The Lammas Feast

Five

I had barely set foot inside the door before my legs were assaulted by a small, black and white dog who yapped around my ankles, trying to nip them with a set of extremely sharp teeth. Only my stout leather boots saved me from injury. After him, in full cry, came Nicholas and Elizabeth, exhorting me, at the tops of their voices, to stop the angry and terrified animal from escaping into the street. As I bent and scooped the poor beast into my arms, it relieved itself in a warm stream down the front of my jerkin. My two young ingrates doubled up with screams of laughter.

Adela, who was busy at the table, setting out bowls and spoons, turned a flushed face — for the cottage was very warm — to find out what was happening. Having taken in the situation, she hurried forward to remove the dog from my grasp, heroically trying to suppress her own merriment. She placed the animal gently on the floor, dared the children to harass it further and went to fetch a pannikin of water and a cloth with which to sponge me down.

‘Where did that come from?’ I demanded furiously, refusing to be mollified by the caresses of the children, who were, by this time, fondling any part of my anatomy they could reach, in case I had a pocketful of sweetmeats that I might now decline to dispense.

‘Jane Overbecks dropped by about half an hour ago. She left the dog for the children to play with.’ Adela sat back on her heels, regarding her handiwork. ‘There, I think that’ll do. The jerkin probably won’t stain; at least, I hope not. But it might smell for a while. If other dogs start following you home, you’ll know the reason why.’

‘Very funny,’ I snarled. ‘Oh, I can see it’s highly amusing for the rest of you.’ The children had begun giggling again and my wife was biting her lip. I changed the subject. ‘What was Jane Overbecks doing here? I’ve always assumed she was afraid of people.’

Adela stood up. ‘Oh, I think she is. But Adam was the attraction. She adores babies.’

I cast an agitated glance around the cottage in search of my son.

‘Where is Adam?’ I asked uneasily.

Adela kissed my cheek. ‘Jane’s taken him for a little walk in his cart. . There’s no need to look like that, Roger. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe.’

‘I’m not,’ I answered tautly. ‘There’s something strange about that woman. Those simple-minded people are often extremely cunning, especially at getting their own way. Adela, my love, how could you have let her. .?’

The sentence remained unfinished as the door opened and Jane Overbecks appeared, trundling a contentedly sleeping Adam behind her. Adela hurried forward, breathing a sigh of relief. My words had worried her, I could tell; unnecessarily this time, as it turned out, but I had every intention of discouraging her from entrusting our son to the baker’s wife in future.

At the unexpected sight of me towering above her, probably looking less than pleased, Jane dropped the handle of the cart, seized hold of the dog and backed hastily out of the cottage as if I were Old Nick himself. Nicholas and Elizabeth would have gone whooping after her, to say goodbye to the animal and enquire, no doubt, when she would bring him again, but I intercepted them, ordering them to the dinner table in a voice they both knew meant trouble if they disobeyed.

‘You’re being very severe all at once,’ Adela commented, frowning. She ladled boiled bacon and peas on to our plates from the pot over the fire. ‘Has this business of Jasper Fairbrother upset you?’

‘All murder is upsetting,’ I answered sententiously.

‘You live in a cottage where one took place,’ she retorted. ‘That never seems to bother you.’

‘As to that. .’ I began forcibly.

But Adela gave a quick shake of her head and glanced warningly at the children. If we were going to bicker, the look said, better wait until they went outside to play. Nicholas and Elizabeth might be unmoved by talk of murder and by living in a house where one had once occurred — death, in its various guises, was, after all, a fact of everyday life — but they grew restive if we quarrelled. ‘Tell me what happened this morning,’ my wife invited amicably.

So I did, as lucidly as was compatible with a frequently full mouth and an attempt to trim the details so that they were slightly less offensive to young ears. When I had finished, my wife puckered her forehead.

‘I don’t understand,’ she complained. ‘First you say that Sergeant Manifold had no idea that a stranger had called on Jasper Fairbrother. Then you tell me that he was looking for an excuse to apprehend this man. Why would he want to arrest someone he didn’t know existed?’

I finished my last spoonful of bacon and peas, wiping round my plate with a piece of rye bread. My mouth now clear, I folded my arms on the table and tried out my explanation of events on my wife.

‘My guess — and it is only a guess — is that this man could be an agent of Henry Tudor. Just suppose, for instance, that the King’s spymaster general had received word from one of his own spies that such a man was due to arrive in this country sometime soon and that he was to be put ashore at Bristol; he — the Spymaster, that is — would have alerted the sheriff, who, in turn, would have warned his officers. So, when Richard learned from Master Overbecks and myself of this stranger who had arrived on a Breton ship, he put two and two together and decided that this must be the man he had been expecting, but who had somehow managed to evade his vigilance and must therefore be apprehended as quickly as possible. The fact that he was known to have visited Jasper not long before Jasper was killed provided Richard with the excuse he needed to have the stranger arrested on suspicion of murder, without alerting the world at large to the fact that he was one of Henry Tudor’s agents, or to the fact that he had given Richard the slip.’

‘But you don’t know any of this for fact,’ Adela interrupted in a very wifely spirit. ‘My love, aren’t you jumping to too hasty a conclusion?’

‘I told you it’s guesswork,’ I defended myself. ‘But very inspired guesswork.’ I let her see that I was deeply wounded by her scepticism.

I should have known better. She was unimpressed.

‘Well, my advice is to talk it over with Richard before you take any more leaps in the dark.’

That reminded me. ‘He’s coming to supper tonight,’ I said, and launched into a swift explanation as to how it had come about that the sheriff’s officer was our guest for the second evening running.

Adela took it very well. Too well for my liking, and I knew a sudden, unreasonable pang of jealousy. She was still suffering from the after-effects of Adam’s birth, so I was unable to assert my claim to her affection in the usual way, a fact that made me even more bad-tempered than I was already, and caused me to sulk for the rest of the meal like an ill-mannered schoolboy. But when the children at last went out to play, she came round the table and knelt down by my stool, putting her arms about me.

‘Don’t be grumpy,’ she pleaded. She saw my yearning glance at the mattress, rolled up against the far wall, and laughed. ‘You’re like a little boy deprived of his favourite sweetmeats. It won’t be long now, I promise. Meantime, you’ll have to be patient. But one thing you can be sure of — ’ She kissed me — ‘I miss our love-making every bit as much as you do. No other man has ever meant as much to me as you, my darling.’

I knew it; so I gave a shamefaced grin and allowed myself to be coaxed and petted back to good humour, returning her kisses and telling her I loved her. Mind you, that didn’t stop her demanding, rather sharply I thought, where I was going when, later, I took my leave of her.

‘I thought I might have a word with Walter Godsmark,’ I said casually. ‘Richard must have finished questioning him by now and sent him home.’

‘Roger!’ Adela’s tone was firm. ‘You should be out with your pack. We need the money. This is not an enquiry for the duke. No one has asked you to poke your nose in. I’m sure Richard is quite capable of solving this murder without your help.’

‘Not if he’s set on arresting the wrong man.’

‘How do you know it’s the wrong man? It seems an eminently reasonable assumption to me. We both saw Jasper and the stranger arguing. Incidentally, just supposing your theory is correct, why on earth would Jasper be involved with the Lancastrian cause? He never struck me as a man who cared a groat who’s King and who isn’t.’

‘There must have been money in it for him,’ I decided. ‘It’s the only possible reason. But then, as you say, I don’t know yet that my idea is any more than a bag of moonshine. But there’s certainly no proof — quite the contrary — that the stranger is the murderer. Manifold has no grounds for accusing him.’

‘Maybe not. But I still say it has nothing to do with you.’

I put my arm about her waist and squeezed it. ‘You don’t like injustice any more than I do, sweetheart. The real killer mustn’t be allowed to escape just because it would be more convenient if someone else had done it. Murder is a crime against God.’

‘And spying? If indeed that’s what your stranger is doing.’

I shrugged. ‘A matter of personal conviction. But I don’t suppose God cares a tinker’s curse whether Edward of York or Henry Tudor sits on the English throne.’

Adela anxiously advised me to lower my voice. ‘That remark could be construed either as heresy or treason. Possibly both,’ she hissed.

I knew it. But ever since I was able to think for myself, I have always held the secret opinion that God has far too much to do, what with all the poverty and cruelty in the world, to concern Himself with politics. When the rich and the great claim so confidently to have God on their side, I want to ask them how and why they are so certain. Countries, too; for in my experience, if England wins a battle today, France or Scotland will win one tomorrow, like children on a see-saw. Here we go up, Here we go down; Beggar or King, Rags or a crown. I used to sing that when I was young, playing with my friends on a plank we had balanced on a felled tree trunk. All the same, Adela was right, and I have only ever shared such thoughts with people I can trust implicitly. (By the time anyone reads these memoirs, I shall, I hope, be in a position to be demanding some answers from God Himself, provided that Saint Peter has let me in through the Heavenly Gates.)

I gave Adela a long, passionate kiss, which only left us both more frustrated than ever, picked up and shouldered my pack and set off, promising to earn some money before I returned. What I didn’t promise, as she was undoubtedly astute enough to observe, was not to visit Walter Godsmark.

Walter Godsmark lived with his mother in a cottage somewhere between Saint Peter’s Church and the Mint.

This part of the town, even more than the rest of it, was dominated by the castle, the great keep with its four mighty towers, one slightly taller than the others, peering sullenly over the walls of the Outer Ward. Many poor souls had suffered and perished there. Three centuries earlier, King Stephen had been held captive in its dungeons; the Water Gate had witnessed the tearful farewell of the tragic second Edward and his doomed lover, Piers Gaveston, when Gaveston was exiled to Ireland; and, at the beginning of my own century, when Henry of Bolingbroke had seized the crown and precipitated years of civil war, it had seen the brutal deaths of those loyal to King Richard. Close proximity to it always made me uneasy. Blood and sorrow are embedded in its stones.

I shook off these depressing fancies, made some enquiries, then, having located the cottage, knocked on Goody Godsmark’s door. Walter opened it, his expression growing even more truculent than usual when he saw who it was.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded. He had been badly shaken by the events of the morning, but was beginning to get back some of his natural aggression.

‘I was hoping you might let me ask you a question or two about Master Fairbrother’s death.’ I smiled winningly, but not winningly enough, it seemed.

‘I’ve said all I’m going to say to Sergeant Manifold. So you can sod off!’ He prepared to shut the door.

‘Who’s that, Walter?’ came a quavering voice from inside the cottage. ‘Is it neighbour Purnell? Because, if so, I want a word with him about those pigs of his. He ain’t supposed to keep swine within city limits, and well he knows it.’

Before Walter could reply, he was elbowed aside by a small, determined figure in a black homespun gown and a linen apron and cap. A little face, like a tightly furled bud that has turned brown and withered on the stalk, peered up at me.

‘And who may you be, young man?’ I was hesitating, wondering if I should claim to be a friend of her son, which he would, of course, instantly deny, when the dame caught sight of my pack and gave a squeal of delight. ‘Come inside, Chapman! I’m in urgent want of needles and thread, and it’ll save me a trip to the market, if you’re carrying some.’

Walter began to protest, but his mother waved him to silence.

‘Hold your noise, you danged great lummox. This is my house and I’ll say who comes in or stays out.’

She only reached halfway up his upper arm and was so thin that she looked as though a puff of wind might have blown her away. But Walter, who had intimidated some of the town’s biggest (in every sense of the word) men on Jasper’s behalf, was plainly terrified of her. He slunk back to his stool by the empty hearth, thrusting out his nether lip defiantly, but saying nothing.

Goody Godsmark shook my arm.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got there!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re another great lummox, like that one over there, and you’re all as slow as snails.’ She looked me up and down. ‘I’ll wager you’re not slow between the sheets, though. I know your sort, with those sleepy eyes. Bedroom eyes, I call them. Married, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pity, ’cause I’m a widow.’ She cackled with laughter, ignoring her son’s squirm of embarrassment.

I hurried to lay out the contents of my pack. As well as thread, I was able produce needles, not just stuck through a piece of old felt, but in a tiny, beautifully carved ivory holder. I saw the faded blue eyes light with desire.

She took the case from me and held it in the palm of one hand, rolling it to and fro with the tip of a finger.

‘Now, that’s what I call a pretty toy.’ She sucked her teeth. ‘How much, Chapman?’

Inspiration struck. ‘You can have it for nothing,’ I said, trying to pretend to myself that it was profit well lost in a good cause, ‘if your son will answer me some questions concerning Master Fairbrother’s death.’

‘I told you, I’m saying nothing more on that head,’ Walter grunted morosely. ‘I’ve done all my answering to Sergeant Manifold.’

Goody Godsmark seized a besom from the corner and, holding it upside down, beat him around the shoulders with the handle. I winced in sympathy as he let out a yell.

‘You’ll do as you’re asked,’ the old woman said menacingly. ‘Deny your mother a free gift, would you, you ungrateful boy? And why shouldn’t you tell the chapman what he wants to know? You’ll be opening your mouth wide enough in the alehouse tonight, I don’t doubt. Spends all his evenings in the Green Lattis,’ she grumbled to me. ‘I didn’t see him last night until well after curfew. Now, come over here to the table this instant, my son, and tell the chapman what he wants to know. Or it’ll be the worse for you.’

Walter got to his feet and slouched across with as much ill grace as he could muster. He pulled out another stool from beneath the trestle and sat down.

‘Well?’ he muttered.

‘The man who called on Jasper yesterday morning, had you ever seen him before?’

‘No.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘If you’re going to query everything I say, there’s no point in asking me anything,’ Walter sneered.

‘Fair enough,’ I agreed hastily. ‘Did you get a close look at this stranger?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Brown hair, stockily built. That’s all I can tell you.’

The description, such as it was, agreed with my own recollection of the man. Although, now I came to think of it, I thought I remembered a pair of hazel eyes returning my curious gaze.

‘Was he a foreigner?’

‘Reckon so. Spoke English, mind, but with an accent. Don’t know what sort. French, probably.’

Or Breton. But I let it go. ‘Did you hear what he and Master Fairbrother were talking about?’

‘No. I opened the door to him, but as soon as I fetched the master, he told me to wait outside until his visitor left.’

I nodded. ‘I saw you, propping up the wall, if you remember. And you saw me with my family, a fact you acknowledged with one of your friendly gestures.’

‘What?’ He gaped at me, nonplussed.

‘You made a rude sign,’ I translated with some asperity. ‘Not that I care for myself, but my wife’s a refined woman, and my children are too young to start learning lewd gestures yet awhile. They’ll pick them up fast enough without your help.’

Walter guffawed, only to receive another whack across the shoulders with the handle of the besom.

‘I’ve told you about your bad manners, my lad!’ Goody Godsmark berated him. ‘Try to remember your mother’s a fucking lady!’

‘But later,’ I pursued, ‘when Master Overbecks and I saw the stranger and Jasper arguing outside the bakery, you’d vanished.’

‘That’s right. Master had called me inside a minute or so earlier. Said the gentleman — well, that’s what he called him, although he didn’t look no gentleman to me — was leaving, and I could start opening up the shop.’

‘But they came back in again, didn’t they?’

Walter nodded.

‘They were arguing. Do you know what about?’

‘No.’

‘You might have heard something. A word or two. Try to think.’

My informant chewed his bottom lip while he engaged in this painful process.

‘It was before they went upstairs,’ he conceded at last. ‘The man — the stranger — he said something about money. That was it. “The cause needs money,” that was what he said. I remember now. And the master, he said something about being bled dry.’ Walter grinned triumphantly. ‘It’s coming back to me.’

I suppose, in general, he just let memories skull around in that big, empty head of his until they got waterlogged and sank without trace.

‘You should try thinking more often,’ I encouraged him. ‘It’s beneficial for the brain. Go on!’

He eyed me askance — he was suspicious of words he didn’t understand — but continued, ‘The stranger was turning a bit nasty by then. He said something about Master Fairbrother being too far in.’

‘Too far in what?’

‘He didn’t say. Then, at master’s suggestion, they went upstairs. Master told me to get on and open the shop. “Can’t let Overbecks filch all the trade,” he said. So I did. Open the shop, I mean. I didn’t see nor hear any more of the stranger after that.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘I dunno. Master must have let him out by the side door while I was busy serving.’

‘And you told Sergeant Manifold all that you’ve told me?’

He shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

‘Not all of it, no. I didn’t remember all of it. Not about what I’d overheard.’ A broad, slow grin spread across his vacuous face. ‘You’ve started me thinking now.’

Goody Godsmark rose from her stool, closing her hand tightly over the ivory needle case.

‘You’d better be off, Chapman,’ she said. ‘If you’ve started him thinking, I reckon you’ve done enough damage for one morning.’

I laughed, feeling slightly uneasy. I supposed that stirring up that underused organ, Walter’s brain, might have consequences I hadn’t foreseen, but then promptly forgot about it as I realized that I was in possession of information unknown to Richard Manifold. As I walked away from the Godsmarks’ cottage, I debated what to do next. I could either find Richard and tell him what I’d learned that he hadn’t, trying not to gloat over his discomfiture, or I could keep it to myself for the time being and trust that, in due course, Walter would inform the representatives of the law himself.

It was by now getting on towards noon of another very warm day, the relentless sun turning the whole city into a stinking cauldron of heat. The putrid stench from the decomposing animal carcasses and rotting vegetable matter in the open drains, was overpowering, and I decided that what I needed above all else was a drink. As yet, I had sold nothing and was, in fact, worse off than when I left home on account of my gift to Goody Godsmark. If I were to escape Adela’s wrath, I must apply myself to my chosen trade without further delay, but I could do nothing until I had slaked my thirst. I headed for Bristol’s favourite alehouse, known variously to the town’s inhabitants as the Green Lattis, Abyngdon’s and the New Inn. The latter was now its official title, but it had been called by both the former names at one time and another in its long history; names that were still used by people with even longer memories. It was situated behind All Hallows Church in Corn Street, and, in less than ten minutes, I was ensconced at my favourite table near an unshuttered window.

The landlord knew me and placed a pot of ale in front of me before I had even called for it. And at this time of day, the noise was not so deafening that I was unable to hear myself think. Later on, it would be a different story, but for now, I could drink my ale in peace.

Should I tell Richard Manifold of the additional information I had wormed out of Walter Godsmark or not? That was the question. Firstly, what I had learned made my theory that the stranger was a Tudor agent seem more than a probability, almost a certainty. Secondly, it gave weight to Richard’s decision to arrest the man for Jasper’s murder. The stranger would appear to have been threatening the baker, if not actually blackmailing him. What about? Well, if yet another of my guesses were correct, paying money into Henry Tudor’s depleted war coffers seemed the likeliest answer. If Jasper, for whatever reason, had allowed himself to become embroiled with the Lancastrian cause, exposure could have seen him hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason — not a death I would wish on my bitterest enemy. (Whoever devised that method of execution for the first Edward had a nasty, twisted personality that really enjoyed watching people suffer.)

But if Jasper were the one being blackmailed, wouldn’t it be more likely that he would have killed the blackmailer? The stranger wouldn’t want Jasper dead if there was a possibility of extracting money from him. He wouldn’t want him dead, anyway. Unless, of course, the baker had attacked him first. But that didn’t make sense, either. There had been no sign of a struggle and, judging by the look on his face, Jasper had obviously been taken by surprise when the knife entered his back. So, although the stranger’s attempt to extort money from Jasper explained their argument, it failed, for me at least, to explain the murder. I sighed and took another swig of ale.

Over the rim of my cup I glanced around at the other tables. As I had guessed, the tavern was only half full at that hour of the morning. There were the usual old men who went there every day and were a part of the furniture, and a handful of regular customers who, like me, had dropped in to quench their thirst after working out of doors in the blistering heat. Then there was the inevitable sprinkling of strangers. .

My eyes suddenly became fixed on a table in one dim corner of the room. Two bulky figures sat there, chins propped on hands, deep in conversation. I stared, and then cursed myself roundly for having forgotten their existence. These were the two ruffians I had encountered yesterday; the pair I thought were watching John Overbecks’s shop, but who, in reality, might have been spying on Jasper.