The Midsummer Rose

Thirteen

I knew Jenny’s story would be the same one she had already told to Richard Manifold, but I wanted to assess her truthfulness for myself. In spite of my remarks concerning her honesty, I thought it possible that she might lie to save her husband.

‘Burl came to find me shortly after the fighting started,’ she said, drawing me forward to sit at the table. ‘We both of us knew that apprentices’ riots can turn violent. It was obvious Burl had been brawling, but I didn’t realize then it was with you. We looked for the boys to make sure they weren’t involved.’

‘Got more sense,’ grunted Jack.

‘More sense,’ agreed Dick, and I remembered how, when they were children, he had always echoed his elder brother.

‘We never touch cuckoo-foot ale,’ Jack went on. ‘We’ve seen what it leads to. Seen what it leads to with Father.’

‘With Father.’

Jenny flushed painfully. ‘That’s one of Burl’s failings, Roger, as you know. He can’t hold his drink. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we found the boys, came home and waited for the Deputy Sheriff and his men to arrive. Once they did, the riot fizzled out, as we’d known it would. Then we went to bed.’

‘You two, as well?’ I glanced across the table at the boys, who nodded. ‘And did you sleep soundly? You didn’t wake up?’

This time they shook their heads, although I thought Jack hesitated a second or two before doing so.

I looked back at Jenny. ‘And you and Burl? You slept the night through as well?’

She returned my look defiantly. ‘Yes. Both of us.’ Her expression softened and she appeared to be on the verge of tears. ‘Oh, Roger! I’ve shared the same bed with Burl for over sixteen years. His slightest movement wakes me. I think I’m conscious of his body next to mine even when I’m asleep. I should know if he got out of bed, let alone if he left the cottage.’

I believed her. She and Burl had their disagreements, but there was a closeness between them that I had often envied. I leaned forward, resting my folded arms on the table.

‘Jenny, forgive me, but I have to ask you this. Even if you suspected Burl of being Robin Avenel’s murderer, wouldn’t you still protest his innocence? Wouldn’t you protect him?’

Jack jumped to his feet. ‘If that’s all you have to say, chapman, get out now!’

‘Get out now!’ came the faithful echo.

‘Sit down, the pair of you!’ Jenny ordered fiercely. ‘And mind your manners. Roger’s here to help us. He can’t do that if he doesn’t get at the truth.’ The boys subsided reluctantly and she turned to me. ‘Yes, I would. Of course I would. I’d even endanger my immortal soul and commit perjury for Burl if I thought it necessary. But it’s not necessary. I swear to you, Roger, as I trust in the Lord Jesus Christ and hope for eternal salvation, Burl did not stir from my side all night.’

I laid a hand over one of hers. ‘Your word’s good enough for me, Jenny, but we’ll need more evidence than that to convince Sergeant Manifold that he has the wrong man. What was Burl’s quarrel with Master Avenel?’

I knew, of course, but I wanted her version of events.

‘It was so foolish. When I was a girl, I worked for Gregory Alefounder and his family. Marianne Alefounder, as she was then, was a pretty, lively little soul, very spoilt and allowed to run a bit wild. She spent more time in the kitchens than she did at her lessons. I was the youngest of the maids and she took a fancy to me. I taught her how to cook, and in spite of the difference in our ages, we became friends. And we stayed friends, even after I got married and she grew up. Her father made no objection. But when she married Robin Avenel, it was a different story. He found out that she still came to visit me and was furious. He told me to my face that no wife of his was going to consort with a low-born wench who’d worked in his father-in-law’s kitchen and was married to a tenter. I didn’t take any notice. Nor did Marianne; she just went on coming to see me. But when Burl found out what had happened, he was angrier than I’ve ever known him. I begged him to let the matter drop, but he swore he was going to get even with Master Avenel. I know that sounds bad, but it didn’t mean he wanted to murder Robin. The truth is, he’s never liked him. All those airs and affectations …’ Jenny’s voice faltered, then died altogether.

I glanced at Jack. ‘Did either of you two know about this?’

Jack shook his head. ‘If we had,’ he said grimly, ‘we’d probably have beaten Robin Avenel senseless ourselves.’

‘Ourselves,’ agreed Dick.

‘Nonsense,’ declared their mother stoutly. ‘You wouldn’t have been so foolish. Indeed,’ she added, ‘I was certain Burl himself had thought better of tackling Master Avenel. It was just unfortunate that Robin decided, for some reason or another, to come into Redcliffe last night, when Burl had had too much cuckoo-foot ale to drink. But to suggest Burl murdered him is ridiculous. You know him, Roger. He really wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

I grunted non-committally, remembering Burl’s face, reflected in the glow from the bonfires, as he attacked the man who had insulted his wife. All the same, in one way Jenny was right. Burl could well have killed Robin by accident, in a rage — and I’d thought at one moment he was going to — but he would never deliberately seek out a man and stab him to death in cold blood.

‘You will help us, Roger, won’t you?’ Jenny asked, seemingly worried by my silence.

‘Yes, of course.’ I gave her hand a final squeeze and released it. ‘But, Jenny, you mustn’t expect too much of me.’

I couldn’t tell her that there were other forces at work here; that I didn’t think Burl’s arrest just a simple miscarriage of justice. For one thing, I had no proof to substantiate this claim. For another, it would have meant too long and too complicated an explanation. Nor could I admit that I was one of the chief witnesses against her husband. She would discover that soon enough. I got to my feet. My stomach rumbled again: I was in need of my dinner.

‘I’ll do what I can, Jenny. I promise you that.’

She thanked me with tears in her eyes and gave me a grateful hug. I felt like Judas.

To my surprise, Jack followed me into the street. ‘I’ll walk with you as far as Mistress Walker’s cottage,’ he offered. ‘The weaving sheds are closed today, in honour of the Baptist, so my time’s my own. I could do with stretching my legs.’

‘Does Master Adelard know Burl’s been arrested on suspicion of murder?’ I asked. ‘Will he penalize you for it?’

Jack laughed shortly. ‘Thomas Adelard’s interested in two things only: weaving and making money. He knows I’m good at my job, and for that reason alone he’d never terminate my apprenticeship.’ He went on uncomfortably, ‘I didn’t quite tell you the truth back there. I was awake during the night. That’s how I knew Father was there, too, in the cottage.’

‘You saw him?’

‘N-no. I heard him … him and Mother doing … well, you know! Doing what married people do.’ He coloured slightly.

‘Ah! Do you have any idea what time that would have been?’

Jack puckered his lips. ‘I don’t think I’d been asleep long. Dick was snoring and he always snores just after he dozes off. But what I’m saying is …’ He paused, unsure how to continue.

I finished for him. ‘You don’t think a man would make love to his wife and then go out and murder someone. Is that it?’

‘Well, certainly not Father. Although I don’t believe he’d kill anyone at any time, except by accident. But I can’t admit I heard them. It would embarrass Mother.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference if you did,’ I assured him. ‘Your testimony, like Jenny’s, would be suspect.’

We were in sight of the pillory and Jack exclaimed in surprise to see Luke Prettywood standing there. ‘But why?’ he demanded. ‘He’s no longer an apprentice.’ I explained what had happened and Jack shook his head. ‘More fool he! He should know better than to be drawn into an apprentices’ quarrel, let alone assault a law officer. Another victim of cuckoo-foot ale, I suppose.’

We had reached Margaret Walker’s cottage, but as I was about to take my leave of him, I decided to make a clean breast of things and confessed that I had been summoned to bear witness against his father.

Jack flushed angrily. ‘You volunteered this information to Sergeant Manifold? I thought better of you, chapman. Just because Father’s been a bit hostile towards you lately, it’s surely no reason …’

I flung up a hand. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions. I have no choice. There’s another witness who also saw what happened, and who knows I was there. A beggarman who’s been wandering around the town for a week or so now.’

Jack’s attitude softened. ‘The stranger, do you mean? Yes. I’ve seen him. He’s not a Bristol beggar. In fact, I understand our own men have been pretty rough with him; they don’t like foreigners trying to steal their trade. I know for a fact he’s been chased out of the city on at least two occasions, and I heard he’d been given a good kicking by Long Tom and his gang.’ I could hardly conceal my glee. Jack continued. ‘It’s odd that you should mention him, though. I’ve seen him once or twice drinking in the Green Lattis and thought him a whingeing, cringing, whining sort of a fellow. Not one of your brazen kind who’ll threaten violence if you don’t put a coin in his little tin cup. But yesterday morning, I saw him in the Full Moon. I’d been sent over to Saint James’s Priory on an errand for Master Adelard. It was very hot and I was feeling thirsty, so I slipped into the Full Moon for a pot of ale.’

‘And?’ I urged as he paused.

Jack rubbed his chin, fingering a small patch of stubble which he had missed while shaving that morning. He was still young enough to be a novice at the art.

‘The stranger was there. I didn’t notice him to begin with. As I said, I was very hot, and I went to sit in the darkest, coolest corner I could find. It was early, and a fairly quiet time of day. I kept my head down, so it was a few minutes before I noticed the beggar and his companion.’

‘Companion? You mean another beggar?’

‘No. That’s the funny thing. This other man was quite well dressed. And an even funnier thing is that the beggar himself seemed to be conversing with him on equal terms. In fact, he appeared to be doing most of the talking. The second man just listened and nodded.’

‘You didn’t happen to overhear any of their conversation?’

‘I was too far away. But as I passed them when I left, I did catch one phrase. The beggar murmured something that sounded like “the Midsummer Rose” and he laughed as he said it, as if it were some sort of joke.’

‘The Midsummer Rose? Are you certain?’

‘Not certain, no. But that’s what it sounded like. I couldn’t linger. I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. All the same,’ Jack went on, worrying at his chin again, ‘it was odd. The beggarman was like a different person. Someone with authority … What do you know about him, Roger? I can tell by the look on your face that you’re not surprised by what I’ve told you … Has this anything to do with my father?’

‘No, no!’ I said quickly, which could have been the truth. Whatever Timothy was playing at, he had nothing personal against Burl Hodge. The tenter was no more than a pawn in his particular game of chess. ‘Jack, please don’t ask me any further questions. There’s a lot I’m not sure of myself as yet. You and Dick and your mother will simply have to trust me. I’ll do the very best I can to prove Burl’s innocence.’

‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But try not to take too long. I’d rather Father wasn’t brought to trial if we can help it. The suspense will make Mother ill.’

I gave him my hand. ‘Tell Jenny I’m a witness and why. But keep everything else to yourself.’

He nodded, returned my handshake, then went on his way.

Adela and Margaret had finished their dinner, but my place was still laid. A good thick trencher of stale bread sat next to a horn spoon, placed face downwards to prevent the devil from sitting in its bowl. The two elder children, fed and contented, were playing a game of Three Men’s Morris, with pebbles for counters on a board scratched on the cottage floor. Adam was doing his best to ruin it for them by running off with the pebbles, while even Hercules ignored my arrival, being preoccupied with outfacing Margaret’s black-and-white mongrel.

‘How’s Jenny?’ Adela looked anxious.

‘I hope you told her you’d be doing something about this ridiculous arrest,’ my former mother-in-law cut in severely, as she ladled pottage into a bowl and lifted a bacon collop from the skillet. I like bacon collops, but I’d already had two for breakfast. I thought longingly of Adela’s rabbit pie.

‘Jenny’s upset, naturally.’ I answered Adela first. ‘Scared, too. And yes, I have assured her that I’ll do my best to prove Burl innocent. I can’t do more.’

‘You’re a witness against him,’ Margaret accused. ‘So Adela tells me.’

‘And I explained why,’ my wife protested.

Her cousin snorted. ‘I’ve seen that strange beggar around here once or twice,’ she said. ‘If I see him again, I’ll have him chased out of town so fast, his feet won’t touch the ground.’

I caught Adela’s eye. She knew who the beggarman was, but would say nothing unless I gave her permission.

‘You don’t have to be at the Councillors’ Meeting Hall until this afternoon,’ she chided me. ‘There’s no reason to bolt your food like that. You’ll give yourself indigestion.’

Nicholas and Elizabeth, whose ears were always attuned to the adults’ conversation however much it might appear to the contrary, both made a noise like an enormous fart, then rolled around the floor giggling helplessly. Adam, entranced by their atrocious behaviour, tried making similar noises, but only succeeded in blowing a froth of bubbles, which had the other two doubled up and choking with laughter. Even Margaret’s and Adela’s lips twitched.

I swallowed the last mouthful of bacon and pottage, washed it down with ale and stood up. I whistled to Hercules, put on his rope harness and thanked Margaret politely for my dinner. I had had enough of being the butt of my family’s derision.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ she demanded irritably. ‘Adela and I want to discuss Robin Avenel’s murder with you.’

‘We want to know what you think,’ added my wife.

‘You also want me to prove Burl’s innocence,’ I pointed out. ‘Therefore, I have things to do.’ I kissed Adela. ‘Take the children home when you’re ready. I’ll follow later.’

It was still not midday, although the sun had almost reached its zenith. I pushed my way through the throng of people on Bristol Bridge, up High Street, down Broad Street, under the Frome Gate, across the Frome Bridge, Lewin’s Mead, Saint James’s Barton, past the Priory … I was sweating so much by now that my feet were swollen and my boots inflicting a blister on every toe. Hercules was winded and panting and showing a marked tendency to drag on his rope. He thought we’d gone far enough.

‘Not much further, boy,’ I encouraged him, and indeed, the Full Moon was at last in sight.

Of course, just my luck, it was busy. A large party of pilgrims, on their way to the shrine of Saint Mary Bellhouse in Saint Peter’s Church, had paused for refreshment and to stable their horses. Regulars from Lewin’s Mead were lingering over after-dinner ale and postponing the inevitable return to work. I was hard-pressed to find a seat, let alone catch the landlord’s eye, but eventually I managed to grab the tunic of a passing pot-boy. While I was waiting for him to bring my drink, I scanned the faces of the customers in the faint hope that Timothy Plummer might be among them, but there was no sign of him. Hercules took advantage of my inattention to make advances to a large, black bitch, who, as females will, suddenly decided she’d had enough and turned on him, trying to gouge out his eye. He retired beneath my stool, whimpering pitifully.

‘That’ll teach you,’ I told him callously. ‘Never trust a woman.’

The pot-boy finally remembered me and arrived with my cup of ale. I grabbed him by the tunic for a second time.

‘I want to speak to the landlord,’ I said. ‘Privately.’

He was inclined to scoff until I offered him a groat. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he promised.

But it was another half an hour before the landlord presented himself, sweating profusely and with a face like a thundercloud.

‘What do you want, chapman? Can’t you see how busy we are? You’re not even one of my regulars.’

‘I’m making enquiries on behalf of Jenny Hodge,’ I told him. ‘Burl’s been arrested on suspicion of murdering Robin Avenel.’

‘What’s that to do with me?’ But then the landlord gave a resigned sigh and wiped his wet hands down the front of his leather apron. ‘All right. Step out to the back yard. To tell the truth, I shall be glad of a moment or two’s peace and quiet.’

I rose and followed him, dragging Hercules with me, to a door at the rear of the alehouse that gave on to a small, paved yard, at present crowded with empty beer barrels. The landlord regarded them with a certain amount of indignation.

‘I’ve been hoping that Luke Prettywood and a couple of Gregory Alefounder’s apprentices would turn up this morning to cart this lot away. But I suppose they’re having a Midsummer holiday.’

‘A Midsummer hangover, more like. Especially Luke,’ I said, and told him what had happened.

‘Bloody fool,’ the landlord remarked dispassionately. ‘Picking on a law officer is never a clever idea. You can’t win. But these hot-headed young fellows won’t learn. Cuckoo-foot ale, was it? Usually is at these Midsummer feasts. Now, what can I do for you, chapman? I’ll have to get back inside soon. I can’t leave it all to the boys. It would be chaos if I did.’

He seated himself on an empty barrel and indicated that I should do the same. Hercules sat disconsolately at my feet, dreaming, presumably, of a lost opportunity to display his sexual prowess.

‘Yesterday,’ I began, ‘a beggarman came in here. A stranger. He’s been hanging around the city for weeks.’

I had no need to proceed any further. ‘Oh, him!’ the landlord exclaimed knowingly. ‘He’s been in here a couple of times, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that he’s no beggar.’

I didn’t enlighten him. ‘What about the man he met?’

‘Huh! Shan’t forget him in a hurry, because I had the Devil’s own work to understand what he was saying. Got the hang of it in the end if he spoke very slowly and distinctly. He was a Scot.’

‘A Scot?’ I echoed in disbelief.

But if that were true, Jack Hodge would have been none the wiser, even had he been able to overhear the man’s conversation with Timothy Plummer. For the speech, not only of Scotsmen, but also of our own countrymen from the wild wastes in the north of England, is as incomprehensible to a Wessex man’s ears as our way of talking is to them. Bristolians are attuned to the way Irishmen, Frenchmen, Bretons, Castilians, Aragonese, Portuguese and any other nationality whose ships tie up daily at our wharves mangle our tongue. But Scotsmen are a mystery, their country as remote as the moon. Presumably Timothy had been able to understand this man; but then, Timothy was a part of the court, which was constantly on the move, travelling the length and breadth of the country and in communication with all sorts and conditions of people.

But what on earth was a Scot doing in Bristol?

Without realizing it, I must have voiced the question aloud, because the landlord of the Full Moon shrugged and said, ‘All I know is there’s been some sort of trouble between the Scottish king and his brothers. Pretty much like our lot when you come to think about it.’

I raised my eyebrows at him. ‘How do you know?’

He eased himself further back on his barrel, so that its raised rim cut into his ample thighs at a different angle.

‘Some weeks back, a Dominican friar stopped here on his way to the friary in the Broad Meadows. He’d come from way up north — Durham or some such godforsaken place.’ We’re nothing if not biased down here in the west. ‘They’re nearly as close to the Scots there as we are here to the southern Welsh. Apparently, the rumours from across the border are that King James has accused both his brothers of treason and the younger one, the Earl of Mar, has been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The older one, the Duke of Albany, has vanished. Wise fellow! No one knows where he is, but the odds are on him having fled to England with a view to making his way across the Channel to France.’ That made sense. The French and the Scots have always been as thick as thieves. The landlord heaved himself off his barrel. ‘Now, I must be getting back,’ he went on. ‘I’m sorry not to have been of more help. When you next see Jenny Hodge, tell her I think Richard Manifold’s a fool, if that’s of any comfort to her.’

I nodded. ‘Do you mind if I stay out here for a while? Just to give myself time to think.’

‘By all means.’ The landlord spread his hands. ‘You’re not disturbing anyone. I’ll send a lad out with a mazer of ale.’

I thanked him and he vanished indoors, where I soon heard his voice raised in anger at one of the pot-boys. I stared ahead of me, deep in thought, impervious to Hercules’ tugs on his lead. The dog gave one final disgruntled yap before settling down, but he let me know he wasn’t pleased by cocking his leg and peeing all over my ankle. But even that didn’t bother me; at least, not for the moment. I was too deep in thought. Later, I might find time to get annoyed.

Trouble in the Scots royal family was probably as commonplace as it was in our own, and recalcitrant brothers were no novelty for any ruler. All the same, if the Dominican friar were to be believed, this sounded a little more serious than most fraternal disagreements. Accusations of treason were being levelled by King James, and one of his brothers, the Earl of Mar, had already been found dead in dubious circumstances. The Duke of Albany was probably in hiding somewhere in this country, trying to find a ship to carry him to France.

So, who would be looking for him? King James’ agents for a start, hoping to drag him back to Scotland to face almost certain death. Secondly, our own king’s spies would be scouring the country, needing to discover him before the Scots did if King Edward were to gain a valuable hostage and a pawn in the bargaining game. Or they might be working together.

And where would these gentlemen be searching for their quarry? Common sense suggested the harbour towns and ports of south-east and southern England as the likeliest places. Dover. Rye. Sandwich. Portsmouth. Plymouth.

So why were Timothy Plummer and a mysterious Scotsman meeting secretly in a Bristol alehouse?