinced that I must have been mistaken. And all other thoughts were soon driven from my head by the sight of John Overbecks deep in agitated conversation with his sister-in-law outside the nunnery.

Still acutely conscious of the former’s anger with me over my rejection of his offer, I hung back, although intensely curious, reluctant to intrude and risk a snubbing. It was Cicely, therefore, who hurried forward to ask, ‘Is anything the matter, Master Overbecks? Sister Jerome? Can Roger or I be of any assistance?’

Neither of them had heard us coming, and at the sound of her voice, they both swung round, their faces — one so thin, the other so square and shiny — puckered with concern. They stared at us for a second or two as if they were unsure who we were, then the baker drew a deep breath and passed a hand across his forehead. Marion Baldock, too, pulled herself together.

‘Mistress Ford! You startled me!’ John Overbecks came forward to take her hand. He noticed me and acknowledged my presence with an abrupt nod. ‘It’s — it’s Jane,’ he explained. ‘I. . I can’t find her. She must have left the house sometime after dinner while I was busy in the shop. I’ve searched everywhere for her. I thought she might have come up here to find her sister. But Marion — er — Sister Jerome hasn’t seen her.’ Again he mopped his forehead, this time with a piece of cloth that he produced from his jerkin pocket.

‘Can we help you look?’ Cicely asked at once, forgetting her own tiredness, or at least prepared to overcome it.

‘No. Certainly not,’ Marion Baldock said decisively, ‘not in this heat. Cicely, my child, you appear to me to be far from well. Go home and lie down. John and I can manage this on our own. Jane can’t have gone far.’ She turned to her brother-in-law. ‘John, have you enquired at the Hodges’ cottage? You know how fond Jane is of Jenny.’

The baker banged his head with his fist. ‘My wits have gone woolgathering. Of course, that’s where she’ll be. I’ll go home immediately to make sure she still isn’t there. If not, I’ll go straight to Redcliffe.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘What would Jane and I do without you? You’re so practical.’

The nun smiled thinly. ‘I’ve had to be.’

‘Well, if Mistress Overbecks is neither at home nor with Jenny Hodges, let me know,’ I volunteered to the baker, ‘and I’ll help you search. It’s too hot to do any more work today.’

‘That’s good of you,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘I’ll be off, then.’

He didn’t, I noticed, offer to wait for me, although he must have guessed I wouldn’t be long; but he did give me a half smile, a first step, perhaps, to making up our quarrel (if that’s what it was) and coming to a better understanding. He strode away down the hill.

Marion Baldock turned to me. ‘Master Chapman, I’ll see Mistress Ford home.’ Cicely was about to protest, but the older woman silenced her before she could utter a word. ‘I insist. You need to rest. You’re worn out. I shall make you a herbal drink and then make sure that you lie down and have a sleep. You’re a foolish girl. You shouldn’t be trailing around in this heat.’

I could see for myself how frail Cicely was looking, and felt that the ministrations of another woman were probably what she needed. I therefore relinquished my charge into Marion Baldock’s care with a sense of relief. As I was turning to go, however, I recollected something I had been meaning to ask her.

‘Cicely!’ I said. She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘What we were talking about the other day. Have you remembered anything more?’

She wrinkled her brow for a moment or two in an effort of memory, then her face cleared.

‘Oh, you’re talking about the morning the stranger died!’ She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry. Only what I told you later in the day. To be truthful, I haven’t really given it much thought since then. In fact, I’d forgotten you’d asked me. But I promise to give it serious consideration, and if I do recall anything else, I’ll let you know at once.’ She held out her hand, smiling shyly. ‘Thank you for seeing me home. And please thank Mistress Chapman for all her kindness. Kiss Adam for me.’

I took her hand in mine and laughed. ‘That boy doesn’t need any more adulation,’ I said. ‘He has too great a sense of his own importance already, young though he may be.’

She laughed in her turn, then walked up the hill, Marion Baldock in attendance, and disappeared with a final wave of her hand into her cottage.

As I walked down Saint Michael’s Hill, I felt, for the first time in more than a week, a faint breeze ruffling my hair and caressing my cheek. On the distant horizon, a few clouds were beginning to pile in from the west. I took heart. Perhaps the weather was about to break. The revellers at the fair could be about to get a dowsing, which might mean a quieter night. At least the two older children were out of harm’s way in Redcliffe. That was one good thing.

I thought briefly about their animosity towards Adam. Adela and Margaret steadfastly refused to acknowledge it, but it was perfectly plain to me. I consoled myself with the reflection that it was probably natural and would pass, given time. Once Adam began to grow and started to incur his mother’s and my wrath for his antics, Elizabeth and Nicholas would realize that we didn’t favour him over them; that our dark, gypsyish-looking little rogue wasn’t, metaphorically speaking, our blue-eyed, golden-haired boy.

I returned to Lewin’s Mead the way I had come, and as I passed along Horse Street and approached the Virgin’s shrine, my mind reverted to the fight that Cicely and I had witnessed earlier. I was again seized with the conviction that I had known one of the protagonists, but however hard I tried to picture the scene again, I failed to visualize the faces of the men involved. I was still thinking about it when I entered the city by the Frome Gate and made my way to High Street to discover if Jane Overbecks had been found.