The Lammas Feast

Nine

‘Roger!’ It was Adela’s voice and I jumped guiltily. She sounded resigned. ‘I might have known you’d be mixed up in this brawl somewhere.’

‘I can explain,’ I said, but postponed the explanation until later. I turned instead to her companions and addressed the Mother Superior. ‘Mother, this man is badly injured and needs attention.’

‘Is he breathing?’ asked the thin, brown-eyed sister standing next to her, and whom I recognized as Marion Baldock. She peered closely at the still figure on the ground. ‘Who is it? Do you know?’

Cicely Ford had already guessed. ‘Is it the man you’ve been looking for, Roger? The Breton?’ I nodded. ‘Were the men who attacked him footpads?’

I nodded again, and there was the usual muttering amongst the, by now, quite considerable crowd gathered at the scene concerning the general lack of safety on the roads and how the government really ought to do something about it. I turned once more to the Mother Superior and spoke with some urgency.

‘We must get this man under shelter and attend to his wounds. Can we carry him into the nunnery?’

‘Take him to my cottage,’ Cicely Ford said decisively. ‘I can nurse him. The sisters have enough to do, and the nunnery is small. He can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.’

I protested at this unnecessary act of sacrifice. So did Marion Baldock, but she was the only one of the nuns to do so. The others, including the Mother Superior, seemed relieved at the suggestion. A man in their cramped quarters was not something that they relished. Consequently, the priest from Saint Michael’s and I carried the stranger, as gently as we could, to Cicely Ford’s cottage and laid him on her bed. The rest of the nuns and Adela crowded in after us to see if there was anything they could do, but Cicely had already filled a bowl with water and was competently bathing the injured man’s head. The people outside began to disperse, and the congregation of Saint Michael’s returned to their interrupted service.

‘I’ll go for a physician,’ I offered. ‘There’s one in Bell Lane. If he’s at home, I’ll send him straight up here. For my own part, I must seek out Richard Manifold.’

‘Yes, do that, if you please, Roger.’ Cicely covered her patient with a rough woollen blanket. ‘But perhaps you’d help me pull off his boots before you go.’ She then persuaded the nuns, the lay sisters and their guests to go back to the chapel and continue with Vespers, which, with only a token show of resistance, they were more than willing to do. In seconds, the cottage had cleared. Only Adela and Marion Baldock lingered.

‘I’ll go with you, Roger,’ Adela said, and I knew from her tone of voice that it was pointless arguing with her. She was determined to find out what had happened and how I had come to be involved.

Marion Baldock was equally adamant. ‘You’ll need help,’ she said, touching Cicely on the shoulder. ‘In my past life, I’ve had experience of nursing wounded men. I’ll get Mother Superior’s permission to remain here tonight.’

I could see that Cicely was none too pleased by this high-handed interference, but the elder Baldock sister was a forceful woman, not one to be easily dissuaded from anything she had set her mind to.

‘I’ll be off,’ I murmured and ushered Adela out of the cottage.

I retrieved my stick and pack from where I had dropped them on the opposite side of the road, and, with my free arm about Adela’s waist, started downhill towards the Frome Gate. As we walked, I gave my wife a brief outline of the afternoon’s events.

‘So now you see why I must make contact with Richard,’ I concluded. ‘If our friend really is a spy for Henry Tudor-’

‘Which has not yet been conclusively proved,’ Adela cut in.

‘True,’ I agreed. ‘But that’s why Richard must question him as soon as he recovers consciousness. And if it is the case, the sheriff must be informed about possible sedition amongst the dean and canons of Westbury College.’

But I had no need to seek out Richard Manifold. With Jack Gload and Peter Littleman in tow, he was emerging from the archway of the Frome Gate as we approached it, and was obviously in a blazing temper.

‘You!’ he shouted as soon as he saw me. ‘You! Roger Chapman!’ He stumped towards me, shaking his fist, something I found fascinating, as I had never actually seen anyone do such a thing before. ‘What do you mean by beating up two of the King’s men and interfering with them in the course of their duty?’

‘K-King’s men?’ I stuttered. ‘Do-do you seriously mean to tell me that that pair of roughnecks are King’s men?’

‘They’re not roughnecks!’ Richard was incensed. ‘They’re two of the King’s bodyguard, the very best, who’ve come from London to assist us to lay this Breton spy by the heels. And they damn well nearly had him!’ The sergeant’s voice rose almost to a scream. ‘He’d be under lock and key by now, if you hadn’t poked your nose into what doesn’t concern you, yet again!’

I thought he was going to have an apoplexy. His face was suffused with blood and his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides as though he didn’t know how to keep his hands off me. Without being aware of it, he was hopping up and down like a demented flea. I could barely stop myself from bursting out laughing, and I heard Adela give a suppressed kind of snort.

‘I–I’m sorry,’ I quavered uncertainly. ‘But you should have told me who these men were from the very beginning, when I first brought them to your notice. You had your chance, Richard. You shouldn’t have been so secretive. Are — um — are they badly hurt?’

‘Badly enough.’ He calmed down a little. ‘To make matters worse, some wretched stray cur took a nasty bite out of one of their legs.’

Hercules! It was too much, the final straw! I doubled up with laughter. Adela regarded me with consternation, while Richard Manifold looked as if he might explode at any minute. Then, fortunately, he too began to see the funny side of things. Who doesn’t like to see a couple of arrogant bastards brought low? He made a choking noise and coughed violently before asking in a more reasonable tone of voice, ‘Do you know what’s happened to the Breton? Where he is now?’

I told him the tale. ‘But he was still unconscious when I left him, and showed no sign of a swift recovery. Your King’s men were a bit too thorough.’

Richard cursed them, angry and indignant.

‘Fools! Why did they have to be so rough? They could have jumped him without inflicting so much damage. They were two to one, after all.’

I refrained from repeating that, King’s men though they might be, the two bravos were a couple of loutish oafs, and instead volunteered the information that I was on my way to the physician in Bell Lane. ‘If he’s there, I’ll send him up to Mistress Ford’s cottage. Where are our heroes now?’

‘Castle garrison’s barracks. Outer ward. One of the medical orderlies is attending to their hurts. I’ll be off to Saint Michael’s Hill, then. If the spy can be shifted, we’ll bring him down to the Bridewell. If not, he’ll have to remain where he is until he’s better.’

The sergeant and his men were about to move off, when I gripped Richard’s arm. ‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘I have witnesses to prove that he’s not Jasper’s murderer. He was at Westbury College when Fairbrother was killed. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

Richard didn’t seem too put out by my news. Indeed, his good humour was in a fair way to being restored.

‘The College, eh? That’s interesting. Very interesting. When this little bird has finished singing, we’ll have a list of all the Lancastrian sympathizers in the district.’ He grinned, showing a broken front tooth. ‘That should make our trio from London happy.’ He saw my look of puzzlement and added, ‘There’s a third King’s man arrived hotfoot from the capital this morning. Senior to that pair of bunglers we’ve got already. None too pleased at the hash they’ve made of things, either. But he’ll be delighted to know that the spy is now in custody.’ It was plain that Richard was going to take the credit for everything, but I didn’t begrudge him that. ‘By the way,’ he threw over his shoulder as, finally, he and his lieutenants began to move away in the direction of Lewin’s Mead, ‘this fellow says he knows you. Name of Timothy Plummer.’

Luckily, the physician was at home, although loath to quit the city so close to curfew. After much grumbling, however, he agreed to visit the wounded man, on condition that any expenses he incurred by having to find a night’s lodgings outside the walls were met by someone other than himself. I told him to present his bill to the sheriff, which seemed to satisfy him.

I should have liked to go to the castle there and then in order to renew my acquaintance with Timothy Plummer and find out why he now appeared to be in the King’s service and not in that of the Duke of Gloucester. But Adela and I could not afford to be trapped inside the town by the curfew bell, leaving Adam unfed and Margaret to cope on her own with all three children, so I reluctantly postponed my visit until the following day. We retraced our steps to the Frome Bridge and had crossed to the gatehouse, when a small brown mongrel, who had been skulking beneath the arch, erupted from its shadow, barking joyously and nipping at my and Adela’s ankles.

‘God’s toenails! Hercules!’ I exclaimed, not knowing whether to laugh or be sorry.

I stooped and scooped him into my arms, where he proceeded to lick my face all over, whimpering with happiness.

‘Roger! What is this?’ Adela demanded ominously.

‘A dog,’ was the feeble answer. ‘He probably saved my life.’

Adela was in no mood for handing out rewards, especially in such a cause. At least, not just at that moment. ‘Put the animal down,’ she ordered. ‘It’s filthy. I can see the fleas hopping about in its fur. I will not have fleas in our cottage.’

‘Everyone has fleas,’ I argued, suddenly unwilling to part with my saviour.

‘I don’t!’

I didn’t like to disillusion her, so I lowered Hercules to the ground and scratched myself surreptitiously.

‘We can’t afford a dog,’ she pleaded, and I had to admit that it was true. Hadn’t I been using the same argument to the children for the past few months? But I owed this particular cur a debt of gratitude.

‘Go away,’ I said to Hercules, but made no attempt to discourage him as he trotted at our heels under the archway and across the open ground. I hoped Adela wouldn’t notice. When we reached the cottage and she lifted the latch, I squeezed in after her as fast as I could, leaving the dog on the other side of the swiftly closed door.

‘You’re home early,’ said Margaret, looking up from a low stool beside one of the mattresses, where she had been telling Nicholas and Elizabeth a story.

‘Roger will give you the details,’ said my wife, and went across to embrace the children.

So, to the accompaniment of the curfew bell and various snufflings, thumpings and occasional protesting barks from outside, I sat down on our other stool and repeated my tale yet again.

‘Well, trust you to be in the thick of any trouble that’s going,’ Margaret remarked, but sounding quite cheerful, not only because she loved to be the first with the latest gossip, but also because she was distracted by the various strange noises without.

Before either Adela or I could prevent her, she had risen and opened the cottage door. A small, smelly brown ball of matted fur hurled itself excitedly across the room and on to my lap, balancing its hind legs on my thighs and placing its front paws on my shoulders. My face was thoroughly licked for the second time that evening.

‘A dog! You’ve brought us a dog!’ screeched Nicholas and Elizabeth, propelling themselves up from their mattress and flinging their arms around both me and Hercules. Their yells woke Adam, who naturally felt it necessary to vie for attention. Of course, he won! He could make more noise than his half-brother and sister put together.

Adela sank wearily into our one good chair, loosened the lacing of her bodice and lifted her younger son to her breast.

‘I give in,’ she sighed. ‘Now they’ve clapped eyes on the wretched animal, they’ll never let him go without a fuss. And I’m too tired to stand up to them.’

My former mother-in-law fixed me with a look that plainly said I should do battle with our offspring on my wife’s behalf, but I had grown attached to the dog. I knew how short and brutal his life would be as a stray, and I was indebted to him for saving mine.

‘All right,’ I told the children. ‘He can stay, as long as you promise me you won’t make his life a misery, and save some scraps from your own meals to help feed him.’ They nodded eagerly, although I didn’t trust them an inch. They would have promised to be on their best behaviour from then until next Christmas if they had thought the dog’s survival depended on it. I went on, ‘I’ve named him Hercules, because he isn’t, but he thinks he is.’ I saw my daughter’s mouth open and hurriedly laid a finger on her lips. ‘I’ll explain another time, Bess, but just now, you and Nick are going back to bed, while Hercules and I go for a bathe in the river. We could both do with sluicing down.’

Margaret and Adela agreed with such wholehearted enthusiasm that I knew they were dying to talk about me behind my back. My general fecklessness and lack of backbone would provide fertile ground for the next hour, at least. So I tucked Hercules under one arm, took my cudgel in my free hand and departed as quickly as possible.

‘One of the first lessons you have to learn in this life,’ I told my new friend, as his tongue explored the nap of my jerkin, ‘is that when your womenfolk turn hostile, it’s as well to beat a swift retreat.’

I walked through the Broad Meads and turned down by the Dominican friary to the banks of the Frome, opposite the weir and the castle mill. Behind the mill, the castle walls towered up like cliffs, and I could see members of the garrison patrolling the battlements, small and far away. I set Hercules on his feet, and he followed me as I scrambled down the bank to a secluded spot I knew of; a kind of little foreshore, fringed with willows, tall spears of loosestrife, cuckoo plants and marsh marigolds.

I stripped off and entered the water, which, after a day of hot sunshine, was still faintly warm. It caressed my skin like silk. Hercules remained hesitating on the bank, looking suspicious. I found a floating stick and hurled it as far as I could upstream. He dashed in after it, gave one or two outraged barks, then, overcoming his fear of this unknown element, began to swim strongly. Before long, he was enjoying himself as we got rid of our fleas and the day’s grime together.

I rolled on to my back and began floating. Hercules paddled after me, then decided that he had had enough and swam back to keep guard over my clothes. He shook himself vigorously, showering them with drops of water. I shouted at him, so, to pay me out for my ingratitude, he abandoned watch and disappeared into the long grasses and abundant vegetation that bordered the river. I wasn’t worried. He had more sense than to abandon me, now he’d found me. I closed my eyes against the still bright rays of the setting sun.

I must have dozed off for a second, because I suddenly became aware of Hercules barking furiously. I forced myself upright and started treading water, scanning the bank as I did so. There was no sign of him, but I could see a violent agitation of the reeds and grasses some three or four yards from the little foreshore where I had left my clothes. I began swimming towards the disturbance, incurring on my way the wrath of two brothers from the friary, who had come down to the river for some after-supper fishing, hoping, no doubt, to augment the brothers’ meagre breakfast with a couple of carp.

‘If that’s your dog, my son,’ one of them called piously, ‘strangle the little bugger! He’s frightening the fucking fish.’

I had long ceased to be shocked by the holy fraternity’s knowledge, and use, of uncouth language, so merely waved in acknowledgement. Hercules was not difficult to locate, but in case I was in any doubt of his whereabouts, his indignant face suddenly appeared framed by a clump of meadow sweet and crowned by a trailing stalk of bindweed. I hauled myself out of the water and on to the bank, shivering a little as the rapidly cooling air caressed my bare skin.

‘What’s this all about?’ I asked severely. ‘What’s up, eh? These two brothers from the friary would like to mince you into fish bait.’

Hercules was unimpressed and started growling, nosing among the profusion of rushes, starred with yellow iris, that grew at the water’s edge. Using both hands, I ruthlessly flattened them — and saw what it was that had so upset the dog.

A man’s body was floating face down in the river, moving gently with the current that had carried it this far. But it was unable to make further progress because of something that had entangled its legs below the surface of the water. A clump of weed, growing close to the bank, its coiling tendrils just visible, appeared to have trapped it, holding it down. I crossed myself, but didn’t flinch. A drowned person was not an unusual sight in these parts. Bristol’s two rivers, the Avon and the Frome, claimed their fair share of victims during most months of any year; mainly drunks who slipped and missed their footing after a convivial evening’s drinking at one of the city’s many taverns.

I hushed the dog, who now seemed content to let me take charge. He lay down, nose on paws, watching with interest while I reached out and hauled the body as close as possible to dry ground. Then, balancing on my haunches, I grabbed the body under both armpits and heaved with all my might, at the same time throwing myself backwards among the grasses, so that the entangling weed was suddenly uprooted, and the dead man thrown forward, almost on top of me. Cursing, I struggled out from underneath his weight and turned him face uppermost.

Even before I did so, I knew that there was something familiar about him. The shape of the head, the way the hair was cut in a straight line across the back of the neck, the rough homespun jerkin, cinched by an extra-wide, important-looking leather belt, the fingernails bitten down to the quick, the big, powerful hands — all these, together and separately, were nudging my memory and prompting me to recognition.

It was Walter Godsmark.

Even so, in spite of my expectation, it still gave me a jolt to see him lying there, so obviously dead, a young man who had been so brimming with life and energy when I had spoken to him only yesterday. There were no marks of violence on the body: Walter had simply fallen in the river and drowned. Simply? Coming so soon after the murder of his master, how could I be sure of that? I shivered and Hercules, catching something of my mood, whimpered, inching foward on his belly and nudging me with his cold, wet nose. I smoothed his head reassuringly.

‘Good dog!’ I pointed to the corpse. ‘Guard,’ I ordered. ‘I won’t be long.’

To his credit, he did as he was told. I slithered into the water again and swam back to where I had left my clothes, making certain on the way that the friars were still at their fishing, in spite of the breeze that had sprung up with the waning light. I dried myself roughly with my shirt, then scrambled, not without difficulty, into it and my remaining clothes, before mounting the bank and running to intercept the brothers, who, having caught nothing, were preparing to pack up and return to the friary. I seized the older man’s arm.

‘Dead body,’ I panted. ‘Over there, by the water’s edge. I know him. Young fellow called Godsmark. Drowned.’

The two Dominicans, glad of a little excitement at the end of an uneventful day, followed me almost eagerly. Hercules growled at them and, mindful of my instructions, would have prevented their intervention if he could. I had to clap them both on the back and introduce them as friends before he would allow either of them near poor Walter’s corpse. He was proving to be an excellent watchdog.

‘He’s dead all right,’ pronounced the younger brother, having carried out a cursory examination of the body. He crossed himself and began muttering the office for the departed souls of this life, but the older man interrupted.

‘You say you know this man?’ he asked me, and when I nodded, continued, ‘Does he- Did he live within the walls, or without?’

‘Within. With his widowed mother, near the castle.’

The brother pursed his thin mouth and thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘as the curfew’s sounded, we’d better give the body a decent lodging at the friary for the night. Tomorrow morning, the sheriff or his sergeant will have to be informed and the body returned to his mother.’

I did not volunteer the information that Sergeant Manifold was himself without the walls, in a cottage halfway up Saint Michael’s Hill, guarding a prisoner who may, or may not, have recovered consciousness by now. I concluded that if I said anything, I would probably be dispatched to find Richard there and then, and I was too tired, after my day’s exertions, for another walk. I just wanted to get home to my bed.

But when I did, finally, return to the cottage, having assisted the brothers to carry Walter’s body to the friary, I found Elizabeth had been moved into my bed, which she would occupy with Margaret and Adela, while I shared a mattress with Nicholas. (I had momentarily forgotten that my former mother-in-law was staying the night.) Moreover, a bed of sorts had to be made for Hercules, and by the time Adela and I had arranged a pile of straw and old rags for him in the corner nearest the door, it was dark, and rushlights had to be lit. After that, the fire needed to be doused and kindling chopped for a new one in the morning. And, of course, Adam wanted changing and feeding yet again.

I had intended to say nothing about my gruesome find, knowing that it would only further delay preparations for the night and part me from my bed for even longer. But my taciturnity did not pass unremarked by the two women, who, when all the chores were done, joined me at the table as I drank my bedtime cup of ale. They were in their most dangerous mood, calm but determined. I knew I didn’t stand a chance against them.

Foolishly, however, I tried to prevaricate, suggesting that, as we were all likely to suffer a disturbed night, we turned in immediately.

‘When you’ve told us what’s troubling you,’ my wife said, smiling with the sweet reasonableness that I dreaded.

‘We’re not tired,’ Margaret added. ‘We can sit here until morning, if necessary.’

‘Something upset you while you were out,’ Adela added. ‘It’s no use denying it. I know you too well, Roger. That dog’s very subdued, too. You might as well tell us what it is.’

In the end, of course, I gave in and recounted the story. ‘But if either of you expects me to climb Saint Michael’s Hill and inform Richard Manifold tonight, you can think again,’ I finished.

‘Why should we expect you to do any such thing?’ demanded Margaret. ‘It’s not urgent. It’s just a drowning. Walter Godsmark got drunk and fell in the river. It happens all the time.’

Adela, however, was not so positive. She saw my quick frown and laid a hand on my arm. ‘Sweetheart, what is it? Do you think that this death may have some connection with Jasper’s?’

I put one of my hands over hers and squeezed it. ‘You must admit,’ I said uneasily, ‘that one comes suspiciously close on the heels of the other. I have to say I can’t see any connection, but-’

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ Margaret exclaimed scornfully. ‘Why shouldn’t it be an accident? People are always having them. If they didn’t spend so much time and money in the taverns, the majority could be avoided. It would be a good idea, too, if a lot more people learned to swim. In a town almost entirely surrounded by water, it’s disgraceful how many mothers and fathers don’t teach their children how to do it.’

‘I suppose poor Walter was one of those who couldn’t,’ Adela remarked sadly.

‘Of course Walter couldn’t swim! Everyone knew that for a fact! It was common knowledge,’ Margaret snorted.